Handy Andy Volume I Part 1

Handy Andy.

Volume One.

by Samuel Lover.

ADDRESS

I have been accused in certain quarters, of giving flattering portraits of my countrymen. Against this charge I may plead that, being a portrait-painter by profession, the habit of taking the best view of my subject, so long prevalent in my eye, has gone deeper, and influenced my mind:--and if to paint one's country in its gracious aspect has been a weakness, at least, to use the words of an ill.u.s.trious compatriot,

"--the failing leans to virtue's side."

I am disinclined, however, to believe myself an offender in this particular. That I love my country dearly I acknowledge, and I am sure every Englishman will respect me the more for loving _mine_, when he is, with justice, proud of _his_--but I repeat my disbelief that I overrate my own.

The present volume, I hope, will disarm any cavil from old quarters on the score of national prejudice. The hero is a blundering fellow whom no English or other gentleman would like to have in his service; but still he has some redeeming natural traits: he is not made either a brute or a villain; yet his "twelve months' character," given in the successive numbers of this volume, would not get him a place upon advertis.e.m.e.nt either in "The Times" or "The Chronicle." So far am I clear of the charge of national prejudice as regards the hero of the following pages.

In the subordinate personages, the reader will see two "Squires" of different types--good and bad; there are such in all countries. And, as a tale cannot get on without villains, I have given some touches of villainy, quite sufficient to prove my belief in Irish villains, though I do not wish it to be believed that the Irish are _all villains_.

I confess I have attempted a slight sketch, in one of the persons represented, of a gentleman and a patriot;--and I conceive there is a strong relationship between the two. He loves the land that bore him--and so did most of the great spirits recorded in history. His own mental cultivation, while it yields him personal enjoyment, teaches him not to treat with contumely inferior men. Though he has courage to protect his honour, he is not deficient in conscience to feel for the consequences; and when opportunity offers the means of _amende_, it is embraced. In a word, I wish it to be believed that, while there are knaves, and fools, and villains in Ireland,--as in other parts of the world,--honest, intelligent, and n.o.ble spirits are there also.

I cannot conclude without offering my sincere thanks for the cordial manner in which my serial offering has been received by the public, and noticed by the critical press, whose valuable columns have been so often opened to it in quotation; and, when it is considered how large an amount of intellect is employed in this particular department of literature, the highest names might be proud of such recognition.

_London, 1st December_, 1842.

The reprinting of the foregoing address, attached to the First Edition, sufficiently implies that my feelings and opinions respecting my country and my countrymen remain unchanged. So far, enough said.

I desire, however, to add a few words to inform those who may, for the first time, read the story in this the Fourth Edition, that the early pages were written fifteen years ago, as a magazine article;--that the success of that article led to the continuation of the subject in other articles, and so on, till, eventually, twelve monthly numbers made up a book. A story thus originated could not be other than sketchy and desultory, and open to the captiousness of over-fastidious criticism: it was never meant to be a work of high pretension--only one of those easy trifles which afford a laugh, and require to be read in the same careless spirit of good humour in which they are written.

In such a spirit, I am happy to say, "Handy Andy" _was_ read fourteen years ago, and has continued to be read ever since; and as this reprint, in a cheaper form, will open it to thousands of fresh readers, I give these few introductory words to propitiate in the future the kindly spirit which I gratefully remember in the past.

SAMUEL LOVER.

_London, 26th July_, 1854.

HANDY ANDY

CHAPTER I

Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way; disappointment waited on all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers' ends; so the nickname the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy, and the jeering jingle pleased them.

Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived, however, to have herself clawed almost to death while her darling "babby" was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted the pain by scratching her, till the blood came, with the other. Nevertheless, she swore he was "the loveliest and sweetest craythur the sun ever shined upon;" and when he was able to run about and wield a little stick, and smash everything breakable belonging to her, she only praised his precocious powers, and she used to ask, "Did ever any one see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did?"

Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; but, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was most anxious to offer his services on all occasions to those who would accept them; but _they_ were only the persons who had not already proved Andy's peculiar powers.

There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called, _Owny na Coppal_, or, "Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his house from a distant "bottom," as low grounds by a river-side are called in Ireland.

"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said Owny.

"Troth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.

"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."

"Oh, but he won't run."

"Why won't he run?"

"Bekaze I won't make him run."

"How can you help it?"

"I'll soother him."

"Well, you're a willin' brat, anyhow; and so go on, and G.o.d speed you!"

said Owny.

"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should have to coax him."

"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.

"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you are able to ride that horse if you get on him."

"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbins' mule betther nor any o' the boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day, though he kicked the shoes av him."

"After that you may ride anything," said Owny; and indeed it was true; for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers that it might well be considered a feat to stick on him.

"Now take great care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.

"Don't be afeared, sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom, and was too deep for Andy to ford at that season, he went round by Dinny Dowling's mill, where a small wooden bridge crossed the stream.

Here he thought he might as well secure the a.s.sistance of Paudeen, the miller's son, to help him in catching the horse; so he looked about the place until he found him, and telling him the errand on which he was going, said, "If you like to come wid me, we can both have a ride."

This was temptation sufficient for Paudeen, and the boys proceeded together to the bottom, and they were not long in securing the horse.

When they had got the halter over his head, "Now," said Andy, "give me a lift on him;" and accordingly, by Paudeen's catching Andy's left foot in both his hands clasped together in the fashion of a stirrup, he hoisted his friend on the horse's back; and as soon as he was secure there, Master Paudeen, by the aid of Andy's hand, contrived to scramble up after him; upon which Andy applied his heel to the horse's side with many vigorous kicks, and crying "hurrup!" at the same time, endeavoured to stimulate Owny's steed into something of a pace as he turned his head towards the mill.

"Sure arn't you going to cra.s.s the river?" said Paudeen.

"No, I'm going to lave you at home."

"Oh, I'd rather go up to Owny's, and it's the shortest way acra.s.s the river."

"Yes, but I don't like."

"Is it afeared that you are?" said Paudeen.

"Not I, indeed!" said Andy; though it was really the fact, for the width of the stream startled him, "but Owny told me to take grate care o' the baste, and I'm loath to wet his feet."