The Bunsby papers Part 2

A true home-angel, in this world of strife, Is, man's best friend, a faithful, loving wife.

Now turn we, courteous reader, to the contemplation of a totally different scene.

Not far from the imposing, bright, red brick edifice of Squire Bulworthy--indeed, you can see it on the other side of the street, with its flaring green door and great brazen knocker, its crimson parlor curtains and every-color-in-the-world window-shades--stands the miserable looking tenement inhabited by our cobbling friend, Dan Duff.

The walls are fashioned out of that natural, but by no means elegant, or expensive compound, known generally as "mud." The roof is thatched with straw, but so old and weather-worn that the rain soaks through it as though it were sponge; while the accidental vegetable productions which attach themselves to such decaying matter, vainly struggled to give it a semblance of life and verdure. A dilapidated half door, and a poor apology for a window, many of the small panes patched with articles of used up domestic material, were the only means of ingress, ventilation, and light. Notwithstanding the hopeless-looking poverty of the whole, there were one or two indications which, to an observing mind, would tend to lessen, in a remote degree, its general wretchedness. In the first place, a few small, cracked flower-pots decked the little window-sill, from whence crept upward "morning-glories," and bright "scarlet-runners," the delight of industrious poverty. Then there was that invariable sharer of the poor man's crust and companionship, a useless, and not by any means ornamental, cur, shrewd, snappish, and curiously faithful, in friendly contiguity to a well-conditioned cat. You may take your oath that there's harmony beneath the roof where a cat and dog are amicably domiciliated.

With the above exception, the cabin's sole occupant, at the present moment, is a woman; but such a woman--it's the cobbler's wife, before-mentioned; here, however, she is in her peculiar sphere. "Home is home, be it ever so homely," is a trite and true aphorism, and poor Peggy, it is evident, does her best to make this unpromising one as full of comfort as she can. Everything is scrupulously clean and in its place. The little wooden dresser is as white as soap and sand can make it. So is the floor, and so are the scanty household goods.

There is, though, a shade of discomfort on Peggy's pretty face just now, as she laboriously plies her knitting needles, and the small thundercloud breaks out into little flashes of impatience, as she soliloquizes:

"Did anybody ever see the likes of that Dan of mine? He couldn't take the "tops" over to ould Bulworthy himself--not he!--of course not--he wasn't well enough to go out _then_, but the minute my back was turned, away he cuts to the '_shebeen_' house to get his 'mornin"--ugh! I do believe if he was before me now, I'd--but no--my poor Dan, it ain't much comfort he's got in the world; so I won't say a blessed word to worry him."

As if to recompense the considerate thought, Dan's jolly voice was heard, singing one of his consoling ditties.

"Here he comes, bless him," cried Peg, joyfully, "as lively as a lark."

There was wonderful commotion amongst the animals as Dan entered.

"Pincher," the apocryphal, shook his apology for a tail as vigorously as that diminished appendage was capable of accomplishing; while "p.u.s.s.y" urged her claims upon his attention by rubbing herself against his legs. Peg said nothing.

Now, Dan perfectly well knew his delinquency. Indeed, the song he had just executed, in a good, bold voice, had more of "brag" in it than real enthusiasm. He saw how the land lay instantly.

"Peg, _alanna machree_, here I am," said he. "Whisht! I know what you're goin' to say. Keep yer mouth shut, you hateful blaggard, or I'll stop it up wid kisses, as close as cobbler's wax. There, Peg,"

he continued, after having suited the action to the word, with a smack like a carter's whip, "I couldn't help it--I couldn't, upon my word. You were a long time away--and the breakfast was mighty small--and--and--a sort of oneasiness kem over me inside, I was lonesome, and thinkin' of things as wasn't wholesome, so I thought I'd just stick another chalk up at Phil Mooney's, so don't say another word."

"Not a word Dan," replied Peg. "Sure, don't I mind poor Mary Maguire's case, how she never let Mike rest when he had 'the drop' in him, until at long last he stayed out, for the fear of comin' home; the whisky is too strong for a woman to fight agin, Dan, so, if you like it better than me"----

That was a skillful side-blow, and it made its mark.

"Peg, you know better, you thief of the world, you do; you know, in your pure little heart, that's too good for me, or the likes of me; that the summer flowers doesn't love the sunshine of heaven better than I love you; oh! no, it isn't that, not that, Peg _aroon_."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, Peg," he continued, "its the _thinks_ that comes over a poor fella when he hasn't a _scurrig_ to bless himself wid; the _thinks_ that lays a howld of him when there's n.o.body by but himself and the devil that sends them, thems the times that worries a _poor_ man, Peg."

"Ah! Dan," replied the other, seriously, "but those times worry a _wicked_ man worse."

"Well, may-be they do," said the cobbler, doggedly, "if a body knew the truth, but it's bad enough either way. Did the Squire pay for the 'tops?'"

"Not yet, Dan, he hadn't the change!"

"Hadn't he, really," replied the other, bitterly. "Poor fella, what a pity; there's a mighty great likeness betune us in that, anyway. The upstart pup, why the divil didn't he get change. There's the differ, Peg, darlin', betune the rale gintleman and the 'musharoon;' a gintleman as feels and knows he's one, and consequentially acts accordin', will always think of the _great_ inconvanience the want of the little bit o' money is to the poor man, and not the small ditto to himself, in the respect of gettin' the change; bad luck attend you, ould Bulworthy, the want of that shillin' has made me break my word in a quarther where I'm mighty loath for to do that same."

"Where is that, Dan?"

"I'll tell you, Peg; on the strength of that shillin' I towld my inside that I'd give it a threat, may I never sin, acush, if I didn't promise it a 'sa.s.sidge;' now, you know if you tell your hungryness to come at a certain time, it's generally apt to be purty smart at keepin' the appintmint, and, bedad, mine is waitin' for that sa.s.sidge; moreover, it ain't threatin' a man's intayrior relations anyway raysonable to go back of yer word. Murdher, there's a twinge--if it isn't hittin' me a punch in the stomach just to put me in mind, I'm a gra.s.shopper. It's no use," he continued, addressing his unsatisfied digestibles, "you may's well give over grumblin' and touchin' me up that way; it's no fault of mine, it's ould Bulworthy's, bad cess to him; he hadn't any change, the dirty _spalpeen_, you won't take an excuse won't you? then I'll have to fire a pipe at you. Peg, jewil, fill us a _dhudeen_, won't you; this thievin' hunger won't stir a toe unless I hunt it out wid tibaccy."

Peggy soon filled the inevitable pipe, and Dan brought his artillery to bear upon the foe, after a severe round of tremendous puffs, during which the combatants were enveloped in the hot smoke of battle; the enemy showed evident signs of beating a temporary retreat. Dan threw himself back in his chair, and prepared, leisurely, to enjoy the fruits of his victory.

"I wondher," said he, after a few moments of great satisfaction, "I wondher how ould Bulworthy would like to lunch upon smoke? Be jabers, if I had my will, I'd make him eat three males a day of it, until his hard-hearted bowels got tenderer towards the poor."

"Talk of the what's-his-name," said Peggy. "Here he comes, both him and his fine madame, as proud as ten payc.o.c.ks; look at the airs of them; I wonder they don't have the street widened when they condescend to walk out."

"Peggy, darlin'," said Dan, "divil take me if I havn't a great mind to let out at him for my shillin'."

"Sure you wouldn't; what, in the open street? he'd hang you, Dan, without judge or jury."

"It ain't quite so easy to hang a man as it used to be in the fine ould times, Peg _alanna_," said Dan. "It's my shillin', he has no right to keep it jinglin' in his pocket, and he shan't, neither, if I can help it," he continued, going towards the door. "Hit or miss, here goes: Hollo, Squire!" adding, _sotto voce_, "you murdherin' Turk in top boots; long life to you--you concated ould vagabone."

These expressions, of which the most polite alone reached his ear, as it may be imagined, grated harshly upon the aristocratic nerves of the prodigious Bulworthy; "What's that fellow making such a magniloquent hulla-balloo about," said he, grandly.

"Athin, may-be you'd do my drawin'-room the honor of a sit down, yourself, and her ladyship," said Dan, to the dismay of poor Peggy, who exclaimed: "Don't, Dan, don't; I'm ashamed of you, indeed, I am;"

adding, apologetically, "oh, he never would a done it, only for the drink; we're ruined entirely."

"Bad 'cess to me if they're not coming, sure enough," said Dan, somewhat tremulously, but determined to put a good bold face on it, he continued, as they entered, "come, Peg, dust the chair for the lady."

Peg's face was crimson as she complied, she scarcely knew how; Bulworthy's countenance indicated the state of temper with which he accepted the proffered hospitality, while the Squiress gazed coolly and patronizingly around.

"I'm in a tremendious rage," said he, as he shook his fist at Dan. "How dare you have the premeditated insurance to arrogate us into your pig-sty, you ragam.u.f.fin."

"Don't worrit, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bulworthy, in an authoritative tone. "It's our dooty, now, as ladies and gentlemen, to inquire into the condition of the poor, and give them wholesome advice. Here, my dear," she continued, taking sundry tracts from her capacious pocket, "read these comfortable pages, and see what a state of awful responsibility you are in."

"Bedad, that's all the poor people is likely to get from such visitors as you," said Dan.

"And now, sir," said Bulworthy, with an imposing frown, "what interrogational imperence do you want to address to me, that you have the owdaciousness to drag me here?"

Dan simply took down a broken piece of slate, and holding it up before the Squire's eyes, "a thriflin' account, sir," said he; "for heel-piecin' your honor's honorable tops, and maybe they don't show off an iligant lump of a leg, this fine spring mornin'," vainly hoping that the unmitigated flattery would mitigate the wrath of the potent Squire.

"And was it for this, you--you illiterate colossus of bra.s.s, that you detained me in my preambulations."

"Indeed, sir," timidly interposed Peggy, "I hope that you'll forgive him. It isn't his fault entirely, your honor. It's all on account of a gintleman that he axed for to take a bit of dinner wid him."

"What!" screamed Mrs. Bulworthy, with her sanctimonious eyes elevated to the true Pharisaic standard; "I never heard of such wretched depravity. Dinner! do such wretched creatures deal in so miserable an extravagance? I tremble for your lost condition. Read this;" and she fumbled in her pocket for another comforting doc.u.ment, which Peggy courtesied humbly as she received; "read this, and learn to conquer your unworthy appet.i.tes for earthly things." The Squiress was a fine example of those theoretic Lady Bountifuls, whose province it is to feed poverty with such like unsatisfactory viands.

"I'll make you wait for your shillin', you scoundrel," said the irate Squire.

"And serve him right, too," echoed his worthy spouse.

"Then we'll have to wait for our dinner," suggested Dan.

"And what's that to us, you reprobate?"

"Oh, nothin'," said Dan. "Full stomachs thinks there's no empty ones in the world; but may bad fortune stuff them top-boots chock full of corns, for your hard-heartedness, and may you never pull them on without gettin' a fresh stock."

"Dear me, dear me," said the squeaking tract-distributer, "read this, and see what comes of such irreligious observations."

"Read it yourself, ma'am," replied Dan, tossing back the proffered antidote, "maybe you may want it as bad as any of us."