The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"Well," says Mary, "how is he now?"

"Oh, murdher alive, don't ax me," replied Barney, rubbing his bruises, "it's my belief that there never was sich a cantankerous ould chicken sence the world was hatched. It's a composin' draft that he's schreechin' for now, as av a gallion of punch, strong enough to slide on, wasn't composin'."

In due time, he had his "composin' draft," which, as it contained a pretty considerable dose of laudanum, sufficed, together with his other potations, to lull the pain somewhat, and give him comparative quiet; this was a famous opportunity for Mrs. Bulworthy, who immediately proceeded to "improve" it.

"Now, Pether, dear," said she, with an attempt to modulate her saw-cutting voice into something approaching to tenderness, which was a failure. "Oh! think upon the situation of your soul, and look over one of these comforting works."

Peter groaned inwardly, but said nothing.

"Grace," she went on, "is never denied, even to the most hardenedest sinner."

Peter threw his head back and closed his eyes, in the forlorn hope that she would respect his simulated slumber; but she was not a woman to respect anything, when her "vocation" was strong on her.

"It's criminal in you, Peter," she shouted, "to neglect your spiritual state; suppose you were to die, and it's my belief you will, for you're looking dreadful, what a misery it would be to me; I'd never forgive myself; oh! Pether, Pether, do read this true and beautiful description of the place of torment you're a blindly plunging your sowl into."

This was too much for the already tortured sinner. "Get out!" he roared. "Don't bother; there's a time for all things, you indiscreet and unnatural apostle of discomfortableness, what do you worry me for now, when you see me enjoyin' such a multiplication of bodily sufferings?"

"Because," said she, coolly; "it's the only time that I can hope to make an impression upon your hardened heart; it's my duty, not only as your wife, but as a member of the society for the evangelizing the home heathen; of which heathen, my dear, I have the word of my pious associates, you are an outrageous example; therefore, it is my mission to do all I can to bring about your regeneration."

"Murdher, murdher! if I could only use my feet," groaned Bulworthy, with the suppressed anger boiling in his face.

"Ah? but you can't," replied the home comfort, as she quietly removed everything portable from within the reach of the sufferer's arm, and settling herself in rigid implacability, prepared to do battle with the evil one.

"Since you won't use your bodily senses for your soul's advantage," said she, solemnly, "I will, myself, peruse these pages of admonition."

Now, there cannot be a doubt but that the work Mrs. Bulworthy prepared to read, was an excellent one, written by an excellent person, and distributed for a most excellent purpose; but, to say the least, it was very injudicious in the absorbingly-pious lady to exhibit so much concern for the immortal part of poor Bulworthy, altogether overlooking the mortal anguish he was at the present moment enduring.

At all events, he thought so, for, what with the pain and the rage, he commenced a series of bellowings, in the expectation that his other tormentor would be recalled to the necessity of directing her mind from the future, to the suffering before her; but, no, not a bit of it; the louder he roared, the shriller she read, being a contest, as she imagined, between the fierce obstinacy of the demon within him, and the efficacy of her ministration; on she went, inflexibly, in the prolonged cadence of the conventicle, never ceasing or averting her strong eye from the tract, until she had finished its perusal. Not a word of it did he, would he hear, for, with yelling occasionally, and stopping his ears at intervals, the blessed communication might have been written in its original Sanscrit, for all the good it did him.

However, she had done her duty, and was satisfied. "Temper, temper, Pether," she ejaculated, as he heaved a groan of impatience from one of the twinges. "Suffer patiently; it is good for the flesh to be mortified; think of the worse that is to come."

"Oh! you're a comforter if ever there was one," sighed the Squire. "How the mischief can I be patient with a coal of fire on every toe of me? It's mighty aisy for thim that doesn't feel it to keep gabblin' about patience. I'll roar if I like; it does me good to swear at the murdherin' thing, and I will, too."

Whereupon, he let fly a volley of epithets, not the very choicest in the vernacular, which had at least one good effect, for it sent the domestic missionary flying out of the room, tracts and all, utterly horrified at the outburst of impiety; he firing a parting shot or two after her, loaded with purely personal charges of not over complimentary character.

It was just at this moment that his opposite neighbor, the poor cobbler, having arrived at the most comforting part of his reflections, was indulging in one of his jolliest songs, the merry sound of which penetrated to the apartment of the suffering rich man, filling his heart with envy.

"Listen to that," he grunted, swaying backward and forward from the intensity of the pain. "What's the use av all my money; there's that blaggard cobbler, without a rap to bless himself with, and the song's never out of his vagabone throat; oh, murdher! if I wouldn't give every shillin' that I'm worth in the world to change conditions with the chirpin' schemer."

In a short time, however, the composing drafts, spirituous and otherwise, began to do their work; a drowsy sensation crept over him, and he dropped into an unquiet slumber.

When he awoke again, which was instantly, as he thought, what was his surprise to behold an extraordinary-looking sprite riding upon his worst foot. The thing was dressed like a jockey, cap, jacket, breeches, and boots, the latter being furnished with a pair of needles instead of spurs; but with such a comical face that Bulworthy would have laughed heartily at its funny expression, except that the sight of those ominous goads effectually checked all thoughts of risibility.

"Who the devil are you? Get off o' my toe, you impudent little scoundrel," said the Squire, "or I'll fling a pill-box at you."

"Bless you, that would be no use," piped the diminutive jock, settling himself in his saddle.

"Move, I say, or bang goes this bottle of doctor's stuff right in yer eye."

"Fire away," says the imp, with a little bit of a laugh, like the squeak of a mouse, "I don't fear any of your doctor's bedevilment."

"What brings you here, anyway?" demanded Bulworthy. He was now out of pain, and consequently waxing arrogant.

"You," squeaked the little rider.

"It's a lie. I never invited you."

"Oh, yes, you did, and moreover, I must say, treated me like a prince; boarded and lodged me gloriously."

"Pooh! you're a fool. Where did I lodge you?"

"Here, in your foot," said the little devil, with a grin, accompanying the observation with the slightest touch of the needle; enough, however, to extort a yell from the Squire. "What do you think of that, my hero?" the jockey continued. "It will be better for you to keep a civil tongue in that foolish head of yours."

"Oh, I will! I will!" groaned Bulworthy. "If you'll only obleege me by dismountin', I'll promise anything."

"Oh, yes, that's mighty likely," said the imp, "after being asked here to amuse myself. A pretty sort of a host you are."

"If you'll believe me, there's some mistake, sir, indeed there is," said Bulworthy, apologetically, "I don't remember ever havin' had the honor of your acquaintance."

"You don't, don't you; then, here goes, to put you in mind, you forgetful old savage;" with that, he commenced a series of equestrian manœuvres with the Squire's intractable toe, now sawing with the diminutive chifney bit, now tickling the sides with a slender, but very cutting kind of a whip, finishing up his exercises by plunging both spurs into the flesh, making the tortured limb jump like a Galway hunter over a stone wall.

"Stop! stop!" roared the sufferer, while the perspiration rained from his forehead like a shower-bath.

"You know me now, do you, eh?"

"Yes, yes," gasped the Squire. "I'll never forget you again – never, never!"

"Will you be civil?" – a slight touch of the needle.

"Oh, murdher! yes."

"And temperate?" – another small puncture.

"I will, I will."

"Very well, then. I'll not only dismount, as I'm a little tired, but I'll give you a word or two of good advice." So saying, the little jockey got out of his seat, put his saddle on his shoulders, and having with great difficulty clambered up the flannel precipice of Bulworthy's leg, managed, with the assistance of his waistcoat buttons, to mount upon the table, where, sitting down upon a pill-box, he crossed his legs, and leisurely switching his top-boots, regarded the Squire with a look of intense cunning.

"Well, only to think," said Bulworthy to himself, "that such a weeny thing as that could give a man such a heap of oneasiness; a fella that I could smash with my fist as I would a fly: may I never get up from this if I don't do it, and then may-be I'll get rid of the murdherin' torment altogether."

With that, he suddenly brought his great hand down on the table with a bang that, as he supposed, exterminated jockey, pill-box, and all.

"Ha, ha!" he roared, "there's an end to you, my fine fella."

"Not a bit of it," squealed the little ruffian; "what do you say to this?" he continued, as he flourished one of the top-boots over his head, and buried the spur through the Squire's finger, fastening it firmly to the table. "See what you got for your wicked intentions, and that ain't the worst of it neither, for I'm going to serve that elegant big thumb of yours the same way. But I'll take my time about it, for there's no fear of your hands ever stirring from that spot until I like." So saying, the tantalizing fiend made several fierce attempts to transfix the doomed member, each time just grazing the skin with the sharp needle. At last he drove it right up to the heel, and there the two boots stuck, while the little blackguard danced the "Foxhunter's jig," in his stocking-feet, cutting pigeon-wings among the pill-boxes, like a professor.

Bulworthy now roared louder than ever, vainly endeavoring to free his tortured hand from its strange imprisonment, and the more he roared, the more his tormentor grinned, and cut capers about the table.

"Oh, pull out them thunderin' spurs," cried he, in agony. "This is worse than all; mercy, mercy! Misther jockey, I beg your pardon for what I did; it was the drink; there's whisky in me."

"I know that well enough," chirped the grinning imp. "If there wasn't, I couldn't have the power over you that you see."

"Oh, won't you look over it this oncet? I'll be on me Bible oath I won't offend you again."

"Are you in earnest this time?"

"Bad luck attend me if I'm not."

"Well, then, I'll trust you, though you don't deserve it," replied the little schemer, and, after two or three tugs, he succeeded in pulling out one of the spurs. "Do you feel easier?" inquired he, with a grin.

"It's like getting half-way out of purgatory," said the Squire, with a sigh of relief. "There's a fine fella, lug out the other, won't you?"

"I must make some conditions first."

"Let them be short, for gracious sake!"

"First and foremost, are you going to be quiet and reasonable?"

"I am, I am!"

"Secondly, are you going to pay me for the trouble I've had?"

"Whatever you ask, only be quick about it."

"It won't tax you much, you have only to make over to me all the bottles and jars you have in the house."

"Take them, and welcome."

"If you'll promise me not to meddle with them, I'll leave them in your keeping, only they're mine, remember."

"Every drop," cried the Squire, eagerly. "I won't touch another mouthful."

"That's all right; you keep your word and I'll keep mine; there, you may have the use of your fist once more," he continued, as he plucked out the other spur, giving the released hand a parting kick that thrilled through every joint.

"And now," said he, as he pulled on his tiny boots, "I have a word or two more to say to you; you made a foolish wish just now; that you'd like to change places with that miserable cobbler over the way; are you still of the same way of thinking?"

"Should I have your companionship there," inquired Bulworthy.

"Certainly not; he couldn't afford to keep me," replied the gout-fiend, contemptuously.

"Then, without meanin' the slightest offence to you, my little friend," said the other, "it wouldn't grieve me much to get rid of your acquaintance at any sacrifice, even to the disgust of walking into that rascally cobbler's shoes. I'm only afraid that, clever as you are, you can't manage that for me."

"Don't be quite so sure," replied the little jockey, with a knowing wink, amusing himself by every now and then tickling up Bulworthy's fingers with his sharp whip, every stroke of which seemed to cut him to the marrow. "Who can tell but that the poor, ignorant devil would like to change places with you; if so, I can do the job for ye both in a jiffey: more, betoken, here he comes, so that we can settle the affair at once."

At that instant, the door of Bulworthy's apartment flew open, as from the effect of a sudden and strong gust of wind, while he, although seeing nothing, distinctly heard a slight rustling, and felt that peculiar sensation one receives at the entrance of persons into a room while not looking in their direction.

"I see no one," said the Squire; "'twas but a blast of wind."

"I do," curtly replied the little jockey, and then proceeded to hold an interesting confidential chat with the invisibilities; in a few moments, Bulworthy distinguished the jolly voice of Dan, the cobbler, a little jollier than usual; indicating the high state of his spiritual temperament also, by swaying to and fro against the balusters, making them creak loudly in his uncertain progress; at last, with a tipsy "God save all here," he lumbered into the room, tried to clutch at a chair, but, optically miscalculating his distance, overshot the mark, and tumbled head-long upon the floor.

"You dirty, drunken rapscallion," cried Bulworthy, getting into a towering rage, from which, however, he was quickly recalled by a wicked look from the imp, and a threatening movement towards the dreaded top-boots and spurs.

"Listen, and say nothing until you are spoken to," said the little chap, as grand as you please.

"Not a word," replied the cowed Squire.

"Now, Daniel, my friend, I want to have a talk with you." The Squire started with astonishment; he could have sworn that he heard his own voice; but the big sounds proceeded from the lips of the little chap on the table beside him.

"Wid all the veins of my heart, Squire, jewel," replied Dan's voice, though Dan's mouth never opened at all, and Bulworthy was looking him straight in the face.

"You are not satisfied with your condition in life," continued the voice.

"You never spoke a truer word nor that," replied Dan's invisible proxy.

"Neither am I."

"More fool you."

"Would you change places with me?"

"Indeed, an' I would if I had the chance; how would you like to be in mine?"

"It's just what I long for."

Thus far, the conversation was carried on in the voices of the Squire and the cobbler; but now they were both amazed at hearing bellowed out, in sounds like the roar of a cataract when you stop your ears occasionally:

"Blind and dissatisfied mortals, have your desire; let each take the shape and fill the station of the other, never to obtain your original form and condition until both are as united in the wish to return thereto as you are now to quit them."

A terrific thunderclap burst overhead, stunning them both for a few minutes, and, when its last reverberation died away in the distance, the little jockey had disappeared, all supernatural sounds had ceased. The sentient part of the discontented Squire found itself inhabiting the mortal form of the cobbler, prone on the floor, hopelessly and helplessly drunk, while the unhappy Dan appeared in the portly form, and suffered the gouty pangs of the rich Mr. Bulworthy.