by Edited
Indeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves at his expense despised him at heart. They knew very well, however, how to take him on the weak side. Praise his generosity, and he would do anything; call him a man of spirit, and you might fleece him to his face. Sometimes he would toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to that flatterer, a third to a bully, and a fourth to some broken down rake—and all to convince them that he was a sterling friend—a man of mettle and liberality. But never was he known to help a virtuous and struggling family—to assist the widow or the fatherless, or to do any other act that was truly useful. It is to be supposed the reason of this was, that as he spent it, as most of the world do, in the service of the devil, by whose aid he got it, he was prevented from turning it to a good account. Between you and me, dear reader, there are more persons acting after Bill’s fashion in the same world than you dream about.
When his money was out again, his friends played him the same rascally game once more. No sooner did his poverty become plain, than the knaves began to be troubled with small fits of modesty, such as an unwillingness to come to his place when there was no longer anything to be got there. A kind of virgin bashfulness prevented them from speaking to him when they saw him getting out on the wrong side of his clothes. Many of them would turn away from him in the prettiest and most delicate manner when they thought he wanted to borrow money from them—all for fear of putting him to the blush by asking it. Others again, when they saw him coming toward their houses about dinner hour, would become so confused, from mere gratitude, as to think themselves in another place; and their servants, seized, as it were, with the same feeling, would tell Bill that their masters were “not at home.”
At length, after travelling the same villainous round as before, Bill was compelled to betake himself, as the last remedy, to the forge; in other words, he found that there is, after all, nothing in this world that a man can rely on so firmly and surely as his own industry. Bill, however, wanted the organ of common sense; for his experience—and it was sharp enough to leave an impression—ran off him like water off a duck.
He took to his employment sorely against his grain; but he had now no choice. He must either work or starve, and starvation is like a great doctor—nobody tries it till every other remedy fails them. Bill had been twice rich; twice a gentleman among blackguards, but always a blackguard among gentlemen; for no wealth or acquaintance with decent society could rub the rust of his native vulgarity off him. He was now a common blinking sot in his forge; a drunken bully in the tap-room, cursing and brow-beating every one as well as his wife; boasting of how much money he had spent in his day; swaggering about the high doings he carried on; telling stories about himself and Lord This at the Curragh; the dinners he gave—how much they cost him, and attempting to extort credit upon the strength of his former wealth. He was too ignorant, however, to know that he was publishing his own disgrace, and that it was a mean-spirited thing to be proud of what ought to make him blush through a deal board nine inches thick.
He was one morning industriously engaged in a quarrel with his wife, who, with a three-legged stool in her hand, appeared to mistake his head for his own anvil; he, in the meantime, paid his addresses to her with his leather apron, when who steps in to jog his memory about the little agreement that was between them, but Old Nick. The wife, it seems, in spite of all her exertions to the contrary, was getting the worst of it; and Sir Nicholas, willing to appear a gentleman of great gallantry, thought he could not do less than take up the lady’s quarrel, particularly as Bill had laid her in a sleeping posture. Now Satan thought this too bad; and as he felt himself under many obligations to the sex, he determined to defend one of them on the present occasion; so as Judy rose, he turned upon her husband, and floored him by a clever facer.
“You unmanly villain,” said he, “is this the way you treat your wife? ’Pon honor, Bill, I’ll chastise you on the spot. I could not stand by, a spectator of such ungentlemanly conduct without giving up all claim to gallant—–” Whack! the word was divided in his mouth by the blow of a churn-staff from Judy, who no sooner saw Bill struck, than she nailed Satan, who “fell” once more.
“What, you villain! that’s for striking my husband like a murderer behind his back,” said Judy, and she suited the action to the word, “that’s for interfering between man and wife. Would you murder the poor man before my face? eh? If he bates me, you shabby dog you, who has a better right? I’m sure it’s nothing out of your pocket. Must you have your finger in every pie?”
This was anything but idle talk; for at every word she gave him a remembrance, hot and heavy. Nicholas backed, danced, and hopped; she advanced, still drubbing him with great perseverance, till at length he fell into the redoubtable armchair, which stood exactly behind him. Bill, who had been putting in two blows for Judy’s one, seeing that his enemy was safe, now got between the devil and his wife, a situation that few will be disposed to envy him.
“Tenderness, Judy,” said the husband, “I hate cruelty. Go put the tongs in the fire, and make them red hot. Nicholas, you have a nose,” said he.
Satan began to rise, but was rather surprised to find that he could not budge.
“Nicholas,” says Bill, “how is your pulse? you don’t look well; that is to say, you look worse than usual.”
The other attempted to rise, but found it a mistake.
“I’ll thank you to come along,” said Bill. “I have a fancy to travel under your guidance, and we’ll take the Low Countries in our way, won’t we? Get to your legs, you sinner; you know a bargain’s a bargain between two honest men, Nicholas; meaning yourself and me. Judy, are the tongs hot?”
Satan’s face was worth looking at, as he turned his eyes from the husband to the wife, and then fastened them on the tongs, now nearly at a furnace heat in the fire, conscious at the same time that he could not move out of the chair.
“Billy,” said he, “you won’t forget that I rewarded you generously the last time I saw you, in the way of business.” “Faith, Nicholas, it fails me to remember any generosity I ever showed you. Don’t be womanish. I simply want to see what kind of stuff your nose is made of, and whether it will stretch like a rogue’s conscience. If it does, we will flatter it up the chimly with red-hot tongs, and when this old hat is fixed on the top of it, let us alone for a weather cock.” “Have a fellow-feeling, Mr. Dawson; you know we ought not to dispute. Drop the matter, and I give you the next seven years.” “We know all that,” says Billy, opening the red-hot tongs very coolly. “Mr. Dawson,” said Satan, “if you cannot remember my friendship to yourself, don’t forget how often I stood your father’s friend, your grandfather’s friend, and the friend of all your relations up to the tenth generation. I intended, also, to stand by your children after you, so long as the name of Dawson, and a respectable one it is, might last.” “Don’t be blushing, Nick,” says Bill, “you are too modest; that was ever your failing; hould up your head, there’s money bid for you. I’ll give you such a nose, my good friend, that you will have to keep an outrider before you, to carry the end of it on his shoulder.” “Mr. Dawson, I pledge my honor to raise your children in the world as high as they can go; no matter whether they desire it or not.” “That’s very kind of you,” says the other, “and I’ll do as much for your nose.”
He gripped it as he spoke, and the old boy immediately sung out; Bill pulled, and the nose went with him like a piece of warm wax. He then transferred the tongs to Judy, got a ladder, resumed the tongs, ascended the chimney, and tugged stoutly at the nose until he got it five feet above the roof. He then fixed the hat upon the top of it, and came down.
“There’s a weather cock,” said Billy; “I defy Ireland to show such a beauty. Faith, Nick, it would make the purtiest steeple for a church, in all Europe, and the old hat fits it to a shaving.”
In this state, with his nose twisted up the chimney, Satan sat for some time, experiencing the novelty of what might be termed a peculiar sensation. At last t
he worthy husband and wife began to relent.
“I think,” said Bill, “that we have made the most of the nose, as well as the joke; I believe, Judy, it’s long enough.” “What is?” says Judy.
“Why, the joke,” said the husband.
“Faith, and I think so is the nose,” said Judy.
“What do you say yourself, Satan?” said Bill.
“Nothing at all, William,” said the other; “but that—ha! ha!—it’s a good joke—an excellent joke, and a goodly nose, too, as it stands. You were always a gentlemanly man, Bill, and did things with a grace; still, if I might give an opinion on such a trifle—–”
“It’s no trifle at all,” says Bill, “if you spake of the nose.” “Very well, it is not,” says the other; “still, I am decidedly of opinion, that if you could shorten both the joke and the nose without further violence, you would lay me under very heavy obligations, which I shall be ready to acknowledge and repay as I ought.” “Come,” said Bill, “shell out once more, and be off for seven years. As much as you came down with the last time, and vanish.”
The words were scarcely spoken, when the money was at his feet, and Satan invisible. Nothing could surpass the mirth of Bill and his wife at the result of this adventure. They laughed till they fell down on the floor.
It is useless to go over the same ground again. Bill was still incorrigible. The money went as the devil’s money always goes. Bill caroused and squandered, but could never turn a penny of it to a good purpose. In this way, year after year went, till the seventh was closed, and Bill’s hour come. He was now, and had been for some time past, as miserable a knave as ever. Not a shilling had he, nor a shilling’s worth, with the exception of his forge, his cabin, and a few articles of crazy furniture. In this state he was standing in his forge as before, straining his ingenuity how to make out a breakfast, when Satan came to look after him. The old gentleman was sorely puzzled how to get at him. He kept skulking and sneaking about the forge for some time, till he saw that Bill hadn’t a cross to bless himself with. He immediately changed himself into a guinea, and lay in an open place where he knew Bill would see him. “If,” said he, “I once get into his possession, I can manage him.” The honest smith took the bait, for it was well gilded; he clutched the guinea, put it into his purse, and closed it up. “Ho! ho!” shouted the devil out of the purse, “you’re caught, Bill; I’ve secured you at last, you knave you. Why don’t you despair, you villain, when you think of what’s before you?” “Why, you unlucky ould dog,” said Bill, “is it there you are? Will you always drive your head into every loophole that’s set for you? Faith, Nick achora, I never had you bagged till now.”
Satan then began to tug and struggle with a view of getting out of the purse, but in vain.
“Mr. Dawson,” said he, “we understand each other. I’ll give the seven years additional, and the cash on the nail.” “Be aisey, Nicholas. You know the weight of the hammer, that’s enough. It’s not a whipping with feathers you’re going to get, anyhow. Just be aisey.” “Mr. Dawson, I grant I’m not your match. Release me, and I double the cash. I was merely trying your temper when I took the shape of a guinea.”
“Faith and I’ll try yours before I lave it, I’ve a notion.” He immediately commenced with the sledge, and Satan sang out with a considerable want of firmness. “Am I heavy enough?” said Bill.
“Lighter, lighter, William, if you love me. I haven’t been well latterly, Mr. Dawson—I have been delicate—my health, in short, is in a very precarious state, Mr. Dawson.” “I can believe that,” said Bill, “and it will be more so before I have done with you. Am I doing it right?” “Bill,” said Nick, “is this gentlemanly treatment in your own respectable shop? Do you think, if you dropped into my little place, that I’d act this rascally part toward you? Have you no compunction?” “I know,” replied Bill, sledging away with vehemence, “that you’re notorious for giving your friends a warm welcome. Divil an ould youth more so; but you must be dealing in bad coin, must you? However, good or bad, you’re in for a sweat now, you sinner. Am I doin’ it purty?”
“Lovely, William—but, if possible, a little more delicate.”
“Oh, how delicate you are! Maybe a cup o’ tay would sarve you, or a little small gruel to compose your stomach.”
“Mr. Dawson,” said the gentleman in the purse, “hold your hand and let us understand one another. I have a proposal to make.” “Hear the sinner anyhow,” said the wife. “Name your own sum,” said Satan, “only set me free.” “No, the sorra may take the toe you’ll budge till you let Bill off,” said the wife; “hould him hard, Bill, barrin’ he sets you clear of your engagement.”
“There it is, my posy,” said Bill; “that’s the condition. If you don’t give me up, here’s at you once more—and you must double the cash you gave the last time, too. So, if you’re of that opinion, say ay—leave the cash and be off.”
The money again appeared in a glittering heap before Bill, upon which he exclaimed—“The ay has it, you dog. Take to your pumps now, and fair weather after you, you vagrant; but Nicholas—Nick—here, here—–” The other looked back, and saw Bill, with a broad grin upon him, shaking the purse at him. “Nicholas, come back,” said he. “I’m short a guinea.” Nick shook his fist, and disappeared.
It would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our readers that Bill was beyond improvement. In short, he once more took to his old habits, and lived on exactly in the same manner as before. He had two sons—one as great a blackguard as himself, and who was also named after him; the other was a well-conducted, virtuous young man, called James, who left his father, and having relied upon his own industry and honest perseverance in life, arrived afterwards to great wealth, and built the town called Castle Dawson; which is so called from its founder until this day.
Bill, at length, in spite of all his wealth, was obliged, as he himself said, “to travel,”—in other words, he fell asleep one day, and forgot to awaken; or in still plainer terms, he died.
Now, it is usual, when a man dies, to close the history of his life and adventures at once; but with our hero this cannot be the case. The moment Bill departed, he very naturally bent his steps toward the residence of St. Moroky, as being, in his opinion, likely to lead him toward the snuggest berth he could readily make out. On arriving, he gave a very humble kind of a knock, and St. Moroky appeared.
“God save your Reverence!” said Bill, very submissively.
“Be off; there’s no admittance here for so poor a youth as you are,” said St. Moroky.
He was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little where he went, provided only, as he said himself, “he could rest his bones, and get an air of the fire.” Accordingly, after arriving at a large black gate, he knocked, as before, and was told he would get instant admittance the moment he gave his name.
“Billy Dawson,” he replied.
“Off, instantly,” said the porter to his companions, “and let his Majesty know that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate.”
Such a racket and tumult were never heard as the very mention of Billy Dawson created.
In the meantime, his old acquaintance came running toward the gate with such haste and consternation, that his tail was several times nearly tripping up his heels.
“Don’t admit that rascal,” he shouted; “bar the gate—make every chain, and lock and bolt, fast—I won’t be safe—and I won’t stay here, nor none of us need stay here, if he gets in—my bones are sore yet after him. No, no—begone you villain—you’ll get no entrance here—I know you too well.”
Bill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at Satan, and, putting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed—“Ha! you ould dog, I have you afraid of me at last, have I?”
He had scarcely uttered the words, when his foe, who stood inside, instantly tweaked him by the nose, and Bill felt as if he had been gripped by the same red-hot tongs with which he himself had formerly tweaked the nose of Nicholas.
Bill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of the inflammable materials which strong drink had thrown into his nose, that organ immediately took fire, and, indeed, to tell the truth, kept burning night and day, winter and summer, without ever once going out, from that hour to this.
Such was the sad fate of Billy Dawson, who has been walking without stop or stay, from place to place, ever since; and in consequence of the flame on his nose, and his beard being tangled like a wisp of hay, he has been christened by the country folk Will-o’-the-Wisp, while, as it were, to show the mischief of his disposition, the circulating knave, knowing that he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires in order to cool his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of misleading the unthinking and tipsy night travellers from their way, just that he may have the satisfaction of still taking in as many as possible.
* Ancient Legends of Ireland.
* Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.
† Woman of the house.
† Ir. stróinse—i.e., a lazy thing.
§ Ir. bádhun—i.e., enclosure, or wall round a house. From ba, cows, and dún, a fortress. Properly, cattle-fortress.
* This was quoted in a London-Irish newspaper. I am unable to find out the original source.
GIANTS
When the pagan gods of Ireland—the Tuath-De-Danān—robbed of worship and offerings, grew smaller and smaller in the popular imagination, until they turned into the fairies, the pagan heroes grew bigger and bigger, until they turned into the giants.
THE GIANT’S STAIRS*
T. CROFTON CROKER
On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and the gable-ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will. Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece, on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than the King of Spain.
