PART II.

George happened one time to be in company with a bishop, and so they fell to dispute anent education, and he blanked the bishop remarkably, and the bishop himself owned he was worsted.--Then one of the company addressed himself to him in these words: thou, Scot, said he, should not have left thy country. For what? says he, because thou has carried all the wisdom that is in it thither with thee. No, no, says he, the shepherds in Scotland will dispute with any bishop in London, and exceed them very far in education. The bishops then took this as an affront, and several noblemen affirmed it to be as the Scot had said: bets were laid on each side, and three of the bishops were chosen, and sent away to Scotland to dispute it with the shepherds, accompanied with several others, who were to bear witness of what they should hear pass between them. Now, George knowing which way they went, immediately took another road and was in Scotland before them. He then made an acquaintance with a shepherd on the border whose pasture lay on the wayside where the bishops were to pass: and there he mounted himself in shepherd’s dress: and when he saw the bishops appear, he conveyed his flock to the roadside, and fell a chanting at a Latin ballad. When the bishops came up to George, one of them asked him in French what o’clock it was? To which he answered in Hebrew, it is directly about the time of the day it was yesterday at this time. Another asked him, in Greek, what countryman he was? To which he answered in Flemish, if ye knew that, you would be as wise as myself. A third asked him, in Dutch, where was you educated? To which he answered, in Earse, herding my sheep between this and Lochaber. This they desired him to explain into English, which he immediately did. Now, said they one to another, we need not proceed any farther. What, says George, are you butchers? I’ll sell you a few sheep. To this they made no answer, but went away shamefully, and said, they believed the Scots had been through all the nations in the world for their education, or the devil had taught them. Now, when George had ended this dispute with the bishops, he stripped off his shepherd’s dress, and up through England he goes, with all the haste imaginable, so that he arrived at the place from whence they set out, three days before the judges, and went every day asking if they were come, so that he might not be suspected. As soon as they arrived, all that were concerned in the dispute, and many more, came crowding in, to hear what news from the Scottish shepherds, and to know what was done. No sooner had the three gentlemen declared what had past between the bishops and the shepherds, whom they found on the Scots border, but the old bishop made answer, and think you, said he, that a shepherd could answer these questions? It has been none else but the devil; for the Scots ministers themselves could not do it; they are but ignorant of such matters, a parcel of beardless boys. Then George thought it was time to take speech in hand. Well, my lord bishop, says George, you call them a parcel of ignorant beardless boys. You have a great long beard yourself, my lord bishop, and if grace were measured by beards, you bishops and the goats would have it all, and that will be quite averse to Scripture. What, says the bishop, are you a Scot? Yes, says George, I am a Scot. Well, says the bishop, and what is the difference between a Scot and a sot? Nothing at present, says George, but the breadth of the table, there being a table betwixt the bishop and George. So the bishop went off in a high passion, while the whole multitude were like to split their jaws with laughter.

2. About this time there was an act of parliament for the benefit of murderers, that any person, who committed murder, if they forfeited five hundred marks, which went under the name of Kinboot, because, so much of this went to the murdered person’s nearest relations, as the price of blood, the murderer got a remit. Now George knowing this to be contrary to Moses’ laws, was very much grieved to see so many pardons sealed by the king’s hand for murder, almost one every week; it being so usual for the king to subscribe them, that he would not read them, nor enquire what they were; for which cause, George writes a writ to the crown, and sent it to the king to be subscribed, which he actually did, and never looked what it was, returned it to George. No sooner had he received it, but he goes to the king and told him it was not time for him to be sitting there, whereat, the king greatly amazed, started up; then George in great haste, sets himself down in the king’s chair, forthwith declaring himself king, saying, you who was king must be my fool, for I am now the wisest man. The king at this was greatly offended, until George shewed him his seal and superscription. But from that day forth the king knew what he subscribed.

3. The next pardon that came to be sealed by the king, was a gentleman who had killed two men before, and had got pardons for them by money. This being the third, the king was very silent in looking over the petition: George standing by, asked the king what he was going to seal now? To which he answered, it is a remit for a man who has killed three men at sundry times, I gave him two remits before. O! says George; he has killed but one man. And who killed the other two says the king. You did, says George, for if you had given him justice when he had killed the first, he had killed no more. When the king heard these words he threw down the pen, and declared that such an act to save a murderer, should be null ever after by him.

4. One day, George having no money, he goes away and gets a pick and a spade, and then falls a digging at a corner of the king’s palace; which the king perceiving from his window, calls what he was wanting there? Are you going to undermine my house, and make it fall? No, my sovereign, says George, but it is verily reported that there is plenty of money about this house, and where can it be? says George, I cannot find it, for it is not within the house to do me service, then surely it must be below it. O George! says the king, that is a crave after the new fashion, what money you want I’ll order for you. Then, my sovereign, says George, I’ll dig no more.

5. One time George being in the country, he came to an inn, where he alighted to refresh himself and his horse. The innkeeper charged him double price for every thing he called for.--George never grumbled at this, but gave him all demands, and away he goes on his journey. At the inn where he quartered the following night he was used after the same manner, if not worse. Having little farther to go, he returned next day, and came that night to the inn where he refreshed himself the day before. So, when he alighted, the boy asked him what he would give his horse? What you will, said he. When he had gone to his room, the waiter enquired what he would have to drink? What you will, says he. The master of the inn came into his room before supper, and enquired what he would have for supper? What you will landlord, says he. After supper, and a hearty bowl to put all over, he went to bed. On the morrow, he rose very early, and called for the boy to make ready his horse in all haste, for he was designed to mount and go directly. Soon after, he went into the stable where the boy was, calling for his horse, when he mounted with all the speed he could, and gave the boy a piece of money, saying, here my boy, this is for taking care of my horse; I have paid for all I have ordered in the house, and off he goes. About mid-day he alighted again at an inn to refresh himself and his horse, and there he chanced to be in company with his other landlord where he was the night before, and charged him with the double reckoning: so he addressed himself to him in the following manner.--Sir, says he, I do believe I was in your house yesternight; O yes Sir, says he, I mind of you pretty well. And where was you last night? Last night, says George, I was in one of the finest inns, and the civilest landlord I ever had in my life: they brought all things that I stood in need of unto me, without calling for them; and when I came off this morning, they charged me nothing, and I paid nothing but sixpence to the boy for dressing my horse.--Blood and wounds! said the old fellow, then I’ll go there this night. Ay, says George, do; and mind this, when they ask you what you will have for yourself and your horse, answer nothing but What you will, Sir. George smiling within himself, to think how he had got the one extortioner to take amends of the other. So this innkeeper set off on his journey, and rode so late that night that he might reach the cheap inn, that most of the people were gone to bed before he arrived. As soon as he dismounted from his horse, the boy enquired at him, What shall I give your horse, master? To which he answered, What you will, boy. The boy hearing this, runs away, (leaving him and his horse to stand at the door,) up stairs to his master’s room, crying, master, master, What-you-will is come again:--O the rogue, cries he, where is he?--I’ll cane him--I’ll what you will him by and by. Then to him he runs with his cane, licks, and kicks him until he was scarce able to mount his horse, and would give him no entertainment there, which caused him to ride the whole of a cold winter night, after he had got his bones all beat and bruised. So the one pursued the other as a murderer; and his defence was, that he was a cheat and a scorner of his house, until the truth was found out.

6. About this time, the French king sent, and demanded from the king of England, three men of different qualities. The first was to be a mighty strong man; the second a very wise man; and the third, a very great fool; so that he might have none in all France to match them. So, accordingly, there were two men chosen; the one a strong man, and the other a very wise man, but George was to act as the fool; nevertheless he was the teacher of the other two. On their way to France George asked the strong man, what will you answer the French king, when he asks if you be a strong man? Why, says he, I’ll say I am. Then, says George, he’ll possibly get a stronger man than you, who will kill you, and affront your country: what shall I say then, said the strong man?--Why, says George, tell him you are strong enough untried. Then said he to the wise man, and what will you say to the king when he asks if you are a wise man? Why, I’ll tell him I am, and answer him all the questions I know:--Very well, says George, but what if he asks you what you do not know? then you’ll affront your country, and be looked upon as a greater fool than me: well, and what shall I answer then? said the wise man. Why, says George, tell him he is only a wise man that can take care of himself: and I shall come in after you, and take care of you altogether. As soon as they arrived at the king of France’s palace, the king sent for them, to try them. The strong man was first called for, and in he went; then the king asked him if he was a strong man? to which he answered, O king! I am strong enough untried. Very well, said the king. After him the wise man was called; and the king asked him if he was a wise man? to which he answered, he is only a wise man that can take care of himself. Very well, says the king. On which, George pushed up the door, and in he went with loud laughter, and p---- directly in his Majesty’s face, which blinded both his eyes, and put the whole court in amaze. Now, now, said his Majesty, it is true enough what the wise man says, for if I had taken care of myself, I need not have been p---- upon by the English fool. O ho, says George, fools always strive to make fools of others, but wise men make fools of themselves. By this, his Majesty seemed to think he was made the greatest fool, and charged them to go home, for he wanted no more of England’s strength, wisdom, or folly.

7. One night, a Highland drover chanced to have a drinking-bout with an English captain of a ship, and at last they came to be very hearty over their cups, so that they called in their servants to have a share of their liquor. The drover’s servant looked like a wild man, going without breeches, stockings, or shoes, not so much as a bonnet on his head, with a long peeled rung in his hand. The captain asked the drover, how long it was since he catched him? He answered, it is about two years since I hauled him out of the sea with a net, and afterwards ran into the mountains, where I catched him with a pack of hounds. The captain believed it was so, but says he, I have a servant the best swimmer in the world. O but, says the drover, my servant will swim him to death. No, he will not, says the captain, I’ll lay two hundred crowns on it. Then says the drover, I’ll hold it one to one, and staked directly, the day being appointed when trial was to be made. Now the drover, when he came to himself, thinking on what a bargain he had made, did not know what to do, knowing very well that his servant could swim none. He hearing of George being in town, who was always a good friend to Scotsmen, he went unto him and told him the whole story, and that he would be entirely broke, and durst never return home to his own country, for he was sure to lose it. Then George called the drover and his man aside, and instructed them how to behave, so that they should be safe and gain too. So accordingly they met at the place appointed. The captain’s man stript directly and threw himself into the sea, taking a turn until the Highlandman was ready, for the drover took some time to put his servant in order. After he was stripped, his master took his plaid, and rolled a kebbuck of cheese, a big loaf, and a bottle of gin in it, and this he bound on his shoulders, giving him directions to tell his wife and children that he was well, and to be sure he returned with an answer against that day se’nnight. As he went into the sea, he looked back to his master, and called out to him for his claymore. And what waits he for now? says the captain’s servant. He wants his sword, says his master. His sword, says the fellow: What is he to do with a sword? Why, says his master, if he meets a whale or a monstrous beast, it is to defend his life: I know he will have to fight his way through the north seas, ere he get to Lochaber. Then cried the captain’s servant, I’ll swim none with him, if he take his sword. Ay, but says his master, you shall, or lose the wager; take you another sword with you. No, says the fellow I never did swim with a sword, nor any man else, that ever I saw or heard of, I know not but that wild man will kill me in the deep water; I would not for the whole world, venture myself with him and a sword. The captain seeing his servant afraid to venture, or if he did, he would never see him again alive; therefore he desired an agreement with the drover, who at first seemed unwilling, but the captain putting it in his will, the drover quit him for half the sum. This he came to through George’s advice.

8. George was met one day by three bishops, who paid him the following compliments; says the first, good-morrow, father Abraham; says the second, good-morrow, father Isaac; says the third, good-morrow father Jacob. To which he replied, I am neither father Abraham, father Isaac, nor father Jacob; but I am Saul, the Son of Kish, sent out to seek my father’s asses, and, lo! I have found three of them. Which answer fully convinced the bishops that they had mistaken their man.

9. A poor Scotchman dined one day at a public house in London upon eggs and not having money to pay, got credit till he should return. The man being lucky in trade, acquired vast riches; and after some years happening to pass that way, called at the house where he was owing the dinner of eggs. Having called for the innkeeper, he asked him what he had to pay for the dinner of eggs he got from him such a time? The landlord seeing him now rich, gave him a bill of several pounds; telling him, as his reason for so extravagant a charge, that these eggs had they been hatched, would have been chickens; and these laying more eggs, would have been more chickens: and so on multiplying the eggs and their product, till such time as their value amounted to the sum charged. The man refusing to comply with this demand, was charged before a judge. He then made his case known to George, his countryman, who promised to appear in the hour of cause, which he accordingly did, all in a sweat, with a great basket of boiled pease, which appearance surprised the judge, who asked him what he meant by these boiled pease? says George I am going to sow them. When will they grow? said the judge. They will grow, said George, when sodden eggs grow chickens. Which answer convinced the judge of the extravagance of the innkeeper’s demand, and the Scotsman was acquitted for twopence halfpenny.

George, one day easing himself at the corner of a hedge, was espied by an English squire who began to mock him asking him why he did not keckle like the hens? But George, whose wit was always ready, told him he was afraid to keckle, lest he would come and snatch up the egg, which rebuff made the squire walk off as mute as a fish.

George was professor of the College of St Andrews, and slipt out one day in his gown and slippers, and went on his travels through Italy, and several other foreign countries and after seven years, returned with the same dress he went off in; and entering the college, took possession of his seat there; but the professor in his room quarreling him for so doing. Ay, says George, it is a very odd thing that a man cannot take a walk out in his slippers, but another will take up his seat. And so set the other professor about his business.

Two drunken fellows one day fell a beating one another on the streets of London, which caused a great crowd of people to throng together to see what it was. A tailor being at work up in a garret, about three or four stories high, and he hearing the noise in the street, looking over the window, but could not well see them; he began to stretch himself, making a long neck, until he fell down out of the window, and alighted on an old man who was walking on the street; the poor tailor was more afraid than hurt, but the man he fell on died directly. His son caused the tailor to be apprehended, and tried for the murder of his father; the jury could not bring it in wilful murder, neither could they altogether free the tailor; the jury gave it over to the judges, and the judges to the king. The king asked George’s advice in this hard matter. Why, says George, I will give you my opinion in a minute; you must cause the tailor to stand in the street, where the old gentleman was when he was killed by the tailor, and then let the old gentleman’s son the tailor’s adversary, get up to the window from whence the tailor fell, and jump down, and so kill the tailor as he did his father. The tailor’s adversary hearing this sentence past, he would not venture to jump over the window, and so the tailor got clear off.

George went into the mint one day, when they were melting gold. One of them asked George, if he would have his hat full of gold? George readily accorded, but it burnt the bottom out of his hat, as they knew it would, and for the bout foiled George. However, George, to be up with them, bought a fine large hat, and caused a plate of copper to be put betwixt the hat and the linen; and returning next day they jestingly asked him, if he would have another hat full of gold? He said he would: They gave it red hot, and George now laughed at them in his turn; telling them, that his new hat was a good one, and stood fire better than the old one, and so carried it off honestly, and being afterwards prosecuted for to return it, he excused himself, telling the judge, that he took nothing but was given him, and therefore he was honourably acquitted, and the other heartily laughed at.

George being now far advanced in years, and being weary of the great fatigue and folly of the court fashions, a short time before his death, he had a great desire to visit his native country, and the place of his nativity. Therefore he petitioned the king for permission to do so which was granted. So he set out for Scotland, and went to the parish of Buchanan, in Dumbartonshire, where he visited all his relations and friends.--But George staying longer from court than the time allowed, the king sent him several messages to return, to which he returned no answer. At last the king sent him a letter threatening, that if he did not appear before him in the space of twenty days he would send his Lyon Heralds for him; to which George returned the following answer.

My honour’d Liege, and sovereign King, Of your boasting great I dread nothing: On your feud or favour I’ll fairly venture; Or that day I’ll be where few kings enter.

And also gave him many good admonitions and directions concerning the government of his kingdom and the well being of his soul; which drew tears from the king’s eyes when he read it.

WILL SCOTT

A celebrated attendant upon the Sheriff, well known for his activity in the execution of his orders, as well as for taking a bit comfortable guzzel when finances would afford it, was one Sabbath day snugly seated in the pew behind the Bailies at church. Will had not been there long till he was soon lull’d into sweet slumbers, and fancied himself seated along with his companions over a good Imperial Half-mutchkin, and in a short time the reckoning came a-paying, when some of the party insisted it was already paid; however, Will happened not to be of that opinion, and true to his integrity, bawled out with all his might in the midst of the sermon, “No, no, by my faith it’s no pay’t, we have had just a’e half-mutchkin, an’ twa bottles o’ ale and there’s no a fardin o’t pay’t.”

GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.

The Grave-digger of Sorn, Ayrshire, was as selfish and as mean a sinner as ever handled mattock, or carried mortcloth. He was a very quarrelsome and discontented old man, with a voice like the whistle of the wind thro’ a key-hole. On a bleak Sunday afternoon in the country, an acquaintance from a neighbouring parish accosted him one day, and asked how the world was moving with him, “Oh, very puirly, sir, very puirly indeed,” was the answer, “the yard has done naething ava for us this summer, if ye like to believe me, I havna buried a levin’ soul this sax weeks.”

THE END.

A BRIEF RELATION

OF THE

ADVENTURES

OF

BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW,

WHO WAS FOR MORE THAN FORTY YEARS

KING OF THE BEGGARS.

GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

ADVENTURES

OF

BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW.

Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew was the son of a clergyman near Tiverton, in Devonshire, and born in 1693. He was tall and majestic, his limbs strong and well proportioned, his features regular, and his countenance open and ingenious, bearing the resemblance of a good-natured mind. At twelve years old he was put to Tiverton school, where he soon got a considerable knowledge of the Latin and Greek tongues, so as to be fitted for the University, that in due time he might be fitted for the church, for which his father designed him; but here a new exercise engaged his attention, namely, that of hunting, in which he soon made a prodigious progress. The Tiverton scholars had command of a fine cry of hounds, which gave Carew a frequent opportunity of exercising his beloved employment, and getting acquainted with John Martin, Thomas Coleman, and John Escott, young gentlemen of the best rank and fortune. One day a farmer came to the school and complained of a deer, with a collar round his neck, that he had seen running through his grounds, and had done him much damage, desiring them to hunt it down and kill it. They, wishing for no better sport, on the next day put the old farmer’s request into execution, in doing of which they did much damage to the neighbouring grounds, whose owners, together with Colonel Nutcombe, to whom the deer belonged, came and complained to the schoolmaster of the injuries they had suffered by his scholars: they were very severely reprimanded, and hard threatened for the same. The resentment of the present reproof, and the fear of future chastisement, made them abscond from the school; and going into a brick alehouse, about half a mile from Tiverton, there they accidentally fell in company with some gypsies, who were then feasting and carousing. This company consisted of seventeen, who were met on purpose for festivity and jollity; which, by plenty of meat, fowl, flowing cups of beer, cider, &c., they seemed to enjoy to their hearts’ content. In short, the freedom, mirth, and pleasure that appeared among them, invited our youngsters to enlist into their company; which on communicating to the gypsies, they would not believe them, as thinking they jested; but on tarrying with them all night, and continuing in the same mind next morning, they at length thought them serious, and encouraged them; and, after going through the requisite ceremonials, and administering to them the proper oath, they admitted them into their number.

The reader will no doubt wonder to hear of the ceremonials and oaths among gypsies and beggars, but that will cease on being informed, that these people are subject to a form of government and laws peculiar to themselves, and pay due obedience to one who is styled their king; to which honour Carew in a short time arrived, after having by many acts proved himself worthy of it. The substance of them is this:--strong love and mutual regard for each member in particular, and the whole community in general; which being taught them in their infancy, grows up with them, prevents oppression, frauds, and overreaching one another, which is common among other people, and tends to the very worst of evils. This happiness and temper of mind so wrought on Carew, as to occasion the strongest attachment to them for forty years, refusing very large offers that had been made to him to quit their society.

Being thus initiated into the ancient society of gypsies, who take their name from Egypt, a place well known to abound in learning, and the inhabitants of which country travel about from place to place to communicate knowledge to mankind.--Carew did not long continue in it before he was consulted in important matters; particularly Madam Musgrove, of Monkton, near Taunton, hearing of his fame, sent for him to consult him in an affair of difficulty. When he was come, she informed him, that she suspected a large quantity of money was buried somewhere about her house, and if he would acquaint her with the particular place, she would handsomely reward him. Carew consulted the secrets of his art on this occasion, and, after a long study, he informed the lady, that under a laurel tree in the garden lay the treasure she sought for; but that she must not seek it till such a day and hour. The lady rewarded him with twenty guineas; but, whether Carew mistook his calculation, or the lady mistook her lucky hour, we cannot tell; but truth obliges us to say, the lady having dug below the root of the laurel tree, she could not find the treasure.

When he was further initiated, he was consulted in important matters and met with better success; generally giving satisfaction by his wise and sagacious answers. In the mean time his parents sorrowed after him, as one that was no more, having advertised him in all the public papers, and sent messengers after him to almost every part of the kingdom; till about a year and a half afterwards, when Carew, hearing of their grief, and being struck with tenderness thereat, repaired to his father’s house. He was so disguised they did not know him, but when they did their joy was beyond expressing, tenderly embracing him, bedewing his cheeks with tears and kisses; and all his friends and neighbours shewed every demonstration of joy at his return. His parents did every thing to render home agreeable to him; but the uncommon pleasure he had enjoyed in the community he had left, their simplicity, freedom, sincerity, mirth, and frequent change of habitation, and the secret presages of the honour he has since arrived at, sickened and palled all other diversions, and at last prevailed over his filial duty; for one day without taking leave of his friends or parents, he went back to them again, where he was heartily welcomed, both to his own and their satisfaction, they being glad to regain one who was likely to become so useful a member of their community.

_Carew’s first adventure in his new profession._

Carew being again initiated among them, at the first general assembly of the gypsies, took the oaths of allegiance to their sovereign, by whom he was soon sent out on a cruise against their enemies. Carew now set his wits to work how to succeed: so equipping himself with an old pair of trowsers, a piece of a jacket, just enough to cover his nakedness, stockings full of holes, and an old cap, he forgot both friends and family, and became nothing more or less than an unfortunate shipwrecked seaman. In this, his first excursion, he gained much credit, artfully imitating passes and certificates that were necessary for him to travel unmolested. After a month’s travel he happened to meet with his old school-fellow Coleman, who had once left the gypsies’ society, but for the same reason as himself, returned to them again. Great was their joy at meeting, and they agreed to travel some time together; so entering Exeter, they in one day raised a contribution of several pounds.

Having obtained all he could from this stratagem, he then became a plain, honest farmer, whose grounds had been overflowed, and cattle drowned; his dejected countenance and mournful tale, together with a wife and seven helpless infants being partakers of his misfortunes, gained him both pity and profit.

Having obtained a considerable booty by these two stratagems, he returned to his companions, where he was received with great applause; and, as a mark of their respect, seated him next the king. He soon became a great man in the profession, and confined not himself from doing good to others, when it did not infringe upon the community of which he was a member.

His next stratagem was to become a mad-man; so stripping himself quite naked, he threw a blanket over him, and then he was, “Poor mad Tom, whom the foul fiend has led through fire and through flame! through fire and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane for his porridge, and made him proud at heart to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inch bridges; to curse his own shadow for a traitor; who eats the swimming-frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water-newt; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, swallows the old rat and ditch dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool;

And mice and rats, and such like gear, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.

O do de, do de, do de! bless thee! from whirlwind, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes--There I could have him now--and there!--and there!--and here again!--and there!--Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind--Tom’s a cold!--who gives any thing to poor Tom?”

In this character, with such-like expressions, he entered the houses of both small and great, claiming kindred to them, and committing all kinds of frantic actions, such as beating himself, offering to eat coals of fire, running against the wall, and tearing to pieces whatever garments were given to him to cover his nakedness; by which means he raised considerable contributions.

He never was more happy than when he was engaged in some adventure; therefore he was always very diligent to enquire when any accident happened, especially fire, to which he would immediately repair, and, getting information of the causes, names, trades, and circumstances of the unhappy sufferers, he would assume one of them, and burning some part of his clothes, by way of demonstration, run to some place distant, pass for one of them, gain credit, and get much profit. Under this character he had once the boldness to address a justice, who was the terror and professed enemy to all the gypsies, yet he so well managed the affair, that in a long examination he made him believe he was an honest miller, whose house, mill and substance had been consumed by fire, occasioned by the negligence of the apprentice; and accordingly, got a bountiful sum for his relief, the justice not in the least suspecting a defraud.

He had such wonderful facility in every character he assumed, that he even deceived those who thought themselves so well acquainted with him, that it was impossible for him to impose on them.

Coming one day to ‘Squire Portman’s house at Blandford, in the character of a rat-catcher, with a hair cap on his head, a buff girdle about his waist, a little box by his side, and a tame rat in his hand, he goes boldly up to the house, where he had been well known before, and meeting the ’squire, Parson Bryant, and one Mr. Pleydell, of Milbourn, and some other gentlemen, he asked them if they had any rats to kill. “Do you understand the business well?” says the ’squire. “Yes, an please your honour,” replied Carew, “I have been a rat-catcher for many years, and have been employed in his Majesty’s yards and ships.” “Well,” says the ’squire, “go in and get some victuals, and after dinner we will try your abilities.” He was accordingly called into the parlour, where were a large company of gentlemen and ladies. “Well, honest rat-catcher,” says the squire, “can you lay any scheme to kill the rats without hurting my dogs?” “Yes, yes,” cries Carew, “I can lay it where even the rats cannot climb to reach it.”--“What countryman are you?”--“A Devonshireman, an please your honour.” “What is your name?” Here our hero began to perceive that he was discovered, by the smilings and whisperings of several gentlemen, and he very composedly answered,--“My name is Bamfylde Moore Carew.” This occasioned much mirth, and Mr. Pleydell expressed extraordinary pleasure. He had often wished to see him, but never had.--“Yes you have,” replied Carew, “and given me a suit of clothes. Do you not remember meeting a poor wretch one day at your stable door, with a stocking round his head, an old mantle over his shoulders, without shirt, stockings, or scarce any shoes, who told you he was a poor unfortunate man, cast away upon the coast, with sixteen more of the crew, who were all drowned; you, believing this story, generously relieved me with a guinea and a good suit of clothes.” “I well remember it,” said Mr. Pleydell, “but, on this discovery, it is impossible to deceive me so again, come in whatever shape you will.” The company blamed him for thus boasting, and secretly prevailed upon Carew to put his art in practice to convince him of the fallacy thereof: to which he agreed, and in a few days after appointing the company present to be at Mr. Pleydell’s house, he put the following scheme into execution.

He shaved himself closely, and clothed himself in an old woman’s apparel, with a high-crowned hat, and a large dowdy under his chin; then taking three children from among his fraternity, he tied two on his back and one under his arm. Thus accoutred, he comes to Mr. Pleydell’s door, and pinching one of the brats, set it a roaring; this gave the alarm to the dogs, who came out with open mouths, so that the whole company was soon alarmed. Out came the maid, saying, “Carry away the children, good woman, they disturb the ladies.” “God bless their ladyships,” said Carew, “I am the poor unfortunate grandmother of these helpless infants, whose mother and all they had were burnt at the dreadful fire at Kirkton, and hope the good ladies, for Heaven’s sake, will bestow something on the poor famishing, starving infants.” In goes the maid with this affecting story to the ladies, while Carew keeps pinching the children to make them cry, and the maid soon returned with half-a-crown and some good broth, which he thankfully received, and went into the court-yard to sit down to sup them, as perceiving the gentlemen were not at home. He had not long been there before they came, when one of them accosted him thus: “Where do you come from, old woman?” “From Kirkton, please your honours,” said he, “where the poor unhappy mother of these helpless infants was burnt in the flames, and all she had consumed.” “There has been more money collected for Kirkton than ever Kirkton was worth,” said the gentleman. However, they gave the supposed old grandmother a shilling, commiserating the hard case of her and her poor helpless infants, which he thankfully received, pretending to go away; but the gentlemen were hardly got into the house, before their ears were suddenly saluted with a “tantivy, tantivy,” and a “halloo” to the dogs; on which they turned about, supposing it to be some other sportsmen; but seeing nobody, they imagined it to be Carew, in the disguise of the old Kirkton grandmother; so bidding the servants fetch him back, he was brought into the parlour among them all, and confessed himself to be the famous Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew, to the astonishment and mirth of them all; who well rewarded him for the diversion he had afforded them.

In like manner he raised a contribution twice in one day of Mr. Jones, near Bristol. In the morning, with a sooty face, leather apron, a dejected countenance, and a woollen cap, he was generously relieved as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had been consumed by fire. In the afternoon he exchanged his legs for crutches, and, with a dejected countenance, pale face, and every sign of pain, he became a disabled tinner, incapable of maintaining a wife and seven small children, by the damps and hardships he had suffered in the mines; and so well acted his part, that the tinner got as well relieved in the afternoon as the blacksmith in the morning.

These successful stratagems gained him high applause and honour in the community of gypsies. He soon became the favourite of their king, who was very old and decrepid, and had always some honourable mark of distinction assigned him at their assemblies.

Being one morning near the seat of his good friend Sir William Courtney, he was resolved to pay him three visits that day. He therefore puts on a parcel of rags, and goes to him with a piteous, mean, dismal countenance, and deplorable tale, and got half-a-crown from him, telling him he had met with great misfortunes at sea. At noon he puts on a leather apron scorched with fire, and with a dejected countenance goes to him again, and was relieved as an unfortunate shoemaker, who had been burnt out of his house and all he had. In the afternoon he goes again in trimmed clothes, and desiring admittance to Sir William, with a modest grace and submissive eloquence, he repeats his misfortunes, as the supercargo of a vessel which had been cast away, and his whole effects lost.

Sir William, seeing his genteel appearance and behaviour, treated him with respect, and gave him a guinea at his departure. There were several gentlemen at dinner with Sir William at that time, none of whom had any knowledge of him except the Rev. Mr. Richards, who did not discover him till he was gone; upon which a servant was despatched to desire him to come back, which he did; and when he entered the room they were very merry with him and requested him to give an account how he got his fine clothes, and of his stratagems, with the success of them. He asked Sir William if he had not given half-a-crown in the morning to a beggar, and about noon relieved a poor unfortunate shoemaker. “I did,” said Sir William. “Behold him before you,” said Carew, “in this fine embroidered coat, as a broken merchant.” The company would not believe him; so, to convince them, he re-assumed those characters again, to their no small mirth and satisfaction.

_Carew made King of the Beggars._

On the death of the king of the gypsies, named Clause Patch, our hero was a candidate to succeed him, and exhibited to the electors a long list of bold and ingenious stratagems which he had executed, and made so graceful and majestic an appearance in his person, that he had a considerable majority of voices, though there were ten candidates for the same honour; on which he was declared duly elected, and hailed by the whole assembly--King of the Gypsies. The public register of their acts being immediately committed to his care, and homage done him by all the assembly, the whole concluded by rejoicings.

Though Mr. Carew was now privileged, by the dignity of his office, from going on any cruise, and was provided with every thing necessary, by the joint contribution of the community, yet he did not give himself up to indolence. Our hero, though a king, was as active in his stratagems as ever, and ready to encounter any difficulty which seemed to promise success.

Mr. Carew being in the town of South Molton, in Devonshire, and having been ill-used by an officer there, called the bellman, resolved on the following stratagem, by way of revenge. It was at that time reported that a gentleman of the town, lately buried, walked nightly in the church-yard; and as the bellman was obliged by his nightly duty to go through it just at the very hour of one, Mr. Carew repaired thither a little before the time, and stripping in his shirt, lay down upon the gentleman’s grave. Soon after, hearing the bellman approach, he raised himself up with a solemn slowness, which the bellman beholding, by the glimmerings of the moon through a dark cloud, was terribly frightened, so took to his heels and ran away. In his fright he looked behind him, and seeing the ghost following him, dropped his bell and ran the faster; which Carew seized on as a trophy, and forbore any further pursuit. The bellman did not stop till he reached home, where he obstinately affirmed he had seen the gentleman’s ghost, who had taken away the bell, which greatly alarmed the whole town.

Coming to the seat of ’Squire Rhodes, in Devonshire, and knowing he had lately married a Dorsetshire lady, he thought proper to become a Dorsetshire man of Lyme, the place of the lady’s nativity; and meeting the ’squire and his bride, he gave them to understand that he was lost in a vessel belonging to Lyme, Captain Courtney commander. The ’squire and his lady gave him half-a-crown each, for country sake, and entertained him at their house.

Our hero exercising his profession at Milbury, where the ’squire’s father lived, and to whom the son was come on a visit, Mr. Carew made application to him, and knocking at the door, on its being opened, saw the young ’squire sitting alone, whom Mr. Rhodes interrupted by saying he was twice in one day imposed on by that rogue Carew, of whose gang you may likely be: besides, I do not live here, but am a stranger. In the mean time comes the old ’squire, with a bottle of wine in his hand, giving Carew a wink to let him understand he knew him, and then very gravely enquired into the circumstances of his misfortunes, and also of the affairs and inhabitants of Dartmouth, from whence he pretended to have sailed several times, of all which he gave a full and particular account: whereupon the old ’squire gave him half-a-crown, and the young one the same; on which Carew and the old man burst into laughter, and discovered the whole affair, at which ’Squire Rhodes was a little chagrined at being imposed on a third time; but on recollecting the expertness of the performer, was well satisfied, and they spent the remainder of the day in mirth and jollity.

At Bristol he dressed himself like a poor mechanic, and then going out into the streets, acted the religious madman, talking in a raving manner about Messrs. Whitfield and Wesley, as though he was disordered in his mind by their preaching; calling in a furious manner, every step, upon the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate, and Mary Magdalene, and acting every part of a man religiously mad. Sometimes walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and then on a sudden he would break out in some passionate expressions about religion. This behaviour greatly excited the curiosity and compassion of the people; some of them talked to him, but he answered every thing they said in a wild and incoherent manner; and as compassion is generally the forerunner of charity, he was relieved by most of them.

Next morning he appeared in a morning gown, still acting the madman, and addressed himself to all the posts of the street, as if they were saints, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, in a fervent but distracted manner, and making use of so many extravagant gestures, that he astonished the whole city. Going through Castle Street, he met the Rev. Mr. B----e, whom he accosted with his arms thrown round him, and insisted, in a raving manner, he should tell him who was the father of the morning star; which frightened the parson so much, that he took to his heels and ran for it, Carew running after him, till the parson was obliged to take shelter in a house.

Having well recruited his pocket by this stratagem, he left Bristol next day, and travelled towards Bath, acting the madman all the way till he came to Bath: as soon as he came there, he enquired for Dr. Coney’s, and being directed to his house, found two brother mendicants at the door. After they had waited some time, the servant brought out each of them a halfpenny, for which his brother mendicants were very thankful. But Carew gave his halfpenny to one of them; then knocking at the door, and the maid coming out again, “Tell your master” says he, “I am not a halfpenny man, but that my name is Bamfylde Moore Carew, king of the mendicants;” which being told, the doctor came out with one of his daughters, and gave him sixpence and a mug of drink, for which he returned them thanks.

Mr. Carew happening to be in the city of Wells on a Sunday, was told the bishop was to preach that morning: on which he slipped on a black waistcoat and morning gown, and ran out to meet the bishop as he was walking in procession, and addressed himself to him as a poor unhappy man, whose misfortunes had turned his brains; which the bishop hearing gave him half-a-crown.

It was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne that he became enamoured with the daughter of Mr. G----y, an eminent apothecary and surgeon there. This young lady had charms sufficient to captivate the heart of any man susceptible of love; and they made so deep an impression upon him, that they wholly effaced every object which before had created any desire in him, and never permitted any other to raise them afterwards; for, wonderful to tell! we have, after about thirty years’ enjoyment, seen him lament her occasional absence almost with tears, and talk of her with all the fondness of one who has been in love with her but three days. Our hero tried all love’s persuasions with his fair one in an honourable way; and as his person was very engaging, and his appearance genteel, he did not find her greatly averse to his proposals. As he was aware that his being of the community of gypsies might prejudice her against him, without examination he passed with her for the mate of a collier’s vessel, in which he was supported by Captain L----n, in whose vessel they set sail; and the very winds being willing to favour these happy lovers, they had an exceedingly quick passage to Dartmouth, where they landed. In a few days they set out for Bath, where they lawfully solemnized their nuptials with great gaiety and splendour; and nobody at that time could conjecture who they were, which was the cause of much speculation and false surmises.

Some time after this, he took his passage at Folkstone, in Kent, for Boulogne, in France, where he arrived safe, and proceeded to Paris, and other noted cities of that kingdom. His habit was now tolerably good, his countenance grave, his behaviour sober and decent--pretending to be a Roman Catholic, who had left England, his native country, out of an ardent zeal for spending his days in the bosom of the Catholic church. This story readily gained belief: his zeal was universally applauded, and handsome contributions made for him. But, at the time he was so zealous a Roman Catholic, with a little change of habit, he used to address those English he heard of in any place, as a protestant, and shipwrecked seaman; and had the good fortune to meet with an English physician at Paris, to whom he told this deplorable tale, who not only relieved him very handsomely, but recommended him to that noble pattern of unexhausted benevolence, Mrs. Horner, who was then on her travels, from whom he received ten guineas, and from some other company with her five more.

It was about this time he became acquainted with the Hon. Sir William W----m, in the following manner:--Being at Watchett, in Somersetshire, near the seat of that gentlemen, he resolved to pay him a visit. Putting on, therefore, a jacket and a pair of trousers, he made the best of his way to Sir William’s seat, and luckily met Sir William, Lord Bolingbroke, and several other gentlemen and clergy, with some commanders of vessels, walking in the park. Carew approached Sir William with a great deal of seeming fearfulness and respect; and with much modesty acquainted him he was a Silverton man, that he was the son of one of his tenants named Moore--had been to Newfoundland, and in his passage homeward, the vessel was run down by a French ship in a fog, and only he and two more were saved; but being put on board an Irish vessel, were carried into Ireland, and from thence landed at Watchett. Sir William hearing this, asked him a great many questions concerning the inhabitants of Silverton, who were most of them his own tenants, and of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood; all whom Carew was well acquainted with, and therefore gave satisfactory answers. Sir William at last asked him, if he knew Bickley, and if he knew the parson thereof? Carew replied, that he knew him very well, and so indeed he might, as it was no other than his own father! Sir William then enquired what family he had, and whether he had not a son named Bamfylde, and what became of him. “Your honour,” replied he, “means the beggar and dog-stealer--I don’t know what has become of him, but it is a wonder if he is not hanged by this time.” “No, I hope not,” replied Sir William, “I should be glad, for his family’s sake, to see him at my house.” Having satisfactorily answered many other questions, Sir William generously relieved him with a guinea, and Lord Bolingbroke followed his example; the other gentlemen and clergy contributed according to their different ranks. Sir William then ordered him to go to his house, and tell the butler to entertain him, which he accordingly did, and set himself down with great comfort.

Having heard that young Lord Clifford, his first cousin, (who had just returned from his travels abroad,) was at his seat at Callington, about four miles from Bridgewater, he resolved to pay him a visit. In his way thither resided parson C----, who being one whom nature had made up in a hurry without a heart, Mr Carew had never been able to obtain any thing of him, even under the most moving appearance of distress, but a small cup of drink. Stopping now in his way, he found the parson was gone to Lord Clifford’s; but being saluted at the door by a fine black spaniel, with almost as much crustiness as he would have been had his master been at home, he thought himself under no stronger obligation of observing the strict laws of honour, than the parson did of hospitality; and therefore soon charmed the crossness of the spaniel, and made him follow him to Bridgewater.

Having secured the spaniel, and passed the night merrily at Bridgewater, he set out the next morning for Lord Clifford’s, and in his way called upon the parson again, who very crustily told him he had lost his dog, and supposed some of his gang had stolen him: to which Mr. Carew very calmly replied, What was he to his dog, or what was his dog to him? if he would make him drink it was well, for he was very dry: at last with the use of much rhetoric, he got a cup of small drink; then, taking leave of him, he went to the Red-Lion, in the same parish, where he staid some time. In the mean time, down ran the parson to my Lord Clifford’s, to acquaint him that Mr. Carew was in the parish, and to advise him to take care of his dogs; so that Mr. Carew, coming down immediately after, found a servant with one dog in his arms, and another with another: here one stood whistling and another calling, and both my lord and his brother were running about to seek after their favourites.

Mr. Carew asked my lord what was the meaning of this hurry, and if his dogs were cripples, because he saw several carried in the servant’s arms; adding, he hoped his lordship did not imagine he was come to steal any of them. Upon which his lordship told him, that parson C---- had advised him to be careful, as he had lost his spaniel but the day before. “It may be so,” replied he, “the parson knows but little of me, or the laws of our community, if he is ignorant that with us ingratitude is unknown, and the property of our friends always sacred.” His lordship, hearing this, entertained him very handsomely, and both himself and his brother made him a present.

On his return home, he reflected how idly he had spent the prime of life; and recovering from a severe illness, he came to a resolution of resigning the Egyptian sceptre. The assembly finding him determined, reluctantly acquiesced, and he departed amidst the applause and sighs of his subjects.

Our adventurer, finding the air of the town not rightly to agree with him, and the death of some of his relations rendering his circumstances quite easy, he retired to the western parts, to a neat purchase he had made, and there he ended his days, beloved and esteemed by all; leaving his daughter (his wife dying some time before him) a genteel fortune; who was married to a neighbouring young gentleman.

ANECDOTES.

AN IRISH WAGER.

Two natives of the Emerald Isle, who were travelling together, finding their means run short, and being in want of a “dhrop of the craythur,” devised the ways and means for raising a supply. Catching a frog in a ditch, one of them went on with it in advance of his companion, and stopping at the first public-house he came to, asked the landlord if he could tell what sort of an animal that was? “What sort of an animal?” exclaimed Boniface, “why, you booby, it’s a frog, to be sure.” “Booby here, booby there,” said Pat, “it strikes me you’re mistaken, for as ’cute as you think yourself, I’ll bet you the price of a pint of whisky it’s a mouse; and I’ll lave it to the first traveller that comes up to decide between us.” “Agreed,” said the landlord. Pat’s confederate came up; and being required to say what sort of an animal it was, after much examination and deliberation, declared it to be a mouse; and thus the landlord, in spite of the evidence of his senses, had to pay the wager.

A SAD MISTAKE.

A farm servant in Strathearn having intimated to his master that it was his intention “to take unto himself a wife,” and being rather a bit of a favourite, was ordered to take a greybeard and go to Perth for a gallon of whisky, for the purpose of adding to the hilarity of the occasion. The lad willingly did as ordered; and when the marriage company were about starting to meet the bride, stalked majestically into the middle of the room, with glass in hand, and the greybeard under his arm, and filling a bumper, handed it to the nearest person, who hurriedly swallowed it, but instantly shaking his head, gravely remarked, that it was “shurely some o’ the new-fangled mixture graith.” Being in too great haste to give the observation that attention it merited, the second was instantly filled and tasted; but how aghast did the company look when the recipient roared out in a voice of horror, “L--d, Jock, that’s uily!” And “uily” it was. The bridegroom, on going to St. Johnston, had taken the wrong jar, and having requested the shopman to “fill that wi’ the _auld thing_,” the wary functionary, to catch the plain meaning, smelled the jar, and implemented the order accordingly. Although the mistake was felt severely at the time, we are happy to say that a good horse speedily bore the needful from a neighbouring public-house, and everything afterwards went on with a spirit which, instead of being damped, appeared to have been augmented by the mischance.

SCOTCH ANECDOTE.

An anxious Scotch mother was taking leave of her son on his departure for England, and giving him all good advice. “My dear Sauny, my ainly son, gang south and get all the siller from the southerns, take every thing you can, but the English are a braw boxing people, and take care of them Sauny. My dear son Sauny, never fight a bald man, for you cannot catch hold of him by the hair of his head.”

AMERICAN WIT.

“Master, if that house cost five hundred dollars, and a barrel of nails five dollars, what would a good sizeable pig _come to_? Do you give it up? Well, he’d _come to_ a bushel of corn.”

A BRIGHT IDEA.

“What is light?” asked a school-master of the booby of the class. “A sovereign that isn’t full weight is _light_.”

FINIS.

Daniel O’Rourke’s

WONDERFUL

VOYAGE TO THE MOON.

ALSO,

Master and Man;

OR,

The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.

GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

DANIEL O’ROURKE’S

Wonderful Voyage to the Moon.

People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well; he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.

‘I am often axed to tell it, sir,’ said he, ‘so that this is not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little, to be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end;--and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes, and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in the year;--but now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir, for I’d better be telling you my story.

‘Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bothereen--a lovely young couple they were, though they are both long enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can’t remember ever at all, no ways, how I left the place; only I did leave it that’s certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping stones at the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars and blessing myself--for why? it was Lady-day.--I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.

‘I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir, (with your pardon for mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog; I could never find out how I got into it, and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my barrin place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagon--when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I: ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I: ‘only I wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis sir,’ says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s thought, ‘though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my life for yours,’ says he; ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog,’--I am afraid, says I, your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before? ‘Pon the honour of a gentleman, says he, putting his right foot on his breast I am quite in earnest: and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.

It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice: so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance;--I thank your honour, says I, for the load of your civility: and I’ll take your kind offer: I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up--God knows how far up he flew. Why, then said I to him--thinking he did not know the right road home--very civilly, because why?--I was in his power entirely;--sir, says I, please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.

Arrah, Dan, said he, do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard, that I picked up off a could stone in a bog. Bother you, said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. Where in the world are you going, sir? says I to him.--Hold your tongue, Dan, says he; mind your own business, and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.--Faith, this is my business, I think, says I. Be quiet, Dan, says he; so I said no more.

At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure on the ground, with the end of his stick.)

Dan said the eagle. I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion ’twas so far. And my lord, sir, said I, who in the world axed you to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago? There’s no use talking, Dan, said he; I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself. Is it sit down on the moon? said I; is it upon that little round thing, then? why; then, sure I’d fall off, in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver,--so you are. Not at all, Dan, said he: you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook, that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up. I won’t, then, said I. May be not, said he, quite quiet. If you don’t, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning. Why, then, I’m in a fine way, said I to myself, ever to have come alone with the likes of you, and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got oft his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.

When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year, (’twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.

Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you? says I. You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard. ’Twas all to no manner of use: he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this--Sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there walks who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his busk.

Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; How do you do? Very well, thank your honour, said I. I hope your honour’s well. What brought you here, Dan? said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon.

Dan, said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, you must not stay here. Indeed, sir, says I, ’tis much against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back? That’s your business, said he, Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time. I’m doing no harm, says I, only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off. That’s what you must not do, Dan, says he. Pray, sir, says I, may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodgings; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way. I’m by myself, Dan, says he; but you’d better let go the reaping-hook. Faith, and with your leave, says I, I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won’t let go: so I will. You had better, Dan, says he again. Why, then, my little fellow, says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like. We’ll see how that is to be, says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him, (for it was plain he was huffed,) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.

Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. Good morning to you, Dan, says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel. I had no time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. God help me, says I, but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly. The word was not out of my mouth when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how should they know me? the ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, Is that you, Dan? The same, said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. Good morrow to you, says he, Daniel O’Rourke: how are you in health this morning? Very well, sir, says I. I thank you kindly, drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. I hope your honour’s the same. I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel, says he. You may say that sir, says I. And where are you going all the way so fast? said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. Dan, said he, I’ll save you: put your hand out and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home. Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel, says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.

We flew, and we flew and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. Ah! my lord, said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, fly to land if you please. It is impossible, you see, Dan, said he, for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia. To Arabia! said I; that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr Goose: why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.--Whist, whist, you fool, said he, hold your tongue: I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.

Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind: Ah! then, sir, said I, will you drop me on the ship, if you please? We are not fair over it, said he. We are, said I. We are not, said he: If I dropped you now, you would go splash into the sea. I would not, says I; I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.

If you must, you must said he. There, take your own way; and he opened his claw, and faith he was right--sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night’s rest, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say; but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying--’twas a voice I knew too--Get up, you drunken brute, out of that: and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me;--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.

Get up, said she again; and of all places in the parish, would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it. And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the great ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.

Master and Man;

OR,

The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.

Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh; fearing for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it; drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company any one could come across.

It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the cold. By my word, chattered Billy, a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I had a full measure of the best.

Never wish it twice, Billy, said a little man in a three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor, as ever eye looked on or lip tasted.

Success, my little fellow, said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to the good people; here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays for the drink; and he took the glass and drained it to the very bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.

Success, said the little man: and you’re heartily welcome, Billy; but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,--out with your purse and pay me like a gentleman.

Is it I pay you? said Billy; could I not just take you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?

Billy Mac Daniel, said the little man, getting very angry, you shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I will be paid; so make ready to follow me.

When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used such bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and brake without any rest.

When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and said, You may now, go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent master.

Home went Billy Mac Daniel, and though he was tired and weary enough never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man; but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the little man came towards him and said, Billy, I want to go a long journey to night; so saddle one of my horses and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired after your walk last night.

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him accordingly: But, said he If I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the fort here, and the old thorn-tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us.

Ask no questions, Billy, said the little man, but go over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck at each side of each, and brought them back to his master.

Get up, Billy, said the little man, taking one of the rushes from him and stridding across it.

Where shall I get up, please your honour? said Billy.

Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure, said the little man.

Is it after making a fool of me you’d be, said Billy, bidding me get a horse-back upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled but while ago out of the bog over there, is a horse?

Up! up! and no words, said the little man, looking very angry; the best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it. So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the rush; Borram! Borram! Borram! cried the little man three times, (which, in English, means to become great,) and Billy did the same after him; presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the wrong way, which, was rather awkward, with his face to the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him, that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail.

At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a fine house: Now, Billy, said the little man, do as you see me do, and follow me close: but as you do not know your horse’s head from his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels for remember that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man dumb.

The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy could make no kind of meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all that and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and through one key-hole after another, until they got into the wine-cellar which was well stored with all kinds of wine.

The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, no way disliking the example, did the same. The best of masters are you, surely, said Billy to him; no matter who is the next; and well pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink.

I have made no bargain with you, said the little man, and will make none; but up and follow me. Away they went, through key-hole after key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snow-balls, as soon as the words, Borram, Borram, Borram, had passed their lips.

When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and another night there--sometimes north, and sometimes east, and sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s wine-cellar in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine in it as well--ay, better than the buttler himself.

One night when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the Fort-field and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their journey, his master said to him, Billy, I shall want another horse to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we take. So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it might be that would travel back in the company, and whether he was about to have a fellow servant. If I have, thought Billy, he shall go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don’t see why I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.

Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped till they came to a snug farmer’s house in the country Limerick, close under the old castle of Carrigoggunniel, that was built, they says by the great Brian Bora. Within the house there was a great carousing going forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen; then turning round all of a sudden, said, Billy, I will be a thousand years old to-morrow!

God bless us, sir, said Billy, will you?

Don’t say these words again, Billy, said the little man, or you will be my ruin for ever.--Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.

I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all, said Billy, if ever you mean to marry.

And to that purpose, said the little man, have I come all the way to Carrigoggunniel: for in this house, this very night, is young Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her myself, and taking her off with me.

And what will Darby Riley say to that? said Billy.

Silence! said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look; I did not bring you here with me to ask questions; and without holding farther argument, lit began saying the queer words, which had the power of passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him.

In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big beams which went across the house overall their heads, and Billy did the same upon another facing him; not being much accustomed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contented by upon his haunches.

There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun going forward--and under them were the priest and piper--and the father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s son--and there were both father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as good right they had--and her four sisters with bran new ribbons in their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and clever as any three boys in Munster--and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it--and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them, if they had been double the number.

Now it happened, just as Mrs Rooney had helped his reverence to the first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which made every one at the table start, but not a soul said “God bless us.” All thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which unfortunately was preoccupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a moment’s pause the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without the pious benediction.

Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. Ha! exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated into the curvature of Gothic arches--Ha! said he, leering down at the bride, and then up at Billy, I have half of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book and Darby Riley.

Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed so much, that few except the little man took, or seemed to take any notice; and no one thought of saying, “God bless us.”

At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy roared out with all his might, “God save us!” No sooner was it uttered, than the little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, I discharge you my service, Billy Mac Daniel--take that for your wages, gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table.

If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when they heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he drink at it too, which was what he thought more of than dancing.

FINIS.

THE

COMICAL TRICKS

OF

LOTHIAN TOM,

WITH A

SELECTION OF ANECDOTES.

GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE

COMICAL TRICKS

OF

LOTHIAN TOM.

This Thomas Black, vulgarly called Lothian Tom, because he was of that country, was born about four miles from Edinburgh; his father being a wealthy farmer, gave him a good education, which he was very awkward in receiving, being a very wild mischievous boy.

When he was about ten years of age, he was almost killed by the stroke of a horse’s foot, which his father had who had a trick of kicking at every person that came behind him. But when Tom got heal of the dreadful wound, whereof many thought he would have died, to be even with the horse, he gets a clog, or piece of tree which was full of wooden pins, such a thing as the shoe makers use to soften their leather on, and with a rope he tied it to the couple-bauk in the stable directly opposite to the horse’s tail, then gets on the bauk, and gives it a swing, so that the pikes in the end of it, came with full drive against the horse’s backside, which made him fling, and the more he flung and struck at it, it rebounded back, and struck him again; the battle lasted with great fury for a long time, which was good fun for Tom, until his father hearing some noise in the stable, came to know the matter, and was surprised to see the poor animal tanning his own hide, with his legs all cut and bloody! he cut the rope and the battle was ended; but the poor horse would never afterwards kick at any thing that came behind him.

It happened one day that Tom went a fishing, and brought home a few small fish, which his grandmother’s cat snapt up in the dark. So Tom to have justice of the cat for so doing, catches her, and put her into a little tub, or cog, then sets her adrift in a small mill-dam, ordering her to go a fishing for herself; then set two or three dogs upon her, and a most terrible sea fight ensued, as ever was seen on fresh water; for if any of the dogs, when attempting to board her, set up their noses, baudrins came flying to that place, to repulse them with her claws; then the vessel was like to be overset by the weight of herself, so she had to flee to the other, and finding the same there from thence to the middle, where she sat mewing always turning herself about, combing their noses with her foot. The old woman being informed of the dangerous situation of her dearly beloved cat, came running with a long poll to beat off the dogs and haul her ashore. What now, says Tom, if you be going to take part with my enemies, you shall have part of their reward; then gives the old woman such a push that she tumbled into the dam over head and ears, beside her beloved cat, and would undoubtedly have perished in the water had not one of the people who was there looking at the diversion, come to her relief.

After this Tom was sent to school to keep his hand out of an ill turn; and having an old canker’d, crab-witted fellow for his dominie, they were always at variance; for if Tom had got his whips, which he often deserved, he was sure to be revenged upon his master again for it. So Tom perceived his master had a close-stool in a little closet within the school, where he went and eased himself when need was: Tom gets a penny-worth of gun-powder, and sprinkled it on the ground directly before the seat, and lays a little of it along in a train to the fireside; then perceiving when his master went into it, and as he was loosing down his breeches sets fire to the train, which blew it all about his master’s backside, which scorched him terribly, besides the fright, for which Tom was severely whipt. Yet, in a little after, he began to study revenge on his master.

So it happened one day as Tom was in the master’s house, his wife was stooping into a big meal-barrel, to bring out some meal: then he takes her by the feet, and coups her up into the barrel with her head down and her bare backside uppermost; then runs into the school, crying O master, master! the de’il’s looking out o’ your meal stand; wi’ a fat face and a black ill-farr’d mouth; yon’s just Auld Nick if he be living. So the master ran out with all speed he could, for to see what it was; and found it to be his own wife, speechless, and almost smothered to death; but as she could not tell who did it, Tom got clear off: yet he was not satisfied without some more revenge on the old fellow: and knowing his master had a fashion, when he was going to whip the boys if they would not loose their breeches willingly, he drew his knife and cut them threw the waistband behind: So Tom goes to a butcher, and gets a raw pudding, and fills it with blood and water, and puts it within the waistband of his breeches, then goes to the school next day, and as his master was sitting with his back to the fire, Tom lights a piece of paper, and sets his wig in a low, which burnt for some time unperceived, until the flames came fizzing about his ears; he first put out the flames by tramping on the wig, and being informed that Tom did it, flies to him in a rage, ordering him to loose his breeches, but Tom told him he was never so mad.--Then he drew his knife, whips poor Tom over his knee, and with a great struggle cuts the waistband of his breeches; but thro’ pudding and all, so that the blood gushed out, and Tom cried out Murder! Murder! Murder! and down he fell.

The poor Dominie ran out of the school crying and wringing his hands. Word flew about that he was sticked by the Dominie, which made the people come running from several parts of the country round about to see how it was: but upon searching him, they found the empty pudding, which discovered all the fraud. Then two men had to get horses and ride after the poor Dominie, who had by this time got two or three miles away; and when he saw them riding after him crying to stop and come back again, he ran the faster until he could run no more, but fell down on the road, and prayed them to let him go, for, if he was taken back, he was sure to be hanged: and would not be persuaded that Tom was alive, until they forced him back, and he saw him. But he would be Tom’s teacher no longer; so Tom’s father had to seek another master for him.