Chapter 8

Endless honour be to Neal Malone for the originality with which he managed the tender sentiment! He did not, like your commonplace lovers, first discover a pretty girl and afterward become enamoured of her. No such thing; he had the passion prepared beforehand--cut out and made up, as it were, ready for any girl whom it might fit. This was falling in love in the abstract, and let no man condemn it without a trial, for many a long-winded argument could be urged in its defence. It is always wrong to commence business without capital, and Neal had a good stock to begin with. All we beg is that the reader will not confound it with Platonism, which never marries; but he is at full liberty to call it Socratism, which takes unto itself a wife and suffers accordingly.

Let no one suppose that Neal forgot the schoolmaster’s kindness, or failed to be duly grateful for it. Mr. O’Connor was the first person whom he consulted touching his passion. With a cheerful soul he waited on that melancholy and gentleman-like man, and in the very luxury of his heart told him that he was in love.

“In love, Neal!” said the schoolmaster. “May I inquire with whom?”

“Wid nobody in particular yet,” replied Neal; “but o’ late I’m got divilish fond o’ the girls in general.”

“And do you call that being in love, Neal?” said Mr. O’Connor.

“Why, what else would I call it?” returned the tailor. “Am n’t I fond o’ them?”

“Then it must be what is termed the ‘universal passion,’ Neal,” observed Mr. O’Connor, “although it is the first time I have seen such an illustration of it as you present in your own person.”

“I wish you would advise me how to act,” said Neal; “I’m as happy as a prince since I began to get fond o’ them an’ to think o’ marriage.”

The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked rather miserable. Neal rubbed his hands with glee, and looked perfectly happy. The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked more miserable than before. Neal’s happiness also increased on the second rubbing.

Now, to tell the secret at once, Mr. O’Connor would not have appeared so miserable were it not for Neal’s happiness; nor Neal so happy were it not for Mr. O’Connor’s misery. It was all the result of contrast; but this you will not understand unless you be deeply read in modern novels.

Mr. O’Connor, however, was a man of sense, who knew, upon this principle, that the longer he continued to shake his head the more miserable he must become, and the more also would he increase Neal’s happiness; but he had no intention of increasing Neal’s happiness at his own expense--for, upon the same hypothesis, it would have been for Neal’s interest had he remained shaking his head there and getting miserable until the day of judgment. He consequently declined giving the third shake, for he thought that plain conversation was, after all, more significant and forcible than the most eloquent nod, however ably translated.

“Neal,” said he, “could you, by stretching your imagination, contrive to rest contented with nursing your passion in solitude, and love the sex at a distance?”

“How could I nurse and mind my business?” replied the tailor. “I’ll never nurse so long as I’ll have the wife; and as for ’magination, it depends upon the grain o’it whether I can stretch it or not. I don’t know that I ever made a coat o’it in my life.”

“You don’t understand me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster. “In recommending marriage, I was only driving one evil out of you by introducing another. Do you think that, if you abandoned all thoughts of a wife, you would get heroic again--that is, would you take once more to the love of fighting?”

“There is no doubt but I would,” said the tailor; “if I miss the wife, I’ll kick up such a dust as never was seen in the parish, an’ you’re the first man that I’ll lick. But now that I’m in love,” he continued, “sure, I ought to look out for the wife.”

“Ah, Neal,” said the schoolmaster, “you are tempting destiny; your temerity be, with all its melancholy consequences, upon your own head.”

“Come,” said the tailor; “it wasn’t to hear you groaning to the tune o’ ‘Dhrimmindhoo,’ or ‘The old woman rockin’ her cradle,’ that I came; but to know if you could help me in makin’ out the wife. That’s the discoorse.”

“Look at me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster, solemnly. “I am at this moment, and have been any time for the last fifteen years, a living _caveto_ against matrimony. I do not think that earth possesses such a luxury as a single solitary life. Neal, the monks of old were happy men; they were all fat and had double chins; and, Neal, I tell you that all fat men are in general happy. Care cannot come at them so readily as at a thin man; before it gets through the strong outworks of flesh and blood with which they are surrounded, it becomes treacherous to its original purpose, joins the cheerful spirits it meets in the system, and dances about the heart in all the madness of mirth; just like a sincere ecclesiastic who comes to lecture a good fellow against drinking, but who forgets his lecture over his cups, and is laid under the table with such success that he either never comes to finish his lecture, or comes often to be laid under the table. Look at me, Neal, how wasted, fleshless, and miserable I am. You know how my garments have shrunk in, and what a solid man I was before marriage. Neal, pause, I beseech you; otherwise you stand a strong chance of becoming a nonentity like myself.”

“I don’t care what I become,” said the tailor; “I can’t think that you’d be so unreasonable as to expect that any o’ the Malones should pass out o’ the world widout either bein’ bate or marrid. Have reason, Mr. O’Connor, an’ if you can help me to the wife I promise to take in your coat the next time for nothin’.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. O’Connor, “what would you think of the butcher’s daughter, Biddy Neil? You have always had a thirst for blood, and here you may have it gratified in an innocent manner, should you ever become sanguinary again. ’T is true, Neal, she is twice your size and possesses three times your strength; but for that very reason, Neal, marry her if you can. Large animals are placid; and Heaven preserve those bachelors whom I wish well from a small wife; ’t is such who always wield the sceptre of domestic life and rule their husbands with a rod of iron.”

“Say no more, Mr. O’Connor,” replied the tailor; “she’s the very girl I’m in love wid, an’ never fear but I’ll overcome her heart if it can be done by man. Now, step over the way to my house, an’ we’ll have a sup on the head o’ it. Who’s that calling?”

“Ah, Neal, I know the tones--there’s a shrillness in them not to be mistaken. Farewell! I must depart; you have heard the proverb, ‘Those who are bound must obey.’ Young Jack, I presume, is squalling, and I must either nurse him, rock the cradle, or sing comic tunes for him, though Heaven knows with what a disastrous heart I often sing, ‘Begone, dull care,’ the ‘Rakes of Newcastle,’ or, ‘Peas upon a Trencher.’ Neal, I say again, pause before you take this leap in the dark. Pause, Neal, I entreat you. Farewell!”

Neal, however, was gifted with the heart of an Irishman, and scorned caution as the characteristic of a coward; he had, as it appeared, abandoned all design of fighting, but the courage still adhered to him even in making love. He consequently conducted the siege of Biddy Neil’s heart with a degree of skill and valor which would not have come amiss to Marshal Gerald at the siege of Antwerp. Locke or Dugald Stewart, indeed, had they been cognisant of the tailor’s triumph, might have illustrated the principle on which he succeeded; as to ourselves, we can only conjecture it. Our own opinion is that they were both animated with a congenial spirit. Biddy was the very pink of pugnacity, and could throw in a body-blow or plant a facer with singular energy and science. Her prowess hitherto had, we confess, been displayed only within the limited range of domestic life; but should she ever find it necessary to exercise it upon a larger scale, there was no doubt whatsoever, in the opinion of her mother, brothers, and sisters, every one of whom she had successively subdued, that she must undoubtedly distinguish herself. There was certainly one difficulty which the tailor had _not_ to encounter in the progress of fats courtship: the field was his own, he had not a rival to dispute his claim. Neither was there any opposition given by her friends; they were, on the contrary, all anxious for the match; and when the arrangements were concluded, Neal felt his hand squeezed by them in succession, with an expression more resembling condolence than joy. Neal, however, had been bred to tailoring, and not to metaphysics; he could cut out a coat very well, but we do not say that he could trace a principle--as what tailor, except Jeremy Taylor, could?

There was nothing particular in the wedding. Mr. O’Connor was asked by Neal to be present at it; but he shook his head, and told him that he had not courage to attend it or inclination to witness any man’s sorrows but his own. He met the wedding-party by accident, and was heard to exclaim with a sigh as they flaunted past him in gay exuberance of spirits: “Ah, poor Neal! he is going like one of her father’s cattle to the shambles! Woe is me for having suggested matrimony to the taylor! He will not long be under the necessity of saying that he is ‘blue-moulded for want of a beating.’ The butcheress will fell him like a Kerry ox, and I may have his blood to answer for and his discomfiture to feel for in addition to my own miseries.”

On the evening of the wedding-day, about the hour of ten o’clock, Neal, whose spirits were uncommonly exalted, for his heart luxuriated within him, danced with his bridesmaid; after the dance he sat beside her, and got eloquent in praise of her beauty; and it is said, too, that he whispered to her and chucked her chin with considerable gallantry. The _tête-à-tête_ continued for some time without exciting particular attention, with one exception; but _that_ exception was worth a whole chapter of general rules. Mrs. Malone rose up, then sat down again and took off a glass of the native; she got up a second time; all the wife rushed upon her heart. She approached them, and, in a fit of the most exquisite sensibility, knocked the bridesmaid down, and gave the tailor a kick of affecting pathos upon the inexpressibles. The whole scene was a touching one on both sides. The tailor was sent on all-fours to the floor, but Mrs. Malone took him quietly up, put him under her arm as one would a lap-dog, and with stately step marched away to the connubial apartment, in which everything remained very quiet for the rest of the night.

The next morning Mr. O’Connor presented himself to congratulate the tailor on his happiness. Neal, as his friend, shook hands with him, gave the schoolmaster’s fingers a slight squeeze, such as a man gives who would gently entreat your sympathy. The schoolmaster looked at him, and thought he shook his head. Of this, however, he could not be certain; for, as he shook his own during the moment of observation, he concluded that it might be a mere mistake of the eye, or, perhaps, the result of a mind predisposed to be credulous on the subject of shaking heads.

We wish it were in our power to draw a veil, or curtain, or blind of some description, over the remnant of the tailor’s narrative that is to follow; but as it is the duty of every faithful historian to give the secret causes of appearances which the world in general does not understand, so we think it but honest to go on, impartially and faithfully, without shrinking from the responsibility that is frequently annexed to truth.

For the first three days after matrimony Neal felt like a man who had been translated to a new and more lively state of existence. He had expected, and flattered himself, that the moment this event should take place he would once more resume his heroism, and experience the pleasure of a drubbing. This determination he kept a profound secret; nor was it known until a future period, when he disclosed it to Mr. O’Connor. He intended, therefore, that marriage should be nothing more than a mere parenthesis in his life--a kind of asterisk, pointing, in a note at the bottom, to this single exception in his general conduct--a nota bene to the spirit of a martial man, intimating that he had been peaceful only for a while. In truth, he was, during the influence of love over him and up to the very day of his marriage, secretly as blue-moulded as ever for want of a beating. The heroic penchant lay snugly latent in his heart, unchecked and unmodified. He flattered himself that he was achieving a capital imposition upon the world at large, that he was actually hoaxing mankind in general, and that such an excellent piece of knavish tranquillity had never been perpetrated before his time.

On the first week after his marriage there chanced to be a fair in the next market-town. Neal, after breakfast, brought forward a bunch of shillalahs, in order to select the best; the wife inquired the purpose of the selection, and Neal declared that he was resolved to have a fight that day if it were to be had, he said, for “love or money.” “The truth is,” he exclaimed, strutting with fortitude about the house, “the truth is, that I’ve _done_ the whole of yez--I’m as blue-mowlded as ever for want of a batin’.”

“Don’t go,” said the wife.

“I _will_ go,” said Neal, with vehemence; “I’ll go if the whole parish was to go to prevint me.”

In about another half-hour Neal sat down quietly to his business instead of going to the fair!

Much ingenious speculation might be indulged in upon this abrupt termination to the tailor’s most formidable resolution; but, for our own part, we will prefer going on with the narrative, leaving the reader at liberty to solve the mystery as he pleases. In the meantime we say this much; let those who cannot make it out carry it to their tailor; it is a tailor’s mystery, and no one has so good a right to understand it--except, perhaps, a tailor’s wife.

At the period of his matrimony Neal had become as plump and as stout as he ever was known to be in his plumpest and stoutest days. He and the schoolmaster had been very intimate about this time; but we know not how it happened that soon afterward he felt a modest, bride-like reluctance in meeting with that afflicted gentleman. As the eve of his union approached, he was in the habit, during the schoolmaster’s visits to his workshop, of alluding, in rather a sarcastic tone, considering the unthriving appearance of his friend, to the increasing lustiness of his person. Nay, he has often leaped up from his lap-board, and, in the strong spirit of exultation, thrust out his leg in attestation of his assertion, slapping it, moreover, with a loud laugh of triumph that sounded like a knell to the happiness of his emaciated acquaintance. The schoolmaster’s philosophy, however, unlike his flesh, never departed from him; his usual observation was, “Neal, we are both receding from the same point; you increase in flesh, whilst I, Heaven help me, am fast diminishing.”

The tailor received these remarks with very boisterous mirth, whilst Mr. O’Connor simply shook his head and looked sadly upon his limbs, now shrouded in a superfluity of garments, somewhat resembling a slender thread of water in a shallow summer stream nearly wasted away and surrounded by an unproportionate extent of channel.

The fourth month after the marriage arrived, Neal, one day near its close, began to dress himself in his best apparel. Even then, when buttoning his waistcoat, he shook his head after the manner of Mr. O’Connor, and made observations upon the great extent to which it over-folded him.

“Well,” thought he with a sigh, “this waistcoat certainly _did_ fit me to a T; but it’s wonderful to think how--cloth stretches!”

“Neal,” said the wife, on perceiving him dressed, “where are you bound for?”

“Faith, _for life_” replied Neal, with a mitigated swagger; “and I’d as soon, if it had been the will of Provid--”

He paused.

“Where are you going?” asked the wife a second time.

“Why,” he answered, “only to dance at Jemmy Connolly’s; I’ll be back early.”

“Don’t go,” said the wife.

“I’ll go,” said Neal, “if the whole counthry was to prevint me. Thunder an’ lightnin’, woman, who am I?” he exclaimed, in a loud, but rather infirm voice. “Am n’t I Neal Malone, that never met a _man_ who’d fight him? Neal Malone, that was never beat by _man_! Why, tare an’ ouns, woman! Whoo! I’ll get enraged some time, an’ play the divil! Who’s afeard, I say?”

“_Don’t go_,” added the wife a third time, giving Neal a significant look in the face.

In about another half-hour Neal sat down quietly to his business instead of going to the dance!

Neal now turned himself, like many a sage in similar circumstances, to philosophy; that is to say, he began to shake his head upon principle, after the manner of the schoolmaster. He would, indeed, have preferred the bottle upon principle; but there was no getting at the bottle except through the wife, and it so happened that by the time it reached him there was little consolation left in it. Neal bore all in silence; for silence, his friend had often told him, was a proof of wisdom.

Soon after this, Neal one evening met Mr. O’Connor by chance upon a plank which crossed a river. This plank was only a foot in breadth, so that no two individuals could pass each other upon it. We cannot find words in which to express the dismay of both on finding that they absolutely glided past each other without collision.

Both paused and surveyed each other solemnly; but the astonishment was all on the side of Mr. O’Connor.

“Neal,” said the schoolmaster, “by all the household gods, I conjure you to speak, that I may be assured you live!”

The ghost of a blush crossed the churchyard visage of the tailor.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “why the divil did you tempt me to marry a wife?”

“Neal,” said his friend, “answer me in the most solemn manner possible; throw into your countenance all the gravity you can assume; speak as if you were under the hands of the hangman, with the rope about your neck, for the question is indeed a trying one which I am about to put. Are you still ‘blue-moulded for want of a beating’?”

The tailor collected himself to make a reply; he put one leg out--the very leg which he used to show in triumph to his friend, but, alas, how dwindled! He opened his waistcoat and lapped it round him until he looked like a weasel on its hind legs. He then raised himself up on his tiptoes, and, in an awful whisper, replied, “No!!! the divil a bit I’m blue-mowlded for want of a batin’!”

The schoolmaster shook his head in his own miserable manner; but, alas! he soon perceived that the tailor was as great an adept at shaking the head as himself. Nay, he saw that there was a calamitous refinement, a delicacy of shake in the tailor’s vibrations, which gave to his own nod a very commonplace character.

The next day the tailor took in his clothes; and from time to time continued to adjust them to the dimensions of his shrinking person. The schoolmaster and he, whenever they could steal a moment, met and sympathised together. Mr. O’Connor, however, bore up somewhat better than Neal. The latter was subdued in heart and in spirit, thoroughly, completely, and intensely vanquished. His features became sharpened by misery, for a termagant wife is the whetstone on which all the calamities of a henpecked husband are painted by the devil. He no longer strutted as he was wont to do, he no longer carried a cudgel as if he wished to wage a universal battle with mankind. He was now a married man. Sneakingly, and with a cowardly crawl, did he creep along, as if every step brought him nearer to the gallows. The schoolmaster’s march of misery was far slower than Neal’s, the latter distanced him. Before three years passed he had shrunk up so much that he could not walk abroad of a windy day without carrying weights in his pockets to keep him firm on the earth which he once trod with the step of a giant. He again sought the schoolmaster, with whom, indeed, he associated as much as possible. Here he felt certain of receiving sympathy; nor was he disappointed. That worthy but miserable man and Neal often retired beyond the hearing of their respective wives, and supported each other by every argument in their power. Often have they been heard in the dusk of evening singing behind a remote hedge that melancholy ditty, “Let us _both_ be unhappy together,” which rose upon the twilight breeze with a cautious quaver of sorrow truly heartrending and lugubrious.

“Neal,” said Mr. O’Connor on one of those occasions, “here is a book which I recommend to your perusal; it is called ‘The Afflicted Man’s Companion’; try if you cannot glean some consolation out of it.”

“Faith,” said Neal, “I’m forever oblaged to you, but I don’t want it. I’ve had ‘The Afflicted Man’s Companion’ too long, and not an atom o’ consolation I can get out of it. I have _one_ o’ them, I tell you; but, be my sowl, I’ll not undertake _a pair_ o’ them. The very name’s enough for me.” They then separated.

The tailor’s vis vitae must have been powerful or he would have died. In two years more his friends could not distinguish him from his own shadow, a circumstance which was of great inconvenience to him. Several grasped at the hand of the shadow instead of his; and one man was near paying it five and sixpence for making a pair of small-clothes. Neal, it is true, undeceived him with some trouble, but candidly admitted that he was not able to carry home the money. It was difficult, indeed, for the poor tailor to bear what he felt; it is true he bore it as long as he could; but at length he became suicidal, and often had thoughts of “making his own quietus with his bare bodkin.” After many deliberations and afflictions, he ultimately made the attempt; but, alas! he found that the blood of the Malones refused to flow upon so ignominious an occasion. So _he_ solved the phenomenon; although the truth was that his blood was not “i’ the vein” for it; none was to be had. What then was to be done? He resolved to get rid of life by some process, and the next that occurred to him was hanging. In a solemn spirit he prepared a selvage, and suspended himself from the rafter of his workshop. But here another disappointment awaited him, he would not hang. Such was his want of gravity that his own weight proved insufficient to occasion his death by mere suspension. His third attempt was at drowning; but he was too light to sink; all the elements, all his own energies, joined themselves, he thought, in a wicked conspiracy to save his life. Having thus tried every avenue to destruction, and failed in all, he felt like a man doomed to live forever. Henceforward he shrank and shrivelled by slow degrees, until in the course of time he became so attenuated that the grossness of human vision could no longer reach him.

This, however, could not last always. Though still alive, he was to all intents and purposes imperceptible. He could only now be heard; he was reduced to a mere essence; the very echo of human existence, vox etpraeterea nihil. It is true the schoolmaster asserted that he occasionally caught passing glimpses of him; but that was because he had been himself nearly spiritualised by affliction, and his visual ray purged in the furnace of domestic tribulation. By-and-by Neal’s voice lessened, got fainter and more indistinct, until at length nothing but a doubtful murmur could be heard, which ultimately could scarcely be distinguished from a ringing in the ears.