Irish Folk Tales (29 page)

Dean Swift was a great man; very sharp-tongued he was, and fond of women terribly.

Himself and his man Jack went riding to some place and they went for shelter into a public house. There was a fire on the hearth and there were two men sitting beside it and they made no offer to move aside, where the Dean and Jack wore very simple clothes, knee breeches as the gentlemen used to do.

So the Dean says to Jack, “Did you put up the horses?”

“I did,” says Jack.

“What did you give them for a feed?” says the Dean. “I gave them a feed of oysters,” says Jack.

So when the two men heard that they went out for to look at the great wonder, the horses to be eating oysters. And when they came in, the Dean and Jack had their two places taken by the fire.

The Dean was eating his dinner one time and he gave Jack but the bone with very little left on it. “It is the sweetest bit that is next the bone,” says he.

Well, a while after they were on the road, and he bade Jack to tie up his horse where he’d have a feed of grass. So Jack brought him to a big stone and tied his head to it.

“Why did you tie him in that place?” says the Dean.

“Sure you told me yourself,” says Jack, “the sweetest of the grass is next the stone!”

Some eggs Jack brought him one time, in his hand, just as you might be bringing them to a man out on a bog. “Let you put a plate under everything you will bring from this out,” says the Dean.

So the next morning when Jack brought up his boots, he had put a plate under them.

The Dean sent Jack for a woman one night, and it was a black woman Jack brought up to the hotel, and the Dean never saw her till morning, and when he did he thought it was the devil. He sacked Jack that time.

“What were you sacked for?” says Jack’s mother.

“It is that he sent me for a pullet and I brought back a hen,” says Jack.

“That’s no great fault,” says the mother and she went to the Dean and said he had a right to take Jack back again, and so he did.

D
ANIEL O’CONNELL

Och, the likes of Dan—the heavens be his bed!—never was known afore, nor will his likes ever be seen again as long as there’s a bill on a crow. He was the long-headedest man—glory be to God!—ever stepped in shoe-leather.

There was once and there was a poor boy up for murder—he fell foul of a friend in a scrimmage, and he cracked his brain-box for him without intending it, and the poor man died. And the short and the long of it was this poor boy was taken up for the murder of his friend with no chance whatsomever for escape, because the evidence was straight and square that it was him, and none other, give him the dying blow. And that meant hanging, the poor boy knew well; for in them days they’d string ye up for a dickens sight smaller matter.

Well, lo and behold ye, it was the morning of the trial, and the poor boy, Heaven knows, was downhearted enough, and his friends all crying round him, trying to get him to keep up his spirits, though they knew, too, that it was a hopeless case. All at once it struck one of his friends, and says he:

“It’s a bad case, no doubt, but what harm to consult Counselor O’Connell?”

Faith, the poor boy leaped at it.

“Consult the Counselor,” says he, “for the Lord’s sake! It’s small’s the chance; but still and all, if there’s a ghost of a chance he’ll see it.”

No sooner said than done. They had Dan on the spot in three hops of a sparrow, and explaining the whole case to him. When Dan heared the outs and ins of it, he shook his head.

“It’s a pretty straight case,” says Dan.

“Is there no chance at all, at all, Counselor?” says they.

“The queen’s son,” says he, “couldn’t be saved on the evidence. In spite of all the counselors in the country, and if ye had Saint Patrick himself to plead for ye, ye’d be sentenced,” says he.

This was the last blow for the poor prisoner, and ill he took it.

But all of a sudden, Dan looks him pretty hard in the face:

“If I don’t mistake me much,” says Dan, says he, “ye’re a pretty bold, fearsomeless fellow?”

“Och,” says the poor fellow, says he, “the day was and I was all that, but I’m thinking that day will never come again.”

“Well,” says Dan, says he, “I have considered the whole question over,
and if ye’re a right bold fellow, and act right bold, out of nine hundred and ninety-nine chances you have just one half chance for your life.”

“What is it?” says the poor fellow, jumping at it.

“It’s this I’m going to tell ye,” says Dan. “When your case is heard, the jury without leaving the box will return a verdict of ‘Guilty, me lord!’ and his Lordship will then mount the black cap for the purpose of condemning ye. You’re at that instant to have all the wee nerve ye can about ye, and having your brogue loose upon your foot, ye’re to stoop down and get a good grip of it in your fist, and the minute ye see his Lordship open his mouth to sentence ye, take good sudden aim, and with all the veins of your heart give him the brogue fair atween the two eyes—then leave the rest to Providence.”

True enough, it was a queer advice, and maybe the poor lad didn’t think so—but then it was Dan O’Connell’s advice, and that put another face on matters. When Dan said it, it was worth trying. So he observed it to the letter. And when the jury was bringing in their verdict of “Guilty, me lord!” he was getting his brogue loose on his foot. And when the judge got on the black cap, he got a good grip of the brogue, and gathered all his nerves, and the very next minute, as the judge opened his mouth to give him sentence, he ups with the brogue, and with all the powers of his arm and the veins of his heart, let him have the full weight of the brogue fair atween the two eyes, and knocks him over flat. An astore! astore! Up was the judge again in an instant, and him purple in the face, and he gulders out:

“My verdict is that the scoundrel be burned, beheaded, and hung!”

“Easy, easy, I beg your pardon, me lord,” says Dan O’Connell, jumping up in his place in the court. “I beg your Lordship’s pardon,” says he, “but I think ye have transgressed your rights,” and he handed up to the judge the book of the law that he might see for himself. “Ye can’t,” says he, “according to English law as printed in that book in black and white, sentence a man to be both burned, beheaded, and hung. Prisoner,” says Dan, then says he, turning to the dock, “prisoner, you’re at liberty to go free.” And the sorra his mouth could the dumbfounded judge open, as the prisoner stepped out of the dock a free man, for he saw Dan had him squarely.

Well, there was again, and there was a poor man, who had got some ha’pence, and he speculated on a drove of cattle, and started up to Dublin with them to sell them, and make profit on them. As me brave man was driving the cattle down Dublin street, out comes a man that kept a tobaccy shop, a clever lad, and he saw his chance, and says he to the man who owned the cattle:

“How much,” says he, “will ye take for the best and worst of them cattle of yours?”

Well, the poor man looked at the best beast in the drove, and at the worst beast, and he prices the two of them in his own mind, and:

“I’ll take so much,” says he, mentioning it.

“All right,” says the other, “I’ll give ye your asking.” And into his yard he had the whole drove driven. It was no use whatsomever for the poor man to object, for the other said he bought the best and the worst of the cattle, which was all of the cattle, and he had witnesses to prove it.

Away the poor man, in spite of himself, had to go with the price of barely two beasts in his pocket in payment for his whole drove, and away he went lamenting, and not knowing how he’d face back to his family again, with their wee trifle of money as good as gone. That night he put up in a public house, and the woman of the house coming to learn the poor fellow’s lament asked him why he didn’t go to the Counselor, and have his advice on it. If it did him no good, she said, it couldn’t anyhow do him no harm, and if there was one way in a thousand out of it Dan would soon find that way.

Right enough, the very next morning to the Counselor the poor man set out, and laid a full program of his case afore Dan, and asked him could anything be done. No answer Dan give him, till first he took three turns up and down the parlor. And then:

“Yes,” says Dan, “something can be done. There’s one way you can get back your cattle, and only one.”

“What’s that?” says the man.

“You’ll,” says Dan, says he, “have to cut off the small toe off your left foot, and go and bury it on Spek Island, and when you’ve done that come back to me.”

As he was directed, he done with no loss of time, and back to Dan he comes for further directions.

“Now,” says Dan, “come along with me.’

And off both of them started and never halted till they were in the tobacconist’s shop. And och, it was welcome Dan was with the lad behind the counter, who was bowing and scraping to him, and thanking him for the honor he done him coming into his shop.

“Can ye serve me,” says Dan, says he, “with a little piece of good tobaccy?”

“I can,” says the lad, “serve your honor with as good tobaccy as ever ye put until a pipe-head.”

“And have ye much of it?” says Dan.

“More nor you’d care to buy,” says the lad.

“Now what,” says Dan, says he, “would ye be after charging me for a sizable piece—say as much as would reach from me friend’s nose to the small toe of his left foot?”

The lad laughed at the quality of the order, but he knew Dan’s odd ways. So, he sized the man up and says he:

“I’ll take so much,” mentioning some few shillings.

“It’s a bargain,” says Dan.

But lo and behold ye! When the lad went to measure it he finds the toe gone.

“There’s no toe here!” says he.

“I know there isn’t,” says Dan. “Me friend buried it in Spek Island a few days back. Ye’ll have to carry on the tobaccy till ye get there.”

The lad laughed heartily at this, as being one of Dan’s best jokes.

But Dan didn’t laugh at all, at all.

But, “Troth, and,” says he, “I hope ye’ll be laughing when ye’ve finished measuring me out me bargain.”

“Och, Counselor, your honor,” says the lad, says he, “but sure ye don’t really mean it? Isn’t it joking ye are?”

“I tell ye what it is, me good man,” says Dan back to him, “you measure me out me bargain, and be very quick about it, too; or, if ye don’t,” says he, “be all the books in Christendom, I won’t leave a slate on your roof, or a stick or stave on your premises I won’t sell out till I have paid meself the sum of five thousand pound for breach of contract,” says he, “and here’s me witness.”

“It’s ruinated I am entirely, out and out,” says the lad.

“It’s ruinated ye deserve to be,” says Dan. “Ye thought little of ruinating this poor stranger here beside me, when he come up to Dublin with his little grain of cattle, striving to make a support for the wife and childer. It’s ruinated ye ought to be, ye low-lifed hang-dog ye! Turn the decent man out his cattle this instant, in as good condition as you got them, and moreover nor that, leave with him the price of the two beasts which ye paid him, as a slight compensation for the mental trouble you have caused the poor fellow. Then I’ll forgive ye your bargain, on condition that, as long as ye live in Dublin, ye’ll never again try to take in the poor and the stranger, and bring a bad name on the town.”

And with a light heart, and a heavy pocket, that poor man went home to his wife and childer after all. And all by reason of Dan’s cuteness.

That was Dan for ye!

May the soft bed, and the sweet one, in Paradise be his that never forsook the poor and the distressed. God Almighty rest him. And Amen! Amen!