TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This book is a collection of nineteen separate ‘Chap-books’, with an introduction on the life of Dougal Graham. Each Chap-book has its own page numbering from 1 to 24. (It so happens they are all 24 pages in length.)

The three Footnote anchors are denoted by [A], [B] and [C], and they have been placed at the end of their section.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Many minor changes to the text are noted at the [end of the book.]

John Cheap
The Chapman’s Library:

THE

SCOTTISH CHAP LITERATURE

OF LAST CENTURY, CLASSIFIED.

WITH LIFE OF DOUGAL GRAHAM.

COMIC AND HUMOROUS.

GLASGOW:

ROBERT LINDSAY, QUEEN STREET.

1877.

CONTENTS.

[The Life of Dougal Graham.]
[Witty Sayings and Exploits of George Buchanan.]
[Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew.]
[Daniel O’Rourke’s Voyage to the Moon.]
[The Comical Tricks of Lothian Tom, &c.]
[Comical History of the King and the Cobbler.]
[John Cheap, the Chapman.]
[Simple John and his Twelve Misfortunes.]
[The Wise Men of Gotham.]
[Mansie Waugh, Tailor in Dalkeith.]
[Jockey and Maggie’s Courtship.]
[The Coalman’s Courtship.]
[History of Buckhaven: Wise Willy and Witty Eppy.]
[The Dominie Deposed. Maggie Johnston’s Elegy.]
[A Groat’s Worth of Fun for a Penny.]
[The Comical Sayings of Paddy from Cork.]
[Fun upon Fun; or, Leper the Tailor, &c.]
[John Falkirk’s Cariches.]
[Grinning made Easy,—Funny Dick’s Jokes.]
[The Scotch Haggis; or, Choice Bon-Mots.]

PREFACE.

A name is very often only a definition of a thing in one of its aspects—generally the most obvious to ordinary observation, though not always the most comprehensive or characteristic. The name Chap-book is an example of names of this class, and owes its origin to the fact that the tracts which we now recognise by it were first—and, indeed, during the whole time of their circulation as popular literature—sold by chapmen, or pedlars. With the extinction of these itinerants, the popular circulation of chap-books has ceased; and it seemed as if—from the flimsy nature of their get-up—this form of literature was about to vanish, like the compositions of our earliest minstrels, when a taste for collecting specimens sprung up among the curious in literature. To meet the demand for collections which the spread of this taste originated, the present issue has been projected.

What purpose, it may be asked, does their preservation serve? Of no class might this be more properly inquired than of the Religious, which may be supposed to admit of less scope for originality of treatment than any other; yet an examination of a few of the tracts under this head soon shows us the popular creed in forms of thought and illustration quite unexpected, and with a definiteness and force the originality of which cannot be mistaken. The same character, of course, applies in a more marked degree to classes where the composer was less influenced by prepossessed ideas, and where his only boundaries were the limits of his own imagination, and the deference which he was careful to pay to the prejudices of his readers.

That these carelessly got-up publications constituted the popular literature of the peasantry and a large part of the urban population of Scotland for about half a century, is a fact which no student of our recent history will wisely ignore. They possess one advantage over the sensational reading of the present day penny journals, in that they represent the opinions and manners of those who read them, and, consequently, have a truthfulness and reality of which their London-manufactured substitutes are entirely destitute. The Chap-book is a mirror of rural opinions and manners; the Penny Sensational is only evidence of a vitiated popular taste.

These remarks are chiefly applicable to the chap-books of Scottish production, which, along with those adopted from foreign sources, but so naturalized as to language and characters as to pass for productions of home growth—in reference to the purposes of this issue—are by far the most important. Keeping this purpose in view, there is no call here to apologise for their coarseness and indelicacy, for which, on the score of taste and morals, from a popular point of view, there is no defence; but their real value to us consists in their being true delineations of the manners and ways of thinking of low rural life, whose grossness was rather the result of the buoyancy of animal vigour than of the indulgence of vicious passions.

The English ones are very varied in character, and have been chosen with considerable judgment, to suit the taste and understanding of those for whom they were selected. Their circulation in Scotland has been so large that we are justified in including them in a collection of Scottish peasant literature.

The original Scottish chap-books attributed to the pen of Dougal Graham are so decidedly superior, that a sketch of his life, containing all that is known of him, has been considered the most fitting introduction to the present issue. The earliest literary inquiry into his history was made by Motherwell, the poet, who contributed a sketch of him and his writings to the Paisley Magazine of January, 1829, based upon information derived from George Caldwell, bookseller, Paisley, who knew Dougal well, and was the chief publisher of his “penny histories.” Some further information regarding him, and corrections of mistakes in Motherwell’s article, are given in an appendix to the 1830 edition of M’Ure’s History of Glasgow, very possibly from the pen of M’Vean, its publisher, who was a collector of Dougal’s tracts. A more recent life of him—chiefly based on those already mentioned—forms chap. iii. of Scottish Chap-books, by John Fraser—a dissertation which brings into one view the gist of what has been written on this subject by Scott, Motherwell, Strang, Strathearn, and others.

That any other chapmen contributed to the series is not known, nor very probable, if we except two or three pieces that have been adopted from the writings of Wilson the ornithologist. That the calling afforded excellent opportunities for observing country life and manners is amply testified by those sketches of Graham’s, which in their graphic pictures of low life and morals are unsurpassed, unless in the Jolly Beggars. That a chapman’s opportunities may be employed in observing the finer traits of humble life is exemplified in the case of Alexander Laing of Brechin, whose Wayside Flowers contain touches of pathos, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of feeling that rank him as high above Dougal in these respects as he is surpassed by him in force, breadth, and keenness of wit and humour.

The present issue of the Chap-books is printed from plates that have been used in producing the texts of chap circulation, and are the veritable impressions of these, with “all their imperfections on their heads.” The classification is an innovation, which, it is expected, will at least please the studious collector; and the extra margins, the want of which is the great difficulty in binding stray collections, should be welcomed by all who dislike to see the text stitched into the back of the binding.

THE LIFE
OF
DOUGAL GRAHAM.

It has been observed, by nearly every one who has written on the subject of Scottish chap-books, that, as truthful delineations of the manners and ways of thinking of native peasantry, they excel those of most other nations. There is an equal unanimity of opinion that this superiority of the Scottish chap-books is due to the penetrating observation, the broad humour, and the truthful adherence to nature of Dougal Graham—a genius of a somewhat grotesque type, whose literary ambition it was to make his writings “acceptable, especially, to those of common education” like himself; and whose social aspirations were satisfied by the appointment of skellat bellman to the city of Glasgow.

Dougal was born in the small hamlet known by the Celtic name of Raploch, situated at the western base of the romantic rock on which stands Stirling Castle; and now in a most tumble-down condition, characteristically abandoned to the natives of Erin. The exact date of his birth is unknown, but is placed in or about the year 1724. Nothing is recorded of his boyhood and youth, except that he learned no trade, it is said, on account of the poverty of his parents, but probably as much on account of physical deformities, which rendered him unsuitable for most mechanical labour. His education does not appear to have gone beyond reading and writing; for his composition shows no traces of his having been taught any other grammar than that which regulates the conversation of the class whose manners he so faithfully sketches. It is related that he tried farm service for some time at Campsie, in the west of Stirlingshire, but soon found it incompatible with his physical constitution and the restlessness of his disposition.

If the date assigned to his birth be correct, he was only twenty-one when the rebellion of 1745 awoke the martial ardour of the youth of Scotland, and Dougal, notwithstanding his incapacity for bearing arms, had his love of adventure fired by the popular enthusiasm evoked by the romantic enterprise of “Prince Charlie.” The Fords of Frew, on the Forth—the Rubicon crossed by the Highland army in its march into the Lowlands—are only a few miles to the west of Dougal’s birthplace; and it was here that he appears to have embarked in the popular cause, with what purposes it would be difficult to say. In his metrical History of the Rebellion, although he writes in the first person, he makes no mention of any adventures personal to himself; he records only what he saw, and in the preface he says “that he had been an eye witness of most of the movements of the Highland army from the crossing of the Fords of Frew till the final defeat at Culloden.” Nor does he make any allusion to the capacity in which he observed the movements of the army; and, as it is every way improbable that he gave the Jacobites any other assistance than that of sympathy, the conjecture almost amounts to a certainty that he followed them as a sutler. He had sufficient pride not to mention the fact in his writings; yet, no doubt, a man of his genial and outspoken disposition must often have referred to the incidents of his campaigning among his boon companions. We are disposed to think, considering the circumstances, that he must have been born earlier than 1724; for the coolness and self-confidence, not to say the indifference, with which he regarded the success or failure of either side, the impartiality of his narrative, and, it is conjectured, his dealing with either side, according as it suited his convenience or his safety, argue greater experience of the world than could reasonably be expected of a person of such limited education at the age of twenty-one. It is true he was born within hearing of the muster trumpet of Stirling Castle, and must, from his boyhood, have been sufficiently familiar with the garrison exercises to make him at home in the bustle of a camp; but there is the fact, that, almost before the smoke of the rebellion was extinguished, his metrical History, consisting of over five thousand lines, Hudibrastic metre, is announced in the Glasgow Courier as “A full and particular account of the late rebellion, in the years 1745 and 1746, beginning with the Pretender’s embarking for Scotland, and then, an account of every battle, siege, or skirmish that has happened in either Scotland, or England; to which is added several addresses and epistles to the Pope, Pagans, Poets, and Pretender; all in metre; price fourpence.” After stating that any bookseller of packman might have it on easier terms from James Duncan, or the author, D. Graham, it is added:—“The like has not been done since the days of David Lindsay.” The book appeared in September, 1746, and has been so popular, that by 1828 it reached its twentieth edition. The first edition is now supposed to be extinct; yet so late as 1830 a copy was in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, which he intended publishing, in facsimile, for the Maitland Club.

The statement in the advertisement, that dealers might have copies from the author, points to his having a place of business or residence in Glasgow; but this does not appear to have been the case, then at least, for in the preface he tells his readers that it was

“Composed by the Poet, Dougal Graham;

In Stirlingshire he lives at hame.”

The probability is that he made his father’s house at Raploch his home, whence he started on his journeys, as a chapman, through the counties of Stirling, Lanark, and Dumbarton, more rarely over the three Lothians, and occasionally into Fifeshire. Glasgow would, of course, be his purchasing market, which he would frequently visit for replenishing his stock; and, while there, his resort would be well known to his confrères in the “travelling line.” He continued thus for several years, after the publication of his history, compiling chap-books, and writing poems and songs, for which there seems to have been an eager competition among the booksellers of Glasgow, Paisley, Stirling and Falkirk, until, by his industry and saving, he accumulated sufficient capital to set up a printing office in the “Salt Mercat” of Glasgow.

Dougal did not make a fortune by his campaigning, any more than the chiefs whose wake he generally followed; but he was at least more fortunate than most of them, in getting back to where he might begin. At first he appears to have encountered some hardships for want of money, and, possibly from the dislike of Jacobitism, and all who “melled with the rebels,” for which Glasgow was distinguished; and the exasperation caused by these difficulties he ventilates on the heads of the Papists, to whom, with bad rhyme, and worse reason, he attributes the general scarcity of money, and his own in particular:

“You Papists are a cursed race,

And this I tell you to your face;

And your images of gold so fine,

Their curses fall on me and mine.

Likewise themselves at any rate,

For money now is ill to get.

I have run my money to an en’,

And have nouther paper nor pen

To write thir lines, the way you see me,

And there’s none for to supplie me.”

As may be inferred from his having soon after set up in business, his finances did not remain long in the condition implied in the above doggerel; and in 1752, in the preface to a second edition of his History, he styles himself “merchant,” a title which ambitious pedlars assumed on finding themselves progressing in business and wealth, which many of them did, to the extent of making large fortunes, and founding establishments whose present owners are merchant princes of Glasgow.

Whether the phrase “me and mine” in the above quotation means a wife and children, as it is usually understood, or dependent parents, or whether mine is a mere expansion for rhyme’s sake, is uncertain; for there is no authentic account of his having ever married; but an advertisement which appeared in the Glasgow Journal of 14th June, 1764, crying down the credit “of Jean Stark, spouse of Dougal Graham, ale seller above the Cross, Glasgow,” for having parted from her husband, has raised some doubts about his having always retained his single blessedness. There is, however, no other evidence than the coincidence of his name with that of a less fortunate clansman, to identify the real Dougal with the “ale seller above the Cross.” The fact that a namesake was such, would naturally lead to a confounding of his name with the better known of the two; and out of the confusion of names would originate the tradition that Dougal the poet was Dougal the ale seller.

When he learned printing, and the date of his setting up in that art, in the Saltmarket, are not known. A second edition of his “History of the Rebellion” having been published in 1752, it is very natural to suppose that he learned type-setting and the other details necessary for printing the class of publications in which he dealt, during its progress through the press. Like his better known predecessor, Ramsay, whom he resembled in many traits of character, he relinquished the reputedly less respectable profession as soon as he found that he could depend upon the more dignified one of printer. It is obvious, also, that, to a person of his constitution, travelling must have been attended with difficulties which would create a strong desire to quit it as soon as possible.

The next event in Dougal’s career of which we have any information, and that which, it is most likely, he would himself consider the crowning success of his life, is his appointment as bellman to the city of Glasgow. Of this it might be thought that the date, or a close approximation to it, might be found in some of the public records of the city, for at that time the office was one of considerable importance; and many duties connected with the municipality, as the ringing of the Skellat bell and attending the meetings of the Town Council, in the livery of his office, were discharged by the bellman. The emoluments also were considerable, for, besides his official salary of ten pounds, and many valuable perquisites, the bellman was then the chief advertising medium. The year 1772 is assigned as the most probable date of the election; and as the candidates for the office were unusually numerous, the competition was keener than ordinary. As the selection was to be made after a public trial of the fitness of the candidates before the magistrates, the arrangement was all in Dougal’s favour, for he was just the man to undergo such an ordeal triumphantly. But his connection with the Rebellion, and suspicions, not without foundation, that he still sympathized with the Jacobite cause, were election weapons not likely to be overlooked by his opponents, to rouse the Hanoverianism of the magistrates against him, so that, notwithstanding the toning down of political asperity, and Dougal’s advances in popular favour, as a poet and a wit, it needed all his address to overcome what George Caldwell, his Paisley publisher, called the ill brew (ill will) of the Glasgow bailies against Highlanders and anybody that melled (associated) with the rebels.

The trial of skill took place in the court behind the old Town’s Hospital, near the Clyde; and the popular traditional account of the event represents Dougal as the hero of the occasion. After the other candidates had tried the strength of their lungs and the reach of their voices on the announcement of “Fresh herrings at the Broomielaw,” he sang out at the top of his voice, with simulated gravity, in a manner that put them all in the shade—

“Caller herring at the Broomielaw,

Three a penny, three a penny.”

But remembering that it was not the season for fresh herring, he added, with the comic confidence for which he was distinguished—

“But indeed, my friends, it is a’ a blawflum,

For the herring’s no catch’d and the boat’s no come.”

Dougal was elected unanimously, and the traditional fame of his bellmanship leaves no doubt that he discharged the duties of the office to the satisfaction of the magistrates, and the advantage and entertainment of the public. He was imbued with all the love of fun and drollery of an Irishman, and all the pawky sarcastic humour, and independent sagacity of a Scot; and invariably drew large crowds to hear his rhymed or otherwise queerly-worded notices, to which his laugh-provoking manner gave additional point.

His appointment as bellman did not necessitate the giving up of his business; and he still continued to write and print with unabated vigour; indeed, some of the most popular productions of his pen are assigned to this date. In 1774 he issued a third edition of his History of the Rebellion, with “amendments,” and the addition of “a description of the dangers and travels of the Pretender through the Highland isles after the break at Culloden.” It extends to 189 pages, and contains plans of the battles of Prestonpans, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; with a full-length woodcut portrait of the author, in his bellman costume, fronting the title-page; and bears to have been printed by John Robertson, Glasgow. This edition, there is every probability in supposing, was the last issued during his lifetime, for between it and the second there is a space of twelve years, and, allowing for his increased popularity, six years is a short enough time to allow for the disposal of it. We are unable to get any trace of the fourth—the third, of which, probably, there was a much larger edition, being the oftenest met with of the early editions; but the fifth, we learn from Campbell’s History of Scottish Poetry, was issued by John Robertson in 1787, eight years after the author’s death, and is, no doubt, along with the fourth, a reprint of the third. Besides the additions already indicated, this last has a new preface, very much in Ramsay’s style, in which he gives his motives for having written the book. “First, then, I have an itch for scribbling; and having wrote the following for my pleasure, I had an ambition to have this child of mine placed out in the world; expecting, if it should thrive and do well, it might bring credit or comfort to the parent. For it is my firm opinion that parental affection is as strong towards children of the brain as those produced by ordinary generation. I have wrote it in vulgar rhyme, being not only what pleased my own fancy, but what I have found acceptable to the most part of my countrymen, especially those of common education like myself. If I have done well, it is what I should like; and if I have failed, it is what mankind are liable to. Therefore, let cavilers rather write a better one, than pester themselves and the public with criticisms on my faults.”

The half-apologetic reason for having written in vulgar rhyme, coupled with the addenda in the advertisement of the first edition, “the like has not been done since the days of David Lindsay,” almost lead to the inference that he was acquainted with Lindsay’s works; while the reference to “those of common education like myself,” does not support the assertion that “he got no education.” The disappearance of the first and second editions makes it impossible to ascertain the extent of the “amendments” which he made on their texts; but they are said to be in the way of toning down the Jacobite leanings, in deference to the Hanoverianism of his patrons, the Glasgow magistrates. On this is founded a charge of trimming, which, the impossibility presently existing of comparing the two texts, prevents our either verifying or refuting. We must therefore suspend our judgment until a copy of either of the lost editions turns up—if that should ever happen. Meanwhile, it may be observed that the edition “amended,” as he himself calls it, was published two years after his appointment as bellman, and could no way influence his preference to that office. If made in remembrance of past favours, it at least shows a sense of gratitude; but this is proverbially not a strong motive; and as to future favours, there is every reason to think that Dougal’s ambition in that direction was already satisfied. If we also take into consideration that the History was written when he was little over twenty-one, and published within a few months of the last and misguided struggle of the clans, too soon to admit of the events truthfully recorded being impartially judged, and before the lapse of time admitted of their being seen in their true bearings, that, nearly thirty years afterwards, “amendments” were made on some of his early judgments, need excite no suspicion that they went beyond the real change in his convictions.

We have no wish to claim for Dougal, and it would be unfair to exact of him a high moral standard: he had been all his life too much under the stern discipline of circumstances, and saw too much of its levelling effects to have retained—if he ever possessed—any sympathy for that scrupulosity of thought and conduct which constitutes a high principled character. But we see nothing in his behaviour which betrays any lack of spirit or independence; the quotations from his preface are the expression of sober self-respect, without egotism; conveyed in quaint, but appropriate language, and full of good common sense.

We have dwelt upon the “History of the Rebellion,” not because we think it the greatest—though by far the largest of his works—but, because its history is almost the only authentic nucleus round which the events of his life cluster; the only “child of his brain,” of which he himself acknowledges the fatherhood. For this reason, and because of the disappearance of first editions, it has been found impossible to determine the date, or even his authorship, of many popular chap-books ascribed to his pen. Fortunately, the authorship of the best of them rests upon the authority of Motherwell the poet, whose information, derived, as it is, direct from his “intelligent” friend, George Caldwell, the chief publisher of Dougal’s “Penny Histories,” is of the most reliable kind. His article in the Paisley Magazine of January, 1829, on “Dougald Graham” being the stimulus and groundwork of all subsequent investigations on the subject.

The incidents of Dougal’s official life being committed to the keeping of tradition, have faded out of public memory with the generation whose sides were tickled by his jokes; but a list of his chap-books made by Motherwell, lets us see how he employed his literary leisure, and the date of publication of the last but one on the list, brings us to the date of his exit from the scene which his pen and his voice helped so much to enliven. It is generally agreed that “Jockie and Maggie’s Courtship” is the first of his original prose compositions; and that it was written some time after his having set up in business as a printer. He appears to have previously devoted his pen entirely to the service of the poetic muses; and is the originator of those comic, but harmless satires on the simplicity and imperfect English of Highlanders, of which his John Hielandman and Turnimspike are the prototypes. But, like his greater countryman, and it may be added, his greatest extinguisher, Scott—and much about the same age—after he had worked out the poetic vein, he discovered a prose one, equally prolific, and of richer ore; but of which, like the “Great Unknown,” he preferred to be the unknown excavator. It is an odd coincidence that, like Scott, too, he frequently wrote under cognomens, as John Falkirk, or The Scots Piper. The following is Motherwell’s list of his prose tracts, with the dates of the earliest editions which he was able to obtain:—Leper the Tailor, Part II. only, being a first edition.

1. Jockie and Maggie, five parts, 1783; 2. Paddy from Cork, 1784; 3. Lothian Tom, six parts, 1793; 4. John Cheap (The Chapman), three parts, 1786; 5. John Falkirk, 1779; 6. John Falkirk’s Cariches; 7. Janet Clinker’s Orations; sometimes published under the title of Granny M’Nab’s Lectures in the Society of Clashing Wives; 8. Leper the Tailor, parts I. and II., 1779; 9. Simple John and His Twelve Misfortunes. Motherwell is of opinion that George Buchanan, The Coalman’s Courtship, and the History of Buckhaven, are his also; and questions the existence of any of them before his time. These three are also found attributed to him by M’Vean, a Glasgow antiquarian bookseller, in a MS. list of Dougal’s publications quoted by Dr Strang,[A] which, in addition to those in Motherwell’s list, contains: The History of the Haverel Wives, The Grand Solemnity of the Tailor’s Funeral, &c.; The Remarkable Life and Transactions of Alexander Hamwinkle, &c.; The Dying Groans of Sir John Barleycorn, &c.; A Warning to the Methodist Preachers; A Second Warning to the Methodist Preachers. Mr Fraser, who has, perhaps, given more consideration to the subject than any of his predecessors, besides having the benefit of their labours,[B] gives a classified list of his publications under four heads.

1. The Works of Dougal Graham. 2. Works Probably Written by Graham. 3. Works Compiled or Edited by Graham. 4. Works attributed to Graham. Under the first head he adopts Motherwell’s list, substituting for Paddy from Cork and Simple John, The Coalman’s Courtship, and Simple Tam, which is the Scotch introduction to Simple John; and adding, The Grand Solemnity of the Tailor’s Funeral, Turnimspike, John Hielandman, Proverbs on the Pride of Women, and The History of the Haverel Wives. Under the second he gives: Dugald M’Taggart, in verse; Verses on the Popular Superstitions of Scotland; Rythmical Dialogue between the Pope and the Devil; An Epitaph on the Third Commandment; Alexander Hamwinkle; Warning to the Methodist Preachers; and A Second Warning. Under the third he places Paddy from Cork; Simple John; John Falkirk; and John Falkirk’s Cariches; and under the fourth, Sir John Barleycorn; The History of Buckhaven; and Verses on the Pride of Women; he should also have added George Buchanan. Of the History of Buckhaven; George Buchanan; and Simple John, except the Scotch introduction, Mr Fraser thinks it extremely improbable, judging from internal evidence, that they were composed by Graham, though he may have sold them to the publishers as his own composition. “For,” he adds, regarding the two first, “there is not a single sentence in either of them that might not have been written by anyone else.” Then why not by Graham? We wonder whether Mr Fraser has read the History of Buckhaven through, or whether he is thinking of some other tract.

What Mr Fraser says as to their facetiæ—including that of Paddy from Cork—being found in the facetiæ of almost every country in Europe, may be true—as Motherwell also states in almost the same words; but Mr Fraser does not contend for originality in the incidents, if the composition be imbued with the national spirit and adapted to the manner of thought and language of Scotchmen. George Buchanan is thoroughly Scotch in spirit, and its language is such as an ordinary Scotchman of common education would use in writing of events that happened out of Scotland, and where the use of his native dialect was inappropriate. The same may be said—of the language only—of Paddy from Cork, which Mr Fraser places under the third head, and we see no improbability in the composition of both tracts being Graham’s. Mr Fraser seems to forget that Dougal could write in other styles than that of Jockie and Maggie—that, no doubt, is his best—but his preface to the third edition of his History, Turnimspike, &c., and his denunciations of the Papists, display a versatility as to style which makes it difficult to except almost anything in chap literature from his authorship.

Leper the Tailor, Part II. (as has been already observed), the only first edition in Motherwell’s list, bears date 1779; and on the 20th July, of that year, Dougal died (if the date of his birth given be correct) at the age of 55,[C] and while his literary powers were in unabated vigour. The cause of his death is not recorded, and no obituary of him appeared in any of the local papers of the time; but an elegy “On the much-lamented Death of the Witty Poet and Bellman,” from the pen of some unknown admirer, has been preserved. We quote two stanzas which bear contemporary evidence to his humanity and wit:

“Ye mothers fond! Oh! be not blate

To mourn poor Dougal’s hapless fate;

Oft times, you know, he did you get

Your wandered weans;

To find them out both air and late

He spared no pains.”

“Of witty jokes he had such store,

Johnson could not have pleased you more;

Or, with loud laughter, made you roar

As he could do;

He still had something ne’er before

Exposed to view.”

To judge Dougal’s character by any fastidious standard of manners and morals would be unfair; but, making a reasonable allowance for the unfavourable nature of the times, and his surroundings, there is nothing known of him inconsistent with the character of a well-intentioned, self-respecting citizen; who thought it no sin to make his lines pleasanter for himself, by contributing to the enjoyment of his fellow-countrymen. His History of the Rebellion abounds with instances of the fairness and impartiality of his judgment, and the humanity of his sentiments; and is full of examples of his quaint and grotesque, yet mostly shrewd reflections on events which he seldom fails to place distinctly before his readers. Dr Robert Chambers, whose opinion, as the writer of an excellent history of the Rebellion, is entitled to all respect, in his Lives of Eminent Scotsmen, says of it:—“The poetry is of course in some cases a little grotesque, but the matter of the work is valuable. It contains—and in this consists the chief value of all such productions—many minute facts, which a work of more pretensions would not admit.”

Sir Walter Scott, writing to Dr Strang, of Glasgow, in 1830, in reference to his notice of Graham, says:—“Neither had I the least idea of his being the author of so much of our Bibliotheque Blue as you ascribe to him, embracing, unquestionably, several coarse, but excessively meritorious, pieces of popular humour. The Turnimspike, alone, was sufficient to entitle him to immortality. I had in my early life a great collection of these chap books, and had six volumes of them bought before I was ten years old, comprehending most of the rare and curious of our popular tracts.” Motherwell, besides calling him the “Scottish Rabelais” and the “Vulgar Juvenal of his age,” in the article already referred to, reviewing his history and his tracts, says:—“However slightingly we esteem his metrical power, we really believe he has conscientiously and honestly detailed the events that came under his observation. It is not, however, on the merits of this work that Graham’s fame rests. Had he written only it, we believe he never would have occupied our thoughts for a moment; but as one who, subsequently, contributed largely to the amusement of the lower classes of his countrymen, we love to think of the facetious bellman. To his rich vein of gross comic humour, laughable and vulgar description, great shrewdness of observation, and strong though immeasurably coarse sense, every one of us, after getting out of toy books and fairy tales, has owed much. In truth, it is no exaggeration, when we state that he who desires to acquire a thorough knowledge of low Scottish life, vulgar manners, national characteristics, and popular jokes, must devote his days and nights to the study of John Cheap, the Chapman, &c., &c., &c., all the productions of Dougal’s fertile brain, and his unwearied application to the cultivation of vulgar literature. To refined taste Dougal had no pretensions. His indelicacy is notorious, his coarseness an abomination, but they are characteristic of the class for whom he wrote. He is thoroughly imbued with the national humours and peculiarities of his countrymen of the humblest class; and his pictures of their manners, modes of thinking, and conversation, are always sketched with a strong and faithful pencil. Indeed, the uncommon popularity his chap books have acquired, entitles them in many a point of view to the regard of the moralist and the literary historian. We meet them on every stall and in every cottage. They are essentially the library of entertaining knowledge to our peasantry; and have maintained their ground in the affections of the people, notwithstanding the attempt of religious, political, or learned associations to displace them by substituting more elegant and wholesome literature in their stead.” It is now about fifty years since Motherwell wrote the article quoted; and the Waverley Novels, Chambers’ Journal, and The Tales of the Borders have accomplished what the religious and learned societies failed in doing.

Of Dougal’s personal appearance some particulars have been already noted, but an edition of John Falkirk’s Cariches, which appeared soon after his death, contains a prefatory notice, in which, under the cognomen of John Falkirk, commonly called the Scots Piper, the popular contemporary ideal of him is given as “a curious, little, witty fellow, with a round face and a broad nose. None of his companions could answer the many witty questions he proposed to them—therefore he became the wonder of the age in which he lived. Being born of mean parents, he got no education; therefore, his witty invention was truly natural; and being bred to no business, he was under the necessity of using his genius in the composition of several small books, of which the following Cariches was one, which he disposed of for his support.”

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Glasgow and its Clubs.

[B] Scottish Chap-Books, by John Fraser, New York, 1873.

[C] Motherwell calculates his age to have been 65, supposing him to have lived to 1787.

THE

WITTY AND ENTERTAINING

EXPLOITS OF

GEORGE BUCHANAN,

COMMONLY CALLED

THE KING’S FOOL.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

THE
WITTY EXPLOITS
OF
MR GEORGE BUCHANAN.

PART I.

Mr. George Buchanan was a Scotsman born, and though of mean parentage, made great progress in learning. As for his understanding and ready wit he excelled all men then alive in the age, that ever proposed questions to him. He was servant or teacher to king James the VI., and one of his private counsellors; but publicly acted as his fool.

1. It happened one day that a young airy nobleman went into the king’s garden to pull a flower for a young lady he fancied; George followed at a distance, so when the young man found a flower he fancied, he would not pull it himself, but to find it again, without farther search, he covered it with his hat, and went away for his sweatheart. No sooner was he gone, but up goes George, lifts his hat, and pulls the flower, then eases himself on the spot, covers it with the hat again, and away he goes. Soon after, the young gentleman returned, leading his sweatheart to pull the flower below the hat; but as soon as he lifted the hat, and saw what was below it, he looked like a fool; and the lady flying in a passion, sets off, and would never countenance him any more. The young gentleman being sadly vexed an this affront given to him by George, sent him a challenge to fight him, appointing day and place where they were to meet. Being to fight on horseback, George gets an old stiff horse, and for harnessing, covers him about with blown bladders, with small stones in each, without either sword or spear; and away to the field he goes, where the duel was appointed. So when George saw his enemy coming against him, all in glittering armour, armed with sword and spear, he made up to him with all the speed his horse could carry him; when the small stones in the bladders made such a rattling noise, that the gentleman’s fine gelding would not stand the battle, but ran away, and threw his master to the ground: which caused all the spectators to laugh, and say, the gentleman was more fool than George. The gentleman being still more enraged at this second affront, he would fight with George on foot; but his friends persuaded him that it would be no honour for him to fight and kill the king’s fool; and far less to be killed by the fool. So they were advised both to agree. But the gentleman would try another exploit with George, for to have it said he was still the cleverest man, viz:—To hold him a jumping-bout publickly, the next day thereafter. With all my heart, says George, and we will end in and about where we began, they not knowing his meaning in this. The place and hour being set, where they were to meet next morning. George in the night-time, caused a deep pit to be made, and the earth of it carried away; then filled it up with dung from a p——, and covered it over with a green turf, that it might not be known by the other ground. So, according to promise, they both met in the morning against the appointed time. Now, George being the oldest man, and by them counted the greatest fool, the young spark permitted him to jump first, which he according to order did, and jumped within a foot of the place where the ground was falsified. The young man seeing this, made his performance with great airs, and all his might, so that he jumped a foot over George, but, up to the oxters among clean dung! whereat, the whole multitude of spectators cried out with huzzas and laughter. Now, says George, I told you we would end in and about where we began, and that is in clean dirt.

2. On a time after this, the king and his court were going into the country, and they would have George to ride before them in the fool’s dress; whereunto he seemed unwilling, but it was the king’s pleasure. So George was mounted upon an old horse, with a pair of old riven boots, the heels hanging down, and a palmer coat, patched over with pictures of divers kinds. George rode before them in this posture which caused great laughter and diversion, until they came to an inn, where they alighted to dine, and in the time they were at dinner, George went into the stables, and with a knife cut all their horses’ chafts, not sore, but so as they might bleed. Now, as soon as dinner was over, and they mounted on their horses again, George riding before them as usual, in his palmer coat and old boots, they began to make their game of him: then George turning about suddenly, and clapping his hands with a loud laughter, the king asked him what made him laugh so? Laugh, says George, how can I but laugh, when horses cannot hold their peace? O my sovereign, says he, don’t you see how your horses have rent their chafts laughing at my old boots! Then, every man looking at his horse’s mouth, they were all in a rage against George. The king, causing George to dismount directly, and charged him never to let him see his face on English ground. Now, George knowing that nothing could reconcile the king at this time, he came away to Scotland, and caused them to make a pair of great boots, and put a quantity of Scottish earth in each of them, and away he goes for London, to see the king once more. He hearing the king and his court was to pass through a town, George places himself up in an old window, and sets up his bare a——, to the king and his court as they passed. The king being greatly amazed to see such an unusual honour done to him, was curious to know the performer: so he called unto him, desiring him to come down; and finding it to be George, sir, says the king, did not I charge you never to let me see your face again? True my sovereign, says George, for which cause I let you see my a——. But says the king, you was never to come on English ground again. Neither I did, says George, pulling off his boots before the king, behold, my Sovereign, it is all Scots earth I stand upon. The king and his court being greatly diverted with this merry joke, George was admitted again to the king’s favour.

3. After this there arose a debate betwixt the king and the queen about votes in the parliament; as the king had two votes, the queen would have one, and would needs be a parliamenter, or no peace without preferment. This matter was committed to George by the king; so it was agreed among the parliamenters, that the queen should be admitted into parliament for a day. Accordingly she came, and was received with all the honour and congratulations that was due and becoming her high station: but before any matter of consequence was brought to the board, George seated himself hard by the queen’s seat; all being silent, he rose up very quickly, lifted one of his legs, let a loud f——t, which set the whole house a-laughing; whereat the queen was greatly offended, and said, go, take the rogue and hang him, to which George answered, a fine parliamenter indeed, to hang a man for a sinless infirmity, and that’s a f——t. The queen being enraged at the affront put on her first appearance in parliament, went off in a passion, and never would countenance them more. But yet to be revenged on George, she would never give the king rest, till he delivered George into her hands, that he might be punished at her pleasure; which the king accordingly commanded to be done, knowing that George would rescue himself by some intrigue or other. No sooner was he delivered into her hands, but she and her maids of honour pronounced his doom, which was as follows:—As he had affronted the queen among so great an equipage, who ought to be honoured in chief above all women in the nation, that he should be stoned to death by the hands of women. Now the time being come that he had to die, according to their appointment, he was taken into a park, where a great number of women were waiting for him, with their aprons full of stones, to fall upon him, and put him to death according to the queen’s appointment.

GEORGE’S SPEECH TO HIS EXECUTIONERS.

Here’s a female band with bags of stones

To kill a man for rumple groans:

I’m clean of rapine, blood, and thefts,

Could I convert my f——s to rifts?

Since I, the first for f——s do die,

Close up the place from whence they fly,

To commit my crime, I think ye’ll scarce,

If once you do cork up your a——.

And now since women stones do carry,

Men need not in the world tarry,

Judge if such women be chaste complete,

With forty stones between their f——;

But since ’tis so ye will come on,

The greatest w—— throw the first stone.

When he had ended with these words, “The greatest w—— throw the first stone,” every one put it to another to cast the first stone, but knowing they would attain the character of a w—— for so doing, they all refused till the dying hour was past, and then he took a protest against them, and by that means he gained his life. After this he was admitted into the queen’s favour and presence, and attended the court as formerly.

4. About this time, the French king, in order to pick a quarrel with the court of Britain, sent a letter to the king, desiring it to be read before the parliament: and the writing was as follows; “Will I come? Will I come? Will I come?”—This letter being read before the king and his courtiers, they all concluded that the French king designed to invade England; therefore they ordered an answer to be wrote, upbraiding him with the breach of peace, and putting him in mind of the last treaty. The answer being read before the king and his nobles, they all agreed that it should be sent off. But George, smiling, and shaking his head, cried out,

Many men, many minds,

Who knows what he designs?

Then they asked George what the French king meant by such a letter? to which he answered, I suppose he wants an invitation to come over to dine with you, and then return in a friendly manner; but you are going to charge him with a breach of peace, before he has given any signal of offence or war: his letter is indeed dark and mystical, but send him an answer according to his question. Now, George being ordered to write the answer, it was as follows:—“And ye come—And ye come—And ye come.” This being sent to the French king, he admired it beyond expression, saying, it was an answer more valiant and daring than he expected. So the enmity he intended was extinguished, and turned into love.

5. It happened once, that a malignant party in Scotland sent up a great spokesman to the king and parliament, for the reducing of the church; George hearing of his coming, went away and met him on the bridge, and the salutation that he gave him was the cutting off his head, and throwing it over the bridge! He then ran to the king with all his might, and fell down before him, pleading most heartily for a pardon, or without it he was a dead man. The king most seriously asked him what he had done now? To which he answered, he had only thrown the Scots Bishop’s hat over the bridge, which made the king to laugh, to hear him ask pardon for such a small fault; but he had no sooner got the pardon sealed by the king’s hand, than he said, indeed my sovereign, I threw his hat over the bridge, but his head was in it. O Geordie, Geordie, says the king, thou wilt never give over till thou be hanged.

6. A nobleman in England agreed with the king how to put a trick upon George, to try his manly courage, in sending him to a certain place for a bag of money. On his way home, through St James’ park, they caused a sturdy fellow to go and set upon him by the way, and take the money from him. The fellow being armed with sword and pistol, came up quickly, and attacked George with these words, You, sir, deliver what money you have, or you are a dead man. To which George answered, sir, I have some indeed, but ’tis not my own, and therefore do not like to part with it: nevertheless, since being determined as you are, to exchange blows for it, pray do me the favour to fire your pistol through the flap of my cloak, that the owners may see I have been in danger of my life before I parted with it, which he accordingly did. No sooner had he fired the pistol, than George whipt out his hanger from below his cloak and with one stroke cut off his right hand, wherein he held his sword, so that both his sword and the hand fell to the ground; but George lifted his hand and carried it to the king. No sooner did he come before them, but they asked him, saying, well, George, did you see any body to trouble you by the way? None, said he, but one fellow, who was going to take the money from me, but I made him give me his hand he would not do the like again. You did? says the fellow’s master. Yes, I did, says George; let work bear witness, throwing down the fellow’s hand on the table before them all.

7. Now, this last exploit of George’s caused many of the English to hate him; and, among the rest, a young nobleman fell a joking of George, saying, he would be as famous a champion for Scotland as Sir William Wallace was. Ay, ay, says George, Wallace was a brave man in his time.—True indeed, says the young nobleman, but when he came to London, we did him all manner of justice, and for honour of the Scots, we have his effigy in the s—— to this very day. And do you know the reason of that, says George? No, I don’t, says he. Well, I’ll tell you, says George: he was such a terror to Englishmen, when he was alive, that the sight of his picture yet makes them p—— themselves. The English took this answer as a great affront, and forthwith caused Wallace’s picture to be taken out of all their s——.

8. A young English girl falling in love with a Scotchman, she petitioned him several times for to marry her: which he refused. So, to be revenged on him, she went to a Justice, and swore a rape against him, which is death by the law. George hearing of this, went to the prison where the young man was, and instructed him how to behave before the judge. So in the time of the trial George came in while the judge was crying to the man, but never a word he could get him to answer, to tell whether he was guilty or not. After the justice had given him over for deaf and dumb, others fell a shouting in his ears, but never a word he would speak. Then the judge, perceiving George, called him, saying, George, do you know what is the matter with this man? Yes, I do very well, says George. What is it? says the judge. Why, says George, the woman made such a noise and crying when he was ravishing her, it has put the poor man quite deaf, I assure you. Is it so? says the justice. No, no, says the woman, my Lord Justice, you may believe me, I lay as mute as a lamb, and never spoke a word all the time. Very well confessed, said the justice, and you have sworn a rape upon him. Take the w—— to prison, and let the poor man go about his business, and so it ended.

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.