 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN
WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING.
It's on my wisiting cards sure enough (and it's
them that's all o' pink satin paper) that inny gintleman
that plases may behould the intheristhing words,
“Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronit, 39 Southampton
Row, Russel Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury.” And
shud ye be wanting to diskiver who is the pink of
purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the
houl city o'London—why it's jist meself. And faith
that same is no wonder at all at all, so be plased to
stop curling your nose, for every inch o' the six wakes
that I've been a gintleman, and left aff wid the bogthrothing
to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick
that's been living like a houly imperor, and gitting
the iddication and the graces. Och! and would'nt it
be a blessed thing for your sperrits if ye cud lay your
two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer,
or stipping into the Brisky for the drive into
the Hyde Park. But it's the iligant big figgur that I
have, for the reason o' which all the ladies fall in love
wid me. Isn't it my own swate self now that'll missure
in me stockings, and that am excadingly will proportioned
all over to match? And is it really more
than the three fut and a bit that there is, inny how,
of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over
the way, and that's a oggling and a goggling the houl
day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy Misthress
Tracle that's my own nixt door neighbor,
(God bliss her) and most particuller frind and acquaintance?
You percave the little spalpeen is summat
down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling; and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that
I'm going to give you the good rason.
The thruth of the houl matter is jist simple enough;
for the very first day that I com'd from Connaught,
and showd my swate little silf in the strait to the
widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was
a gone case althegither wid the heart o' the purty
Misthress Tracle. I percaved it, ye see, all at once,
and no mistake, and that's God's thruth. First of all
it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw
open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a
little gould spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o'
them, and divil may burn me if it didn't spake to me
as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through
the spy-glass—“Och! the tip o' the mornin to ye,
Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen;
and it's a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and
it's meself and me fortin jist that'll be at yur sarvice,
dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking.” And
it's not meself ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness;
heart althegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me
hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard
wid both eyes, as much as to say—“Thrue for you,
yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint,
and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog, if its
not meself, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll
make a houl bushel o' the to yur leddy-ship, in
the twinkling o' the eye of a Londonderry purraty.”
And it was the nixt mornin, sure enough, jist as I
was making up me mind whither it wouldn't be the
purlite thing to sind a bit o' writing to the widdy by
way of a love-litter, when up cum'd the delivery
sarvant wid an illigant card, and he tould me that the
name on it (for I niver cud rade the copper-plate
printing on account of being lift handed) was all about
Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look-aisy, Maiter-di-dauns,
and that the houl o' the divilish lingo was the
spalpeeny long name of the little ould furrener Frinchman
as lived over the way.
And jist wid that in cum'd the little willain himself,
and thin he made me a broth of a bow, and thin he
said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing me the
honor, of the giving me a call, and thin he went on
to palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I
comprehind what he wud be afther the tilling me at
all at all, excipting and saving that he said “pully
wou, woolly wou,” and tould me, among a bushel o'
lies, bad luck to him, that he was mad for the love
o' my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.
At the hearin of this, ye may swear, though, I was
as mad as a grasshopper, but I remimbered that I
was Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, and that it
wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the
upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the
matter and kipt dark, and got quite sociable wid the
little chap, and afther a while what did he do but
ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he
wud give me the feshionable introduction to her
leddyship.
“Is it there ye are?” said I thin to meself—“and
its thrue for you Pathrick that ye're the fortunnittest
mortal in life. We'll soon see now whither its your
swate silf, dear, or whither its little Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,
that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in
the love wid.”
Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's, next door,
and ye may well say it was an illigant place—so it
was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and in
one corner there was a forty-pinny and a jews-harp
and the divil knows what ilse, and in another corner
was a sofy—the beautifullest thing in all natur—
and sittin on the sofy, sure enough there was the
swate little angel, Misthress Tracle.
“The tip o' the morning to ye,” says I—“Mrs.
Tracle”—and then I made sich an iligant obaysance
that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the brain
o' ye.
“Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,” says
the little furrenner Frinchman—“and sure enough
Mrs. Tracle, says he, that he did—“isn't this gintleman
Barronitt, and isn't he althegither and entirely
the most purticular frind and acquaintance that I
have in the houl world?”
And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy,
and makes the swatest curtchy nor iver was seen;
and thin down she gits agin like an angel; and thin,
by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his self right down by
the right side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two
eyes o' me wud ha cum'd out of my head on the spot,
I was so dispirate mad! Howiver—“Bait who!”
says I, after a while. “Is it there ye are, Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns?” and so down I plumped on the
lift side of her leddyship, to be aven wid the willain.
Botheration! it wud ha done your heart good to percave
the illigant double wink that I gived her jist
thin right in the face wid both eyes.
But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned
to suspict me at all at all, and disperate hard it was
he made the love to her leddyship. “Woully wou”
says he—“Pully wou” says he—“Plump in the
mud.”
“That's all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,”
thinks I—and I talked as hard and as fast as
I could all the while, and troth it was meself jist that
divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by
rason of the illigant conversation that I kipt up wid
her all about the swate bogs of Connaught. And by
and by she giv'd me sich a swate smile, from one
ind of her mouth to the other, that it made me as
little finger in the most dillikittest manner in natur,
looking at her all the while out o' the whites of my
eyes.
And thin ounly to percave the cuteness of the
swate angel, for no sooner did she obsarve that I was
afther the squazing of her flipper, than she up wid it
in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as
much as to say—“Now thin, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
there's a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen, for
its not althegither the gentaal thing to be afther the
squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that
little furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.”
Wid that I giv'd her a big wink jist to say—“lit
Sir Pathrick alone for the likes o' them thricks”—
and thin I wint aisy to work, and you'd have died
wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped
my right arm betwane the back o' the sofy, and the
back of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found
a swate little flipper all a waiting to say—“the tip
o' the mornin to ye, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronit.” And wasn't it meself, sure, that jist giv'd
the laste little bit of a squaze in the world, all in
the way of a commincement, and not to be too
rough wid her leddyship? and och, botheration,
wasn't it the gentaalest and delikittest of all the little
squazes that I got in return? “Blood and thunder,
Sir Pathrick, mavourneen” thinks I to meself, “faith
it's jist the mother's son of you, and nobody else at
all at all, that's the handsommest and the fortunittest
And wid that I giv'd the flipper a big squaze—
and a big squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship
giv'd to me back. But it wud ha split the
seven sides of you wid the laffin to behould, jist thin
all at once, the concated behaviour of Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o' rich a jabbering, and
a smirking, and a parly-wouing as he begin'd wid
her leddyship, niver was known before upon arth;
and divil may burn me if it wasn't my own very two
peepers that cotch'd him tipping her the wink out of
one eye. Och hon! if it wasn't meself thin that
was as mad as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould
who it was!
“Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,”
said I, as purlit as iver ye seed, “that it's not the
gintaal thing at all at all, and not for the likes o' you
inny how, to be after the oggling and a goggling at
her leddyship in that fashion—and jist wid that such
another squaze as it was I giv'd her flipper, all as
much as to say—“isn't it Sir Pathrick now, my
jewel, that'll be able to the proticting o' you, my
darlint?”—and thin there cum'd another squaze back,
all by way of the answer—“Thrue for you, Sir
Pathrick,” it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the
world—“Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen,
and it's a proper nate gintleman ye are—that God's
thruth”—and wid that she opened her two beautiful
peepers till I belaved they wud ha com'd out of her
head althegither and intirely, and she looked first as
as all out o' doors at meself.
“Thin,” says he, the willian, “Och hon! and a
woolly-wou, pully-wou,” and thin wid that he shoved
up his two shoulders, till the divil the bit of his head
was to be diskivered, and thin he let down the two
corners of his purraty-trap, and thin not the bit more
of the satisfaction could I git out o' the spalpeen.
Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was
unrasonable mad thin, sure enough, and the more by
token that he kept on wid his winking and blinking
at the widdy; and the widdy she kept on wid the
squazing of my flipper, as much as to say—“At him
again Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, mavourneen,” so I
jist ripped out wid a big oath, and says I, sure
enough—
“Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of
a bloody-noun!”—and jist thin what d'ye think it was
that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped up from
the sofy as if she was bit, and made aff through the
door, while I turned my head round afther her, in a
complate bewilderment and botheration, and followed
her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a rason
of my own for the knowing that she couldn't git
down the stairs althegither and intirely—for I knew
very well that I had hould of her hand, for divil the
bit had I iver lit it go. And says I—
“Isn't it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world
that ye've been afther the making, yer leddyship?
Come back now, that's a darlint, and I'll give ye yur
and then I turned round to the little French furrenner.
Och hon! if it wasn't his spalpeeny little flipper that
I had hould of in my own—why thin—thin it was'nt
—that's all.
Maybe it wasn't meself that jist died then outright
wid the laffin, to behould the little chap when he found
out that it wasn't the widdy at all that he had hould
of, but only Sir Pathrick O'Grandison. The ould
divil himself niver behild such a long face as he pet
on! As for Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, it
wasn't for the likes of his riverence to be afther the
minding a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say,
though—for its God's thruth—that afore I lift hould
of the flipper of the spalpeen, (which was not till
afther her leddyship's futmen had kicked us both down
the stairs,) I gived it such a nate little broth of a
squaze, as made it all up into raspberry jam.
“Wouly-wou”—says he—“pully-wou”—says
he—“Cot tam!”
And that's jist the thruth of the rason why he wears
his lift hand in a sling.
| Tales of the grotesque and arabesque | |