 | CHAPTER VIII. Tales of the good woman |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
The reader will now peradventure condescend
to follow us down to the riverside, where sat under
the shade, not of their laurels, but a wide spreading
elm, Master O'Reilly, Jeffrey Shortridge, and
Newcut, the tailor, discussing various indifferent
matters.
“Tim Newcut,” quoth O'Reilly, “resolve me
one question, will ye? Tell me what we have
been fighting for, a little bit ago?”
“My name's not Tim, Master O'Reilly,” quoth
the other.
“Is that the way to answer a civil question? I
say it is, Tim being the short for Timble; answer
me, then, Tim Newcut, what have we Judys been
fighting for?”
“Why, our lives and fortunes to be sure.”
“And we gained what we fought for?”
“To be sure we did.”
“By St. Patrick, the pink of the calendar, I deny
it, unless you, Master Jeffrey, will prove by your
logic that a man can live without eating, till he's
since I devoured my last paraty of the batch I
intended to bestow as a benefaction on dear old
Ireland.”
“And I have devoured my parchment measure.
They say I'm but the ninth part of a man. I wish
they'd prove it; for then belike my appetite might
dwindle in proportion.”
“Faith Tim, dried sheepskin is but a bad substitute
for fresh mutton. But here now is Master Jeffrey,
the philosopher, who I dare say, makes out to
live as most of your great scholars do now-a-days,
upon other people's learning. What say you, you
old church mouse?”
“Verily, Master O'Reilly,” quoth Jeffrey, “I am
fain to chew the cud of understanding, for lack of
something more savoury. Last night I took a piscatory
eclogue for supper; but it was so dry it
almost choked me.”
“Gads me! I don't wonder at it. Commend
me to dried sturgeon in preference. I never myself
liked that sort of feasting, ever since I took a
surfeit of learning at school. O for a sea gull, or
a Mother Carey's chicken, with just so much as
skin to its bones. Tim, keep a sharp look out for
these light fingered gentry.”
“There's nothing to be seen but the white caps.”
“Master Jeffrey,” quoth O'Reilly, “have you
never a fat book-worm in training now? Or a
work on the delightful mysteries of pies and
for supper, just to stay my stomach.”
“No:” replied Master Jeffrey; “but now I
think of it, I've a book of fasts.”
“Burn ye, dont we fast without book? But
come, if we stand here prating all the afternoon, ten
to one we go without supper. Let's to the woods.
If I meet an owl as old as my great grandmother,
I'll not spare a hair of his head.”
“The contemplative practice of fishing, suits
better with the abstraction of philosophy. I will
essay the waters;” quoth Master Jeffrey.
“Do so, Master Jeffrey; we'll try both the earth,
the air, and the waters; aye faith, and the fire too,
for a salamander. If you should chance to hook
a whale, call out lustily, and we'll come and help
fish him up.”
“Mind your phraseology, Master O'Reilly; a
whale is no more a fish, than the mother that bore
you.”
“And she was no mermaid, I'll swear for it. But
no fish! 'Slid, what manner of man may it be,
then. Is it flesh or fowl?”
“Marry, neither.”
“Then it must be a great vegetable;” cried
Newcut.
“Only an overgrown insect, Tim; a fish louse of
magnitude. But expound Master Jeffrey, what is
it?”
“The first step in science, is to tell what a thing
no fish is palpable; but what it really is, hath not
yet been decided.”
“By St. Patrick, but that is rather hard upon the
poor fish—I mean the poor creature. It is making
a sort of a sea mulatto of him, who is thrust out
of the company of white people, and is too proud
to keep company with black. It's lucky he
has got plenty of fish—I mean whales, to keep him
in countenance. But come away, Tim; for unless
Master Jeffrey can teach me to doubt whether I
am half starved or not, there's no use in philosophy
at present. Before we go, Master Jeffrey,
I do beseech thee to tell me what this same whale
actually is?”
“Hem—it is—it is—very like a fish,” quoth
Jeffrey.
“Thank you, Master Jeffrey. O Tim! Tim, if
you could only look down my throat and see what
a parcel of hungry devils are at work there!”
I'll not trust myself too near, Master O'Reilly,”
quoth Newcut.
“Faith, you'd better not. There's a great—
what d'ye call it—a great vacuum, Master Jeffrey,
that would swallow up a dozen systems of philosophy,
and be never the wiser. O Kit Columbus, what
possessed you to go out of your way looking for
new worlds, when the old one was bad enough in
all conscience.”
O'Reilly and Newcut then departed for the
where he soon fell into a doubt, whence he relapsed
into a reverie, and from thence into a nap,
from which he was at length aroused, by a fish
jirking his pole out of his hand, whereat Master
Jeffrey, was not a little troubled.
| CHAPTER VIII. Tales of the good woman | |