Part 1

[Illustration: It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish town a little old man whose mind was a storehouse of strange legendary lore.

_Frontispiece._]

THROUGH GREEN GLASSES

ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY

AND OTHER IRISH TALES

BY F. M. ALLEN

ILLUSTRATED BY M. FITZGERALD

NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1887

COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY . . . . . . . 5

FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE . . . . . . . . . 44

KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR . . . . . . . . . 63

THE WONDERFUL ESCAPE OF JAMES THE SECOND . . . . . 83

THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS . . . . . . . . . 123

THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE . . . . . . . . . . 143

RALEIGH IN MUNSTER . . . . . . . . . . 198

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish town a little old man whose mind was a storehouse of strange legendary lore _Frontispiece_

Andy Merrigan’s Great Discovery . . . . _To face p._ 5

From Portlaw to Paradise . . . . . . ” 44

King John and the Mayor . . . . . . ” 63

The Escape of James the Second . . . . ” 83

The Last of the Dragons . . . . . . ” 123

The Siege of Don Isle . . . . . . ” 143

Raleigh in Munster . . . . . . . ” 198

[Illustration: (Banner) Introduction.]

It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish town a little old man whose mind was a storehouse of strange legendary lore. He was thoroughly illiterate, but he had contrived to pick up in some way a peculiar collection of quasi-historical facts and fables. These he winnowed through his brain, rejecting the greater part of the corn and retaining all the chaff; and this mixture he would, like Æsop of old, retail solemnly to any chance customer.

Dan—for such was his christian name—possessed an imagination of a peculiarly circumscribed character. His vision extended little further than his own tip-tilted nose, and around everything he wrapped a local, nay a personal, mantle. The kings, the princes, the chieftains of eld he clothed in his own shabby garments—even the saints (whom he reverenced) fared little better at his hands. All the characters introduced in his legendary yarns thought as Dan thought, acted as he would, in all probability, have acted, and spoke with his own delightful brogue.

I may here observe, parenthetically, that the illiterate Irish story-teller possesses—so far as my experience goes—a vocabulary which is singularly simple and lucid. Most of the words he employs are either monosyllabic or dissyllabic. If the brogue were eliminated it would be found that he adopts a style which, so far as the choice of language is concerned, might be studied with advantage by those who (like myself) strive vainly after simplicity of diction. Of course no uneducated Irishman ever attempts to tread the mazes of “shall and will,” nor is he addicted to nominatives which agree with their verbs. He is, moreover, somewhat given to the mixing of tenses; and in the course of a lengthy narrative, he usually flies to the refuge of many of our modern novelists—the present tense.

Dan’s style of narration had all the faults and the merits which I have endeavoured to point out, but Dan possessed one quality which atoned for most of his mixed tenses and for all his ill-mated nominatives and verbs—an extraordinary fund of humour. Of this possession he seemed, however, to live in blissful ignorance. He seldom smiled, and, in the general acceptation of the word, he never laughed. His laughing muscles were, possibly, situated in his shoulders, for when he told a good story, or when he heard one from a neighbour, his shoulders would shake and quiver with a motion prolonged and jelly-like.

Chronology had no meaning and no terrors for Dan. To him the early Milesians, St. Patrick, Brian the Brave, Cromwell, and even “the great Bonypart” were, practically speaking, contemporaneous. In recounting any of the doughty deeds of the First Emperor he always kept before your mind’s eye a picture of that “ould anshent warrior” (possibly he confounded him with Hannibal) crossing the summits of the Alps on a milk-white charger. To Dan, Waterloo and St. Helena were purely mythical—at all events _his_ “Bonypart” had never met with disaster nor ever endured exile. The only celebrity whom he condescended to view in a commonplace light was Garibaldi. He firmly believed the Italian patriot was a renegade Tipperaryman named Garret Baldwin, and often I have heard Dan express his unbounded contempt for the miserable Munsterman who had “gone and taken up arms agen his Holiness the Pope.”

I have listened to many and many a romance as it fell from Dan’s lips, and it occurred to me that if I could speak with his voice, I might, in attempting to reproduce some of his yarns, be able to afford amusement to a larger audience than it was Dan’s province to cater for.

[Illustration: ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY.]

[Illustration: (banner) ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY.]

Many an’ many a hundhred year ago there lived at Roche’s Point, just at the enthrance of Cork harbour, a fine sthrappin’ young fellow named Andy Merrigan. He owned as nate a thrawler as you could see from this to the Land’s End, an’ ’twas the grand fisherman he was intirely.

Andy was tall and sthrong, wud long black hair fallin’ over his showldhers, an’ eyes that burned undher his brows like fires of coal. He was very dark in himself for a young man, an’ all the neighbours wor more or less in dhread of him.

Andy never sailed his thrawler in company wud any of the other fishermen in Cork Harbour; an’ ’twas always of a dirty night an’ whin the win’ was blowin’ hard an’ the say was high that he used to cast off from his moorin’s; an’ thin the neighbours wouldn’t see him or hear of him again maybe for weeks an’ weeks. But whenever he did come back it was always wud a boat-load of fish; an’ thin he would stop ashore for a spell an’ spend whips of money in all kinds of divarsion.

Of coorse there wor plenty of back-bithers in Cork Harbour that had the hard word agen Andy; but divil a wan of ’em had the courage ever to say anything crooked forenenst him, for he had a fist as firm an’ as heavy as a half hundredweight, an’ he wasn’t shy of usin’ it on an emergency. There wor some whispers that Andy was a pirate king in saycrit, an’ others said ’twas a wrecker he was an’ that his fires wor often seen on the coast of Clare.

No wan used to sail in the thrawler wud Andy exceptin’ two cousins of his by the mother’s side, named Pat Carroll and Mick Egan, an’ the cousins wor just as dark an’ as dangerous as Andy himself.

Well, wan day, afther the longest voyage he had ever made, Andy dhropped his anchor at the quay of Cork; an’ laivin’ Pat and Mick an’ a new hand, a cabin boy, in charge of the thrawler, he started to walk to the Rock of Cashel.

Three days an’ three nights he was on the road—for of course this was in the oulden times before a horse-an’-car, let alone a railway thrain was invinted—an’ on the mornin’ of the fourth day he found himself undher the Rock.

“Good morra, major,” says he to the sinthry that was walkin’ up an’ down outside the enthrance.

“Good morra, sthranger,” says the sinthry. “Have you been long on the thramp?”

“Three days an’ three nights,” says Andy.

“An’ where are you from?” axes the sinthry.

“The Cove of Cork,” says Andy, who generally had a short way of spaykin’ in conversation.

“An’ what’s your business here?” axes the sinthry.

“To see the King of Munsther,” says Andy.

Begor the sinthry began to laugh thin, an’ says he, “P’raps ’tis a poor relation of the King’s you are?”

“No, nor a rich wan aither,” says Andy; “but I came to see him all the same.”

“Have you an ordher?” says the sinthry.

“No,” says Andy.

“Thin I wondhers at your cheek,” says the sinthry.

“You’re welcome,” says Andy.

“Arrah get on out of this about your business,” says the sinthry, “or I’ll give you a taste of the fore-fut of my pike just to remind you of who you’re spaykin’ to.”

“Keep your ould iron to yerself,” says Andy. “I’m not a marine-store dayler.”

“Faix an’ that’s what I thought you wor,” says the sinthry, thryin’ to have the laugh agen Andy.

“Did you?” says Andy, lookin’ very black. “Look at here,” says he, liftin’ his shut fist an’ givin’ the Rock of Cashel a box of it that knocked splinthers of stone flyin’ across the road, “did you ever meet a marine-store dayler that could do that?”

Begor, the sinthry turned as white as a ghost, an’ says he, “Who are you at all, my fine man?”

“Andy Merrigan from Roche’s Point is my name an’ addhress,” says Andy; “an’ if you don’t take that up to the king this minute I’ll undhermine the foundations before I breaks my fast.”

The sinthry saw there ’ud be no use in rousin’ the timper of a man wud a fist like Andy’s, so he blew his thrumpet an’ another soger answered the call.

“Tell King Cormac”—for that was the King of Munsther’s name—says the sinthry, “there’s a sthranger here called Andy Merrigan from Roche’s Point, that wants a word wud him; and tell him from me,” says he, “that he’d best see him at wance.”

Andy wasn’t kept waitin’ long, for in about five minutes the messenger came back to say King Cormac would see him if he would come upstairs. So Andy mounted the Rock and was shown into the King’s dhrawin’-room.

“Laive on yer hat,” says King Cormac, who was sittin’ in an arm-chair at a big fire, “for there’s a powerful dhraught up here, an’ maybe ’tis ketch cowld you would.”

“Thank ye kindly,” says Andy; “but sure I’m used to hurricanes, an’ I’d feel more at my aise if I wor to keep my hat in my hand.”

“Well, plaize yerself,” says King Cormac, givin’ the fire a stir wud a goolden poker. “What’s your business?” says he.

“I’m a man of few words,” says Andy, “an’ I’ll not enther into a long rigmarole.”

“I’m glad of that,” says King Cormac, “for I can’t give you more than ten minutes by the clock.”

“Faith thin if you knew what a wondherful plan I have to lay before you I think you’d be glad to spare me the whole run of a day,” says Andy, wud a toss of his head.

“That’s what ye all says,” laughs the King.

“Maybe,” says Andy; “but, as I’ve towld you before, _I_’m a man of few words.”

“I suppose you saves your breath to cool your porridge,” says the King, who had an aggravatin’ way of givin’ a sthranger ten minutes’ talk wud him an’ of squandherin’ all the time in banther.

“Well,” says Andy, “to go straight to the point—”

“Roche’s Point, is it?” intherrupts the King.

“No, nor potatoes an’ point aither,” says Andy, who saw through the thricks of the King. “An’ let me tell yer majesty,” says he, “that if you don’t give fair heed to me I’ll take meself an’ me plan straight over to Tara’s Halls.”

“Keep your hair on,” says King Cormac, seein’ that Andy was sore vexed.

“’Tisn’t aisy to do that wud the draught,” says Andy, lookin’ as black as tundher; “but I’ll do my endeavours; an’ you may thank yourself, if you lose the chance of a kingdom that I’m afther discoverin’ a hundhred times as big as Munsther.”

“What’s that you say, my man?” says King Cormac, turnin’ round quickly in his aisy chair an’ lookin’ hard at Andy.

“Well, will you hear me fair?” says Andy, “clock or no clock?”

“I will,” says the King, for his cur’osity was on the sthretch at the sthrange remark that came from Andy.

“I’ll take you at your word, thin,” says Andy; “an’ this is my story an’ my plan. You must know,” says he, “that I’m the greatest sailor in these parts, an’ that win’ or weather, say or storm, have no terrors for me. Often I goes hundhreds an’ hundhreds of miles out into the western ocean if the fish is scarce in shore, an’ for that raison the cowardly bla’guards that are afeard to venture out of sighth of land tells stories of me behind my back. I mintion this,” says Andy, “fearin’ that if yer majesty came to Cork you’d hear things said about me that might turn you agen me, an’ I want to put you on yer guard beforehand.”

“But what about this tundherin’ big counthry you wor spaykin’ of?” axes King Cormac, who didn’t care a _thrauneen_ about Andy an’ his back-bithers, but was aiger to hear about the new kingdom.

“I’m comin’ to it,” says Andy.

“I thought you wor there already,” says the King, chucklin’ undher his breath.

“Look at here,” says Andy, “maybe you’d like me to make a present of it to the King of all Ireland over at Tara beyant? If that’s your mind best say so at wance.”

“Arrah, don’t be so quick in your temper,” says King Cormac. “Sure a man must have his joke now an’ again. Go on, Andy,” says he, “tell us all about it, _avic_.—Maybe ’tis dhry you are. I have a nice dhrop of the hard stuff here, if that’s in your line at all.”

“Begor,” says Andy, “I was never known to turn my back on a good thing.”

So the King opens a big cupboard an’ tuk out a black bottle. “Say whin,” says he to Andy, pourin’ out the whisky into a tumbler for him.

“That’ll do,” says Andy, whin the tumbler was more than three parts full.

“You didn’t laive much room for the wather,” says the King.

“Wather, is it?” says Andy. “Arrah, my dear man, ’tis deluged enough wud wather I usually do be. Anyhow I prefers it nate,” says he, tossin’ off the tumbler-full at wan go.

“’Tis a sthrong man you are!” says King Cormac. “There isn’t a tear in your eye nor a hair turned on you, an’ that’s new Cork whisky, twinty over proof.”

“I’m used to it,” says Andy; “an’ use is second nature, I’m towld.”

“Well, go on wud yer story now,” says the King, “for I’m dyin’ to hear about this new counthry you’ve discovered. Did you find a mare’s nest in it?” says he, pourin’ a dhrop out of the bottle into a tumbler for himself.

“No, nor a cuckoo’s aither,” says Andy. “’Pon my song, I dunno whether ’tis humbuggin’ me you are or what.”

“Well, I’ll be as sayrious as Solomon for the rest of the intherview,” says King Cormac. “I see you’re not used to the ways of the quality.”

“You’re right there,” says Andy. “I’m a plain man at the best, a plain dayler an’ a plain spayker; an’ this is my story. Last voyage I sailed out of Cork wud my two cousins, Mike Egan and Pat Carroll, an’ havin’ business round on the coast of Clare I put into the Shannon for a spell, an’ there I shipped a new hand, a young Scotch lad named Sandy, as a cabin boy.”

“What’s his other name?” axes King Cormac, takin’ out his note book, “for I likes always to have full particulars.”

“Hook is his surname,” says Andy.

“Thin,” says King Cormac, “when you left the Shannon, I suppose I may say you tuk your Hook?”

“Just as you plaize,” says Andy, not heedin’ the joke; “an’ as fish wor scarce in by the coast I put the thrawler on a long reach wud her head to the westhard. Well, afther a week’s sail an’ no fish, a terrible gale came out from the nor’a’d and aisthard, an’ I was obliged to run the thrawler before the win’ undher bare poles. Four weeks afther startin’ from the Shannon the cabin boy shouts out ‘Land-o;’ an’ sure enough we sighthed a point of land which we christened Sandy Hook, afther the boy.”

“Well?” says the King, his cur’osity fairly roused.

“The same day,” says Andy, “we found ourselves in an iligant bay wud a most beautiful counthry surroundin’ it. Of coorse we wor clane out of provisions for some days, an’ the sighth of the new land where no wan ever thought there was a dhry spot before nearly dhrove us out of our wits wud joy. We ran the thrawler right in for the shore an’ beached her safely, an’ thin we jumped ashore in ordher to see where we cud get a bite an’ a sup. In about half a pig’s whisper the beach was crowded wud niggers, wud scarcely a screed of clothes on ’em. There was a big man wud a necklace hangin’ from his showldhers at the head of the crowd that looked like a chief nigger, so I goes up to him an’ says I, ‘We’re frindly, I gives you my word; an’, what’s more, we’re famishin’ wud hunger an’ thirst. If you haven’t a rasher of bacon handy could you give us a fill of tobaccy?’ The chief shuk his head as much as to say ‘I can’t undherstand you,’ and he begins to jabber away in some sort of lingo I couldn’t make head or tail of. ‘What’ll we do at all, at all?’ says I to meself; an’ thin a grand idaya sthruck me all of a suddint.

“I learnt the deaf-an’-dumb alphabet at school for divarsion, and I cud talk on my fingers wud the greatest dummy in Cork, so I began to make signs to the chief, wud my hands, an’ begor the ould nigger twigged what I was doin’ at wance. So he beckoned to a man in the crowd, an’ a little fellow, whom I aftherwards found was the headmasther of a deaf-an’-dumb school, stepped out forenest me an’ in a minute we were hard at it, talkin’ to aich other on our fingers. ‘Who or what are ye at all, at all?’ axes the little nigger. ‘We’re christhins, to begin wud,’ says I, answerin’ him back of coorse on my fingers. ‘What’s christhins?’ says he. ‘Did you never hear of St. Pathrick?’ says I. ‘Never,’ says he. Indeed I might have made sure that ’ud be the answer I’d get, for at laiste St. Pathrick if he ever visited the niggers would have inthroduced a tailor among ’em. ‘Well,’ says I, puzzled to know how to explain matthers, ‘we’re all Irishmen too, exceptin’ the boy here, an’ he comes from Scotland.’ ‘What’s Irishmen?’ says he. ‘Arrah,’ says I, ‘is it jokin’ you are, or do you mane to tell me you never heard of ould Ireland?’ ‘Never,’ says the nigger; ‘’tis a puzzle to me to make sense out of you at all. Maybe,’ says he, wud a grin on him like a monkey, ‘you’re something else?’ ‘We are, thin,’ says I, ‘whether you laughs or no. We’re Corkmen—three parts of us, at any rate.’ ‘Three parts of ye is cork!’ says he; ‘an’ what’s the other part made of?’ ‘Arrah, my dear man,’ says I, ‘there’s no use in losin’ my time an’ my temper thryin’ to enlighten your ignorance. I’ll wait till I larns to spake your langwidge, an’ thin I’ll be able to make you undherstand me properly. An’ now,’ says I, ‘will you answer me what I’ll ax you?’ ‘Wud pleasure,’ says the little nigger. ‘What counthry is this?’ says I. ‘Injy,’ says he. ‘An’ are ye all Red Injuns?’ says I. ‘We are,’ says he, ‘every mother’s son of us.’ ‘What’s the name of this town an’ harbour?’ says I, pointin’ to the hape of mud cabins in shore, an’ to the beautiful bay forenest us. ‘New York,’ says he. ‘An’ who is the big man at the head of ye there?’ says I, pointin’ to the nigger, who had gone up the beach a bit wud some of the faymales. ‘I mane the chap I made the first offer at discoorsin’ to.’ ‘He’s the King of New York,’ says he. ‘A wondher he don’t dhress himself more dacently!’ says I. ‘Dhress!’ says he. ‘Why ’tis in full dhress he is now.’ ‘An’ is a necklace an’ a rub of paint full dhress in these parts?’ says I. ‘It is,’ says the little nigger. ‘It doesn’t cost over much to be fashionable here,’ says I. ‘No’, says he, ‘we spend the bulk of our money on aitin’ and dhrinkin’.’

“Begor, yer majesty! the mintion of grub gave me a pain in the stomach, so I axed the little man if he could knock up a male for us, as we were all ready to dhrop wud the hunger. ‘I’ll spake to the King,’ says he. So he goes over to the big nigger, an’ I suppose he towld him all he could about us, an’ whatever it was he towld him it made the king laugh a dale. Then the little nigger beckoned to me to come over to the King. To tell the thruth I felt a thrifle ashamed of goin’ over near the women, but, faix! the hunger takes most of the timidness out of a man, so I plucked up the courage, an’ over I goes to the King. Well, by manes of the intarpinther—the little nigger—the King and meself had a long discoorse, but the dickens a bit of me could make the poor ignorant darkey undherstand that we wor human craychurs like himself; and maybe you’ll think ’tis a lie I’m tellin’ you, King Cormac,” says Andy, “but ’tis as thrue as Gospel that the King of New York thought, from what the little nigger was afther tellin’ him, that three-quarthers of us was made of cork, an’ that what he could see of us—I mane our face an’ our hands—was the only naatural part of us.”

“It bates all,” says King Cormac, laughin’ hearty. “Divil the like ever I heard! But go on wud your story, Misther Merryan.”