A Wild Irishman

Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at     South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main     population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a     respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite     shore, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather     imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the     consequent rapid appearance of multitudinous neat cottages, tenement     houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on     any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous     appearance - its flagged and bowldered streets - its handsome mercantile     blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to     effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets     throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely     idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of     their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the     situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries,     sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the     paper-mills and all the nameless industries - when the operations of     all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen     loosed from labor - then, as this vast army suddenly invades and     overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will     fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity.     And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner     will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he     will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will     make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many     world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of     which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of     Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.     "Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my     employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before     you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in     all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in     his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and     turned to await his partner's response.     Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was     lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through     the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his     deliberate, half-absent-minded way, - "Is it Tommy you're telling him     about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on,     "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I     haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for     shakin' up that fast-horse man."     "The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the     genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow     was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy! Got beat in the     trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no     Irishman would take; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet     of the old hotel with him!"     "And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they     say!"     "Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the     confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"     "Funny trial, wasn't it?" continued the ruminating Stockford.     "Wasn't it though?" laughed the Major.     "The porter's testimony: You see, he was for Tommy, of course, and on     examination testified that the horse-man struck Tommy first. And there     Tommy broke in with: 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he's lyin'     to ye - he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver struck me first - nor last,     nayther, for the matter o' that!' And I     thought - the - court - would - die!" concluded the Major, in a like     imminent state of merriment.     "Yes, and he said if he struck him first," supplemented Stockford,     "he'd like to know why the horseman was 'wearin' all the black eyes,     and the blood, and the boomps on the head of um!' And it's that talk     of his that got him off with so light a fine!"     "As it always does," said the Major, coming to himself abruptly and     looking at his watch. "Stock', you say you're not going along with our     duck-shooting party this time? The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em     this season!"     "Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on account of the work at     all, but the folks at home ain't just as well as I'd like to see them,     and I'll stay here till they're better. Next time I'll try and be     ready for you. Going to take Tommy, of course?"     "Of course! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman' with us! I'm going around     to find him now." Then turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you     get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the best chance you'll     ever have to meet Tommy. It's late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along     without you. Come on."     "Certainly," said Stockford; "go ahead. And you can take him ducking,     too, if he wants to go."     "But he doesn't want to go - and won't go," replied the Major with a     commiserative glance at me. "Says he doesn't know a duck from a     poll-parrot - nor how to load a shotgun - and couldn't hit a house if he     were inside of it and the door shut. Admits that he nearly killed his     uncle once, on the other side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down     it. Don't want him along!"     Reaching the street with the genial Major, he gave me this advice:     "Now, when you meet Tommy, you mustn't take all he says for dead     earnest, and you mustn't believe, because he talks loud, and in     italics every other word, that he wants to do all the talking and     won't be interfered with. That's the way he's apt to strike folks at     first - but it's their mistake, not his. Talk back to him - controvert     him whenever he's aggressive in the utterance of his opinions, and if     you're only honest in the announcement of your own ideas and beliefs,     he'll like you all the better for standing by them. He's     quick-tempered, and perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your greater     patience with him, and he'll pay you back by fighting for you at the     drop of the hat. In short, he's as nearly typical of his gallant     country's brave, impetuous, fun-loving individuality as such a     likeness can exist."     "But is he quarrelsome?" I asked.     "Not at all. There's the trouble. If he'd only quarrel there'd be no     harm done. Quarreling's cheap, and Tommy's extravagant. A big     blacksmith here, the other day, kicked some boy out of his shop, and     Tommy, on his cart, happened to be passing at the time; and he just     jumped off without a word, and went in and worked on that fellow for     about three minutes, with such disastrous results that they couldn't     tell his shop from a slaughter-house; paid an assault and battery     fine, and gave the boy a dollar beside, and the whole thing was a     positive luxury to him. But I guess we'd better drop the subject, for     here's his cart, and here's Tommy. Hi! there, you Far-down 'Irish     Mick!" called the Major, in affected antipathy, "been out raiding the     honest farmers' hen-roosts again, have you?"     We had halted at a corner grocery and produce store, as I took it, and     the smooth-faced, shave-headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, and     suspenderless trousers so boisterously addressed by the Major, was     just lifting from the back of his cart a coop of cackling chickens.     "Arrah! ye blasted Kerryonian!" replied the handsome fellow,     depositing the coop on the curb and straightening his tall, slender     figure; "I were jist thinking of yez and the ducks, and here ye come     quackin' into the prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas-back suit upon     ye and the shwim-skins bechuxt yer toes! How air yez, anyhow - and air     we startin' for the Kankakee by the nixt post?"     "We're to start just as soon as we get the boys together," said the     Major, shaking hands. "The crowd's to be at Andrews' by 4, and it's     fully that now; so come on at once. We'll go 'round by Munson's and     have Hi send a boy to look after your horse. Come; and I want to     introduce my friend here to you, and we'll all want to smoke and     jabber a little in appropriate seclusion. Come on." And the impatient     Major had linked arms with his hesitating ally and myself, and was     turning the corner of the street.     "It's an hour's work I have yet wid the squawkers," mildly protested     Tommy, still hanging back and stepping a trifle high; "but, as one     Irishman would say til another, 'Ye're wrong, but I'm wid ye!'"     And five minutes later the three of us had joined a very jolly party     in a snug back room, with      "The chamber walls depicted all around      With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,      And the hurt deer,"     and where, as well, drifted over the olfactory intelligence a certain     subtle, warm-breathed aroma, that genially combatted the chill and     darkness of the day without, and, resurrecting long-dead Christmases,     brimmed the grateful memory with all comfortable cheer.     A dozen hearty voices greeted the appearance of Tommy and the Major,     the latter adroitly pushing the jovial Irishman to the front, with a     mock-heroic introduction to the general company, at the conclusion of     which Tommy, with his hat tucked under the left elbow, stood bowing     with a grace of pose and presence Lord Chesterfield might have     applauded.     "Gintlemen," said Tommy, settling back upon his heels and admiringly     contemplating the group; "Gintlemen, I congratu-late yez wid a pride     that shoves the thumbs o' me into the arrum-holes of me weshkit! At     the inshtigation of the bowld O'Blowney - axin' the gintleman's     pardon - I am here wid no silver tongue of illoquence to para-lyze yez,     but I am prisent, as has been ripresinted, to jine wid yez in a     stupendeous waste of gun-powder, and duck-shot, and 'high-wines,' and     ham sand-witches, upon the silvonian banks of the ragin' Kankakee,     where the 'di-dipper' tips ye good-bye wid his tail, and the wild loon     skoots like a sky-rocket for his exiled home in the alien dunes of the     wild morass - or, as Tommy Moore so illegantly describes the blashted     birrud, -      'Away to the dizhmal shwamp he shpeeds -         His path is rugged and sore,      Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,      And many a fen where the serpent feeds,      And birrud niver flew before -         And niver will fly any more     if iver he arrives back safe into civilization again - and I've been in     the poultry business long enough to know the private opinion and     personal integrity of ivery fowl that flies the air or roosts on     poles. But, changin' the subject of my few small remarks here, and     thankin yez wid an overflowin' heart but a dhry tongue, I have the     honor to propose, gintlemen, long life and health to ivery mother's o'     yez, and success to the 'Duck-hunters of Kankakee.'"     "The duck-hunters of the Kankakee!" chorussed the elated party in such     musical uproar that for a full minute the voice of the enthusiastic     Major - who was trying to say something - could not be heard. Then he     said:     "I want to propose that theme - 'The Duck-hunters of the Kankakee', for     one of Tommy's improvizations. I move we have a song now from Tommy on     the 'Duck-hunters of the Kankakee.'"     "Hurra! Hurra! A song from Tommy," cried the crowd. "Make us up a     song, and put us all into it! A song from Tommy! A song! A song!"     There was a queer light in the eye of the Irishman. I observed him     narrowly - expectantly. Often I had read of this phenomenal art of     improvised ballad-singing, but had always remained a little skeptical     in regard to the possibility of such a feat. Even in the notable     instances of this gift as displayed by the very clever Theodore Hook,     I had always half suspected some prior preparation - some adroit     forecasting of the sequence that seemed the instant inspiration of his     witty verses.     Here was evidently to be a test example, and I was all alert to mark     its minutest detail.     The clamor had subsided, and Tommy had drawn a chair near to and     directly fronting the Major's. His right hand was extended, closely     grasping the right hand of his friend which he scarce perceptibly,     though measuredly, lifted and let fall throughout the length of all     the curious performance. The voice was not unmusical, nor was the     quaint old ballad-air adopted by the singer unlovely in the least;     simply a monotony was evident that accorded with the levity and     chance-finish of the improvisation - and that the song was improvised     on the instant I am certain - though in no wise remarkable, for other     reasons, in rhythmic worth or finish. And while his smiling auditors     all drew nearer, and leant, with parted lips to catch every syllable,     the words of the strange melody trailed unhesitatingly into the lines     literally as here subjoined:      "One gloomy day in the airly Fall,      Whin the sunshine had no chance at all -      No chance at all for to gleam and shine      And lighten up this heart of mine:      "'Twas in South Bend, that famous town,      Whilst I were a-strollin' round and round,      I met some friends and they says to me:      'It's a hunt we'll take on the Kankakee!'"     "Hurra for the Kankakee! Give it to us, Tommy!" cried an enthused     voice between verses. "Now give it to the Major!" And the song went     on: -      "There's Major Blowney leads the van,      As crack a shot as an Irishman, -      For its the duck is a tin decoy      That his owld shotgun can't destroy!"     And a half a dozen jubilant palms patted the Major's shoulders, and     his ruddy, good-natured face beamed with delight. "Now give it to the     rest of 'em, Tommy!" chuckled the Major. And the song continued: -      "And along wid 'Hank' is Mick Maharr,      And Barney Pince, at 'The Shamrock' bar -      There's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true;      And the Andrews Brothers they'll go too."     "Hold on, Tommy!" chipped in one of the Andrews; "you must give 'the     Andrews Brothers' a better advertisement than that! Turn us on a full     verse, can't you?"     "Make 'em pay for it if you do!" said the Major, in an undertone. And     Tommy promptly amended: -      "O, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there,      Wid good se-gyars and wine to shpare, -      They'll treat us here on fine champagne,      And whin we're there they 'll treat us again."     The applause here was vociferous, and only discontinued when a box of     Havanas stood open on the table. During the momentary lull thus     occasioned, I caught the Major's twinkling eyes glancing evasively     toward me, as he leant whispering some further instructions to Tommy,     who again took up his desultory ballad, while I turned and fled for     the street, catching, however, as I went, and high above the laughter     of the crowd, the satire of this quatrain to its latest line -      "But R-R-Riley he 'll not go, I guess,      Lest he'd get lost in the wil-der-ness,      And so in the city he will shtop      For to curl his hair in the barber shop."     It was after six when I reached the hotel, but I had my hair trimmed     before I went in to supper. The style of trimming adopted then I still     rigidly adhere to, and call it "the Tommy Stafford stubble-crop."     Ten days passed before I again saw the Major. Immediately upon his     return - it was late afternoon when I heard of it - I determined to take     my evening walk out the long street toward his pleasant home and call     upon him there. This I did, and found him in a wholesome state of     fatigue, slippers and easy chair, enjoying his pipe on the piazza. Of     course, he was overflowing with happy reminiscences of the hunt - the     wood-and-water-craft - boats - ambushes - decoys, and tramp, and camp,     and so on, without end; - but I wanted to hear him talk of "The Wild     Irishman" - Tommy; and I think, too, now, that the sagacious Major     secretly read my desires all the time. To be utterly frank with the     reader I will admit that I not only think the Major divined my     interest in Tommy, but I know he did; for at last, as though reading     my very thoughts, he abruptly said, after a long pause, in which he     knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled and lighted it: - "Well,     all I know of 'The Wild Irishman' I can tell you in a very few     words - that is, if you care at all to listen?" And the crafty old     Major seemed to hesitate.     "Go on - go on!" I said, eagerly.     "About forty years ago," resumed the Major, placidly, "in the little,     old, unheard-of town Karnteel, County Tyrone, Province Ulster,     Ireland, Tommy Stafford - in spite of the contrary opinion of his     wretchedly poor parents - was fortunate enough to be born. And here,     again, as I advised you the other day, you must be prepared for     constant surprises in the study of Tommy's character."     "Go on," I said; "I'm prepared for anything."     The Major smiled profoundly and continued: -     "Fifteen years ago, when he came to America - and the Lord only knows     how he got the passage-money - he brought his widowed mother with him     here, and has supported, and is still supporting her. Besides," went     on the still secretly smiling Major, "the fellow has actually found     time, through all his adversities, to pick up quite a smattering of     education, here and there - "     "Poor fellow!" I broke in, sympathizingly, "what a pity it is that he     couldn't have had such advantages earlier in life," and as I recalled     the broad brogue of the fellow, together with his careless dress,     recognizing beneath it all the native talent and brilliancy of a mind     of most uncommon worth, I could not restrain a deep sigh of compassion     and regret.     The Major was leaning forward in the gathering dusk, and evidently     studying my own face, the expression of which, at that moment, was     very grave and solemn, I am sure. He suddenly threw himself backward     in his chair, in an uncontrollable burst of laughter. "Oh, I just     can't keep it up any longer," he exclaimed.     "Keep what up?" I queried, in a perfect maze of bewilderment and     surprise. "Keep what up?" I repeated.     "Why, all this twaddle, farce, travesty and by-play regarding Tommy!     You know I warned you, over and over, and you mustn't blame me for the     deception. I never thought you'd take it so in earnest!" and here the     jovial Major again went into convulsions of laughter.     "But I don't understand a word of it all," I cried, half frenzied with     the gnarl and tangle of the whole affair. "What 'twaddle, farce and     by-play,' is it anyhow?" And in my vexation, I found myself on my feet     and striding nervously up and down the paved walk that joined the     street with the piazza, pausing at last and confronting the Major     almost petulantly. "Please explain," I said, controlling my vexation     with an effort.     The Major arose. "Your striding up and down there reminds me that a     little stroll on the street might do us both good," he said. "Will you     wait until I get a coat and hat?"     He rejoined me a moment later, and we passed through the open gate;     and saying, "Let's go down this way," he took my arm and turned into a     street, where, cooling as the dusk was, the thick maples lining the     walk, seemed to throw a special shade of tranquility upon us.     "What I meant was" - began the Major, in low, serious voice, - "What I     meant was - simply this: Our friend Tommy, though the truest Irishman     in the world, is a man quite the opposite everyway of the character he     has appeared to you. All that rich brogue of his is assumed. Though     he's poor, as I told you, when he came here, his native quickness, and     his marvelous resources, tact, judgment, business qualities - all have     helped him to the equivalent of a liberal education. His love of the     humorous and the ridiculous is unbounded; but he has serious moments,     as well, and at such times is as dignified and refined in speech and     manner as any man you'd find in a thousand. He is a good speaker, can     stir a political convention to fomentation when he gets fired up; and     can write an article for the press that goes spang to the spot. He     gets into a great many personal encounters of a rather undignified     character; but they are almost invariably bred of his innate interest     in the 'under dog,' and the fire and tow of his impetuous nature."     My companion had paused here, and was looking through some printed     slips in his pocket-book. "I wanted you to see some of the fellow's     articles in print, but I have nothing of importance here - only some of     his 'doggerel,' as he calls it, and you've had a sample of that. But     here's a bit of the upper spirit of the man - and still another that     you should hear him recite. You can keep them both if you care to. The     boys all fell in love with that last one, particularly, hearing his     rendition of it. So we had a lot printed, and I have two or three     left. Put these two in your pocket and read at your leisure."     But I read them there and then, as eagerly, too, as I append them here     and now. The first is called -     Says He.      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be,      It's plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say, -      Supposin' to-day was the winterest day,      Wud the weather be changing because ye cried,      Or the snow be grass were ye crucified?      The best is to make your own summer," says he,      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be!      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be,      It's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear,      That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere,      An' the world of gloom is a world of glee,      Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree,      An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he,      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be!      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be,      Ye can bring the Spring, wid its green an' gold,      An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold,      An' ye'll warm yer back, wid a smiling face,      As ye sit at yer heart like an owld fire-place,      An' toast the toes o' yer soul," says he,      "Whatever the weather may be," says he -         "Whatever the weather may be!"     "Now" said the Major, peering eagerly     above my shoulder, "go on with the next.     To my liking, it is even better than the first.     A type of character you'll recognize. - The     same 'broth of a boy,' only Americanized,     don't you know."     And I read the scrap entitled -     CHAIRLEY BURKE.      It's Chairley Burke's in town, b'ys! He's down til "Jamesy's Place,"      Wid a bran' new shave upon 'um, an' the fhwhuskers aff his face;      He's quit the Section Gang last night, and yez can chalk it down,      There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley Burke's in         town.      It's treatin' iv'ry b'y he is, an' poundin' on the bar      Till iv'ry man he 's drinkin' wid must shmoke a foine cigar;      An' Missus Murphy's little Kate, that's comin' there for beer,      Can't pay wan cint the bucketful, the whilst that Chairley's here!      He's joompin' oor the tops o' sthools, the both forninst an' back!      He'll lave yez pick the blessed flure, an' walk the straightest         crack!      He's liftin' barrels wid his teeth, and singin' "Garry Owen,"      Till all the house be strikin' hands, sence Chairley Burke's in         town.      The Road-Yaird hands comes dhroppin' in, an' niver goin' back;      An' there 's two freights upon the switch - the wan on aither track -      An' Mr. Gearry, from The Shops, he's mad enough to swear,      An' durst n't spake a word but grin, the whilst that Chairley's         there!      Oh! Chairley! Chairley! Chairley Burke! ye divil, wid yer ways      O' dhrivin' all the throubles aff, these dark an' gloomy days!      Ohone! that it's meself, wid all the griefs I have to drown,      Must lave me pick to resht a bit, sence Chairley Burke's in town!     "Before we turn back, now," said the smiling Major, as I stood     lingering over the indefinable humor of the last refrain, "before we     turn back I want to show you something eminently characteristic. Come     this way a half dozen steps."     As he spoke I looked up, to first observe that we had paused before a     handsome square brick residence, centering a beautiful smooth lawn,     its emerald only littered with the light gold of the earliest autumn     leaves. On either side of the trim walk that led up from the gate to     the carved stone ballusters of the broad piazza, with its empty easy     chairs, were graceful vases, frothing over with late blossoms, and     wreathed with laurel-looking vines; and, luxuriantly lacing the border     of the pave that turned the further corner of the house, blue, white     and crimson, pink and violet, went fading in perspective as my gaze     followed the gesture of the Major's.     "Here, come a little further. Now do you see that man there?"     Yes, I could make out a figure in the deepening dusk - the figure of a     man on the back stoop - a tired looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, who     sat upon a low chair - no, not a chair - an empty box. He was leaning     forward with his elbows on his knees, and the hands dropped limp. He     was smoking, too, I could barely see his pipe, and but for the odor of     very strong tobacco, would not have known he had a pipe. Why does the     master of the house permit his servants to so desecrate this beautiful     home? I thought.     "Well, shall we go now?" said the Major.     I turned silently and we retraced our steps. I think neither of us     spoke for the distance of a square.     "Guess you didn't know the man there on the back porch?" said the     Major.     "No; why?" I asked dubiously.     "I hardly thought you would, and besides the poor fellow's tired, and     it was best not to disturb him," said the Major.     "Why; who was it - some one I know?"     "It was Tommy."     "Oh," said I, inquiringly, "he's employed there in some capacity?"     "Yes, as master of the house."     "You don't mean it?"     "I certainly do. He owns it, and made every cent of the money that     paid for it!" said the Major proudly. "That's why I wanted you     particularly to note that 'eminent characteristic' I spoke of. Tommy     could just as well be sitting, with a fine cigar, on the front piazza     in an easy chair, as, with his dhudeen, on the back porch, on an empty     box, where every night you'll find him. Its the unconscious dropping     back into the old ways of his father, and his father's father, and his     father's father's father. In brief, he sits there the poor lorn symbol     of the long oppression of his race."