CHAPTER II.
On Thursday morning, our verger rose in unusually good spirits, congratulating himself upon the eminent service he had done to the city of Hereford, by his sagacity in discovering the foreign plot to blow up the cathedral, and by his dexterity in having the enemy held in custody, at the very hour when the dreadful deed was to have been perpetrated. Mr. Hill’s knowing friends farther agreed it would be necessary to have a guard that should sit up every night in the churchyard; and that as soon as they could, by constantly watching the enemy’s motions, procure any information which the attorney should deem sufficient grounds for a legal proceeding, they should lay the whole business before the mayor.
After arranging all this most judiciously and mysteriously with friends who were exactly of his own opinion, Mr. Hill laid aside his dignity of verger; and assuming his other character of a tanner proceeded to his tan-yard. What was his surprise and consternation, when he beheld his great rick of oak bark levelled to the ground; the pieces of bark were scattered far and wide, some over the close, some over the fields, and some were seen swimming upon the water! No tongue, no pen, no muse can describe the feelings of our tanner at this spectacle! feelings which became the more violent from the absolute silence which he imposed on himself upon this occasion. He instantly decided in his own mind, that this injury was perpetrated by O’Neill, in revenge for his arrest; and went privately to the attorney to inquire what was to be done, on his part, to secure legal vengeance.
The attorney unluckily, or at least as Mr. Hill thought, unluckily, had been sent for, half an hour before, by a gentleman at some distance from Hereford, to draw up a will; so that our tanner was obliged to postpone his legal operations.
We forbear to recount his return, and how many times he walked up and down the close to view his scattered bark, and to estimate the damage that had been done to him. At length that hour came which usually suspends all passions by the more imperious power of appetite—the hour of dinner; an hour of which it was never needful to remind Mr. Hill by watch, clock, or dial; for he was blessed with a punctual appetite, and powerful as punctual: so powerful, indeed, that it often excited the spleen of his more genteel, or less hungry wife.—“Bless my stars, Mr. Hill,” she would oftentimes say, “I am really downright ashamed to see you eat so much; and when company is to dine with us, I do wish you would take a snack by way of a damper before dinner, that you may not look so prodigious famishing and ungenteel.”
Upon this hint, Mr. Hill commenced a practice, to which he ever afterwards religiously adhered, of going, whether there was to be company or no company, into the kitchen regularly every day, half an hour before dinner, to take a slice from the roast or the boiled before it went up to table. As he was this day, according to his custom, in the kitchen, taking his snack by way of a damper, he heard the housemaid and the cook talking about some wonderful fortune-teller, whom the housemaid had been consulting. This fortune-teller was no less a personage than the successor to Bampfylde Moore Carew, king of the gipsies, whose life and adventures are probably in many, too many, of our readers’ hands. Bampfylde, the second king of the gipsies, assumed this title, in hopes of becoming as famous, or as infamous, as his predecessor: he was now holding his court in a wood near the town of Hereford, and numbers of servant-maids and ‘prentices went to consult him—nay, it was whispered that he was resorted to, secretly, by some whose education might have taught them better sense.
Numberless were the instances which our verger heard in his kitchen of the supernatural skill of this cunning man; and whilst Mr. Hill ate his snack with his wonted gravity, he revolved great designs in his secret soul. Mrs. Hill was surprised, several times during dinner, to see her consort put down his knife and fork, and meditate. “Gracious me, Mr. Hill, what can have happened to you this day? What can you be thinking of, Mr. Hill, that can make you forget what you have upon your plate?”
“Mrs. Hill,” replied the thoughtful verger, “our grand-mother Eve had too much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead to good. What I am thinking of will be known to you in due time, but not now, Mrs. Hill; therefore, pray, no questions, or teasing, or pumping. What I think, I think; what I say, I say; what I know, I know; and that is enough for you to know at present: only this, Phoebe, you did very well not to put on the Limerick gloves, child. What I know, I know. Things will turn out just as I said from the first. What I say, I say; and what I think, I think; and this is enough for you to know at present.”
Having finished dinner with this solemn speech, Mr. Hill settled himself in his arm-chair, to take his after-dinner’s nap; and he dreamed of blowing up cathedrals, and of oak bark floating upon the waters; and the cathedral was, he thought, blown up by a man dressed in a pair of woman’s Limerick gloves, and the oak bark turned into mutton steaks, after which his great dog Jowler was swimming; when, all on a sudden, as he was going to beat Jowler for eating the bark transformed into mutton steaks, Jowler became Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies; and putting a horsewhip with a silver handle into Hill’s hand, commanded him three times, in a voice as loud as the town crier’s, to have O’Neill whipped through the market-place of Hereford: but, just as he was going to the window to see this whipping, his wig fell off, and he awoke.
It was difficult, even for Mr. Hill’s sagacity, to make sense of this dream: but he had the wise art of always finding in his dreams something that confirmed his waking determinations. Before he went to sleep, he had half resolved to consult the king of the gipsies, in the absence of the attorney; and his dream made him now wholly determined upon this prudent step. From Bampfylde the second, thought he, I shall learn for certain who made the hole under the cathedral, who pulled down my rick of bark, and who made away with my dog Jowler; and then I shall swear examinations against O’Neill without waiting for attorneys. I will follow my own way in this business: I have always found my own way best.
So, when the dusk of the evening increased, our wise man set out towards the wood to consult the cunning man. Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies, resided in a sort of hut made of the branches of trees: the verger stooped, but did not stoop low enough, as he entered this temporary palace; and, whilst his body was almost bent double, his peruke was caught upon a twig. From this awkward situation he was relieved by the consort of the king; and he now beheld, by the light of some embers, the person of his gipsy majesty, to whose sublime appearance this dim light was so favourable that it struck a secret awe into our wise man’s soul; and, forgetting Hereford cathedral, and oak bark, and Limerick gloves, he stood for some seconds speechless. During this time, the queen very dexterously disencumbered his pocket of all superfluous articles. When he recovered his recollection, he put with great solemnity the following queries to the king of the gipsies, and received the following answers:
“Do you know a dangerous Irishman, of the name of O’Neill, who has come, for purposes best known to himself, to settle at Hereford?”
“Yes, we know him well.”
“Indeed! And what do you know of him?”
“That he is a dangerous Irishman.”
“Right! And it was he, was it not, that pulled down, or caused to be pulled down, my rick of oak bark?”
“It was.”
“And who was it that made away with my dog Jowler, that used to guard the tan-yard?”
“It was the person that you suspect.”
“And was it the person whom I suspect that made the hole under the foundation of our cathedral?”
“The same, and no other.”
“And for what purpose did he make that hole?”
“For a purpose that must not be named,” replied the king of the gipsies; nodding his head in a mysterious manner.
“But it may be named to me,” cried the verger, “for I have found it out, and I am one of the vergers; and is it not fit that a plot to blow up the Hereford cathedral should be known to me, and through me?”
“Now, take my word,
Wise men of Hereford,
None in safety may be,
Till the bad man doth flee.”
These oracular verses, pronounced by Bampfylde with all the enthusiasm of one who was inspired, had the desired effect upon our wise man; and he left the presence of the king of the gipsies with a prodigiously high opinion of his majesty’s judgment and of his own, fully resolved to impart, the next morning, to the mayor of Hereford, his important discoveries.
Now it happened that, during the time Mr. Hill was putting the foregoing queries to Bampfylde the second, there came to the door or entrance of the audience chamber, an Irish haymaker, who wanted to consult the cunning man about a little leathern purse which he had lost, whilst he was making hay, in a field near Hereford. This haymaker was the same person who, as we have related, spoke so advantageously of our hero, O’Neill, to the widow Smith. As this man, whose name was Paddy M’Cormack, stood at the entrance of the gipsies’ hut, his attention was caught by the name of O’Neill; and he lost not a word of all that passed. He had reason to be somewhat surprised at hearing Bampfylde assert it was O’Neill who had pulled down the rick of bark. “By the holy poker,” said he to himself, “the old fellow now is out there. I know more o’ that matter than he does—no offence to his majesty: he knows no more of my purse, I’ll engage now, than he does of this man’s rick of bark and his dog: so I’ll keep my tester in my pocket, and not be giving it to this king o’ the gipsies, as they call him; who, as near as I can guess, is no better than a cheat. But there is one secret which I can be telling this conjuror himself; he shall not find it such an easy matter to do all what he thinks; he shall not be after ruining an innocent countryman of my own, whilst Paddy M’Cormack has a tongue and brains.”
Now Paddy M’Cormack had the best reason possible for knowing that Mr. O’Neill did not pull down Mr. Hill’s rick of bark; it was M’Cormack himself, who, in the heat of his resentment for the insulting arrest of his countryman in the streets of Hereford, had instigated his fellow haymakers to this mischief; he headed them, and thought he was doing a clever, spirited action.
There is a strange mixture of virtue and vice in the minds of the lower class of Irish; or rather a strange confusion in their ideas of right and wrong, from want of proper education. As soon as poor Paddy found out that his spirited action of pulling down the rick of bark was likely to be the ruin of his countryman, he resolved to make all the amends in his power for his folly: he went to collect his fellow haymakers and persuaded them to assist him this night in rebuilding what they had pulled down.
They went to this work when every body except themselves, as they thought, was asleep in Hereford. They had just completed the stack, and were all going away except Paddy, who was seated at the very top, finishing the pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out, “Here they are, Watch! Watch!”
Immediately, all the haymakers, who could, ran off as fast as possible. It was the watch who had been sitting up at the cathedral who gave the alarm. Paddy was taken from the top of the rick, and lodged in the watchhouse till morning. “Since I’m to be rewarded this way for doing a good action, sorrow take me,” said he, “if they catch me doing another the longest day ever I live.”
Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr. Marshal! He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties of his office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst of contradictory evidence; and the happy art of soothing, or laughing, the angry passions into good-humour. It was a common saying in Hereford—that no one ever came out of Justice Marshal’s house as angry as he went into it.
Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted when he was informed that Mr. Hill, the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost importance. Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and, with gloomy solemnity, took a seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.
“Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Marshal! Sad doings, sir.”
“Sad doings? Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford. A ball the night before last, as I heard.”
“So much the worse, Mr. Marshal; so much the worse; as those think with reason that see as far into things as I do.”
“So much the better, Mr. Hill,” said Mr. Marshal, laughing; “so much the better; as those think with reason that see no farther into things than I do.”
“But, sir,” said the verger, still more solemnly, “this is no laughing matter, nor time for laughing; begging your pardon. Why, sir, the night of that there diabolical ball, our Hereford cathedral, sir, would have been blown up—blown up from the foundation, if it had not been for me, sir!”
“Indeed, Mr. Verger! And pray how, and by whom, was the cathedral to be blown up? and what was there diabolical in this ball?”
Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early dislike to O’Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first moment he saw him in Hereford; related in the most prolix manner all that the reader knows already, and concluded by saying that, as he was now certain of his facts, he was come to swear examinations against this villanous Irishman, who, he hoped, would be speedily brought to justice, as he deserved.
“To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves,” said Mr. Marshal; “but, before I write, and before you swear, will you have the goodness to inform me how you have made yourself as certain, as you evidently are, of what you call your facts?”
“Sir, that is a secret,” replied our wise man, “which I shall trust to you alone;” and he whispered into Mr. Marshal’s ear that his information came from Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies.
Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself said, “My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no farther in this business; and that no one in Hereford, beside myself, knows that you were on the point of swearing examinations against a man on the evidence of Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies{1}. My dear sir, it would be a standing joke against you to the end of your days. A grave man, like Mr. Hill; and a verger too! Why, you would be the laughing-stock of Hereford!”
Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at. Mr. Hill coloured all over his face, and, pushing back his wig by way of settling it, showed that he blushed not only all over his face but all over his head.
{Footnote 1: The following passage is an extract from Colquhoun, On the Police of the Metropolis, page 69:—“An instance of mischievous credulity, occasioned by consulting this impostor” (a man calling himself an astrologer, who practised long in the Curtain-road, Shoreditch, London; and who is said, in conjunction with his associates, to have made near 300£. a year by practising on the credulity of the lower order of the people), “fell lately under the review of a police magistrate. A person, having property stolen from him, went to consult the conjuror respecting the thief; who having described something like the person of a man whom he suspected, his credulity and folly so far got the better of his reason and reflection, as to induce him, upon the authority of this impostor, actually to charge his neighbour with a felony, and to cause him to be apprehended. The magistrate settled the matter by discharging the prisoner, reprimanding the accuser severely, and ordering the conjuror to be taken into custody, according to law, as a rogue and a vagabond.”}
“Why, Mr. Marshal, sir,” said he, “as to my being laughed at, it is what I did not look for, being as there are some men in Hereford to whom I have mentioned that hole in the cathedral, who have thought it no laughing matter, and who have been precisely of my own opinion thereupon.”
“But did you tell these gentlemen that you had been consulting the king of the gipsies?”
“No, sir, no: I can’t say that I did.”
“Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will.”
Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the cathedral and his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of bark and his dog Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog, and now of the rick of bark; and when he had exhausted all he had to say upon these subjects, Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards the window, and putting a spy-glass into his hand, bid him look towards his own tan-yard, and tell him what he saw. To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of bark rebuilt.
“Why, it was not there last night,” exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes. “Why, some conjuror must have done this.”
“No,” replied Mr. Marshal, “no conjuror did it: but your friend Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its being rebuilt; and here is the man who actually pulled it down, and who actually rebuilt it.”
As he said these words, Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining room, and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into custody about an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had called at Mr. Hill’s house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill was not then at home.
It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth from this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O’Neill was innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground of suspicion, the loss of his dog.
The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist of the hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can picture to themselves, said, “Plase your honour’s honour, I have a little word to say too about the dog.” “Say it then,” said Mr. Marshal.
“Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let off for pulling down the jontleman’s stack, I might be able to tell him what I know about the dog.”
“If you can tell me any thing about my dog,” said the tanner, “I will freely forgive you for pulling down the rick: especially as you have built it up again. Speak the truth now: did not O’Neill make away with the dog?”
“Not at all at all, plase your honour,” replied the haymaker: “and the truth of the matter is, I know nothing of the dog, good or bad; but I know something of his collar, if your name, plase your honour, is Hill, as I take it to be?”
“My name is Hill: proceed,” said the tanner, with great eagerness. “You know something about the collar of my dog Jowler?”
“Plase your honour, this much I know any way, that it is now or was the night before last, at the pawnbroker’s there, below in town; for, plase your honour, I was sent late at night (that night that Mr. O’Neill, long life to him! was arrested) to the pawnbroker’s for a Jew, by Mrs. O’Neill, poor creature! she was in great trouble that same time.”
“Very likely,” interrupted Mr. Hill: “but go on to the collar; what of the collar?”
“She sent me,—I’ll tell you the story, plase your honour, out of the face—she sent me to the pawnbroker’s for the Jew; and, it being so late at night, the shop was shut, and it was with all the trouble in life that I got into the house any way: and, when I got in, there was none but a slip of a boy up; and he set down the light that he had in his hand, and ran up the stairs to waken his master: and, whilst he was gone, I just made bold to look round at what sort of a place I was in, and at the old clothes and rags and scraps; there was a sort of a frieze trusty.”
“A trusty!” said Mr. Hill; “what is that pray?”
“A big coat, sure, plase your honour: there was a frieze big coat lying in a corner, which I had my eye upon, to trate myself to; I having, as I then thought, money in my little purse enough for it. Well, I won’t trouble your honour’s honour with telling of you now how I lost my purse in the field, as I found after; but about the big coat, as I was saying, I just lifted it off the ground, to see would it fit me; and, as I swung it round, something, plase your honour, hit me a great knock on the shins: it was in the pocket of the coat, whatever it was, I knew; so I looks into the pocket, to see what was it, plase your honour, and out I pulls a hammer and a dog-collar; it was a wonder, both together, they did not break my shins entirely: but it’s no matter for my shins now: so, before the boy came down, I just out of idleness spelt out to myself the name that was upon the collar: there were two names, plase your honour; and out of the first there were so many letters hammered out I could make nothing of it, at all at all; but the other name was plain enough to read any way, and it was Hill, plase your honour’s honour, as sure as life: Hill, now.”
This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our verger gave way to laughter.—Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker, that he might learn from him how he came by the dog-collar. The pawnbroker, when he found from Mr. Marshal that he could by no other means save himself from being committed to prison, confessed that the collar had been sold to him by Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies.
A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty: and Mr. Hill was a good deal alarmed, by the fear of its being known in Hereford that he was on the point of swearing examinations against an innocent man, upon the evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.
Bampfylde the second made no sublime appearance, when he was brought before Mr. Marshal; nor could all his astrology avail upon this occasion: the evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive, as to the fact of his having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no resource left for Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill’s mercy. He fell on his knees, and confessed that it was he who stole the dog; which used to bark at him at night so furiously that he could not commit certain petty depredations, by which, as much as by telling fortunes, he made his livelihood.
“And so,” said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner which till now he had never shown, “to screen yourself, you accused an innocent man; and by your vile arts would have driven him from Hereford, and have set two families for ever at variance, to conceal that you had stolen a dog.”
The king of the gipsies was, without farther ceremony, committed to the house of correction. We should not omit to mention, that, on searching his hut, the Irish haymaker’s purse was found, which some of his majesty’s train had emptied. The whole set of gipsies decamped, upon the news of the apprehension of their monarch.
Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick, whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the second. The fear of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of his temper: he was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being taken in by the king of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the same time, he was unwilling to give up his prejudice against the Irish glover.
“But, Mr. Marshal,” cried he, after a long silence, “the hole under the foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted for: that is, was, and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and I never can have a good opinion of this Irishman, till it is cleared up; nor can I think the cathedral in safety.”
“What,” said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, “I suppose the verses of the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr. Hill. They are excellent in their kind. I must have them by heart that, when I am asked the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an aversion to an Irish glover, I may be able to repeat them:
‘Now, take my word,
Wise men of Hereford,
None in safety may be,
Till the bad man doth flee.’”
“You’ll oblige me, sir,” said the verger, “if you would never repeat those verses, sir; nor mention, in any company, the affair of the king of the gipsies.”
“I will oblige you,” replied Mr. Marshal, “if you will oblige me. Will you tell me honestly whether now that you find this Mr. O’Neill is neither a dog-killer nor a puller down of bark ricks, you feel that you could forgive him for being an Irishman, if the mystery, as you call it, of the hole under the cathedral was cleared up?” “But that is not cleared up, I say, sir,” cried Mr. Hill, striking his walking-stick forcibly upon the ground, with both his hands. “As to the matter of his being an Irishman, I have nothing to say to it: I am not saying any thing about that, for I know we all are born where it pleases God; and an Irishman may be as good as another. I know that much, Mr. Marshal; and I am not one of those illiberal-minded ignorant people that cannot abide a man that was not born in England. Ireland is now in his majesty’s dominions, I know very well, Mr. Marshal; and I have no manner of doubt, as I said before, that an Irishman born may be as good, almost, as an Englishman born.”
“I am glad,” said Mr. Marshal, “to hear you speak, almost, as reasonably as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and I am convinced that you have too much English hospitality to persecute an inoffensive stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to our justice and good nature.”
“I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!” replied the verger, “if he was, as you say, inoffensive.”
“And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every service in his power to those who are in want of his assistance, we should not return evil for good, should we?”
“That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and moreover a scandal,” said the verger.
“Then,” said Mr. Marshal, “will you walk with me as far as the widow Smith’s, the poor woman whose house was burnt last winter! This haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the way to her present abode.”
During his examination of Paddy M’Cormack, who would tell his whole history, as he called it, out of the face, Mr. Marshal heard several instances of the humanity and goodness of O’Neill, which Paddy related to excuse himself for that warmth of attachment to his cause, that had been manifested so injudiciously by pulling down the rick of bark in revenge for the arrest. Amongst other things, Paddy mentioned his countryman’s goodness to the widow Smith: Mr. Marshal was determined, therefore, to see whether he had, in this instance, spoken the truth; and he took Mr. Hill with him, in hopes of being able to show him the favourable side of O’Neill’s character. Things turned out just as Mr. Marshal expected. The poor widow and her family, in the most simple and affecting manner, described the distress from which they had been relieved by the good gentleman and lady, the lady was Phoebe Hill; and the praises that were bestowed upon Phoebe were delightful to her father’s ear, whose angry passions had now all subsided.
The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill’s heart was touched, and exclaimed, “I must be acquainted with this Mr. O’Neill. I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show some hospitality to a stranger, who has so much humanity. Mr. Hill, will you dine with him to-morrow at my house?”
Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the recollection of all he had said to his club about the hole under the cathedral came across him; and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he whispered, “But sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the cathedral has not been cleared up yet.”
At this instant, the widow Smith exclaimed, “Oh! here comes my little Mary” (one of her children, who came running in): “this is the little girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good. Make your curtsy, child. Where have you been all this while?”
“Mammy,” said the child, “I’ve been showing the lady my rat.”
“Lord bless her! Gentlemen, the child has been wanting me this many a day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never get time, never: and I wondered too at the child’s liking such a creature. Tell the gentlemen, dear, about your rat. All I know is, that, let her have but never such a tiny bit of bread, for breakfast or supper, she saves a little of that little for this rat of hers: she and her brothers have found it out somewhere by the cathedral.”
“It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral,” said one of the elder boys; “and we have diverted ourselves watching it, and sometimes we have put victuals for it, so it has grown, in a manner, tame like.”
Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech; and the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he apprehended that, after all he had said, the mountain might, at last, bring forth—a rat. Mr. Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in the verger’s mind, relieved him from this fear, by refraining even from a smile on this occasion. He only said to the child, in a grave manner, “I am afraid, my dear, we shall be obliged to spoil your diversion. Mr. Verger, here, cannot suffer rat-holes in the cathedral: but, to make you amends for the loss of your favourite, I will give you a very pretty little dog, if you have a mind.”
The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal’s desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral, and they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole which had created so much disturbance. The child soon brought the dreadful enemy to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said, “I’m glad it’s no worse: but there were many in our club who were of my opinion; and, if they had not suspected O’Neill too, I am sure I should never have given you so much trouble, sir, as I have done this morning. But, I hope, as the club know nothing about that vagabond, that king of the gipsies, you will not let any one know any thing about the prophecy, and all that? I am sure, I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr. Marshal.”
Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he had spent in endeavouring to clear up all these mysteries and suspicions; and Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet O’Neill at his house the next day. No sooner had Mr. Marshal brought one of the parties to reason and good-humour, than he went to prepare the other for a reconciliation. O’Neill and his mother were both people of warm but forgiving tempers: the arrest was fresh in their minds; but when Mr. Marshal represented to them the whole affair, and the verger’s prejudices, in a humorous light, they joined in the good-natured laugh, and O’Neill declared that, for his part, he was ready to forgive and to forget every thing, if he could but see Miss Phoebe in the Limerick gloves.
Phosbe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal’s, in the Limerick gloves; and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the smell of the rose leaves, in which they had been kept. Mr. Marshal had the benevolent pleasure of reconciling the two families. The tanner and the glover of Hereford became, from bitter enemies, useful friends to each other; and they were convinced, by experience, that nothing could be more for their mutual advantage than to live in union.
Nov. 1799.