Then I struck Figure 1, the position, and Bill struck another figure—which happened to be me.
“Figure 2,” shouted Joe, “one for his nob.” I made some mistake in this, because it resulted in two or three for my nob, and while I was trying to get my head under my arms, out of the road, “Figure 3,” yelled Joe, “the body blow!” but that infernal Bill didn’t fight according to the regulations at all; for before I got Figure 3 into operation, something came bang against my teeth, and I tried to dig my grave in the ground with the back of my head.
I wanted to consider the situation a little longer when they called “Time,” but Joe whispered that Figure 4 was sure to fetch him. All I had to do was to wait till he let out, and then, parrying the blow with my left, send the right into his potato trap, and settle him. Well, Bill soon let out, and Joe screeched “Figure 4!” and I don’t know where I sent my right, but my nose encountered both his fists one after the other in a way that wasn’t in the book at all, and when Joe roared “Figure 5, try 5!” I could only gasp—“He won’t let me,” before there was an earthquake somewhere, and I was thrown three or four yards away, and found myself trying to swallow all my front teeth.
I was so disgusted that when they called “Time” again, I wouldn’t listen to the voice of the tempters, and wanted to go to sleep on the green sward, and when Joe came and wished me to illustrate a few more diagrams, I could have poisoned him. I don’t believe in the manly art.
THE LINGUIST OF THE LIFFEY.
[Among the many “learned” opponents of Home Rule in Ireland a few years ago, was one somewhat famous professor of Trinity College, who boasted among his other attainments an unlimited knowledge of all Oriental languages, living and dead. An irreverent wag of a student carefully copied the inscription on a tea-chest, and bringing it to the loyal professor assured him it was a letter from a Chinese mandarin on the Irish question, and that a translation of it for the Tory papers would be of absorbing interest in that crucial hour. The task proved too much for Polyglot. The tea-chest knocked him out in one short round.]
THERE once was a doctor of famed T. C. D.—
Dr. Blank we shall call him—a Crichton was he;
Not a science or language earth ever has known
But he’d mastered so well he could call them his own—
Astronomy, Chemistry, Botany—these
Were trifles he’d learned in his moments of ease;
Mathematics, Mechanics, Geology, Law,
Theology, Medicine, Strategy—pshaw!
They all were mere flea-bites to that massive mind
Which left intellects minor some eras behind.
’Twas in linguistic lore that he dazzled the most
The Dons of the College—our doctor could boast
An intimate knowledge of every tongue
Ever written, or printed, or spoken or sung.
In the purest of Attic he silenced a Greek;
For hours to Ojibbeway chiefs he would speak;
A Zulu, whom accident brought to our shore,
Heard him preach in Zulost, and was dumb evermore;
He converted a Choctaw, in purest Choctese;
Made a Mandarin weep at his flowing Chinese;
In Turkish persuaded a Bashi-Bazouk;
In Hindoostanee showed a Sikh how to cook;
Taught quadratic equations in Welsh to a goat,
And none of the consonants stuck in his throat.
If he failed to translate, or translated all wrong,
The Chinese inscribed on a chest of Souchong,
Not his be the blame—no, the odium must rest,
On the printer or reader who muddled that chest;
Had the text been entire he had read it with ease,
But he wasn’t prepared for an “out” in Chinese.
A WINDY DAY AT CABRA.
I WOULD sooner be consigned to Mountjoy Prison for eighteen months under the Coercion Act than spend another windy day in that Dublin suburb so dear to Castle pensioners and hangers-on, Cabra. A friend of mine hangs up his hat permanently in that neighborhood. He uses a hat-stand for that purpose, but there are occasional perfumes floating round there that would accommodate a fireman’s helmet. My friend’s hearth and home are in the vicinity of a plot of waste ground, the property of the executors of a deceased alderman; and if the bones of the departed civic dignitary were laid in that promiscuous waste, and there was a conspiracy to bury them fathoms deep from future discovery, it could not be carried out more vigorously and more enthusiastically. I once passed a few hours with my unfortunate acquaintance. I had a full view from his drawing-room window of the interesting ceremonies of the day. I had barely taken my seat when a picturesque procession of farm carts, donkey wagons, wheelbarrows, and unattached scavengers hove in sight. Then a red rubbish rover deposited alongside of this offensive breastwork a miscellaneous collection of decayed cabbage leaves, cooked and uncooked, a mixture of mashed turnips and raw turnip peeling, potatoes in various stages of disease and digestion, and a heterogeneous compound of varied articles of food, which even a provincial editor would decline with thanks. After this a wheelbarrow wanderer shot in the ravine between the two mortifying mounds a specially assorted stock of disreputable rags and broken bottles, with two dead cats and a vivisected fox terrier to guard the pass. And then all round the rambling refuse-rangers commenced to add fresh varieties to the dirty diversity, and new scents to the odoriferous ozone. This went on for three or four hours, the kaleidoscope of contamination changing with the arrival of every contingent of contagion. I felt for my friend, but when I started homewards in the dusk I felt worse for myself. A gale had arisen of such stupendous force that I had to open my mouth sideways to speak, for fear of being blown inside out, and even then the wind whistled through the irregularities in my teeth like an atmospheric orchestra. My hat was blown off, and when I recovered it there were ten pounds of clay, a few dozen broken corks, the skeleton of a pig’s head, and a jagged chimney pot (which nearly cut my thumb off) in it, and it was enwreathed in a garland of turnip-tops and cauliflower that smelt of anything but their native fields. As I opened my lips to utter sage reflections on the situation, a sudden gust banged a dilapidated Champion into my mouth, and I had to dig it out with my penknife. I came home with a multitude of unknown tastes in my palate, that cayenne pepper, salt, mustard, vinegar, and John Jameson’s finest distillation, taken in large doses at irregular but frequent intervals for weeks, failed to eradicate; and such a numerous and variegated selection of smells that I failed to count them all and was unable to distinguish one-third of the number. It would take Faraday’s laboratory to disinfect my collar. Imagine what my top-coat was like!