“Neatly, in the present fashion; and send down the account to her. There is a great deal of gold about the trinket, for which, of course, you will make an allowance.”
“To the last fraction of a sixpence,” says Mr. Polonius, bowing, and looking at the jewel. “It’s a wonderful piece of goods, certainly,” said he; “though the diamond’s a neat little bit, certainly. Do, my Lady, look at it. The thing is of Irish manufacture, bears the stamp of ’95, and will recall perhaps the times of your Ladyship’s earliest youth.”
“Get ye out, Mr. Polonius!” said the old lady, a little wizen-faced old lady, with her face puckered up in a million of wrinkles. “How dar you, sir, to talk such nonsense to an old woman like me? Wasn’t I fifty years old in ’95, and a grandmother in ’96?” She put out a pair of withered trembling hands, took up the locket, examined it for a minute, and then burst out laughing: “As I live, it’s the great Hoggarty diamond!”
Good heavens! what was this talisman that had come into my possession?
“Look, girls,” continued the old lady: “this is the great jew’l of all Ireland. This red-faced man in the middle is poor Mick Hoggarty, a cousin of mine, who was in love with me in the year ’84, when I had just lost your poor dear grandpapa. These thirteen sthreamers of red hair represent his thirteen celebrated sisters,—Biddy, Minny, Thedy, Widdy (short for Williamina), Freddy, Izzy, Tizzy, Mysie, Grizzy, Polly, Dolly, Nell, and Bell—all married, all ugly, and all carr’ty hair. And of which are you the son, young man?—though, to do you justice, you’re not like the family.”
Two pretty young ladies turned two pretty pairs of black eyes at me, and waited for an answer: which they would have had, only the old lady began rattling on a hundred stories about the thirteen ladies above named, and all their lovers, all their disappointments, and all the duels of Mick Hoggarty. She was a chronicle of fifty-years-old scandal. At last she was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing; at the conclusion of which Mr. Polonius very respectfully asked me where he should send the pin, and whether I would like the hair kept.
“No,” says I, “never mind the hair.”
“And the pin, sir?”
I had felt ashamed about telling my address: “But, bang it!” thought I, “why should I?—
‘A king can make a belted knight,
A marquess, duke, and a’ that;
An honest man’s abune his might—
Gude faith, he canna fa’ that.’