Great Irish Short Stories Read Online Free Page 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 apprentices 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 grandmother Eve had too much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead to any good. What I am thinking of will be known to you in due time, but not now, Mrs. Hill; therefore, pray, no questions, or teazing, 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, Phœbe,—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 towncrier’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 determine 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.