Part 58 (1/2)

”What a life!” cried the youth, in an accent of utter pity.

”Faix, it was an elegant life,--that is, when the weather was anyways good. With a bright sun s.h.i.+nin' and a fine fresh breeze blowin' the white clouds away over the Atlantic, my road was a right cheery one, and I went along inventin' stories, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes makin'

rhymes to myself, but always happy and contented. There wasn't a bit of the way I had n't a name for in my own mind, either some place I read about, or some scene in a story of my own; but better than all, there was a dog,--a poor starved lurcher he was,--with a bit of the tail cut off; he used to meet me, as regular as the clock, on the side of Currah-na-geelah, and come beside me down to the ford every day in the year. No temptation nor flattery would bring him a step farther. I spent three-quarters of an hour once trying it, but to no good; he took leave of me on the bank of the river, and went away back with his head down, as if he was grievin' over something. Was n't that mighty curious?”

”Perhaps, like ourselves, Billy, he wasn't quite sure of his pa.s.sport,”

said the other, dryly.

”Faix, may be so,” replied he, with perfect seriousness. ”My notion was that he was a kind of an outlaw, a chap that maybe bit a child of the family, or ate a lamb of a flock given him to guard. But indeed his general appearance and behavior was n't like that; he had good manners, and, starved as he was, he never snapped the bread out of my fingers, but took it gently, though his eyes was dartin' out of his head with eagerness all the while.”

”A great test of good breeding, truly,” said the youth, sadly. ”It must be more than a mere varnish when it stands the hard rubs of life in this wise.”

”'Tis the very notion occurred to myself. It was the dhrop of good blood in him made him what he was.”

Stealthy and fleeting as was the look that accompanied these words, the youth saw it, and blushed to the very top of his forehead. ”The night grows milder,” said he, to relieve the awkwardness of the moment by any remark.

”It's a mighty grand sight out there now,” replied the other; ”there's three miles if there's an inch of white foam das.h.i.+ng down to the sea, that breaks over the bar with a crash like thunder; big trees are sweepin' past, and pieces of vine trellises, and a bit of a mill-wheel, all carried off just like twigs on a stream.”

”Would money tempt those fellows, I wonder, to venture out on such a night as this?”

”To be sure; and why not? The daily fight poverty maintains with existence dulls the sense of every danger but what comes of want. Don't I know it myself? The poor man has no inimy but hunger; for, ye see, the other vexations and troubles of life, there's always a way of gettin'

round them. You can chate even grief, and you can slip away from danger; but there's no circ.u.mventin' an empty stomach.”

”What a tyrant is then your rich man!” sighed the youth, heavily.

”That he is. 'Dives honoratus. Pulcher rex denique regum.' You may do as you please if ye'r rich as a Begum.”

”A free translation, rather, Billy,” said the other, laughing.

”Or ye might render it this way,” said Billy,--

”If ye 've money enough and to spare in the bank, The world will give ye both beauty and rank.

And I 've nothing to say agin it,” continued he. ”The raal stimulus to industhry in life, is to make wealth powerful. Gettin' and heapin'

up money for money's sake is a debasin' kind of thing; but makin' a fortune, in order that you may extind your influence, and mowld the distinies of others,--that's grand.”

”And see what comes of it!” cried the youth, bitterly. ”Mark the base and unworthy subserviency it leads to; see the race of sycophants it begets.”

”I have you there, too,” cried Billy, with all the exultation of a ready debater. ”Them dirty varmint ye speak of is the very test of the truth I 'm tellin' ye. 'T is because they won't labor--because they won't work--that they are driven to acts of sycophancy and meanness. The spirit of industhry saves a man even the excuse of doin' anything low!”

”And how often, from your own lips, have I listened to praises at your poor humble condition; rejoicings that your lot in life secured you against the cares of wealth and grandeur!”

”And you will again, plaze G.o.d! if _I_ live, and _you_ pre-sarve your hearin'. What would I be if I was rich, but an ould--an ould voluptuary?” said Billy, with great emphasis on a word he had some trouble in discovering. ”Atin' myself sick with delicacies, and drinkin'

cordials all day long. How would I know the uses of wealth? Like all other vulgar creatures, I 'd be buyin' with my money the respect that I ought to be buyin' with my qualities. It's the very same thing you see in a fair or a market,--the country girls goin' about, hobbled and crippled with shoes on, that, if they had bare feet, could walk as straight as a rush. Poverty is not ungraceful itself. It's tryin' to be what isn't natural, spoils people entirely.”

”I think I hear voices without. Listen!” cried the youth.

”It 's only the river; it's risin' every minute.”