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Read Ebook: Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life. Volume 1 by Lover Samuel
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The Collected Writings of SAMUEL LOVER
TREASURE TROVE EDITION
In Ten Volumes
Volume Three
THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF SAMUEL LOVER
HANDY ANDY
A Tale of Irish Life
IN TWO VOLUMES--VOLUME ONE
UNIVERSITY PRESS JOHN WILSON AND SON CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
ADDRESS
I have been accused in certain quarters, of giving flattering portraits of my countrymen. Against this charge I may plead that, being a portrait-painter by profession, the habit of taking the best view of my subject, so long prevalent in my eye, has gone deeper, and influenced my mind:--and if to paint one's country in its gracious aspect has been a weakness, at least, to use the words of an illustrious compatriot,
"--the failing leans to virtue's side."
The present volume, I hope, will disarm any cavil from old quarters on the score of national prejudice. The hero is a blundering fellow whom no English or other gentleman would like to have in his service; but still he has some redeeming natural traits: he is not made either a brute or a villain; yet his "twelve months' character," given in the successive numbers of this volume, would not get him a place upon advertisement either in "The Times" or "The Chronicle." So far am I clear of the charge of national prejudice as regards the hero of the following pages.
I cannot conclude without offering my sincere thanks for the cordial manner in which my serial offering has been received by the public, and noticed by the critical press, whose valuable columns have been so often opened to it in quotation; and, when it is considered how large an amount of intellect is employed in this particular department of literature, the highest names might be proud of such recognition.
The reprinting of the foregoing address, attached to the First Edition, sufficiently implies that my feelings and opinions respecting my country and my countrymen remain unchanged. So far, enough said.
I desire, however, to add a few words to inform those who may, for the first time, read the story in this the Fourth Edition, that the early pages were written fifteen years ago, as a magazine article;--that the success of that article led to the continuation of the subject in other articles, and so on, till, eventually, twelve monthly numbers made up a book. A story thus originated could not be other than sketchy and desultory, and open to the captiousness of over-fastidious criticism: it was never meant to be a work of high pretension--only one of those easy trifles which afford a laugh, and require to be read in the same careless spirit of good humour in which they are written.
SAMUEL LOVER.
VOLUME ONE
An Irish Inquest " 80
Andy's Welcome Home " 102
The Reward of Humanity " 129
The Widow Flanagan's Party " 295
HANDY ANDY
Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way; disappointment waited on all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers' ends; so the nickname the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy, and the jeering jingle pleased them.
Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived, however, to have herself clawed almost to death while her darling "babby" was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted the pain by scratching her, till the blood came, with the other. Nevertheless, she swore he was "the loveliest and sweetest craythur the sun ever shined upon;" and when he was able to run about and wield a little stick, and smash everything breakable belonging to her, she only praised his precocious powers, and she used to ask, "Did ever any one see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did?"
"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said Owny.
"Troth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.
"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."
"Oh, but he won't run."
"Why won't he run?"
"Bekaze I won't make him run."
"How can you help it?"
"I'll soother him."
"Well, you're a willin' brat, anyhow; and so go on, and God speed you!" said Owny.
"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should have to coax him."
"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.
"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you are able to ride that horse if you get on him."
"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbins' mule betther nor any o' the boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day, though he kicked the shoes av him."
"After that you may ride anything," said Owny; and indeed it was true; for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers that it might well be considered a feat to stick on him.
"Now take great care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.
"Don't be afeared, sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom, and was too deep for Andy to ford at that season, he went round by Dinny Dowling's mill, where a small wooden bridge crossed the stream.
Here he thought he might as well secure the assistance of Paudeen, the miller's son, to help him in catching the horse; so he looked about the place until he found him, and telling him the errand on which he was going, said, "If you like to come wid me, we can both have a ride." This was temptation sufficient for Paudeen, and the boys proceeded together to the bottom, and they were not long in securing the horse. When they had got the halter over his head, "Now," said Andy, "give me a lift on him;" and accordingly, by Paudeen's catching Andy's left foot in both his hands clasped together in the fashion of a stirrup, he hoisted his friend on the horse's back; and as soon as he was secure there, Master Paudeen, by the aid of Andy's hand, contrived to scramble up after him; upon which Andy applied his heel to the horse's side with many vigorous kicks, and crying "hurrup!" at the same time, endeavoured to stimulate Owny's steed into something of a pace as he turned his head towards the mill.
"Sure arn't you going to crass the river?" said Paudeen.
"No, I'm going to lave you at home."
"Oh, I'd rather go up to Owny's, and it's the shortest way acrass the river."
"Yes, but I don't like."
"Is it afeared that you are?" said Paudeen.
"Not I, indeed!" said Andy; though it was really the fact, for the width of the stream startled him, "but Owny told me to take grate care o' the baste, and I'm loath to wet his feet."
"Go 'long wid you, you fool! what harm would it do him? Sure he's neither sugar nor salt, that he'd melt."
When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called "a brave lump of a boy," his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself; so she took him one day along with her to the squire's, and waited outside the door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs, that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her "a sight o' the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in;" and after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the "handiest craythur alive--and so willin'--nothin' comes wrong to him."
"I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?" said the squire.
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