Struggles and Triumphs by P. T. Barnum (love novels in english TXT) 📕

girl he did not sell milk on Sunday. The girl, who had been accustomed to buy on that day as on other days, was much surprised and turned to go away, when the sixpence in her hand was too much of a temptation for the deacon, who called out:

“Here, little girl! you can leave the money now, and call and get the milk tomorrow!”

During my journeyings abroad I was not wholly free from the usual infirmity of travellers, viz, a desire to look at the old castles of feudal times, whether in preservation or in ruins; but there was one of our party, Mr. H. G. Sherman, who had a peculiar and irresistible taste for the antique. He gathered trunks full of stone and timber mementos from every place of note which we visited; and, if there was anything which he admired more than all else, it was an old castle. He spent many hours in clambering the broken walls of Kenilworth, in viewing the towers and dungeons of Warwick, and climbing the precipices of Dumbarton. When travelling by coach, Sherman always secured an outside seat, and, if possible, next to the coachman, so as to be able to make inquiries regarding everything which he might happen to see.

On our journey from Belfast to Drogheda, Sherman occupied his usual seat beside the driver, and asked him a thousand questions. The coachman was a regular wag, with genuine Irish wit, and he determined to have a little bit of fun at the expense of the inquisitive Yankee. As we came within eight miles of Drogheda, the watchful eye of Sherman caught the glimpse of a large stone pile, appearing like a castle, looming up among some trees in a field half a mile from the roadside.

“Oh, look here! what do you call that?” exclaimed Sherman, giving the coachman an elbowing in the ribs which was anything but pleasant.

“Faith,” replied the coachman, “you may well ask what we call that, for divil a call do we know what to call it. That is a castle, sir, beyond all question the oldest in Ireland; indade, none of the old books nor journals contain any account of it. It is known, however, that Brian Borrhoime inhabited it some time, though it is supposed to have been built centuries before his day.”

“I’ll give you half-a-crown to stop the coach long enough for me to run and bring a scrap of it away,” said Sherman.

“Sure, and isn’t this the royal mail coach? and I would not dare detain it for half the Bank of Ireland,” replied the honest coachman.

“How far is it to Drogheda?” inquired Sherman.

“About eight miles, more or less,” answered the coachman.

“Stop your coach, and let me down then,” replied Sherman; “I’ll walk to Drogheda, and would sooner walk three times the distance than not have a nearer view, and carry off a portion of the oldest castle in Ireland.”

With that Sherman dismounted, and, raising his umbrella to protect him from the cold rain which was falling in torrents, he marched off in the mud, calling out to me that I might expect him in Dublin by the next train to that which would take us from Drogheda, the railroad being then completed only to that point from Dublin.

We arrived in Dublin about five o’clock, cold and uncomfortable; but warm apartments and good fires were in waiting for us, and in a few hours we had partaken of an excellent supper, and were as happy as lords. About nine o’clock in the evening, the door of our parlor was opened, and who should come in but poor Sherman, drenched to the skin with cold rain⁠—the legs of his boots pulled over the bottoms of his pantaloons, and covered with thick mud to the very tops, and himself looking like a half-famished, weary and frozen traveller.

“For Heaven’s sake, let me get to the fire!” exclaimed Sherman, and we were too much struck with his suffering appearance not to heed it.

“Well, Sherman,” I remarked, “that must have been a tedious walk for you⁠—eight long Irish miles through the rain and mud.”

“I guess you would have thought so if you had walked it yourself,” replied Sherman, doggedly.

“I hope you have brought away trophies enough from the castle to pay you for all this trouble,” I continued.

“Oh, curse the castle!” exclaimed Sherman.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, in astonishment.

“Oh, you need not look surprised,” replied Sherman; “for I have no doubt that you and that bog-trotting Irish coachman have had fun enough at my expense before this time.”

I assured him that I positively had not heard the coachman speak on the subject, and begged him to tell me what had occurred to vex him in this manner.

“Why, if you don’t already know,” replied Sherman, “I would not have you know for twenty pounds, for you would be sure to publish it. However, now your curiosity is excited, you would be certain to find it all out, if you had to hire a post-chaise, and ride there on purpose; so I may as well tell you.”

“Do tell me,” I replied, “for I confess my curiosity is excited, and I am unable to guess why you are so angry; for I know you love to see castles, and that pleasure you surely have enjoyed, for I caught a glimpse of one myself.”

“No, you have not seen a castle today, nor I either!” exclaimed Sherman.

“What on earth was it, then?” I asked.

“A thundering old limekiln!” exclaimed Sherman; “and I only wish I could pitch that infernal Irish coachman into it while it was under full blast!”

It was many a long day before Sherman heard the last of the limekiln; in fact, this trick of the Irish coachman rendered him cautious in making inquiries of strangers.

One day we rode to Donnybrook, the place so much celebrated for its fairs and its black eyes; for it would be quite out of character for Pat to attend a fair without having a