New Hampshire Statesman And State Journal

MISCELLANY.
"WE'LL SEE ABOUT IT."
BY MRS. B. C. HALL,
Author of "Sketches of Irish Character."

"We'll see about it!"—from that simple sentence has arisen more evil to Ireland than any person, ignorant of the strange union of Impetuosity and Procrastination my countrymen exhibit, could well believe. They are sufficiently prompt and energetic where their feelings are concerned, but, in matters of business, they almost invariably prefer seeing about, to doing.

I shall not find it difficult to illustrate this observation: from the many examples of its truth, in high and in low life, I select Philip Garraty.

Philip, and Philip's wife, and Philip's children, and all of the house of Garraty, are employed from morning till night, in seeing about every thing, and, consequently, in doing nothing. There is Philip, a tall, handsome, good humored fellow, of about five-and-thirty, with broad, lazy-looking shoulders, and a smile perpetually lurking about his mouth, or in his bright hazel eyes—the picture of indolence and kindly feeling. There he is, leaning over what was once a five-barred gate, that leads to the haggard; his blue worsted stockings full of holes, which the suggan, twisted half-way up the well-formed leg, fails to conceal, while his brogues, (to use his own words) if they do let the water in, let it out again. With what unstudied elegance does he roll that knotted twine, and then unroll it; varying his occupation, at times, by kicking the stones that once formed a wall, into the stagnant pool, scarcely large enough for full grown ducks to sail in.

But let us first take a survey of the premises. The dwelling-house is a long rambling abode, much larger than the generality of those that fall to the lot of small Irish farmers; but the fact is that Philip rents one of the most extensive farms in the neighborhood, and ought to be "well to do in the world." The dwelling looks very comfortless, notwithstanding: part of the thatch is much decayed, and the rank weeds and damp moss nearly cover it; the door posts are only united to the wall by a few scattered portions of clay and stone, and the door itself is hanging but by one hinge; the window frames shake in the passing wind, and some of the compartments are stuffed with the crown of a hat, or a "lock of straw"—very unsightly objects. At the opposite side of the swamp is the haggard gate, where a broken line of alternate palings and wall, exhibit proof that it had formerly been fenced in; the commodious barn is almost roofless, and the other sheds pretty much in the same condition; the pig-stye is deserted by the grubbing lady and her grunting progeny, who are too fond of an occasional repast in the once-cultivated garden to remain in their proper abode; the listless turkeys and contented, half-fatted geese, live at large and on the public; but the turkeys, with all their shyness and modesty, have the best of it—for they mount the ill-built stacks, and select the grain, à plaisir.

"Give you good morrow, Mr. Philip; we have had showery weather lately."

"Och, all manner o' joy to ye, my lady, and sure ye'll walk in, and sit down; my woman will be proud to see ye. I'm sartin we'll have the rain soon agin, for it's everywhere, like bad luck; and my throat's sore wid hurrishing thin pigs out o' the garden—sorra a thing can I do all day for watching thim."

"Why do you not mend the door of the stye?"

"True for ye, Ma'am dear, so I would—if I had the nails, and I've been threat'ning to step down to Mickey Bow, the smith, to ask him to see about it."

"I hear you've had a fine crop of wheat, Philip."

"Thank God for all things! You may say that; we had, my lady, a fine crop—but I have always the height of ill luck somehow; upon my sowkins (and that's the hardest oath I swear) the turkeys have had the most of it: but I mean to see about setting it up safe to-morrow."

"But Philip, I thought you sold the wheat, standing, to the steward at the big house."

"It was all as one as sold, only it's a bad world, Madam dear, and I've no luck. Says the steward to me, says he, I like to do things like a man of business, so Mister Garraty, just draw up a bit of an agreement that you deliver over the wheat field to me, on sich a day, standing as it is, for sich a sum, and I'll sign it for ye, and thin there can be no mistake, only let me have it by this day week. Well, to be sure I came home full o' my good luck, and I tould the wife, and on the strength of it she must have a new gown. And sure, says she, Miss Hennessy is jist come from Dublin, wid a shop full of goods, and on account that she's my brother's sister-in-law's first cousin, she'll let me have the first sight o' the things, and I can take my pick—and ye'll have plinty of time to see about the agreement to-morrow. Well, I don't know how it was, but the next day we had no paper, nor ink, nor pens in the house; I meant to send the gosson to Miss Hennessy's for all—but forgot the pens. So when I was seeing about the agreement, I bethought of the ould gander, and while I was pulling as beautiful a pen as ever ye laid yer two eyes upon, out of his wing, he tattered my hand with his bill in sich a manner, that sorra a pen I could hould for three days. Well, one thing or another put it off for ever so long, and at last I wrote it out like print, and takes it myself to the steward. Good evening to you, Mr. Garraty, says he; good evening kindly, Sir, says I, and I hope the woman that owns ye, and all yer good family's well: all well, thank ye, Mr. Garraty, says he; I've got the agreement here sir, says I, pulling it out as I thought—but behould ye—I only cotcht the paper it was wrapt in, to keep it from the dirt of the tobacco that was loose in my pocket for want of a box—(saving yer presence); so I turned what little bits o' things I had in it out, and there was a great hole that ye might drive all the parish rats through at the bottom—which the wife promised to see about mending as good as six months before. Well, I saw the sneer on his ugly mouth, (for he's an Englishman) and I turned it off with a laugh, and said air holes were comfortable in hot weather, and sich like jokes—and that I'd go home and make another agreement. 'Greement for what? says he, laying down his great outlandish pipe.—Whew! may be ye don't know, says I. Not I, says he. The wheat field, says I. Why, says he, didn't I tell you then, that you must bring the agreement to me by that day week—and that was by the same token—pulling a red memorandum book out of his pocket—let me see, exactly this day three weeks. Do you think, Mister Garraty, he goes on, that when ye didn't care to look after yer own interests, and I offering so fair for the field, I was going to wait upon you? I don't lose my papers in the Irish fashion. Well, that last set me up—and so I axed him if it was the pattern of his English breeding, and one word brought on another, and all the blood in my body rushed into my fist—and I had the ill luck to knock him down—and, the coward, what does he do but takes the law o' me—and I was cast—and lost the sale of the wheat—and was ordered to pay ever so much money: well, I didn't care to pay it then, but gave an engagement; and I meant to see about it—but forgot; and all in a giffy came a thing they call an execution—and to stop the cant I was forced to borrow money of that tame negur, the exciseman, who'd sell the sowl out of his grandmother for sixpence, (if indeed there ever was a sowl in the family) and it's a terrible case to be paying interest for it still."
"But, Philip, you might give up or dispose of part of your farm. I know you could get a good sum of money for that rich meadow by the river."

"True for ye ma'am dear—and I've been seeing about it for a long time—but somehow I have no luck. Jist as ye came up, I was thinking to myself that the gale day is passed, and not a pin's worth have I for the rint, and the landlord wants it as bad as I do, though its a shame to say that of a gentleman; for jist as he was seeing about some ould custodium, or something o' the sort, that had been hanging over the estate ever since he came to it, the sheriff's officers put executioners in the house: and its very sorrowful for both of us, if I may make bould to say so; for I'm sartin he'll be racking me for the money—and indeed the ould huntsman tould me as much—but I must see about it: not indeed that its much good luck—for I've no luck."

"Let me beg of you, Philip, not to take such an idea into your head; do not lose a moment: you will be utterly ruined if you do. Why not apply to your father-in-law—he is able to assist you; for at present you only suffer from temporary embarrassment."

"True for ye—that's good advice, my lady—and by the blessing of God I'll see about it."

"Then go directly, Philip."

"Directly—I can't ma'am dear—on account of the pigs: and sorra a one I have but myself to keep them out of the cabbages; for I let the woman and the grawls go the pattern at Killaun; its little pleasure they see, the craturs."

"But your wife did not hear the huntsman's story?"

"Och, aye did she—but unless she could give me a sheaf o' tank rots, where would be the good of her staying—but I'll see about it."

"Immediately then, Philip, think upon the ruin that may come—nay, that must come, if you neglect this matter: your wife too: your family, reduced from comfort to starvation—your home desolate—"

"Asy, my lady—don't be afther breaking my heart intirely—thank God I have seven as fine flalugh children as ever peeled pratee, and all under twelve years o' age sure I'd lay down my life tin times over for every one o'them: and to-morrow for sarun—no—tomorrow—the hurling; I can't to-morrow—but the day after, if I'm a living man, I'll see about it."

Poor Philip! his kindly feelings were valueless because of his unfortunate habit. Would that this were the only example I could produce of the ill effects of that dangerous little sentence—"I'LL SEE ABOUT IT."