He boasted a fresh colour, a tight little figure, unquenchable
gaiety, and indefatigable goodwill. His clothes puzzled the
diagnostic mind, until you heard he had been once a private coachman,
when they became eloquent and seemed a part of his biography. His
face contained the rest, and, I fear, a prophecy of the future; the
hawk's nose above accorded so ill with the pink baby's mouth below.
His spirit and his pride belonged, you might say, to the nose; while
it was the general shiftlessness expressed by the other that had
thrown him from situation to situation, and at length on board the
emigrant ship. Barney ate, so to speak, nothing from the galley; his
own tea, butter, and eggs supported him throughout the voyage; and
about mealtime you might often find him up to the elbows in amateur
cookery. His was the first voice heard singing among all the
passengers; he was the first who fell to dancing. From Loch Foyle to
Sandy Hook, there was not a piece of fun undertaken but there was
Barney in the midst.
You ought to have seen him when he stood up to sing at our concerts -
his tight little figure stepping to and fro, and his feet shuffling
to the air, his eyes seeking and bestowing encouragement - and to
have enjoyed the bow, so nicely calculated between jest and earnest,
between grace and clumsiness, with which he brought each song to a
conclusion.
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