The Rescue.
He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant’s grasp.
“For the love of God!” said I, “pull up. I know him well; he’ll do it to a certainty if you press on.”
“And we know you, too,” said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker meeting beneath his chin, “and have some scores to settle ere we part—”
But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my horse forward. The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out of sight, another moment I was behind it.
“Stop!” I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to turn them the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and hanging for a second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath. By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now clambered to the box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his murderous object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent backwards as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my lash around my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his head. The weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he staggered, his hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same instant I was felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.
MICKEY FREE.
Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere I again was restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled—from what hand coming it was never after discovered—had brought on concussion of the brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow steps I advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss Dashwood, whose life was saved by my interference, had testified, in the warmest manner, her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period of his leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and inquire for me.
“You know, of course,” said the count, supposing such news was the most likely to interest me,—“you know we beat them?”
“No. Pray tell me all. They’ve not let me hear anything hitherto.”
“One day finished the whole affair. We polled man for man till past two o’clock, when our fellows lost all patience and beat their tallies out of the town. The police came up, but they beat the police; then they got soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them, too. Sir George witnessed it all, and knowing besides how little chance he had of success, deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o’clock he resigned. I must say no man could behave better. He came across the hustings and shook hands with Godfrey; and as the news of thescrimmagewith his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his prospect of success had not been greater, that in resigning he might testify how deeply he felt the debt the O’Malleys had laid him under.”
“And my uncle, how did he receive his advances?”
“Like his own honest self,—grasped his hand firmly; and upon my soul, I think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he took a mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old general’s. Faith, Charley, if he was some twenty years younger, I would not say but—Come, come, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been staying here too long. I’ll send up Mickey to sit with you. Mind and don’t be talking too much to him.”
So saying, the worthy count left the room fully impressed that in hinting at the possibility of my uncle’s marrying again, he had said something to ruffle my temper.
For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most tiresome monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to avoid exciting me; and consequently, every one that came in walked on tiptoe, spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was absolutely forbidden; and with a sombre half-light to sit in, and chicken broth to support nature, I dragged out as dreary an existence as any gentleman west of Athlone.
Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my own servant, Michael, or as he was better known, “Mickey Free.” Now, had Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would not have hung so heavily; for among Mike’s manifold gifts he was possessed of a very great flow of gossiping conversation. He knew all that was doing in the county, and never was barren in his information wherever his imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero of “Tatter Jack Walsh” in a way that charmed more than one soft heart beneath a red woolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy devil-may-care kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and cunning fellow all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.
He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion; and growing daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honors of the kitchen and the prerogatives of cast clothes, without ever having been actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer, as, in fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among the ship’s company, though no one could say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked about the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had made his fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me. Mike informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn’t go out, and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of partridge quicker than the “Morning Post” does of a noble family from the Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was enthusiastic about anything,—that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyondthat, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience; and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such, in short, was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions been laid on him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my weary hours.
“Ah, then, Misther Charles!” said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence,—“ah, then, but ye were mighty near it!”
“Near what?” said I.
“Faith, then, myself doesn’t well know. Some say it’s purgathory; but it’s hard to tell.”
“I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the matter?”
“May be I am; may be I ain’t,” was the cautious reply.
“Wouldn’t Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you went over to him?”
“Faix, it’s little I’d mind his explainings.”
“And why not?”
“Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does he be doing with all the powther and shot, wouldn’t he tell you he’s shooting the rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye understand.”
“And you think that’s the way of it, Mickey?”
“Troth, it’s likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they make it out.”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not be saying anything about it afther, for I don’t like to talk about these kind of things.”
Having pledged myself to the requisite silence and secrecy, Mickey began:—
“May be you heard tell of the way my father, rest his soul wherever he is, came to his end. Well, I needn’t mind particulars, but, in short, he was murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin’ the whole town with a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was stuck at the end of it,—a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to; but those murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for diversion of any kind, fell on him and broke his skull.
“Well, we had a very agreeable wake, and plenty of the best of everything, and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though I paid Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he always gave me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat, he’d turn away his head displeased like.
“‘Murder and ages,’ says I, ‘what’s this for?’ But as I’ve a light heart, I bore up, and didn’t think more about it. One day, however, I was coming home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach overtook me. ‘Devil a one a me ‘ill take any notice of you now,’ says I, ‘and we’ll see what’ll come out of it.’ So the priest rid up and looked me straight in the face.
“‘Mickey,’ says he,—‘Mickey.’
“‘Father,’ says I.
“‘Is it that way you salute your clargy,’ says he, ‘with your caubeen on your head?’
“‘Faix,’ says I, ‘it’s little ye mind whether it’s an or aff; for you never take the trouble to say, “By your leave,” or “Damn your soul!” or any other politeness when we meet.’
“‘You’re an ungrateful creature,’ says he; ‘and if you only knew, you’d be trembling in your skin before me, this minute.’
“‘Devil a tremble,’ says I, ‘after walking six miles this way.’
“‘You’re an obstinate, hard-hearted sinner,’ says he; ‘and it’s no use in telling you.’
“‘Telling me what?’ says I; for I was getting curious to make out what he meant.
“‘Mickey,’ says he, changing his voice, and putting his head down close to me,—‘Mickey, I saw your father last night.’
“‘The saints be merciful to us!’ said I, ‘did ye?’
“‘I did,’ says he.
“‘Tear an ages,’ says I, ‘did he tell you what he did with the new corduroys he bought in the fair?’
“‘Oh, then, you are a could-hearted creature!’ says he, ‘and I’ll not lose time with you.’ With that he was going to ride away, when I took hold of the bridle.
“‘Father, darling,’ says I, ‘God pardon me, but them breeches is goin’ between me an’ my night’s rest; but tell me about my father?’
“‘Oh, then, he’s in a melancholy state!’
“‘Whereabouts is he?’ says I.
“‘In purgathory,’ says he; ‘but he won’t be there long.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s a comfort, anyhow.’
“‘I am glad you think so,’ says he; ‘but there’s more of the other opinion.’
“‘What’sthat?’ says I.
“‘That hell’s worse.’
“‘Oh, melia-murther!’ says I, ‘is that it?’
“‘Ay, that’s it.’
“Well, I was so terrified and frightened, I said nothing for some time, but trotted along beside the priest’s horse.
“‘Father,’ says I, ‘how long will it be before they send him where you know?’
“‘It will not be long now,’ says he, ‘for they’re tired entirely with him; they’ve no peace night or day,’ says he. ‘Mickey, your father is a mighty hard man.’
“‘True for you, Father Roach,’ says I to myself; ‘av he had only the ould stick with the scythe in it, I wish them joy of his company.’
“‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I see you’re grieved, and I don’t wonder; sure, it’s a great disgrace to a decent family.’
“‘Troth, it is,’ says I; ‘but my father always liked low company. Could nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?’ says I, looking up in the priest’s face.
“‘I’m greatly afraid, Mickey, he was a bad man, a very bad man.’
“‘And ye think he’ll go there?’ says I.
“‘Indeed, Mickey, I have my fears.’
“‘Upon my conscience,’ says I, ‘I believe you’re right; he was always a restless crayture.’
“‘But it doesn’t depind on him,’ says the priest, crossly.
“‘And, then, who then?’ says I.
“‘Upon yourself, Mickey Free,’ says he, ‘God pardon you for it, too!’
“‘Upon me?’ says I.
“‘Troth, no less,’ says he; ‘how many Masses was said for your father’s soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.’
“‘Devil a one of me knows!—may be twenty.’
“‘Twenty, twenty!—no, nor one.’
“‘And why not?’ says I; ‘what for wouldn’t you be helping a poor crayture out of trouble, when it wouldn’t cost you more nor a handful of prayers?’
“‘Mickey, I see,’ says he, in a solemn tone, ‘you’re worse nor a haythen; but ye couldn’t be other, ye never come to yer duties.’
“‘Well, Father,’ says I, Looking very penitent, ‘how many Masses would get him out?’
“‘Now you talk like a sensible man,’ says he. ‘Now, Mickey, I’ve hopes for you. Let me see,’ here he went countin’ upon his fingers, and numberin’ to himself for five minutes. ‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I’ve a batch coming out on Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father could come with them; that is, av they have made no objections.’
“‘And what for would they?’ says I; ‘he was always the hoith of company, and av singing’s allowed in them parts—’
“‘God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,’ says he, sighing.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘how’ll we get him out on Tuesday week? For that’s bringing things to a focus.’
“‘Two Masses in the morning, fastin’,’ says Father Roach, half aloud, ‘is two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,’ says he; ‘six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses,—say sixty,’ says he; ‘and they’ll cost you—mind, Mickey, and don’t be telling it again, for it’s only to yourself I’d make them so cheap—a matter of three pounds.’
“‘Three pounds!’ says I; ‘be-gorra ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel.’
“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gatherin’ up the reins to ride off,—‘I’m sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.’
“‘Wait a bit, your reverence,’ says I,—‘wait a bit. Would forty shillings get him out?’
“‘Av course it wouldn’t,’ says he.
“‘May be,’ says I, coaxing,—‘may be, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhustry, and the times was bad—’
“‘Not the least use,’ says he.
“‘Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they are,’ thinks I. ‘Well, see now, I’ll give you the money, but I can’t afford it all at onst; but I’ll pay five shillings a week. Will that do?’
“‘I’ll do my endayvors,’ says Father Roach; ‘and I’ll speak to them to treat him peaceably in the meantime.’
“‘Long life to yer reverence, and do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I’d be spending my loose change that way.’
“Father Roach put the six tinpinnies in the pocket of his black leather breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode off.
“Well, to make my story short, I worked late and early to pay the five shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular; then I brought four and fourpence; then it came down to one and tenpence halfpenny, then ninepence, and at last I had nothing at all to bring.
“‘Mickey Free,’ says the priest, ‘ye must stir yourself. Your father is mighty displeased at the way you’ve been doing of late; and av ye kept yer word, he’d be near out by this time.’
“‘Troth,’ says I, ‘it’s a very expensive place.’
“‘By coorse it is,’ says he; ‘sure all the quality of the land’s there. But, Mickey, my man, with a little exertion, your father’s business is done. What are you jingling in your pocket there?’
“‘It’s ten shillings, your reverence, I have to buy seed potatoes.’
“‘Hand it here, my son. Isn’t it better your father would be enjoying himself in paradise, than if ye were to have all the potatoes in Ireland?’
“‘And how do ye know,’ says I, ‘he’s so near out?’
“‘How do I know,—how do I know, is it? Didn’t I see him?’
“‘See him! Tear an ages, was you down there again?’
“‘I was,’ says he; ‘I was down there for three quarters of an hour yesterday evening, getting out Luke Kennedy’s mother. Decent people the Kennedy’s; never spared expense.’
“‘And ye seen my father?’ says I.
“‘I did,’ says he; ‘he had an ould flannel waistcoat on, and a pipe sticking out of the pocket av it.’
“‘That’s him,’ says I. ‘Had he a hairy cap?’
“‘I didn’t mind the cap,’ says he; ‘but av coorse he wouldn’t have it on his head in that place.’
“‘Thrue for you,’ says I. ‘Did he speak to you?’
“‘He did,’ says Father Roach; ‘he spoke very hard about the way he was treated down there; that they was always jibin’ and jeerin’ him aboutdrink, and fightin’, and the course he led up here, and that it was a queer thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he was to be kept there so long.’
“‘Well,’ says I, taking out the ten shillings and counting it with one hand, ‘we must do our best, anyhow; and ye think this’ll get him out surely?’
“‘I know it will,’ says he; ‘for when Luke’s mother was leaving the place, and yer father saw the door open, he made a rush at it, and, be-gorra, before it was shut he got his head and one shoulder outside av it,—so that, ye see, a thrifle more’ll do it.’
“‘Faix, and yer reverence,’ says I, ‘you’ve lightened my heart this morning.’ And I put my money back again in my pocket.
“‘Why, what do you mean?’ says he, growing very red, for he was angry.
“‘Just this,’ says I, ‘that I’ve saved my money; for av it was my father you seen, and that he got his head and one shoulder outside the door, oh, then, by the powers!’ says I, ‘the devil a jail or jailer from hell to Connaught id hould him. So, Father Roach, I wish you the top of the morning.’ And I went away laughing; and from that day to this I never heard more of purgathory; and ye see, Master Charles, I think I was right.”
Scarcely had Mike concluded when my door was suddenly burst open, and Sir Harry Boyle, without assuming any of his usual precautions respecting silence and quiet, rushed into the room, a broad grin upon his honest features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed me something had occurred to amuse him.
“By Jove, Charley, I mustn’t keep it from you; it’s too good a thing not to tell you. Do you remember that very essenced young gentleman who accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of electioneering friend?”
“Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?”
“The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in some government department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor savages as much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry, as though we had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble Galwayans with some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual resolved to record them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his appetite for wonders I know not; but he was peaceably taking his departure from the west on Saturday last, when Phil Macnamara met him, and pressed him to dine that day with a few friends at his house. You know Phil; so that when I tell you Sam Burke, of Greenmount, and Roger Doolan were of the party, I need not say that the English traveller was not left to his own unassisted imagination for his facts. Such anecdotes of our habits and customs as they crammed him with, it would appear, never were heard before; nothing was too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who, when not sipping his claret, was faithfully recording in his tablet the mems. for a very brilliant and very original work on Ireland.
“Fine country, splendid country; glorious people,—gifted, brave, intelligent, but not happy,—alas! Mr. Macnamara, not happy. But we don’t know you, gentlemen,—we don’t indeed,—at the other side of the Channel. Our notions regarding you are far, very far from just.”
“I hope and trust,” said old Burke, “you’ll help them to a better understanding ere long.”
“Such, my dear sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The facts I have heard here this evening have made so profound an impression upon me that I burn for the moment when I can make them known to the world at large. To think—just to think that a portion of this beautiful island should be steeped in poverty; that the people not only live upon the mere potatoes, but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr. Doolan has just mentioned to me!”
“‘Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,’ added Mr. Doolan, ‘they being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for wearing apparel.’
“‘I should deem myself culpable—indeed I should—did I not inform my countrymen upon the real condition of this great country.’
“‘Why, after your great opportunities for judging,’ said Phil, ‘you ought to speak out. You’ve seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few Englishmen have, and heard more.’
“‘That’s it,—that’s the very thing, Mr. Macnamara. I’ve looked at you more closely; I’ve watched you more narrowly; I’ve witnessed what the French call yourvie intime.’
“‘Begad you have,’ said old Burke, with a grin, ‘and profited by it to the utmost.’
“‘I’ve been a spectator of your election contests; I’ve partaken of your hospitality; I’ve witnessed your popular and national sports; I’ve been present at your weddings, your fairs, your wakes; but no,—I was forgetting,—I never saw a wake.’
“‘Never saw a wake?’ repeated each of the company in turn, as though the gentleman was uttering a sentiment of very dubious veracity.
“‘Never,’ said Mr. Prettyman, rather abashed at this proof of his incapacity to instruct his English friends uponallmatters of Irish interest.
“‘Well, then,’ said Macnamara, ‘with a blessing, we’ll show you one. Lord forbid that we shouldn’t do the honors of our poor country to an intelligent foreigner when he’s good enough to come among us.’
“‘Peter,’ said he, turning to the servant behind him, ‘who’s dead hereabouts?’
“‘Sorra one, yer honor. Since the scrimmage at Portumna the place is peaceable.’
“‘Who died lately in the neighborhood?’
“‘The widow Macbride, yer honor.’
“‘Couldn’t they take her up again, Peter? My friend here never saw a wake.’
“‘I’m afeered not; for it was the boys roasted her, and she wouldn’t be a decent corpse for to show a stranger,’ said Peter, in a whisper.
“Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the neighborhood, and said nothing.
“‘Well, then, Peter, tell Jimmy Divine to take the old musket in my bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh bog,—he can’t go wrong. There’s twelve families there that never pay a halfpenny rent; andwhen it’s done, let him give notice to the neighborhood, and we’ll have a rousing wake.’
“‘You don’t mean, Mr. Macnamara,—you don’t mean to say—’ stammered out the cockney, with a face like a ghost.
“‘I only mean to say,’ said Phil, laughing, ‘that you’re keeping the decanter very long at your right hand.’
“Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask any explanation of what he had just heard,—and for some minutes he could only wait in impatient anxiety,—when a loud report of a gun close beside the house attracted the attention of the guests. The next moment old Peter entered, his face radiant with smiles.
“‘Well, what’s that?’ said Macnamara.
“‘‘T was Jimmy, yer honor. As the evening was rainy, he said he’d take one of the neighbors; and he hadn’t to go far, for Andy Moore was going home, and he brought him down at once.’
“‘Did he shoot him?’ said Mr. Prettyman, while cold perspiration broke over his forehead. ‘Did he murder the man?’
“‘Sorra murder,’ said Peter, disdainfully. ‘But why shouldn’t he shoot him when the master bid him?’
“I needn’t tell you more, Charley; but in ten minutes after, feigning some excuse to leave the room, the terrified cockney took flight, and offering twenty guineas for a horse to convey him to Athlone, he left Galway, fully convinced that they don’t yet know us on the other side of the Channel.”
THE JOURNEY.
The election concluded, the turmoil and excitement of the contest over, all was fast resuming its accustomed routine around us, when one morning my uncle informed me that I was at length to leave my native county and enter upon the great world as a student of Trinity College, Dublin. Although long since in expectation of this eventful change, it was with no slight feeling of emotion I contemplated the step which, removing me at once from all my early friends and associations, was to surround me with new companions and new influences, and place before me very different objects of ambition from those I had hitherto been regarding.
My destiny had been long ago decided. The army had had its share of the family, who brought little more back with them from the wars than a short allowance of members and shattered constitutions; the navy had proved, on more than one occasion, that the fate of the O’Malleys did not incline to hanging; so that, in Irish estimation, but one alternative remained, and that was the bar. Besides, as my uncle remarked, with great truth and foresight, “Charley will be tolerably independent of the public, at all events; for even if they never send him a brief, there’s law enough in the family to lasthistime,”—a rather novel reason, by-the-bye, for making a man a lawyer, and which induced Sir Harry, with his usual clearness, to observe to me:—
“Upon my conscience, boy, you are in luck. If there had been a Bible in the house, I firmly believe he’d have made you a parson.”
Considine alone, of all my uncle’s advisers, did not concur in this determination respecting me. He set forth, with an eloquence that certainly convertedme, that my head was better calculated for bearing hard knocks than unravelling knotty points, that a shako would become it infinitely better than a wig; and declared, roundly, that a boy who began so well and had such very pretty notions about shooting was positively thrown away in the Four Courts. My uncle, however, was firm, and as old Sir Harry supported him, the day was decided against us, Considine murmuring as he left the room something that did not seem quite a brilliant anticipation of the success awaiting me in my legal career. As for myself, though only a silent spectator of the debate, all my wishes were with the count. From my earliest boyhood a military life had been my strongest desire; the roll of the drum, and the shrill fife that played through the little village, with its ragged troop of recruits following, had charms for me I cannot describe; and had a choice been allowed me, I would infinitely rather have been a sergeant in the dragoons than one of his Majesty’s learned in the law. If, then, such had been the cherished feeling of many a year, how much more strongly were my aspirations heightened by the events of the last few days. The tone of superiority I had witnessed in Hammersley, whose conduct to me at parting had placed him high in my esteem; the quiet contempt of civilians implied in a thousand sly ways; the exalted estimate of his own profession,—at once wounded my pride and stimulated my ambition; and lastly, more than all, the avowed preference that Lucy Dashwood evinced for a military life, were stronger allies than my own conviction needed to make me long for the army. So completely did the thought possess me that I felt, if I were not a soldier, I cared not what became of me. Life had no other object of ambition for me than military renown, no other success for which I cared to struggle, or would value when obtained. “Aut Caesar aut nullus,” thought I; and when my uncle determined I should be a lawyer, I neither murmured nor objected, but hugged myself in the prophecy of Considine that hinted pretty broadly, “the devil a stupider fellow ever opened a brief; but he’d have made a slashing light dragoon.”
The preliminaries were not long in arranging. It was settled that I should be immediately despatched to Dublin to the care of Dr. Mooney, then a junior fellow in the University, who would take me into his especial charge; while Sir Harry was to furnish me with a letter to his old friend, Doctor Barret, whose advice and assistance he estimated at a very high price. Provided with such documents I was informed that the gates of knowledge were more than half ajar for me, without an effort upon my part. One only portion of all the arrangements I heard with anything like pleasure; it was decided that my man Mickey was to accompany me to Dublin, and remain with me during my stay.
It was upon a clear, sharp morning in January, of the year 18—, that I took my place upon the box-seat of the old Galway mail and set out on my journey. My heart was depressed, and my spirits were miserably low. I had all that feeling of sadness which leave-taking inspires, and no sustaining prospect to cheer me in the distance. For the first time in my life, I had seen a tear glisten in my poor uncle’s eye, and heard his voice falter as he said, “Farewell!” Notwithstanding the difference of age, we had been perfectly companions together; and as I thought now over all the thousand kindnesses and affectionate instances of his love I had received, my heart gave way, and the tears coursed slowly down my cheeks. I turned to give one last look at the tall chimneys and the old woods, my earliest friends; but a turn of the road had shut out the prospect, and thus I took my leave of Galway.
My friend Mickey, who sat behind with the guard, participated but little in my feelings of regret. The potatoes in the metropolis could scarcely be as wet as the lumpers in Scariff; he had heard that whiskey was not dearer, and looked forward to the other delights of the capital with a longing heart. Meanwhile, resolved that no portion of his career should be lost, he was lightening the road by anecdote and song, and held an audience of four people, a very crusty-looking old guard included, in roars of laughter. Mike had contrived, with his usualsavoir faire, to make himself very agreeable to an extremely pretty-looking country girl, around whose waist he had most lovingly passed his arm under pretence of keeping her from falling, and to whom, in the midst of all his attentions to the party at large, he devoted himself considerably, pressing his suit with all the aid of his native minstrelsy.
“Hould me tight, Miss Matilda, dear.”
“My name’s Mary Brady, av ye plase.”
“Ay, and I do plase.
‘Oh, Mary Brady, you are my darlin’,You are my looking-glass from night till morning;I’d rayther have ye without one farthen,Nor Shusey Gallagher and her house and garden.’
May I never av I wouldn’t then; and ye needn’t be laughing.”
“Is his honor at home?”
This speech was addressed to a gaping country fellow that leaned on his spade to see the coach pass.
“Is his honor at home? I’ve something for him from Mr. Davern.”
Mickey well knew that few western gentlemen were without constant intercourse with the Athlone attorney. The poor countryman accordingly hastened through the fence and pursued the coach with all speed for above a mile, Mike pretending all the time to be in the greatest anxiety for his overtaking them, until at last, as he stopped in despair, a hearty roar of laughter told him that, in Mickey’sparlance, he was “sould.”
“Taste it, my dear; devil a harm it’ll do ye. It never paid the king sixpence.”
Here he filled a little horn vessel from a black bottle he carried, accompanying the action with a song, the air to which, if any of my readers feel disposed to sing it, I may observe, bore a resemblance to the well-known, “A Fig for Saint Denis of France.”
POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.Av I was a monarch in state,Like Romulus or Julius Caysar,With the best of fine victuals to eat,And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar,A rasher of bacon I’d have,And potatoes the finest was seen, sir,And for drink, it’s no claret I’d crave,But a keg of ould Mullens’s potteen, sir,With the smell of the smoke on it still.They talk of the Romans of ould,Whom they say in their own times was frisky;But trust me, to keep out the cowld,The Romans at home here like whiskey.Sure it warms both the head and the heart,It’s the soul of all readin’ and writin’;It teaches both science and art,And disposes for love or for fightin’.Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.
This very classic production, and the black bottle which accompanied it, completely established the singer’s pre-eminence in the company; and I heard sundry sounds resembling drinking, with frequent good wishes to the provider of the feast,—“Long life to ye, Mr. Free,” “Your health and inclinations, Mr. Free,” etc.; to which Mr. Free responded by drinking those of the company, “av they were vartuous.” The amicable relations thus happily established promised a very lasting reign, and would doubtless have enjoyed such, had not a slight incident occurred which for a brief season interrupted them. At the village where we stopped to breakfast, three very venerable figures presented themselves for places in the inside of the coach; they were habited in black coats, breeches, and gaiters, wore hats of a very ecclesiastic breadth in their brim, and had altogether the peculiar air and bearing which distinguishes their calling, being no less than three Roman Catholic prelates on their way to Dublin to attend a convocation. While Mickey and his friends, with the ready tact which every low Irishman possesses, immediately perceived who and what these worshipful individuals were, another traveller who had just assumed his place on the outside participated but little in the feelings of reverence so manifestly displayed, but gave a sneer of a very ominous kind as the skirt of the last black coat disappeared within the coach. This latter individual was a short, thick-set, bandy-legged man of about fifty, with an enormous nose, which, whatever its habitual coloring, on the morning in question was of a brilliant purple. He wore a blue coat with bright buttons, upon which some letters were inscribed; and around his neck was fastened a ribbon of the same color, to which a medal was attached. This he displayed with something of ostentation whenever an opportunity occurred, and seemed altogether a person who possessed a most satisfactory impression of his own importance. In fact, had not this feeling been participated in by others, Mr. Billy Crow would never have been deputed by No. 13,476 to carry their warrant down to the west country, and establish the nucleus of an Orange Lodge in the town of Foxleigh; such being, in brief, the reason why he, a very well known manufacturer of “leather continuations” in Dublin, had ventured upon the perilous journey from which he was now returning. Billy was going on his way to town rejoicing, for he had had most brilliant success: the brethren had feasted and fêted him; he had made several splendid orations, with the usual number of prophecies about the speedy downfall of Romanism, the inevitable return of Protestant ascendancy, the pleasing prospect that with increased effort and improved organization they should soon be able to have everything their own way, and clear the Green Isle of the horrible vermin Saint Patrick forgot when banishing the others; and that if Daniel O’Connell (whom might the Lord confound!) could only be hanged, and Sir Harcourt Lees made Primate of all Ireland, there were still some hopes of peace and prosperity to the country.
Mr. Crow had no sooner assumed his place upon the coach than he saw that he was in the camp of the enemy. Happily for all parties, indeed, in Ireland, political differences have so completely stamped the externals of each party that he must be a man of small penetration who cannot, in the first five minutes he is thrown among strangers, calculate with considerable certainty whether it will be more conducive to his happiness to sing, “Croppies Lie Down,” or “The Battle of Ross.” As for Billy Crow, long life to him! you might as well attempt to pass a turkey upon M. Audubon for a giraffe, as endeavor to impose a Papist upon him for a true follower of King William. He could have given you more generic distinctions to guide you in the decision than ever did Cuvier to designate an antediluvian mammoth; so that no sooner had he seated himself upon the coach than he buttoned up his great-coat, stuck his hands firmly in his side-pockets, pursed up his lips, and looked altogether like a man that, feeling himself out of his element, resolves to “bide his time” in patience until chance may throw him among more congenial associates. Mickey Free, who was himself no mean proficient in reading a character, at one glance saw his man, and began hammering his brains to see if he could not overreach him. The small portmanteau which contained Billy’s wardrobe bore the conspicuous announcement of his name; and as Mickey could read, this was one important step already gained.
He accordingly took the first opportunity of seating himself beside him, and opened the conversation by some very polite observation upon the other’s wearing apparel, which is always in the west considered a piece of very courteous attention. By degrees the dialogue prospered, and Mickey began to make some very important revelations about himself and his master, intimating that the “state of the country” was such that a man of his way of thinking had no peace or quiet in it.
“That’s him there, forenent ye,” said Mickey, “and a better Protestant never hated Mass. Ye understand.”
“What!” said Billy, unbuttoning the collar of his coat to get a fairer view at his companion; “why, I thought you were—”
Here he made some resemblance of the usual manner of blessing oneself.
“Me, devil a more nor yourself, Mr. Crow.”
“Why, do you know me, too?”
“Troth, more knows you than you think.”
Billy looked very much puzzled at all this; at last he said,—
“And ye tell me that your master there’s the right sort?”
“Thrue blue,” said Mike, with a wink, “and so is his uncles.”
“And where are they, when they are at home?”
“In Galway, no less; but they’re here now.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
At these words he gave a knock of his heel to the coach, as if to intimate their “whereabouts.”
“You don’t mean in the coach, do ye?”
“To be sure I do; and troth you can’t know much of the west, av ye don’t know the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash!—them’s they.”
“You don’t say so?”
“Faix, but I do.”
“May I never drink the 12th of July if I didn’t think they were priests.”
“Priests!” said Mickey, in a roar of laughter,—“priests!”
“Just priests!”
“Be-gorra, though, ye had better keep that to yourself; for they’re not the men to have that same said to them.”
“Of course I wouldn’t offend them,” said Mr. Crow; “faith, it’s not me would cast reflections upon such real out-and-outers as they are. And where are they going now?”
“To Dublin straight; there’s to be a grand lodge next week. But sure Mr. Crow knows better than me.”
Billy after this became silent. A moody revery seemed to steal over him; and he was evidently displeased with himself for his want of tact in not discovering the three Mr. Trenches of Tallybash, though he only caught sight of their backs.
Mickey Free interrupted not the frame of mind in which he saw conviction was slowly working its way, but by gently humming in an undertone the loyal melody of “Croppies Lie Down,” fanned the flame he had so dexterously kindled. At length they reached the small town of Kinnegad. While the coach changed horses, Mr. Crow lost not a moment in descending from the top, and rushing into the little inn, disappeared for a few moments. When he again issued forth, he carried a smoking tumbler of whiskey punch, which he continued to stir with a spoon. As he approached the coach-door he tapped gently with his knuckles; upon which the reverend prelate of Maronia, or Mesopotamia, I forget which, inquired what he wanted.
“I ask your pardon, gentlemen,” said Billy, “but I thought I’d make bold to ask you to take something warm this cold day.”
“Many thanks, my good friend; but we never do,” said a bland voice from within.
“I understand,” said Billy, with a sly wink; “but there are circumstances now and then,—and one might for the honor of the cause, you know. Just put it to your lips, won’t you?”
“Excuse me,” said a very rosy-cheeked little prelate, “but nothing stronger than water—”
“Botheration,” thought Billy, as he regarded the speaker’s nose. “But I thought,” said he, aloud, “that you would not refuse this.”
Here he made a peculiar manifestation in the air, which, whatever respect and reverence it might carry to the honest brethren of 13,476, seemed only to increase the wonder and astonishment of the bishops.
“What does he mean?” said one.
“Is he mad?” said another.
“Tear and ages,” said Mr. Crow, getting quite impatient at the slowness of his friends’ perception,—“tear and ages, I’m one of yourselves.”
“One of us,” said the three in chorus,—“one of us?”
“Ay, to be sure,” here he took a long pull at the punch,—“to be sure I am; here’s ‘No surrender,’ your souls! whoop—” a loud yell accompanying the toast as he drank it.
“Do you mean to insult us?” said Father P———. “Guard, take the fellow.”
“Are we to be outraged in this manner?” chorussed the priests.
“‘July the 1st, in Oldbridge town,’” sang Billy, “and here it is, ‘The glorious, pious, and immortal memory of the great and good—‘”
“Guard! Where is the guard?”
“‘And good King William, that saved us from Popery—‘”
“Coachman! Guard!” screamed Father ———.
“‘Brass money—‘”
“Policeman! policeman!” shouted the priests.
“‘Brass money and wooden shoes;’ devil may care who hears me!” said Billy, who, supposing that the three Mr. Trenches were skulking the avowal of their principles, resolved to assert the pre-eminence of the great cause single-handed and alone.