Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 3 (of 3). Jonah Barrington
bristled up at the doctor’s contradiction. “I don’t care a d – n, Pothecary Knaggs, either for your skill, your business, or yourself; but I say Sam Doxy is not dead, and I repeat that I have seen him twice as dead at Dureen, and likewise, by the same token, on the day Squire Pool’s tenants of Ballyfair had a great dinner in Andrew Harlem’s big room at Maryborough.”
“Pothecary Knaggs” was now much chagrined. “Did you ever hear the like, gentlemen of the turnpike-board?” said he. “Is it because the lieutenant was in the American wars that he thinks he knows a corpse as well as I do?”
“No I don’t do that same,” said Palmer: “for they say here that you have made as many dead bodies yourself as would serve for a couple of battles, and a few skirmishes into the bargain. But I say Sam is not dead, by J – s!”
“Well now, gentlemen,” said Knaggs, appealing to public candour from the rough treatment of the lieutenant, “you shall soon see, gentlemen, with all your eyes that I am no ignoramus, as the lieutenant seems to say.” Then opening his case of instruments and strapping a large operation knife on the palm of his fist, “now, gentlemen of the turnpike-board,” pursued he, “I’ll convince you all that Sam Doxy is as dead as Ballaghlanagh.8 Its a burning shame for you, Lieutenant Jer Palmer, to be after running down a well-known practitioner in this manner, in his own town. Gentlemen, look here, now, I’ll show you that Sam is dead. Living, indeed! Oh, that’s a fine story!”
We all conceived that Doctor Knaggs only intended to try to bleed him; and with this impression flocked round the body. Doctor Knaggs turned the corpse on one side, took off the cravat, and the neck appeared to have somewhat of a bluish look on one side. “Now, gentlemen,” said he, “here’s the spot (pressing it with his finger): the spinal marrow is injured, perhaps in more places than one, or two either; the bones are dislocated, and the gristle between them is knocked out of its place. The formation of a gentleman’s neck is just the same as that of a horse’s tail; and as most of you have either yourselves docked and nicked, or been present at the docking and nicking of the tail of a hunter, you’ll understand precisely the structure of Sam Doxy’s vertebre. Now, gentlemen, (all this time placing Sam’s head in a convenient position to make an incision, or, had the coroner been present, to cut the head off, for clearer demonstration,) see, now, I’ll just make a slight longitudinal gash along the back joints of the neck, and by withdrawing the skin and the covering of fat on either side, I’ll show as clear as his nose the fatal fracture of the spinal cord.”
Every person in company now began instinctively to feel the nape of his own neck for the spinal cord which the doctor was speaking of. “No man,” resumed Doctor Knaggs, “ever recovered when this cord was fairly cracked, and that’s the real secret of hanging, I assure you; and it has been remarked that no culprit at Maryborough has ever given a kick after he was duly strung and the shelf fell, for these three last years, since I humanely taught the hangman the proper way. The jerk is the thing, gentlemen; and whether the spine is broken by its being pulled up from a man’s shoulders by a cord, or thrust down into his shoulders by a fall on the head, makes no sort of difference. Not dead!” resumed he, with a sneer at the lieutenant: “Gentlemen, (every body came close) now, you see, the gristle which we call cartilage lies between those two bones, and the cord runs over and within also: – when cut through, then, the head, gentlemen, having no support, bobs forward, and the dislocation will appear quite plain. See, now,” and as he spoke he gave a pretty smart gash from the nape of Sam’s neck downward toward his shoulders; and proceeding to draw back the skin and fat on each side, to get a view of the bones, to the surprise of the turnpike-board, the amazement of Doctor Knaggs himself, and the triumph of Lieutenant Jer Palmer, a stream of warm red blood instantly issued from the gash, and a motion appeared in one eyelid of the corpse.
“By J – s!” shouted the lieutenant, “I told you the man was not dead – not a taste of it. Oh! you diabolical pothecary, if you attempt to give another slash, I’ll cut your own wezand; and if the poor follow dies now, of this cutting, which I think he may, I’ll prosecute you for the murder of Sam Doxy of the Derrys – a fair honest man, and a friend of my father’s!”
Doctor Knaggs stood petrified and motionless.
“Gentlemen,” continued Jer Palmer, “lend me your cravats. (An immense jug of hot punch was smoking on the hearth ready made for the proposed dinner.) I know well enough what to do,” said the lieutenant: “my father’s own neck was broken two years ago, coming home drunk one night from Ballyspellen Spa, at the widow Maher’s house-warming: his horse tumbled over at the Seven Sisters; but Dr. Jacob soon brought him to again. – I recollect now all about it. Here, gentlemen, stir, give me your cravats; you have no handkerchiefs I suppose.”
They all obeyed the lieutenant, who immediately plunged the cravats into the hot punch, and lapped one of them round the dead man’s neck, then another over that, and another still, and kept dropping the hot punch on them, whereat the blood flowed freely. He then, putting his knees to the dead man’s shoulder, gave his head two or three no very gentle lugs, accompanying them in the manner of a view holloa, with “Ough! Hurra! Hurra! By J – s he’s alive and kicking! Oh! you murdering thief of a pothecary, get off, or I’ll cut your throat!”
The poor apothecary stood motionless at the window; for Palmer (whom, in his paroxysm, he durst not go near) was between him and the door; but he wished himself a hundred miles off. The lieutenant then put a spoonful of the punch into Sam Doxy’s mouth, and down it went, to the surprise of the turnpike-board. In a short time a glassful was patiently received the same way. A groan and a heavy sigh now proved the fallibility of Pothecary Knaggs; and the lieutenant’s superior treatment was extolled by the whole board. The dead man at length opened one eye, then the other; in about half an hour he could speak; and in the course of an hour more the broken-necked Doxy was able to sit up. They then got some mulled wine and spices for him, and he was quite recovered, with the exception of a pain in his head and neck; but he could bear no motion, so they fixed him in an upright position in an arm-chair, and Palmer remained with him to perfect his miraculous cure. We dined in another room.
Mr. Flood and myself called on Doxy next day, and brought him and Lieutenant Palmer home to Roundwood; and poor Dr. Knaggs’ wanting to cut off the head of Mr. Sam Doxy of the Derrys became a standing jest, with a hundred embellishments, till both have been forgotten. I know not if Knaggs is living. Sam Doxy was at last choked by the drumstick of a turkey sticking in his throat whilst he was picking it.
TRANSFUSION OF BLOOD
The Irish on the continent – Slow travelling of remittances – Inconveniences thereof – Sir John Burke, of Glinsk – Reasonable points of curiosity – Prompt satisfaction —Messieurs des Créanciers– Sir John’s health declines – Given over by the faculty generally – Doctor T – ’s perseverance – Its success – A game at cross purposes – Custodiums in Ireland – New mode of liquidating a debt – Galway gore – Receipt for ennobling the bourgeois of Paris – Sir John Burke’s marriage and visit to Rome – His return – Lady Burke – Glinsk Castle.
It has been generally observed, that our fellow-subjects who sojourn long on the continent often lose many of their national traits, and imbibe those of other countries. The Irish, however, present an exception to this rule. I have scarce ever met a thorough-paced Irishman whose oddities totally deserted him; the humorous idiom of his language, and the rich flavour of his dialect, are intrinsic, and adhere as steadily to his tongue as fancy does to his brain, and eccentricity to his actions.
An Irishman is toujours an Irishman, and wheresoever he “puts up” seldom fails to find one inveterate enemy – “himself.” This observation is not confined to the lower or middle classes of Hibernians, but occasionally includes the superior orders. Like the swine, when the demon got into them, Irishmen on the continent keep frisking, pirouetting, galloping, and puffing away, till they lose their footing; and there is scarcely a more entertaining spectacle than that afforded by the schemes, devices, and humours of a true son of Erin, under these circumstances.
I was greatly amused
Ballaghlanagh was the name of an old Irish bard (by tradition), whose ghost used to come the night before to people who were to be killed fighting in battle on the morning: and as a ghost offers the most convincing proof that the mortal it represents is no longer living, the term