Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 1. Lever Charles James
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’s parlance, 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.”
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