The fierce yells of the badger-fight ringing far and wide, soon
attracted a crowd, which continued to increase every minute by
instalments of men and boys, who might be seen running across a small
field by the road-side, close to the scene of action, which lay at the
back of the inn; and heavy-caped and skirted frieze coats streamed
behind the full-grown, while the rags of the gossoons[1] fluttered in
the race. Attracted by this evidence of "something going on," a
horseman, who was approaching the town, urged his horse to speed, and
turning his head towards a yawning double ditch that divided the road
from the field, he gracefully rode the noble animal over the spanking
leap.
[1] Boys.
The rider was Edward O'Connor; and he was worthy of his name--the pure
blood of that royal race was in his heart, which never harboured a
sentiment that could do it dishonour, and overflowed with feelings
which ennoble human nature, and make us proud of our kind. He was young
and handsome; and as he sat his mettled horse, no lady could deny that
Edward O'Connor was the very type of the gallant cavalier. Though
attached to every manly sport and exercise, his mind was of a refined
order; and a youth passed amidst books and some of the loveliest
scenery in Ireland had nurtured the poetic feeling with which his mind
was gifted, and which found its vent in many a love-taught lyric, or
touching ballad, or spirit-stirring song, whose theme was national
glory. To him the bygone days of his country's history were dear, made
more familiar by many an antique relic which hung around his own room
in his father's house. Celt and sword, and spear-head of Phoenician
bronze, and golden gorget, and silver bodkin, and ancient harp, and
studded crosier, were there; and these time-worn evidences of arts, and
arms, and letters flattered the affection with which he looked back on
the ancient history of Ireland, and kept alive the ardent love of his
country with which he glowed--a love too deep, too pure, to be likely
to expire, even without the aid of such poetic sources of excitement.
To him the names of Fitzgerald, and Desmond, and Tyrone, were dear; and
there was no romantic legend of the humbler outlaws with which he was
not familiar: and "Charley of the Horses," and "Ned of the Hill," but
headed the list of names he loved to recall; and the daring deeds of
bold spirits who held the hill-side for liberty, were often given in
words of poetic fire from the lips of Edward O'Connor.
And yet Edward O'Connor went to see the badger-fight.
There is something inherent in man's nature, urging him to familiarise
himself with cruelty: and, perhaps, without such a power of witnessing
savage deeds, he would be unequal to the dominion for which he was
designed. Men of the highest order of intellect the world has known
have loved the chase. How admirably Scott displays this tendency of
noble minds, in the meeting of Ellen with her father, when Douglas
says--
"The chase I followed far;
'T is mimicry of noble war."
And the effect of this touch of character is heightened by Douglas in a
subsequent scene--Douglas, who could enjoy the sport which ends in
death, bending over his gentle child, and dropping tears of the
tenderest affection--tears which
"Would not stain an angel's cheek."
Superadded to this natural tendency, Edward O'Connor had an additional
motive. He lived amongst a society of sporting men, less cultivated
than he was, whose self-esteem would have easily ignited the spark of
jealousy if he had seemed to scorn the things which made their
principal enjoyment, and formed the chief occupation of their lives;
and his good sense and good heart (and there is an intimate connection
between them) pointed out to him that, wherever your lot is cast, duty
to yourself and others suggests the propriety of adapting your conduct
to the circumstances in which you are placed (so long as morality and
decency are not violated), and that the manifestation of one's own
superiority may render the purchase too dear, by being bought at the
terrible price of our neighbour's dislike. He, therefore, did not tell
everybody he wrote verses: he kept the gift as secret as he could. If
an error, however gross, on any subject, were made in his presence, he
never took willing notice of it; or if circumstances obliged him to
touch upon it, it was always done with a politeness and tact that
afforded the blunderer the means of retreat. If some gross historical
error, for instance, happened to be committed in a conversation _with
himself_ (and then only), he would set the mistake right, as a matter
of conscience, but he would do so by saying there was a great
similarity between the event spoken of and some other event. "I know
what you are thinking of," he would say, "but you make a slight mistake
in the dates; the two stories are very similar, and likely to mislead
one."
But with all this modest reserve, did the least among his companions
think him the less clever? No. It was shrewdly suspected he was a poet;
it was well known he was highly educated and accomplished; and yet
Edward O'Connor was a universal favourite, bore the character of being
a "real fine fellow," and was loved and respected by the most
illiterate of the young men of the country; who, in allusion to his
extensive lore on the subject of the legendary heroes of the _romantic_
history of Ireland, his own Christian name, and his immediate place of
residence, which was near a wild mountain pass, christened him "Ned of
the Hill."
His appearance amidst the crowd assembled to witness the rude sport was
hailed with pleasure--varying from the humble but affectionate respect
of the peasant, who cried "Long life to you, Misther O'Connor," to the
hearty burst of equality, which welcomed him as "Ned of the Hill."
The fortune of the fight favoured the badger, who proved himself a
trump; and Murphy appreciated his worth so highly that, when the battle
was over, he would not quit the ground until he became his owner, at a
high price to the horse-dealer. His next move was to _insist_ on Edward
O'Connor dining with him; and Edward, after many excuses to avoid the
party he foresaw would be a drinking bout--of which he had a special
horror, notwithstanding all his toleration--yielded to the entreaties
of Murphy, and consented to be his guest, just as Tim the waiter ran
up, steaming from every pore, to announce that the dinner was "ready to
be sarved."
"Then sarve it, sir," said Murphy, "and sarve it right."
Off cantered Tim, steaming and snorting like a locomotive engine, and
the party followed to the inn, where a long procession of dish-bearers
was ascending the stairs to the big room, as Murphy and his friends
entered.
The dinner it is needless to describe. One dinner is the same as
another in the most essential points, namely, to satisfy hunger and
slake consequent thirst; and whether beef and cabbage, and heavy wet,
are to conquer the dragon of appetite, or your stomach is to sustain
the more elaborate attack fired from the _batterie de cuisine_ of a
finished _artiste_, and moistened with champagne, the difference is
only of degree in the fashion of the thing and the tickling of the
palate: hunger is as thoroughly satisfied with the one as the other;
and headaches as well manufactured out of the beautiful, bright, and
taper glasses which bear the foam of France to the lip, as from the
coarse, flat-bottomed tumblers of an inn that reek with punch. At the
dinner there was the same tender solicitude on the part of the carvers
as to "Where would you like it?" and the same carelessness on the part
of those whom they questioned, who declared they had no choice, "but if
there _was_ a little bit near the shank," &c., or "if there was a liver
wing to _spare_." By the way, some carvers there are who push an
aspirant's patience too far. I have seen some who, after giving away
both wings, and all the breast, two sidebones, and the short legs, meet
the eager look of the fifth man on their left with a smile, and ask
him, with an effrontery worthy of the Old Bailey, "Has he any choice?"
and, at the same time, toss a drum-stick on the destined plate, or
boldly attempt to divert his melancholy with a merry-thought. All this,
and more, was there at Murtough Murphy's dinner, long memorable in the
country from a frolic that wound up the evening, which soon began to
warm, after the cloth was removed, into the sort of a thing commonly
known by the name of a jollification. But before the dinner was over,
poor M'Garry was nearly pickled: Jack Horan, having determined to make
him drunk, arranged a system of attack on M'Garry's sobriety which bade
defiance to his prudence to withstand. It was agreed that every one
should ask the apothecary to take wine; and he, poor innocent man! when
gentlemen whom he had never had the honour to meet at dinner before
addressed him with a winning smile, and said, "Mr. M'Garry, will you do
me the _honour_?" could not do less than fill his glass every time;
so that, to use Jack Horan's own phrase, the apothecary was "sewed up"
before he had any suspicion of the fact; and, unused to the indications
of approaching vinous excitement, he supposed it was the delightful
society made him so hilarious, and he began to launch forth after
dinner in a manner quite at variance with the reserve he usually
maintained in the presence of his superiors, and talked largely. Now,
M'Garry's principal failing was to make himself appear very learned in
his profession; and every new discovery in chemistry, operation in
surgery, or scientific experiment he heard of, he was prone to shove
in, head and shoulders, in his soberest moments; but now that he was
half-drunk, he launched forth on the subject of galvanism, having read
of some recent wonderful effects produced on the body of a recent
murderer who was hanged and given over to the College of Surgeons in
Dublin. To impress the company still more with a sense of his learning,
he addressed Growling on the subject, and the doctor played him off to
advantage.
"Don't you think it very wonderful, doctor?" inquired M'Garry, speaking
somewhat thickly.
"Very," answered the doctor, drily.
"They say, sir, the man--that is, the subject--when under the influence
of the battery, absolutely twiddled his left foot, and raised his right
arm."
"And raised it to some purpose, too," said the doctor; "for he raised a
contusion on the Surgeon-General's eye, having hit him over the same."
"Dear me!--I did not hear that."
"It is true, however," said the doctor; "and that gives you an idea of
the power of the galvanic influence, for you know the Surgeon-General
is a powerful man, and yet he could not hold him down."
"Wonderful!" hiccupped M'Garry.
"But that's nothing to what happened in London," continued the doctor.
"They experimented there the other day with a battery of such power,
that the man who was hanged absolutely jumped up, seized a scalpel from
the table, and making a rush on the assembled Faculty of London,
cleared the theatre in less than no time; dashed into the hall; stabbed
the porter who attempted to stop him; made a chevy down the south side
of Leicester Square; and as he reached the corner, a woman, who was
carrying tracts published by the Society for the Suppression of Vice,
shrieked at beholding a man in so startling a condition, and fainted;
he, with a presence of mind perfectly admirable, whipped the cloak from
her back, and threw it round him, and scudding through the tortuous
alleys which abound in that neighbourhood, made his way to the house
where the learned Society of Noviomagians hold their convivial
meetings, and, telling the landlord that he was invited there to dinner
as a curiosity, he gained admittance, and, it is supposed, took his
opportunity for escaping, for he has not since been heard of."
"Good Heaven!" gasped M'Garry; "and do you believe that, doctor?"
"Most firmly, sir! My belief is, that galvanism is, in fact, the
original principle of vitality."
"Should we not rejoice, doctor," cried M'Garry, "at this triumph of
science?"
"I don't think you should, Mister M'Garry," said the doctor, gravely;
"for it would utterly destroy _your_ branch of the profession:
pharmacopolists, instead of compounding medicine, must compound with
their creditors; they are utterly ruined. Mercury is no longer in the
ascendent; all doctors have to do now is to carry a small battery about
them, a sort of galvanic pocket-pistol, I may say, and restore the
vital principle by its application."
"You are not serious, doctor?" said M'Garry, becoming _very_ serious,
with that wise look so peculiar to drunken men.
"Never more serious in my life, sir."
"That would be dreadful!" said M'Garry.
"_Shocking_, you mean," said the doctor.
"Leave off your confounded scientifics, there," shouted Murphy from the
head of the table, "and let us have a song."
"I can't sing, indeed, Mister Murphy," said M'Garry, who became more
intoxicated every moment; for he continued to drink, having overstepped
the boundary which custom had prescribed to him.
"I didn't ask you, man," said Murphy; "but my darling fellow, Ned here,
will gladden our hearts and ears with a stave."
"Bravo!" was shouted round the table, trembling under the "thunders of
applause" with which heavy hands made it ring again; and "Ned of the
Hill!" "Ned of the Hill!" was vociferated with many a hearty cheer
about the board that might indeed be called "festive."
"Well," said O'Connor, "since you call upon me in the name of Ned of
the Hill, I'll give you a song under that very title. Here's Ned of the
Hill's own shout;" and in a rich, manly voice he sang, with the fire of
a bard, these lines:--
THE SHOUT OF NED OF THE HILL.[2]
I
The hill! the hill! with its sparkling rill,
And its dawning air so light and pure,
Where the morning's eye scorns the mist, that lie
On the drowsy valley and the moor.
Here, with the eagle, I rise betimes;
Here, with the eagle, my state I keep;
The first we see of the morning sun,
And his last as he sets o'er the deep,
And there, while strife is rife below,
Here from the tyrant I am free:
Let shepherd slaves the valley praise,
But the hill! the hill for me!
[2] The songs in this work are published by Duff and Hodgson, 65,
Oxford Street.
II
The baron below in his castle dwells,
And his garden boasts the costly rose;
But mine is the keep of the mountain steep,
Where the matchless wild flower freely blows.
Let him fold his sheep, and his harvest reap--
I look down from my mountain throne;
And I choose and pick of the flock and the rick,
And what is his I can make my own.
Let the valley grow in its wealth below,
And the lord keep his high degree;
But higher am I in my liberty--
The hill! the hill for me!
O'Connor's song was greeted with what the music-publishers are pleased
to designate, on their title-pages, "distinguished applause;" and his
"health and song" were filled to and drank with enthusiasm.
"Whose lines are those?" asked the doctor.
"I don't know," said O'Connor.
"That's as much as to say they are your own," said Growling. "Ned,
don't be too modest--it is the worst fault a man can have who wants to
get on in this world."
"The call is with you, Ned," shouted Murphy from the head of the table;
"knock some one down for a song."
"Mr. Reddy, I hope, will favour us," said Edward, with a courteous
inclination of his head towards the gentleman he named, who returned a
very low bow, with many protestations that he would "do his best," &c.:
"but after Mr. O'Connor, really,"--and this was said with a certain
self-complacent smile, indicative of his being on very good terms with
himself. Now, James Reddy wrote rhymes--bless the mark!--and was
tolerably well convinced that, except Tom Moore (if he _did_ except
even him), there was not a man in the British dominions his equal at a
lyric. He sang, too, with a kill-me-quite air, as if no lady could
resist his strains; and to "give effect," as he called it, he began
every stanza as loud as he could, and finished it in a gentle
murmur--tailed it off very taper, indeed; in short, it seemed as if a
shout had been suddenly smitten with consumption, and died in a
whisper. And this, his style, he never varied, whatever the nature or
expression of the song might be, or the sense to be expressed; but as
he very often sang his own, there were seldom any to consider. This
rubbish he had set to music by the country music-master, who believed
himself to be a better composer than Sir John Stevenson, to whom the
prejudices of the world gave the palm; and he eagerly caught at the
opportunity which the verses and vanity of Reddy afforded him, of
stringing his crotchets and quavers on the same hank with the abortive
fruits of Reddy's muse, and the wretched productions hung worthily
together.
Reddy, with the proper quantity of "hems and haws," and rubbing down
his upper lip and chin with his forefinger and thumb, cleared his
throat, tossed his nose into the air, and said he was going to give
them "a little _classic_ thing."
"Just look at the puppy!" snarled out old Growling to his neighbour:
"he's going to measure us out some yards of his own fustian, I'm
sure--he looks so pleased."
Reddy gave his last "a-hem!" and sang what he called
THE LAMENT OF ARIADNE
The graceful Greek, with gem-bright hair,
Her garments rent, and rent the air;
"What a tearing rage she was in!" said old Growling in an under-tone.
With sobs and sighs
And tearful eyes,
Like fountain fair of Helicon!
"Oh, thunder and lightning!" growled the doctor, who pulled a letter
out of his pocket, and began to scribble on the blank portions of it,
with the stump of a blunt pencil, which he very audibly sucked, to
enable it to make a mark.
For ah, her lover false was gone!
The fickle brave,
And fickle wave,
"And pickled cabbage," said the doctor.
Combined to cheat the fickle fair.
O fickle! fickle! fickle!
But the brave should be true,
And the fair ones too--
True, true,
As the ocean's blue!
And Ariadne had not been,
Deserted there, like beauty's queen.
Oh, Adriadne!--adne!--adne!
"Beautiful!" said the doctor, with an approving nod at Reddy, who
continued his song, while the doctor continued to write.
The sea-nymphs round the sea-girt shore
Mocked the maiden's sighs;
And the ocean's savage roar
Replies--
Replies--replies--replies, replies, replies.
(_After the manner of_ "Tell me where is fancy bred.")
"Very original!" said the doctor.
With willow wand
Upon the strand.
She wrote, with trembling heart and hand,
"The brave should ne'er
Desert the fair."
But the wave the moral washed away,
Ah, well-a-day! well-a-day!
A-day!--a-day!--a-day!
Reddy smiled and bowed, and thunders of applause followed; the doctor
shouted "Splendid!" several times, and continued to write and take
snuff voraciously, by which those who knew him could comprehend he was
bent on mischief.
"What a beautiful thing that is!" said one.
"Whose is it?" said another.
"A little thing of my own," answered Reddy, with a smile.
"I thought so," said Murphy. "By Jove, James, you _are_ a genius!"
"Nonsense!" smiled the poet; "just a little classic trifle--I think
_them_ little classic allusions is pleasing in general--Tommy Moore is
very happy in his classic allusions, you may remark--not that I, of
course, mean to institute a comparison between so humble an individual
as myself and Tommy Moore, who has so well been called 'the poet of all
circles, and the idol of his own;' and if you will permit me, in a
kindred spirit--I hope I _may_ say the kindred spirit of a song--in
that kindred spirit I propose _his_ health--the health of Tommy Moore!"
"Don't say _Tommy_!" said the doctor, in an irascible tone; "call the
man Tom, sir;--with all my heart, Tom Moore!"
The table took the word from Jack Growling, and "Tom Moore," with all
the honours of "hip and hurra!" rang round the walls of the village
inn--and where is the village in Ireland _that_ health has not been
hailed with the fiery enthusiasm of the land whose lays he hath "wedded
to immortal verse,"--the land which is proud of his birth, and holds
his name in honour?
There is a magic in a great name; and in this instance that of Tom
Moore turned the current from where it was setting, and instead of
quizzing the nonsense of the fool who had excited their mirth, every
one launched forth in praise of their native bard, and couplets from
his favourite songs rang from lip to lip.
"Come, Ned of the Hill," said Murphy, "sing us one of _his_ songs,--I
know you have them all as pat as your prayers."
"And says them oftener," said the doctor, who still continued
scribbling over the letter.
Edward, at the urgent request of many, sang that most exquisite of the
melodies, "And doth not a meeting like this make amends?" and long rang
the plaudits, and rapidly circulated the bottle, at its conclusion.
"We'll be the 'Alps in the sunset,' my boys," said Murphy; "and here's
the wine to enlighten us! But what are _you_ about there, doctor?--is
it a prescription you are writing?"
"No. Prescriptions are written in Latin, and this is a bit of Greek I'm
doing. Mr. Reddy has inspired me with a classic spirit, and if you will
permit me, I'll volunteer a song [_bravo! bravo!_], and give you
another version of the subject he has so beautifully treated--only mine
is not so heart-breaking."
The doctor's proposition was received with cheers, and after he had
gone through the mockery of clearing his throat, and pitching his voice
after the usual manner of your would-be fine singers, he gave out, to
the tune of a well-known rollicking Irish lilt, the following burlesque
version of the subject of Reddy's song:--
LOVE AND LIQUOR
_A Greek Allegory_
I
Oh sure 't would amaze yiz
How one Misther Theseus
Desarted a lovely young lady of owld.
On a dissolute island,
All lonely and silent,
She sobbed herself sick as she sat in the cowld.
Oh, you'd think she was kilt,
As she roar'd with the quilt
Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jumped out of bed,
And ran down to the coast,
Where she looked like a ghost,
Though 't was _he_ was departed--the vagabone fled
And she cried, "Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is grey:
They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay."
II
Whilst abusing the villain,
Came riding postilion
A nate little boy on the back of a baste,
Big enough, faith, to ate him,
But he lather'd and bate him,
And the baste to unsate him ne'er struggled the laste,
And an iligant car
He was dhrawing--by gar!
It was finer by far than a Lord Mayor's state coach,
And the chap that was in it
He sang like a linnet,
With a nate kag of whisky beside him to broach.
And he tipped now and then
Just a matter o' ten
Or twelve tumblers o' punch to his bold sarving-men.
III
They were dress'd in green livery,
But seem'd rather shivery,
For 't was only a trifle o' leaves that they wore;
But they caper'd away
Like the sweeps on May-day,
And shouted and tippled the tumblers galore.
A print of their masther
Is often in plasther
O' Paris, put over the door of a tap;
A fine chubby fellow,
Ripe, rosy, and mellow,
Like a peach that is ready to drop in your lap.
Hurrah! for brave Bacchus,
A bottle to crack us,
He's a friend of the people, like bowld Caius Gracchus.
IV
Now Bacchus perceiving
The lady was grieving,
He spoke to her civil, and tipp'd her a wink;
And the more that she fretted,
He soother'd and petted,
And gave her a glass her own health just to dhrink;
Her pulse it beat quicker,
The thrifle o' liquor
Enliven'd her sinking heart's cockles, I think;
So the MORAL is plain,
That if love gives you pain,
_There's nothing can cure it like taking to dhrink!_
Uproarious were the "bravos" which followed the doctor's impromptu; the
glasses overflowed, and were emptied to his health and song, as
laughing faces nodded to him round the table. The doctor sat seriously
rocking himself in his chair backwards and forwards, to meet the
various duckings of the beaming faces about him; for every face beamed,
but one--and that was the unfortunate M'Garry's. He was most deplorably
drunk, and began to hold on by the table. At last he contrived to shove
back his chair and get on his legs; and making a sloping stagger
towards the wall, contrived by its support to scramble his way to the
door. There he balanced himself as well as he could by the handle of
the lock, which chance, rather than design, enabled him to turn, and
the door suddenly opening, poor M'Garry made a rush across the
landing-place, and, stumbling against an opposite door, would have
fallen, had he not supported himself by the lock of that also, which,
again yielding to his heavy tugs, opened, and the miserable wretch
making another plunge forward, his shins came in contact with the rail
of a very low bed, and into it he fell head foremost, totally unable to
rise, and, after some heavy grunts, he sank into a profound sleep.
In this state he was discovered soon after by Murphy, whose inventive
faculty for frolic instantly suggested how the apothecary's mishap
might be made the foundation of a good practical joke. Murtough went
down-stairs, and procuring some blacking and red pickled cabbage by
stealth, returned to the chamber where M'Garry now lay in a state of
stupor, and dragging off his clothes, he made long dabs across his back
with the purple juice of the pickle and Warren's paste, till poor
M'Garry was as regularly striped as a tiger, from his shoulder to his
flank. He then returned to the dinner-room, where the drinking bout had
assumed a formidable character, and others, as well as the apothecary,
began to feel the influence of their potations. Murphy confided to the
doctor what he had done, and said that, when the men were drunk enough,
he would contrive that M'Garry should be discovered, and then they
would take their measures accordingly. It was not very long before his
company were ripe enough for his designs, and then ringing the bell, he
demanded of the waiter, when he entered, what had become of Mr.
M'Garry. The waiter, not having any knowledge on the subject, was
desired to inquire, and, a search being instituted, M'Garry was
discovered by Mrs. Fay in the state Murphy had left him in. On seeing
him, she was so terrified that she screamed, and ran into the
dinner-room, wringing her hands, and shouting "Murder." A great
commotion ensued, and a general rush to the bedroom took place, and
exclamations of wonder and horror flew round the room, not only from
the gentlemen of the dinner-party, but from the servants of the house,
who crowded to the chamber on the first alarm, and helped not a little
to increase the confusion.
"Oh! who ever see the like of it!" shouted Mrs. Fay. "He's kilt with
the batin' he got! Oh, look at him--black and blue all over! Oh, the
murther it is! Oh, I wouldn't be Squire O'Grady for all his fort'n."
"Gad, I believe he's killed sure enough," said Murphy.
"What a splendid action the widow will have!" said Jack Horan.
"You forget, man," said Murphy, "this is not a case for action of
damages, but a felony--hanging matter."
"Sure enough," said Jack.
"Doctor, will you feel his pulse?" said Murphy.
The doctor did as he was required, and assumed a very serious
countenance. "'T is a bad business, sir--his wounds are mortifying
already."
Upon this announcement, there was a general retreat from the bed, round
which they had been crowding too close for the carrying on of the joke;
and Mrs. Fay ran for a shovel of hot cinders, and poured vinegar over
them, to fumigate the room.
"A very proper precaution, Mrs. Fay," said the doctor, with
imperturbable gravity.
"That villainous smoke is choking me," said Jack Horan.
"Better that, sir, than have a pestilence in the house," said Growling.
"I'll leave the place," said Jack Horan.
"And I, too," said Doyle.
"And I," said Reddy; "'t is disgusting to a sensitive mind."
"Gentlemen!" said Murphy, shutting the door, "you must not quit the
house. I must have an inquest on the body."
"An inquest!" they all exclaimed.
"Yes--an inquest."
"But there's no coroner here," said Reddy.
"No matter for that," said Murphy. "I, as the under-sheriff of the
county, can preside at this inquiry. Gentlemen, take your places; bring
in more lights, Mrs. Fay. Stand round the bed, gentlemen."
"Not too close," said the doctor. "Mrs. Fay, bring more vinegar."
Mrs. Fay had additional candles and more vinegar introduced, and the
drunken fellows were standing as straight as they could, each with a
candle in his hand, round the still prostrate M'Garry.
Murphy then opened on them with a speech, and called in every one in
the house to ask did they know anything about the matter; and it was
not long before it was spread all over the town, that Squire O'Grady
had killed M'Garry, and that the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict
of murder, and that the squire was going to be sent to jail.
This almost incredible humbug of Murphy's had gone on for nearly half
an hour, when the cold arising from his want of clothes, and the riot
about him, and the fumes of the vinegar, roused M'Garry, who turned on
the bed and opened his eyes. There he saw a parcel of people standing
round him, with candles in their hands, and countenances of drunken
wonder and horror.
He uttered a hollow groan, and cried--
"Save us and keep us! where am I?"
"Retire, gentlemen," said the doctor, waving his hand authoritatively;
"retire--all but the under-sheriff."
Murphy cleared the room, and shut the door, while M'Garry still kept
exclaiming, "Save us and keep us! where am I? What's this? O Lord!"
"You're dead!" said Murphy; "and the coroner's inquest has just sat on
you!"
[Illustration: An Irish Inquest]
"Dead!" cried M'Garry, with a horrified stare.
"Dead!" repeated the doctor, solemnly.
"Are _you_ not Doctor Growling?"
"You see the effect, Mr. Murphy," said the doctor, not noticing
M'Garry's question--"you see the effect of the process."
"Wonderful!" said Murphy.
"Preserve us!" cried the bewildered apothecary. "How could I know you
if I was dead, doctor? Oh, doctor dear, sure I'm not dead?"
"As a herring," said the doctor.
"Lord have mercy on me! Oh, Mr. Murphy, sure I'm not dead?"
"You're dead, sir," said Murphy; "the doctor has only galvanised you
for a few moments."
"O Lord!" groaned M'Garry. "Doctor--indeed, doctor?"
"You are in a state of temporary animation," said the doctor.
"I do feel very odd, indeed," said the terrified man, putting his hands
to his throbbing temples. "How long am I dead?"
"A week next Tuesday," said the doctor. "Galvanism has preserved you
from decomposition."
M'Garry uttered a heavy groan, and looked up piteously at his two
tormentors. Murphy, fearful the shock might drive him out of his mind,
said, "Perhaps, doctor, you can preserve his life altogether: you have
kept him alive so long?"
"I'll try," said Growling; "hand me that tumbler."
Murphy handed him a tumbler full of water, and the doctor gave it to
M'Garry, and desired him to try and drink it; he put it to his lips and
swallowed a little drop.
"Can you taste it?" asked the doctor.
"Isn't it water?" said M'Garry.
"You see how dull the nerves are yet," said Growling to Murphy; "that's
aquafortis and assafoetida, and he can't taste it; we must give him
another touch of the battery. Hold him up, while I go into the next
room, and immerse the plates."
The doctor left the bed-room, and came back with a hot poker and some
lemon-juice and water.
"Turn him gently round," said he to Murphy, "while I conduct the
wires."
His order was obeyed; and giving M'Garry a touch of the hot poker, the
apothecary roared like a bull.
"That did him good!" said Growling. "Now try, can you taste anything?"
and he gave him the lemon-juice and water.
"I taste a slight acid, doctor dear," said M'Garry, hopefully.
"You see what that last touch did," said Growling gravely; "but the
palate is still feeble; that's nearly pure nitric."
"Oh, dear!" said M'Garry, "is it nitric?"
"You see his hearing is coming back too," said the doctor to Murphy.
"Try, can he put his legs under him?"
They raised the apothecary from the bed; and when he staggered and
fell forward, he looked horrified. "Oh, dear! I can't walk. I'm afraid
I am--I am no more!"
"Don't despair," said the doctor; "I pledge my professional reputation
to save you now, since you can stand at all, and your senses are partly
restored. Let him lie down again; try, could he sleep----"
"Sleep!" said M'Garry, with horror; "perhaps never to awaken!"
"I'll keep up the galvanic influence--don't be afraid; depend upon
me--there, lie down. Can you shut your eyes? Yes, I see you can:
don't open them so fast. Try, can you keep them shut? Don't open them
till I tell you--wait till I count two hundred and fifty. That's
right--turn a little more round--keep your eyes fast; that's it.
One--two--three--four--five--six--seven;" and so he went on, making a
longer interval between every number, till the monotonous sound, and
the closed eye of the helplessly drunken man, produced the effect
desired by the doctor; and the heavy snoring of the apothecary soon
bore witness that he slept.
We hope it is not necessary to assure our fair readers that Edward
O'Connor had nothing to do with this scene of drunken absurdity. No:
long before the evening's proceedings had assumed the character of a
regular drinking bout, he had contrived to make his escape, his head
only sufficiently excited to increase his sentimentality; so, instead
of riding home direct, he took a round of some eight miles, to have a
look at Merryvale, for there dwelt Fanny Dawson--the Darling Fanny
Dawson, sister to Dick, whose devilry was more than redeemed in the
family by the angelic sweetness of his lovely and sportive sister. For
the present, however, poor Edward O'Connor was not allowed to address
Fanny; but his love for her knew no abatement notwithstanding; and to
see the place where she dwelt had for him a charm. There he sat in his
saddle, at the gate, looking up the long line of old trees through
which the cool moonlight was streaming; and he fancied that Fanny's
foot had trodden that avenue perhaps a few hours before, and even
_that_ gave him pleasure: for to those who love with the fond
enthusiasm of Edward O'Connor, the very vacancy where the loved one has
been is sacred.
The horse pawed impatiently to be gone, and Edward reined him up with a
chiding voice; but the animal continuing restless, Edward's apostrophes
to his mistress, and warnings to his horse, made an odd mixture; and
we would recommend gentlemen, after their second bottle, not to let
themselves be overheard in their love-fits; for even as fine a fellow
as Edward O'Connor is likely to be ridiculous under such circumstances.
"Oh, Fanny!" cried Edward, "my adored Fanny!"--then to his horse, "_Be
quiet, you brute!_--My love, my angel;--_you devil, I'll thrash you, if
you don't be quiet!_--though separated from me, you are always present
to mind; your bright eyes, your raven locks--_your mouth's as hard as a
paving-stone, you brute!_--Oh, Fanny! if fate be ever propitious--should
I be blessed with the divine possession of your charms, you should then
know--_what a devil you are!_--you should then know the tenderest care.
I'll guard you, caress you, fondle you--_I'll bury my spurs in you, you
devil!_--Oh, Fanny! beloved one!--farewell--good night--a thousand
blessings on you!--_and now go and be hanged to you!_" said he,
bitterly, putting his spurs to his horse and galloping home.
* * * * *
When the doctor was satisfied that M'Garry was fast asleep, he and
Murphy left the room, and locked the door. They were encountered on the
lobby by several curious people, who wanted to know, "was the man
dead?" The doctor shook his head very gravely, and said "Not quite;"
while Murphy, with a serious nod, said "All over, I'm afraid, Mrs.
Fay;" for he perceived among the persons on the lobby a servant of
O'Grady's, who chanced to be in the town, and was all wonder and fright
at the news of his master having committed murder. Murphy and the
doctor proceeded to the dinner-room, where they found the drunken men
wrangling about what verdict they should bring in, and a discursive
dispute touching on "murder," and "manslaughter," and "accidental
death," and "the visitation of God," mingled with noisy toasts and
flowing cups, until any sagacity the company ever possessed was
sacrificed to the rosy god.
The lateness of the hour, and the state of the company, rendered riding
home impossible to most of them; so Mrs. Fay was called upon to prepare
beds. The inn did not afford a sufficiency of beds to accommodate every
gentleman with a single one, so a toss-up was resorted to, to decide
who should sleep double. The fortune of war cast the unfortunate James
Reddy upon the doctor, who, though one of the few who were capable of
self-protection, preferred remaining at the inn to riding home some
miles. Now James Reddy, though very drunk indeed, had sense enough left
to dislike the lot that fate had cast him. To sleep with such a
slovenly man as the doctor shocked James, who was a bit of a dandy. The
doctor seemed perfectly contented with the arrangement; and as he bade
Murphy "good night," a lurking devilment hung about his huge mouth. All
the men staggered off, or were supported, to their various beds, but
one--and he could not stir from the floor, where he lay hugging the leg
of the table. To every effort to disturb him he replied with an
imploring grunt, to "let him alone," and he hugged the leg of the table
closer, exclaiming, "I won't leave you, Mrs. Fay!--my darling Mrs. Fay!
rowl your arms round me, Mrs. Fay!"
"Ah, get up and go to bed, Misther Doyle," said Tim. "Sure the
misthress is not here at all."
"I know she's not," said Doyle. "Who says a word against her?"
"Sure you're talkin' to her yourself, sir."
"Pooh, pooh, man!--you're dhrunk."
"Ah, come to bed, Misther Doyle!" said Tim, in an imploring tone. "Och
sure, my heart's broken with you."
"Don't say your heart's broke, my sweet landlady--my darling Mrs. Fay!
the apple of my eye you are."
"Nonsense, Misther Doyle."
"True as the sun, moon, and stars. Apple of my eye, did I say?--I'd
give the apples of my eyes to make sauce for the cockles of your heart.
Mrs. Fay, darling, don't be coy. Ha! I have you fast!" and he gripped
the table closer.
"Well, you _are_ dhrunk, Misther Doyle," said Tim.
"I hope my breath is not offensive from drink, Mrs. Fay," said Doyle,
in an amatory whisper to the leg of the table.
"Ah, get out o' that, Misther Doyle," said Tim; accompanying the
exclamation with a good shake, which somewhat roused the prostrate
form.
"Who's there?"
"I want you to come to bed, sir;--eh, don't be so foolish, Misther
Doyle. Sure you don't think the misthress would be rowlin' on the flure
there wid you, as dhrunk as a pig----"
"Dare not wound her fame! Who says a word of Mrs. Fay?"
"Arrah, sure you're talkin' there about her this half-hour."
"False villain!--Whisht, my darling," said he to the leg of the table;
"I'll never betray you. Hug me tight, Mrs. Fay!"
"Bad luck to the care I'll take any more about you," say Tim. "Sleep on
the flure, if you like." And Doyle was left to pass the night in the
soft imaginary delights of Mrs. Fay's mahogany embraces.
How fared it with James Reddy? Alas! poor James was doomed to a night
of torment, the effects of which he remembered for many days after. In
fact, had James been left to his choice, he would rather have slept
with the house-dog than with the doctor; but he dreaded the
consequences of letting old Jack perceive his antipathy; and visions of
future chastisement from the doctor's satirical tongue awed him into
submission to the present punishment. He sneaked into bed, therefore,
and his deep potations ensured him immediate sleep, from which he
awoke, however, in the middle of the night in torture, from the deep
scratches inflicted upon him by every kick of old Growling. At last
poor Reddy could stand it no longer, and the earliest hour of dawn
revealed him to the doctor putting on his clothes, swearing like a
trooper at one moment, and at the next apostrophising the genius of
gentility. "What it is to have to do with a person that is not a
gentleman!" he exclaimed, as he pulled on one leg of his trousers.
"What is the matter with you?" asked old Jack from the bed.
"The matter, sir, is, that I'm going."
"Is it at this hour! Tut, man, don't be a fool. Get into bed again."
"Never, sir, with _you_ at least. I have seldom slept two in a bed, Dr.
Growling, for my gentlemanly habits forbid it; but when circumstances
have obliged me, it has been with gentlemen--_gentlemen_, doctor," and
he laid a stress on the word--"gentlemen, sir, who cut their toe-nails.
Sir, I am a serious sufferer by your coarse habits; you have scratched
me, sir, nearly to death. I am one gore of blood----"
"Tut, man! 't was not my nails scratched you; it was only my spurs I
put on going to bed, to keep you at a distance from me; you were so
disgustingly drunk, my _gentleman_!--look there!" and he poked his leg
out of bed, and there, sure enough, Reddy saw a spur buckled: and,
dumb-foundered at this evidence of the doctor's atrocity, he snatched
up his clothes, and rushed from the room, as from the den of a bear.
Murphy twisted a beneficial result to M'Garry out of the night's
riotous frolic at his expense; for, in the morning, taking advantage of
the report of the inquest which he knew must have reached Neck-or-Nothing
Hall, he made a communication to O'Grady, so equivocally worded that the
Squire fell into the trap. The note ran as follows:--
"Sir,--You must be aware that your act of yesterday has raised a
strong feeling in the country against you, and that so flagrant a
violation of the laws cannot fail to be visited with terrible severity
upon you: for, though your position in rank places you far above the
condition of the unfortunate man on whom you wreaked your vengeance,
you know, sir, that in the eye of the law you are equal, and the
shield of justice protects the peasant as well as the prince. Under
these circumstances, sir, considering the _awful consequences_ of
your ungoverned rage (which, I doubt not, now, you deplore), I would
suggest to you by a timely offer of compromise, in the shape of a
handsome sum of money--say two hundred pounds--to lull the storms
which must otherwise burst on your devoted head, and save your name
from dishonour. I anxiously await your answer, as proceedings must
instantly commence, and the law take its course, unless Mrs. M'Garry
can be pacified.
"I have the honour to be, Sir,
"Your most obedient Servant,
"Murtough Murphy.
"_To Gustavus Granby O'Grady, Esq.,
Neck-or-Nothing Hall._"
O'Grady was thoroughly frightened; and strange as it may appear, did
believe he could compromise for killing only a plebeian; and actually
sent Murphy his note of hand for the sum demanded. Murtough posted off
to M'Garry: he and his wife received him with shouts of indignation,
and heaped reproaches on his head, for the trick he had played on the
apothecary.
"Oh! Misther Murphy--never look me in the face again!" said Mrs.
M'Garry, who was ugly enough to make the request quite unnecessary; "to
send my husband home to me a beast!"
"Striped like a tiger!" said M'Garry.
"Blacking and pickled cabbage, Misther Murphy!" said the wife. "Oh fie,
sir!--I did not think you could be so low."
"Galvanism!" said M'Garry, furiously. "My professional honour wounded!"
"Whisht, whisht, man!" said Murphy; "there's a finer plaister than any
in your shop for the cure of wounded honour. Look at that!"--and he
handed him the note for two hundred: "there's galvanism for you!"
"What _is_ this?" said M'Garry, in amazement.
"The result of last night's inquest," said Murphy. "You have got your
damages without a trial; so pocket your money, and be thankful."
The two hundred pounds at once changed the aspect of affairs. M'Garry
vowed eternal gratitude, with protestations that Murphy was the
cleverest attorney alive, and ought to be chief justice. The wife was
equally vociferous in her acknowledgments, until Murtough, who, when he
entered the house, was near falling a sacrifice to the claws of the
apothecary's wife, was obliged to rush from the premises to shun the
more terrible consequences of her embraces.