THE DINNER.
When I retired to my room to dress for dinner, I found my servant waiting
with a note from my uncle, to which, he informed me, the messenger expected
an answer.
I broke the seal and read:--
DEAR CHARLEY,--Do not lose a moment in securing old Blake,--if
you have not already done so,--as information has just reached
me that the government party has promised a cornetcy to young
Matthew if he can bring over his father. And these are the people
I have been voting with--a few private cases excepted--for thirty
odd years!
I am very sorry for your accident. Considine informs me that it
will need explanation at a later period. He has been in Athlone
since Tuesday, in hopes to catch the new candidate on his way down,
and get him into a little private quarrel before the day; if he
succeeds, it will save the county much expense, and conduce greatly to
the peace and happiness of all parties. But “these things,” as Father
Roach says, “are in the hands of Providence.” You must also persuade
old Blake to write a few lines to Simon Mallock, about the
Coolnamuck mortgage. We can give him no satisfaction at present,
at least such as he looks for; and don’t be philandering any longer
where you are, when your health permits a change of quarters.
Your affectionate uncle,
GODFREY O’MALLEY.
P.S. I have just heard from Considine. He was out this morning
and shot a fellow in the knee; but finds that after all he was
not the candidate, but a tourist that was writing a book about
Connemara.
P.S. No. 2. Bear the mortgage in mind, for old Mallock is a
spiteful fellow, and has a grudge against me, since I horsewhipped
his son in Banagher. Oh, the world, the world! G. O’M.
Until I read this very clear epistle to the end, I had no very precise
conception how completely I had forgotten all my uncle’s interests, and
neglected all his injunctions. Already five days had elapsed, and I had not
as much as mooted the question to Mr. Blake, and probably all this time my
uncle was calculating on the thing as concluded; but, with one hole in my
head and some half-dozen in my heart, my memory was none of the best.
Snatching up the letter, therefore, I resolved to lose no more time, and
proceeded at once to Mr. Blake’s room, expecting that I should, as the
event proved, find him engaged in the very laborious duty of making his
toilet.
[Illustration: MR. BLAKE’S DRESSING ROOM.]
“Come in, Charley,” said he, as I tapped gently at the door. “It’s only
Charley, my darling. Mrs. B. won’t mind you.”
“Not the least in life,” responded Mrs. B., disposing at the same time a
pair of her husband’s corduroys tippet fashion across her ample shoulders,
which before were displayed in the plenitude and breadth of coloring we
find in a Rubens. “Sit down, Charley, and tell us what’s the matter.”
As until this moment I was in perfect ignorance of the Adam-and-Eve-like
simplicity in which the private economy of Mr. Blake’s household was
conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a mutual
territory of dressing-room had not Mr. Blake’s injunctions been issued
somewhat like an order to remain.
“It’s only a letter, sir,” said I, stuttering, “from my uncle about the
election. He says that as his majority is now certain, he should feel
better pleased in going to the poll with all the family, you know, sir,
along with him. He wishes me just to sound your intentions,--to make out
how you feel disposed towards him; and--and, faith, as I am but a poor
diplomatist, I thought the best way was to come straight to the point and
tell you so.”
“I perceive,” said Mr. Blake, giving his chin at the moment an awful gash
with the razor,--“I perceive; go on.”
“Well, sir, I have little more to say. My uncle knows what influence you
have in Scariff, and expects you’ll do what you can there.”
“Anything more?” said Blake, with a very dry and quizzical expression I
didn’t half like,--“anything more?”
“Oh, yes; you are to write a line to old Mallock.”
“I understand; about Coolnamuck, isn’t it?”
“Exactly; I believe that’s all.”
“Well, now, Charley, you may go down-stairs, and we’ll talk it over after
dinner.”
“Yes, Charley dear, go down, for I’m going to draw on my stockings,” said
the fair Mrs. Blake, with a look of very modest consciousness.
When I had left the room I couldn’t help muttering a “Thank God!” for the
success of a mission I more than once feared for, and hastened to despatch
a note to my uncle, assuring him of the Blake interest, and adding that for
propriety’s sake I should defer my departure for a day or two longer.
This done, with a heart lightened of its load and in high spirits at my
cleverness, I descended to the drawing-room. Here a very large party were
already assembled, and at every opening of the door a new relay of Blakes,
Burkes, and Bodkins was introduced. In the absence of the host, Sir George
Dashwood was “making the agreeable” to the guests, and shook hands with
every new arrival with all the warmth and cordiality of old friendship.
While thus he inquired for various absent individuals, and asked most
affectionately for sundry aunts and uncles not forthcoming, a slight
incident occurred which by its ludicrous turn served to shorten the long
half-hour before dinner. An individual of the party, a Mr. Blake, had, from
certain peculiarities of face, obtained in his boyhood the sobriquet of
“Shave-the-wind.” This hatchet-like conformation had grown with his growth,
and perpetuated upon him a nickname by which alone was he ever spoken of
among his friends and acquaintances; the only difference being that as he
came to man’s estate, brevity, that soul of wit, had curtailed the epithet
to mere “Shave.” Now, Sir George had been hearing frequent reference made
to him always by this name, heard him ever so addressed, and perceived him
to reply to it; so that when he was himself asked by some one what sport he
had found that day among the woodcocks, he answered at once, with a bow of
very grateful acknowledgment, “Excellent, indeed; but entirely owing to
where I was placed in the copse. Had it not been for Mr. Shave there--”
I need not say that the remainder of his speech, being heard on all sides,
became one universal shout of laughter, in which, to do him justice, the
excellent Shave himself heartily joined. Scarcely were the sounds of mirth
lulled into an apparent calm, when the door opened and the host and hostess
appeared. Mrs. Blake advanced in all the plenitude of her charms, arrayed
in crimson satin, sorely injured in its freshness by a patch of grease
upon the front about the same size and shape as the continent of Europe in
Arrowsmith’s Atlas. A swan’s-down tippet covered her shoulders; massive
bracelets ornamented her wrists; while from her ears descended two Irish
diamond ear-rings, rivalling in magnitude and value the glass pendants of
a lustre. Her reception of her guests made ample amends, in warmth and
cordiality, for any deficiency of elegance; and as she disposed her ample
proportions upon the sofa, and looked around upon the company, she appeared
the very impersonation of hospitality.
After several openings and shuttings of the drawing-room door, accompanied
by the appearance of old Simon the butler, who counted the party at least
five times before he was certain that the score was correct, dinner was
at length announced. Now came a moment of difficulty, and one which, as
testing Mr. Blake’s tact, he would gladly have seen devolve upon some other
shoulders; for he well knew that the marshalling a room full of mandarins,
blue, green, and yellow, was “cakes and gingerbread” to ushering a Galway
party in to dinner.
First, then, was Mr. Miles Bodkin, whose grandfather would have been a lord
if Cromwell had not hanged him one fine morning. Then Mrs. Mosey Blake’s
first husband was promised the title of Kilmacud if it was ever restored;
whereas Mrs. French of Knocktunmor’s mother was then at law for a title.
And lastly, Mrs. Joe Burke was fourth cousin to Lord Clanricarde, as is or
will be every Burke from this to the day of judgment. Now, luckily for her
prospects, the lord was alive; and Mr. Blake, remembering a very sage adage
about “dead lions,” etc., solved the difficulty at once by gracefully
tucking the lady under his arm and leading the way. The others soon
followed, the priest of Portumna and my unworthy self bringing up the rear.
When, many a year afterwards, the hard ground of a mountain bivouac,
with its pitiful portion of pickled cork-tree yclept mess-beef, and that
pyroligneous aquafortis they call corn-brandy have been my hard fare,
I often looked back to that day’s dinner with a most heart-yearning
sensation,--a turbot as big as the Waterloo shield, a sirloin that seemed
cut from the sides of a rhinoceros, a sauce-boat that contained an
oyster-bed. There was a turkey, which singly would have formed the main
army of a French dinner, doing mere outpost duty, flanked by a picket of
ham and a detached squadron of chickens carefully ambushed in a forest
of greens; potatoes, not disguised _à la maître d’hôtel_ and tortured to
resemble bad macaroni, but piled like shot in an ordnance-yard, were posted
at different quarters; while massive decanters of port and sherry stood
proudly up like standard bearers amidst the goodly array. This was none
of your austere “great dinners,” where a cold and chilling _plateau_ of
artificial nonsense cuts off one-half of the table from intercourse with
the other; when whispered sentences constitute the conversation, and all
the friendly recognition of wine-drinking, which renews acquaintance and
cements an intimacy, is replaced by the ceremonious filling of your glass
by a lackey; where smiles go current in lieu of kind speeches, and epigram
and smartness form the substitute for the broad jest and merry story. Far
from it. Here the company ate, drank, talked, laughed,--did all but sing,
and certainly enjoyed themselves heartily. As for me, I was little more
than a listener; and such was the crash of plates, the jingle of glasses,
and the clatter of voices, that fragments only of what was passing
around reached me, giving to the conversation of the party a character
occasionally somewhat incongruous. Thus such sentences as the following ran
foul of each other every instant:--
“No better land in Galway”--“where could you find such facilities”--“for
shooting Mr. Jones on his way home”--“the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth”--“kiss”--“Miss Blake, she’s the girl with a foot and
ankle”--“Daly has never had wool on his sheep”--“how could he”--“what
does he pay for the mountain”--“four and tenpence a yard”--“not a penny
less”--“all the cabbage-stalks and potato-skins”--“with some bog stuff
through it”--“that’s the thing to”--“make soup, with a red herring in it
instead of salt”--“and when he proposed for my niece, ma’am, says he”--“mix
a strong tumbler, and I’ll make a shake-down for you on the floor”--“and
may the Lord have mercy on your soul”--“and now, down the middle and
up again”--“Captain Magan, my dear, he is the man”--“to shave a pig
properly”--“it’s not money I’m looking for, says he, the girl of my
heart”--“if she had not a wind-gall and two spavins”--“I’d have given her
the rights of the church, of coorse,” said Father Roach, bringing up the
rear of this ill-assorted jargon.
Such were the scattered links of conversation I was condemned to listen to,
till a general rise on the part of the ladies left us alone to discuss our
wine and enter in good earnest upon the more serious duties of the evening.
Scarcely was the door closed when one of the company, seizing the
bell-rope, said, “With your leave, Blake, we’ll have the ‘dew’ now.”
“Good claret,--no better,” said another; “but it sits mighty cold on the
stomach.”
“There’s nothing like the groceries, after all,--eh, Sir George?” said an
old Galway squire to the English general, who acceded to the fact, which he
understood in a very different sense.
“Oh, punch, you are my darlin’,” hummed another, as a large, square,
half-gallon decanter of whiskey was placed on the table, the various
decanters of wine being now ignominiously sent down to the end of the board
without any evidence of regret on any face save Sir George Dashwood’s, who
mixed his tumbler with a very rebellious conscience.
Whatever were the noise and clamor of the company before, they were nothing
to what now ensued. As one party were discussing the approaching contest,
another was planning a steeple-chase, while two individuals, unhappily
removed from each other the entire length of the table, were what is called
“challenging each other’s effects” in a very remarkable manner,--the
process so styled being an exchange of property, when each party, setting
an imaginary value upon some article, barters it for another, the amount
of boot paid and received being determined by a third person, who is the
umpire. Thus a gold breast-pin was swopped, as the phrase is, against a
horse; then a pair of boots, then a Kerry bull, etc.,--every imaginable
species of property coming into the market. Sometimes, as matters of very
dubious value turned up, great laughter was the result. In this very
national pastime, a Mr. Miles Bodkin, a noted fire-eater of the west, was
a great proficient; and it is said he once so completely succeeded in
despoiling an uninitiated hand, that after winning in succession his horse,
gig, harness, etc., he proceeded _seriatim_ to his watch, ring, clothes,
and portmanteau, and actually concluded by winning all he possessed, and
kindly lent him a card-cloth to cover him on his way to the hotel.
His success on the present occasion was considerable, and his spirits
proportionate. The decanter had thrice been replenished, and the flushed
faces and thickened utterance of the guests evinced that from the cold
properties of the claret there was but little to dread. As for Mr. Bodkin,
his manner was incapable of any higher flight, when under the influence of
whiskey, than what it evinced on common occasions; and as he sat at the end
of the table fronting Mr. Blake, he assumed all the dignity of the ruler of
the feast, with an energy no one seemed disposed to question. In answer to
some observations of Sir George, he was led into something like an oration
upon the peculiar excellences of his native country, which ended in a
declaration that there was nothing like Galway.
“Why don’t you give us a song, Miles? And may be the general would learn
more from it than all your speech-making.”
“To be sure,” cried the several voices together,--“to be sure; let us hear
the ‘Man for Galway’!”
Sir George having joined most warmly in the request, Mr. Bodkin filled up
his glass to the brim, bespoke a chorus to his chant, and clearing his
voice with a deep hem, began the following ditty, to the air which Moore
has since rendered immortal by the beautiful song, “Wreath the Bowl,” etc.
And, although the words are well known in the west, for the information of
less-favored regions, I here transcribe--
THE MAN FOR GALWAY.
To drink a toast,
A proctor roast,
Or bailiff as the case is;
To kiss your wife,
Or take your life
At ten or fifteen paces;
To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,
To drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far more,--
Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.”
CHORUS: With debts, etc.
The King of Oude
Is mighty proud,
And so were onst the _Caysars_;
But ould Giles Eyre
Would make them stare,
Av he had them with the Blazers.
To the devil I fling--ould Runjeet Sing,
He’s only a prince in a small way,
And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall;
Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”
CHORUS: With debts, etc.
Ye think the Blakes
Are no “great shakes;”
They’re all his blood relations.
And the Bodkins sneeze
At the grim Chinese,
For they come from the _Phenaycians_.
So fill the brim, and here’s to him
Who’d drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far more,--
Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.”
CHORUS: With debts, etc.
I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would not be as
favorable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first heard it;
for certainly the applause was almost deafening, and even Sir George, the
defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out of his
reach, was highly amused, and laughed heartily.
The conversation once more reverted to the election; and although I was too
far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear much, I could
catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one. This was
gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long neglecting my
uncle’s cause.
“We have Scariff to a man,” said Bodkin.
“And Mosey’s tenantry,” said another. “I swear, though there’s not a
freehold registered on the estate, that they’ll vote, every mother’s son
of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they’ll leave standing on
another.”
“And may the Lord look to the returning officer!” said a third, throwing up
his eyes.
“Mosey’s tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token,
they never pay any rent.”
“And what for shouldn’t they vote?” said a dry-looking little old fellow in
a red waistcoat; “when I was the dead agent--”
“The dead agent!” interrupted Sir George, with a start.
“Just so,” said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his
forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had
suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.
“The general does not know, may be, what that is,” said some one.
“You have just anticipated me,” said Sir George; “I really am in most
profound ignorance.”
“It is the dead agent,” says Mr. Blake, “who always provides substitutes
for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very important
fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of this county,
which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,--a freeholder has not
died in it for the last fifty years.”
“The ‘Kiltopher boys’ won’t come this time; they say there’s no use trying
to vote when so many were transported last assizes for perjury.”
“They’re poor-spirited creatures,” said another.
“Not they,--they are as decent boys as any we have; they’re willing to
wreck the town for fifty shillings’ worth of spirits. Besides, if they
don’t vote for the county, they will for the borough.”
This declaration seemed to restore these interesting individuals to favor;
and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was detailing the plan
of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by himself. By this
time, all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given way; whiskey
was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy, every
cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and applauded in
a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable gift of
“mountain dew.”
The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles Bodkin, who
had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a telegraphic
signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing should
prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his hand,
delivered himself as follows:--
“No, no, Phil Blake, ye needn’t be winkin’ at me that way; it’s little I
care for the spawn of the ould serpent. [Here great cheers greeted the
speaker, in which, without well knowing why, I heartily joined.] I’m going
to give a toast, boys,--a real good toast, none of your sentimental things
about wall-flowers or the vernal equinox, or that kind of thing, but a
sensible, patriotic, manly, intrepid toast,--toast you must drink in the
most universal, laborious, and awful manner: do ye see now? [Loud cheers.]
If any man of you here present doesn’t drain this toast to the bottom [here
the speaker looked fixedly at me, as did the rest of the company]--then, by
the great-gun of Athlone, I’ll make him eat the decanter, glass-stopper and
all, for the good of his digestion: d’ye see now?”
The cheering at this mild determination prevented my hearing what followed;
but the peroration consisted in a very glowing eulogy upon some person
unknown, and a speedy return to him as member for Galway. Amidst all the
noise and tumult at this critical moment, nearly every eye at the table was
turned upon me; and as I concluded that they had been drinking my uncle’s
health, I thundered away at the mahogany with all my energy. At length the
hip-hipping over, and comparative quiet restored, I rose from my seat to
return thanks; but, strange enough, Sir George Dashwood did so likewise.
And there we both stood, amidst an uproar that might well have shaken the
courage of more practised orators; while from every side came cries of
“Hear, hear!”--“Go on, Sir George!”--“Speak out, General!”--“Sit down,
Charley!”--“Confound the boy!”--“Knock the legs from under him!” etc. Not
understanding why Sir George should interfere with what I regarded as my
peculiar duty, I resolved not to give way, and avowed this determination in
no very equivocal terms. “In that case,” said the general, “I am to suppose
that the young gentleman moves an amendment to your proposition; and as the
etiquette is in his favor, I yield.” Here he resumed his place amidst a
most terrific scene of noise and tumult, while several humane proposals as
to my treatment were made around me, and a kind suggestion thrown out to
break my neck by a near neighbor. Mr. Blake at length prevailed upon the
party to hear what I had to say,--for he was certain I should not detain
them above a minute. The commotion having in some measure subsided, I
began: “Gentlemen, as the adopted son of the worthy man whose health you
have just drunk--” Heaven knows how I should have continued; but here my
eloquence was met by such a roar of laughing as I never before listened to.
From one end of the board to the other it was one continued shout, and went
on, too, as if all the spare lungs of the party had been kept in reserve
for the occasion. I turned from one to the other; I tried to smile, and
seemed to participate in the joke, but failed; I frowned; I looked savagely
about where I could see enough to turn my wrath thitherward,--and, as it
chanced, not in vain; for Mr. Miles Bodkin, with an intuitive perception of
my wishes, most suddenly ceased his mirth, and assuming a look of frowning
defiance that had done him good service upon many former occasions, rose
and said:--
“Well, sir, I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ve made a nice beginning
of it, and a pretty story you’ll have for your uncle. But if you’d like to
break the news by a letter the general will have great pleasure in franking
it for you; for, by the rock of Cashel, we’ll carry him in against all the
O’Malley’s that ever cheated the sheriff.”
Scarcely were the words uttered, when I seized my wineglass, and hurled it
with all my force at his head; so sudden was the act, and so true the aim,
that Mr. Bodkin measured his length upon the floor ere his friends could
appreciate his late eloquent effusion. The scene now became terrific;
for though the redoubted Miles was _hors-de-combat_, his friends made a
tremendous rush at, and would infallibly have succeeded in capturing me,
had not Blake and four or five others interposed. Amidst a desperate
struggle, which lasted for some minutes, I was torn from the spot, carried
bodily up-stairs, and pitched headlong into my own room; where, having
doubly locked the door on the outside, they left me to my own cool and not
over-agreeable reflections.