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 last _his_ time,”--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
converted _me_, 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 usual _savoir 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’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.”
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.
[Illustration: MR. CROW WELL PLUCKED.]
“‘Here’s the Pope in the pillory, and the Devil pelting him with priests.’”
At these words a kick from behind apprised the loyal champion that a very
ragged auditory, who for some time past had not well understood the gist of
his eloquence, had at length comprehended enough to be angry. _Ce n’est que
le premier pas qui coûte_, certainly, in an Irish row. “The merest urchin
may light the train; one handful of mud often ignites a shindy that ends in
a most bloody battle.”
And here, no sooner did the _vis-a-tergo_ impel Billy forward than a severe
rap of a closed fist in the eye drove him back, and in one instant he
became the centre to a periphery of kicks, cuffs, pullings, and haulings
that left the poor deputy-grand not only orange, but blue.
He fought manfully, but numbers carried the day; and when the coach drove
off, which it did at last without him, the last thing visible to the
outsides was the figure of Mr. Crow,--whose hat, minus the crown, had been
driven over his head down upon his neck, where it remained like a dress
cravat,--buffeting a mob of ragged vagabonds who had so completely
metamorphosed the unfortunate man with mud and bruises that a committee of
the grand lodge might actually have been unable to identify him.
As for Mickey and his friends behind, their mirth knew no bounds; and
except the respectable insides, there was not an individual about the coach
who ceased to think of and laugh at the incident till we arrived in Dublin
and drew up at the Hibernian in Dawson Street.