MEMS. OF THE NORTH CORK.
[Illustration: Dr. Finucane and the Grey Mare]
At six o’clock I had the pleasure of presenting the worthy Doctor
Finucane to our mess, taking at the same time an opportunity,
unobserved by him, to inform three or four of my brother officers that
my friend was really a character, abounding in native drollery, and
richer in good stories than even the generality of his countrymen.
Nothing could possibly go on better than the early part of the evening.
Fin, true to his promise, never once alluded to what I could plainly
perceive was ever uppermost in his mind, and what with his fund of
humour, quaintness of expression, and quickness at reply, garnished
throughout by his most mellifluous brogue, the true “Bocca Corkana,”
kept us from one roar of laughter to another. It was just at the moment
in which his spirits seemed at their highest, that I had the misfortune
to call upon him for a story, which his cousin Father Malachi had
alluded to on the ever-memorable evening at his house, and which I had
a great desire to hear from Fin’s own lips. He seemed disposed to
escape telling it, and upon my continuing to press my request, drily
remarked,
“You forget, surely, my dear Mr. Lorrequer, the weak condition I’m in;
and these gentlemen here, they don’t know what a severe illness I’ve
been labouring under lately, or they would not pass the decanter so
freely down this quarter.”
I had barely time to throw a mingled look of entreaty and menace across
the table, when half-a-dozen others, rightly judging from the Doctor’s
tone and serio-comic expression, that his malady had many more symptoms
of fun than suffering about it, called out together—
“Oh, Doctor, by all means, tell us the nature of your late attack—pray
relate it.”
“With Mr. Lorrequer’s permission I’m your slave, gentlemen,” said Fin,
finishing off his glass.
“Oh, as for me,” I cried, “Dr. Finucane has my full permission to
detail whatever he pleases to think a fit subject for your amusement.”
“Come then, Doctor, Harry has no objection you see; so out with it, and
we are all prepared to sympathise with your woes and misfortunes,
whatever they be.”
“Well, I am sure, I never could think of mentioning it without his
leave; but now that he sees no objection—Eh, do you though? if so,
then, don’t be winking and making faces at me; but say the word, and
devil a syllable of it I’ll tell to man or mortal.”
The latter part of this delectable speech was addressed to me across
the table, in a species of stage whisper, in reply to some telegraphic
signals I had been throwing him, to induce him to turn the conversation
into any other channel.
“Then, that’s enough,” continued he sotto voce—“I see you’d rather I’d
not tell it.”
“Tell it and be d——d,” said I, wearied by the incorrigible pertinacity
with which the villain assailed me. My most unexpected energy threw the
whole table into a roar, at the conclusion of which Fin began his
narrative of the mail-coach adventure.
I need not tell my reader, who has followed me throughout in these my
Confessions, that such a story lost nothing of its absurdity, when
entrusted to the Doctor’s powers of narration; he dwelt with a poet’s
feeling upon the description of his own sufferings, and my sincere
condolence and commiseration; he touched with the utmost delicacy upon
the distant hints by which he broke the news to me; but when he came to
describe my open and undisguised terror, and my secret and precipitate
retreat to the roof of the coach, there was not a man at table that was
not convulsed with laughter—-and, shall I acknowledge it, even I myself
was unable to withstand the effect, and joined in the general chorus
against myself.
“Well,” said the remorseless wretch, as he finished his story, “if ye
haven’t the hard hearts to laugh at such a melancholy subject. Maybe,
however, you’re not so cruel after all—here’s a toast for you, ‘a
speedy recovery to Cusack Rooney.’” This was drank amid renewed peals,
with all the honors; and I had abundant time before the uproar was
over, to wish every man of them hanged. It was to no purpose that I
endeavoured to turn the tables, by describing Fin’s terror at my
supposed resemblance to a highwayman—his story had the precedence, and
I met nothing during my recital but sly allusions to mad dogs, muzzles,
and doctors; and contemptible puns were let off on every side at my
expense.
“It’s little shame I take to myself for the mistake, any how,” said
Fin, “for putting the darkness of the night out of question, I’m not so
sure I would not have ugly suspicions of you by daylight.”
“And besides, Doctor,” added I, “it would not be your first blunder in
the dark.”
“True for you, Mr. Lorrequer,” said he, good-humouredly; “and now that
I have told them your story, I don’t care if they hear mine, though
maybe some of ye have heard it already—it’s pretty well known in the
North Cork.”
We all gave our disclaimers on this point, and having ordered in a
fresh cooper of port, disposed ourselves in our most easy attitudes,
while the Doctor proceeded as follows:—
“It was in the hard winter of the year —99, that we were quartered in
Maynooth, as many said, for our sins—for a more stupid place, the Lord
be merciful to it, never were men condemned to. The people at the
college were much better off than us—they had whatever was to be got in
the country, and never were disturbed by mounting guard, or night
patrols. Many of the professors were good fellows, that liked grog
fully as well as Greek, and understood short whist, and five and ten
quite as intimately as they knew the Vulgate, or the confessions of St.
Augustine—they made no ostentacious display of their pious zeal, but
whenever they were not fasting, or praying, or something of that kind,
they were always pleasant and agreeable; and to do them justice, never
refused, by any chance, an invitation to dinner—no matter at what
inconvenience. Well, even this little solace in our affliction we soon
lost, by an unfortunate mistake of that Orange rogue of the world,
Major Jones, that gave a wrong pass one night—Mr. Lorrequer knows the
story, (here he alluded to an adventure detailed in an early chapter of
my Confessions)—and from that day forward we never saw the pleasant
faces of the Abbé D’Array, or the Professor of the Humanities, at the
mess. Well, the only thing I could do, was just to take an opportunity
to drop in at the College in the evening, where we had a quiet rubber
of whist, and a little social and intellectual conversation, with maybe
an oyster and a glass of punch, just to season the thing, before we
separated; all done discreetly and quietly—no shouting nor even
singing, for the ‘superior’ had a prejudice about profane songs. Well,
one of those nights it was, about the first week in February, I was
detained by stress of weather from 11 o’clock, when we usually bade
good-night, to past twelve, and then to one o’clock, waiting for a dry
moment to get home to the barracks—a good mile and a half off. Every
time old Father Mahony went to look at the weather, he came back
saying, ‘It’s worse it’s getting; such a night of rain, glory be to
God, never was seen.’ So there was no good in going out to be drenched
to the skin, and I sat quietly waiting, taking, between times, a little
punch, just not to seem impatient, nor distress their rev’rances. At
last it struck two, and I thought—‘well, the decanter is empty now, and
I think, if I mean to walk, I’ve taken enough for the present;’ so,
wishing them all manner of happiness, and pleasant dreams, I stumbled
by way down stairs, and set out on my journey. I was always in the
habit of taking a short cut on my way home, across the ‘gurt na
brocha,’ the priest’s meadows, as they call them, it saved nearly half
a mile, although, on the present occasion, it exposed one wofully to
the rain, for there was nothing to shelter against the entire way, not
even a tree. Well, out I set in a half trot, for I staid so late I was
pressed for time; besides, I felt it easier to run than walk; I’m sure
I can’t tell why; maybe the drop of drink I took got into my head.
Well, I was just jogging on across the common; the rain beating hard in
my face, and my clothes pasted to me with the wet; notwithstanding, I
was singing to myself a verse of an old song, to lighten the road, when
I heard suddenly a noise near me, like a man sneezing. I stopped and
listened,—in fact, it was impossible to see your hand, the night was so
dark—but I could hear nothing; the thought then came over me, maybe
it’s something ‘not good,’ for there were very ugly stories going about
what the priests used to do formerly in these meadows; and bones were
often found in different parts of them. Just as I was thinking this,
another voice came nearer than the last; it might be only a sneeze,
after all; but in real earnest it was mighty like a groan. ‘The Lord be
about us,’ I said to myself, ‘what’s this?—have ye the pass?’ I cried
out, ‘have ye the pass? or what brings ye walking here, in nomine
patri?’ for I was so confused whether it was a ‘sperit’ or not, I was
going to address him in Latin—there’s nothing equal to the dead
languages to lay a ghost, every body knows. Faith the moment I said
these words he gave another groan, deeper and more melancholy like than
before. ‘If it’s uneasy ye are,’ says I, ‘for any neglect of your
friends,’ for I thought he might be in purgatory longer than he thought
convenient, ‘tell me what you wish, and go home peaceably out of the
rain, for this weather can do no good to living or dead; go home,’ said
I, ‘and, if it’s masses ye’d like, I’ll give you a day’s pay myself,
rather than you should fret yourself this way.’ The words were not well
out of my mouth, when he came so near me that the sigh he gave went
right through both my ears; ‘the Lord be merciful to me,’ said I,
trembling. ‘Amen,’ says he, ‘whether you’re joking or not.’ The moment
he said that my mind was relieved, for I knew it was not a sperit, and
I began to laugh heartily at my mistake; ‘and who are ye at all?’ said
I, ‘that’s roving about, at this hour of the night, ye can’t be Father
Luke, for I left him asleep on the carpet before I quitted the college,
and faith, my friend, if you hadn’t the taste for divarsion ye would
not be out now?’ He coughed then so hard that I could not make out well
what he said, but just perceived that he had lost his way on the
common, and was a little disguised in liquor. ‘It’s a good man’s case,’
said I, ‘to take a little too much, though it’s what I don’t ever do
myself; so, take a hold of my hand, and I’ll see you safe.’ I stretched
out my hand, and got him, not by the arm, as I hoped, but by the hair
of the head, for he was all dripping with wet, and had lost his hat.
‘Well, you’ll not be better of this night’s excursion,’ thought I, ‘if
ye are liable to the rheumatism; and, now, whereabouts do you live, my
friend, for I’ll see you safe, before I leave you?’ What he said then I
never could clearly make out, for the wind and rain were both beating
so hard against my face that I could not hear a word; however, I was
able just to perceive that he was very much disguised in drink, and
spoke rather thick. ‘Well, never mind,’ said I, ‘it’s not a time of day
for much conversation; so, come along, and I’ll see you safe in the
guard-house, if you can’t remember your own place of abode in the
meanwhile.’ It was just at the moment I said this that I first
discovered he was not a gentleman. Well, now, you’d never guess how I
did it; and, faith I always thought it a very cute thing of me, and
both of us in the dark.”
“Well, I really confess it must have been a very difficult thing, under
the circumstances; pray how did you contrive?” said the major.
“Just guess how.”
“By the tone of his voice perhaps, and his accent,” said Curzon.
“Devil a bit, for he spoke remarkably well, considering how far gone he
was in liquor.”
“Well, probably by the touch of his hand; no bad test.”
“No; you’re wrong again, for it was by the hair I had a hold of him for
fear of falling, for he was always stooping down. Well, you’d never
guess it; it was just by the touch of his foot.”
“His foot! Why how did that give you any information?”
“There it is now; that’s just what only an Irishman would ever have
made any thing out of; for while he was stumbling about, he happened to
tread upon my toes, and never, since I was born, did I feel any thing
like the weight of him. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the loss of your hat may give
you a cold, my friend; but upon my conscience you are in no danger of
wet feet with such a pair of strong brogues as you have on you.’ Well,
he laughed at that till I thought he’d split his sides, and, in good
truth, I could not help joining in the fun, although my foot was
smarting like mad, and so we jogged along through the rain, enjoying
the joke just as if we were sitting by a good fire, with a jorum of
punch between us. I am sure I can’t tell you how often we fell that
night, but my clothes the next morning were absolutely covered with
mud, and my hat crushed in two; for he was so confoundedly drunk it was
impossible to keep him up, and he always kept boring along with his
head down, so that my heart was almost broke in keeping him upon his
legs. I’m sure I never had a more fatiguing march in the whole
Peninsula, than that blessed mile and a half; but every misfortune has
an end at last, and it was four o’clock, striking by the college clock,
as we reached the barracks. After knocking a couple of times, and
giving the countersign, the sentry opened the small wicket, and my
heart actually leaped with joy that I had done with my friend; so, I
just called out the sergeant of the guard, and said, ‘will you put that
poor fellow on the guard-bed till morning, for I found him on the
common, and he could neither find his way home nor tell me where he
lived.’ ‘And where is he?’ said the sergeant. ‘He’s outside the gate
there,’ said I, ‘wet to the skin, and shaking as if he had the ague.’
‘And is this him?’ said the sergeant as we went outside. ‘It is,’ said
I, ‘maybe you know him?’ ‘Maybe I’ve a guess,’ said he, bursting into a
fit of laughing, that I thought he’d choke with. ‘Well, sergeant,’ said
I, ‘I always took you for a humane man; but, if that’s the way you
treat a fellow-creature in distress.’ ‘A fellow-creature,’ said he,
laughing louder than before. ‘Ay, a fellow-creature,’ said I—for the
sergeant was an orangeman—‘and if he differs from you in matters of
religion, sure he’s your fellow-creature still.’ ‘Troth, Doctor, I
think there’s another trifling difference betune us,’ said he. ‘Damn
your politics,’ said I; ‘never let them interfere with true humanity.’
Wasn’t I right, Major? ‘Take good care of him, and there’s a
half-a-crown for ye.’ So saying these words, I steered along by the
barrack wall, and, after a little groping about, got up stairs to my
quarters, when, thanks to a naturally good constitution, and regular
habits of life, I soon fell fast asleep.”
When the Doctor had said thus much, he pushed his chair slightly from
the table, and, taking off his wine, looked about him with the
composure of a man who has brought his tale to a termination.
“Well, but Doctor,” said the Major, “you are surely not done. You have
not yet told us who your interesting friend turned out to be.”
“That’s the very thing, then, I’m not able to do.”
“But, of course,” said another, “your story does not end there.”
“And where the devil would you have it end?” replied he. “Didn’t I
bring my hero home, and go asleep afterwards myself, and then, with
virtue rewarded, how could I finish it better?”
“Oh, of course; but still you have not accounted for a principal
character in the narrative,” said I.
“Exactly so,” said Curzon. “We were all expecting some splendid
catastrophe in the morning; that your companion turned out to be the
Duke of Leinster, at least—or perhaps a rebel general, with an immense
price upon his head.”
“Neither the one nor the other,” said Fin, drily.
“And do you mean to say there never was any clue to the discovery of
him?”
“The entire affair is wrapt in mystery to this hour,” said he. “There
was a joke about it, to be sure, among the officers; but the North Cork
never wanted something to laugh at.”
“And what was the joke?” said several voices together.
“Just a complaint from old Mickey Oulahan, the postmaster, to the
Colonel, in the morning, that some of the officers took away his blind
mare off the common, and that the letters were late in consequence.”
“And so, Doctor,” called out seven or eight, “your friend turned out to
be—”
“Upon my conscience they said so, and that rascal, the serjeant, would
take his oath of it; but my own impression I’ll never disclose to the
hour of my death.”