A DAY IN DUBLIN.
[Illustration: Mr. Burke’s Enthusiasm for the Duke of Wellington]
On the third day of my residence at Curryglass, arrived my friend,
Mortimer, to replace me, bringing my leave from the colonel, and a most
handsome letter, in which he again glanced at the prospect before me in
the Callonby family, and hinted at my destination, which I had not
alluded to, adding, that if I made the pretence of study in Germany the
reason for my application at the Horse Guards, I should be almost
certain to obtain a six months’ leave. With what spirits I ordered
Stubber to pack up my portmanteau, and secure our places in the Dublin
mail for that night, while I myself hurried to take leave of my kind
entertainer and his guests, as well as to recommend to their favor and
attention my excellent friend Mortimer, who, being a jovial fellow, not
at all in love, was a happy exchange for me, who, despite Daly’s
capital stories, had spent the last two days in watching the high road
for my successor’s arrival.
Once more then, I bade adieu to Curryglass and its hospitable owner,
whose labours for “justice to Ireland” I shall long remember, and
depositing myself in the bowels of his majesty’s mail, gave way to the
full current of my hopes and imaginings, which at last ended in a sound
and refreshing sleep, from which I only awoke as we drew up at the door
of the Hibernian, in Dawson-street.
Even at that early hour there was considerable bustle and activity of
preparation, which I was at some loss to account for, till informed by
the waiter that there were upwards of three hundred strangers in the
house, it being the day of his majesty’s expected arrival on his visit
to Ireland, and a very considerable section of the county Galway being
at that moment, with their wives and families, installed, for the
occasion, in this, their favourite hotel.
Although I had been reading of this approaching event every day for the
last three months, I could not help feeling surprised at the intense
appearance of excitement it occasioned, and, in the few minutes’
conversation I held with the waiter, learned the total impossibility of
procuring a lodging anywhere, and that I could not have a bed, even
were I to offer five guineas for it. Having, therefore, no inclination
for sleep, even upon easier terms, I ordered my breakfast to be ready
at ten, and set out upon a stroll through the town. I could not help,
in my short ramble through the streets, perceiving how admirably
adapted were the worthy Dublinites for all the honors that awaited
them; garlands of flowers, transparencies, flags, and the other
insignia of rejoicing, were everywhere in preparation, and, at the end
of Sackville-street, a considerable erection, very much resembling an
impromptu gallows, was being built, for the purpose, as I afterwards
learnt, of giving the worshipful the lord mayor the opportunity of
opening the city gates to royalty; creating the obstacle where none
existed; being a very ingenious conceit, and considerably Irish into
the bargain. I could not help feeling some desire to witness how all
should go off, to use the theatrical phrase; but, in my anxiety to get
on to the continent, I at once abandoned every thought of delay. When I
returned to the coffee-room of my hotel, I found it crowded to excess;
every little table, originally destined for the accommodation of one,
having at least two, and sometimes three occupants. In my hurried
glance round the room, to decide where I should place myself, I was
considerably struck with the appearance of a stout elderly gentleman,
with red whiskers, and a high, bald forehead; he had, although the day
was an oppressively hot one, three waistcoats on, and by the brown York
tan of his long topped boots, evinced a very considerable contempt
either for weather or fashion; in the quick glance of his sharp grey
eye, I read that he listened half doubtingly to the narrative of his
companion, whose back was turned towards me, but who appeared, from the
occasional words which reached me, to be giving a rather marvellous and
melodramatic version of the expected pleasures of the capital. There
was something in the tone of the speaker’s voice that I thought I
recognised; I accordingly drew near, and what was my surprise to
discover my friend Tom O’Flaherty. After our first salutation was over,
Tom presented me to his friend, Mr. Burke, of somewhere, who, he
continued to inform me, in a stage whisper, was a “regular dust,” and
never in Dublin in his life before.
“And so, you say, sir, that his majesty cannot enter without the
permission of the lord mayor?”
“And the aldermen, too,” replied Tom. “It is an old feudal ceremony;
when his majesty comes up to the gate, he demands admission, and the
lord mayor refuses, because he would be thus surrendering his great
prerogative of head of the city; then the aldermen get about him, and
cajole him, and by degrees he’s won over by the promise of being
knighted, and the king gains the day, and enters.”
“Upon my conscience, a mighty ridiculous ceremony it is, after all,”
said Mr. Burke, “and very like a bargain for sheep in Ballinasloe fair,
when the buyer and seller appear to be going to fight, till a mutual
friend settles the bargain between them.”
At this moment, Mr. Burke suddenly sprung from his chair, which was
nearest the window, to look out; I accordingly followed his example,
and beheld a rather ludicrous procession, if such it could be called,
consisting of so few persons. The principal individual in the group was
a florid, fat, happy-looking gentleman of about fifty, with a profusion
of nearly white whiskers, which met at his chin, mounted upon a sleek
charger, whose half-ambling, half-prancing pace, had evidently been
acquired by long habit of going in procession; this august figure was
habited in a scarlet coat and cocked hat, having aiguillettes, and all
the other appanage of a general officer; he also wore tight buckskin
breeches, and high jack-boots, like those of the Blues and Horse
Guards; as he looked from side to side, with a self-satisfied contented
air, he appeared quite insensible of the cortege which followed and
preceded him; the latter, consisting of some score of half-ragged boys,
yelling and shouting with all their might, and the former, being a kind
of instalment in hand of the Dublin Militia Band, and who, in numbers
and equipment, closely resembled the “army which accompanies the first
appearance of Bombastes.” The only difference, that these I speak of
did not play “the Rogue’s March,” which might have perhaps appeared
personal.
As this goodly procession advanced, Mr. Burke’s eyes became riveted
upon it; it was the first wonder he had yet beheld, and he devoured it.
“May I ask, sir,” said he, at length, “who that is?”
“Who that is!” said Tom, surveying him leisurely as he spoke; “why,
surely, sir, you must be jesting, or you would not ask such a question;
I trust, indeed, every one knows who he is. Eh, Harry,” said he,
looking at me for a confirmation of what he said, and to which, of
course, I assented by a look.
“Well, but, my dear Mr. O’Flaherty, you forget how ignorant I am of
every thing here—”
“Ah, true,” said Tom, interrupting; “I forgot you never saw him
before.”
“And who is he, sir?”
“Why, that’s the Duke of Wellington.”
“Lord have mercy upon me, is it?” said Mr. Burke, as he upset the
table, and all its breakfast equipage, and rushed through the
coffee-room like one possessed. Before I could half recover from the
fit of laughing this event threw me into, I heard him as he ran full
speed down Dawson-street, waving his hat, and shouting out at the top
of his lungs, “God bless your grace—Long life to your grace—Hurra for
the hero of Waterloo; the great captain of the age,” &c. &c.; which I
grieve to say, for the ingratitude of the individual lauded, seemed not
to afford him half the pleasure, and none of the amusement it did the
mob, who reechoed the shouts and cheering till he was hid within the
precincts of the Mansion House.
“And, now,” said Tom to me, “finish your breakfast as fast as possible;
for, when Burke comes back he will be boring me to dine with him, or
some such thing, as a kind of acknowledgment of his gratitude for
showing him the Duke. Do you know he has seen more wonders through my
poor instrumentality, within the last three days in Dublin than a six
months’ trip to the continent would show most men. I have made him
believe that Burke Bethel is Lord Brougham, and I am about to bring him
to a soiree at Mi-Ladi’s, who he supposes to be the Marchioness of
Conyngham. Apropos to the Bellissima, let me tell you of a ‘good hit’ I
was witness to a few nights since; you know, perhaps, old Sir Charles
Giesecke, eh?”
“I have seen him once, I think—the professor of mineralogy.”
“Well, poor old Sir Charles, one of the most modest and retiring men in
existence, was standing the other night among the mob, in one of the
drawing-rooms, while a waltzing-party were figuring away, at which,
with that fondness for ‘la danse’ that characterizes every German of
any age, he was looking with much interest, when my lady came tripping
up, and the following short dialogue ensued within my ear-shot:—”
“Ah, mon cher, Sir Charles, ravi de vous voir. But why are you not
dancing?”
“Ah, mi ladi, Je ne puis pas, c’est a dire, Ich kann es nicht; I am too
old; Ich bin—”
“Oh, you horrid man; I understand you perfectly. You hate ladies, that
is the real reason. You do—you know you do.”
“Ah, my ladi, Gnaedige frau; glauben sie mir; I do loave de ladies; I
do adore de sex. Do you know, my ladi, when I was in Greenland I did
keep four womans.”
“Oh, shocking, horrid, vile Sir Charles, how could you tell me such a
story? I shall die of it.”
“Ah, mine Gott, mi ladi; sie irren sich, vous, vous trompez. You are
quite in mistake; it was only to row my boat!”
“I leave you to guess how my lady’s taste for the broad-side of the
story, and poor Sir Charles’s vindication of himself, in regard to his
estimation of ‘le beau sexe,’ amused all who heard it; as for me, I had
to leave the room, half-choked with suppressed laughter. And, now, let
us bolt, for I see Burke coming, and, upon my soul I am tired of
telling him lies, and must rest on my oars for a few hours at least.”
“But where is the necessity for so doing?” said I, “surely, where there
is so much of novelty as a large city presents to a visitor for the
first time, there is little occasion to draw upon imagination for your
facts.”
“Ah, my dear Harry, how little do you know of life; there is a kind of
man whose appetite for the marvellous is such, that he must be crammed
with miracles or he dies of inanition, and you might as well attempt to
feed a tiger upon pate de foie gras, as satisfy him by mere naked
unvarnished truth. I’ll just give you an easy illustration; you saw his
delight this morning when the ‘Duke’ rode past; well I’ll tell you the
converse of that proposition now. The night before last, having nothing
better to do, we went to the theatre; the piece was ‘La Perouse,’ which
they have been playing here for the last two months to crowded houses,
to exhibit some North American Indians whom some theatrical speculator
brought over ‘expres’, in all the horrors of fur, wampum, and yellow
ochre. Finding the ‘spectacle’ rather uninteresting I leaned back in my
box, and fell into a doze. Meanwhile, my inquiring friend, Mr. Burke,
who felt naturally anxious, as he always does, to get au fond at
matters, left his place to obtain information about the piece, the
audience, and, above all, the authenticity of the Indians, who
certainly astonished him considerably.
“Now it so happened that about a fortnight previously some violent
passion to return home to their own country had seized these
interesting individuals, and they felt the most irresistible longing to
abandon the savage and unnatural condiments of roast beef and
Guinness’s porter, and resume their ancient and more civilized habits
of life. In fact, like the old African lady, mentioned by the
missionary at the Cape, they felt they could die happy if they ‘could
only once more have a roast child for supper,’ and as such luxuries are
dear in this country, stay another week they would not, whatever the
consequences might be; the manager reasoned, begged, implored and
threatened, by turns; all would not do, go they were determined, and
all that the unfortunate proprietor could accomplish was, to make a
purchase of their properties in fur, belts, bows, arrows, and feathers,
and get them away quietly, without the public being the wiser. The
piece was too profitable a one to abandon, so he looked about
anxiously, to supply the deficiency in his corps dramatique. For
several days nothing presented itself to his thoughts, and the public
were becoming more clamorous for the repetition of a drama which had
greatly delighted them. What was to be done? In a mood of doubt and
uncertainty the wretched manager was taking his accustomed walk upon
the light-house pier, while a number of unfortunate country fellows,
bare legged and lanky, with hay ropes fastening their old grey coats
around them, were standing beside a packet about to take their
departure for England, for the harvest. Their uncouth appearance, their
wild looks, their violent gestures, and, above all, their strange and
guttural language, for they were all speaking Irish, attracted the
attention of the manager; the effect, to his professional eye was good,
the thought struck him at once. Here were the very fellows he wanted.
It was scarcely necessary to alter any thing about them, they were
ready made to his hand, and in many respects better savages than their
prototypes. Through the mediation of some whiskey, the appropriate
liquor in all treaties of this nature, a bargain was readily struck,
and in two hours more, ‘these forty thieves’ were rehearsing upon the
classic boards of our theatre, and once more, La Perouse, in all the
glory of red capital letters, shone forth in the morning
advertisements. The run of the piece continued unabated; the Indians
were the rage; nothing else was thought or spoken of in Dublin, and
already the benefit of Ashewaballagh Ho was announced, who, by the by,
was a little fellow from Martin’s estate in Connemara, and one of the
drollest dogs I ever heard of. Well, it so happened that it was upon
one of their nights of performing that I found myself, with Mr. Burke,
a spectator of their proceedings; I had fallen into an easy slumber,
while a dreadful row in the box lobby roused me from my dream, and the
loud cry of ‘turn him out,’ ‘pitch him over,’ ‘beat his brains out,’
and other humane proposals of the like nature, effectually restored me
to consciousness; I rushed out of the box into the lobby, and there, to
my astonishment, in the midst of a considerable crowd, beheld my
friend, Mr. Burke, belaboring the box-keeper with all his might with a
cotton umbrella of rather unpleasant proportions, accompanying each
blow with an exclamation of ‘well, are they Connaughtmen, now, you
rascal, eh? are they all west of Athlone, tell me that, no? I wonder
what’s preventing me beating the soul out of ye.’ After obtaining a
short cessation of hostilities, and restoring poor Sharkey to his legs,
much more dead than alive from pure fright, I learned, at last, the
teterrima causa belli. Mr. Burke, it seems, had entered into
conversation with Sharkey, the box-keeper, as to all the particulars of
the theatre, and the present piece, but especially as to the real and
authentic history of the Indians, whose language he remarked, in many
respects to resemble Irish. Poor Sharkey, whose benefit-night was
approaching, thought he might secure a friend for life, by imparting to
him an important state secret; and when, therefore, pressed rather
closely as to the ‘savages’ whereabout’ resolved to try a bold stroke,
and trust his unknown interrogator. ‘And so you don’t really know where
they come from, nor can’t guess?’ ‘Maybe, Peru,’ said Mr. Burke,
innocently. ‘Try again, sir,’ said Sharkey, with a knowing grin. ‘Is it
Behring’s Straits?’ said Mr. Burke. ‘What do you think of Galway, sir?’
said Sharkey, with a leer intended to cement a friendship for life; the
words were no sooner out of his lips, than Burke, who immediately took
them as a piece of direct insolence to himself and his country, felled
him to the earth, and was in the act of continuing the discipline when
I arrived on the field of battle.”