HOW THE ROYAL IRISH ARTILLERY ENTERTAINED SOME OF THE NEIGHBOURS AT
DINNER.
If I stuck at a fib as little as some historians, I might easily tell
you who won the prizes at this shooting on Palmerstown Green. But the
truth is, I don't know; my granduncle could have told me, for he had a
marvellous memory, but he died, a pleasant old gentleman of four-score
and upwards, when I was a small urchin. I remember his lively old face,
his powdered bald head and pigtail, his slight erect figure, and how
merrily he used to play the fiddle for his juvenile posterity to dance
to. But I was not of an age to comprehend the value of this thin, living
volume of old lore, or to question the oracle. Well, it can't be helped
now, and the papers I've got are silent upon the point. But there were
jollifications to no end both in Palmerstown and Chapelizod that night,
and declamatory conversations rising up in the street at very late
hours, and singing, and '_hurooing_' along the moonlit roads.
There was a large and pleasant dinner-party, too, in the mess-room of
the Royal Irish Artillery. Lord Castlemallard was there in the place of
honour, next to jolly old General Chattesworth, and the worthy rector,
Doctor Walsingham, and Father Roach, the dapper, florid little priest of
the parish, with his silk waistcoat and well-placed paunch, and his keen
relish for funny stories, side-dishes, and convivial glass; and Dan
Loftus, that simple, meek, semi-barbarous young scholar, his head in a
state of chronic dishevelment, his harmless little round light-blue
eyes, pinkish from late night reading, generally betraying the absence
of his vagrant thoughts, and I know not what of goodness, as well as
queerness, in his homely features.
Good Dr. Walsingham, indeed, in his simple benevolence, had helped the
strange, kindly creature through college, and had a high opinion of him,
and a great delight in his company. They were both much given to books,
and according to their lights zealous archæologists. They had got hold
of Chapelizod Castle, a good tough enigma. It was a theme they never
tired of. Loftus had already two folios of extracts copied from all the
records to which Dr. Walsingham could procure him access. They could not
have worked harder, indeed, if they were getting up evidence to prove
their joint title to Lord Castlemallard's estates. This pursuit was a
bond of close sympathy between the rector and the student, and they
spent more time than appeared to his parishioners quite consistent with
sanity in the paddock by the river, pacing up and down, and across,
poking sticks into the earth and grubbing for old walls underground.
Loftus, moreover, was a good Irish scholar, and from Celtic MSS. had
elicited some cross-lights upon his subject--not very bright or steady,
I allow--but enough to delight the rector, and inspire him with a tender
reverence for the indefatigable and versatile youth, who was devoting to
the successful equitation of their hobby so many of his hours, and so
much of his languages, labour, and brains.
Lord Castlemallard was accustomed to be listened to, and was not aware
how confoundedly dull his talk sometimes was. It was measured, and
dreamy, and every way slow. He was entertaining the courteous old
general at the head of the table, with an oration in praise of Paul
Dangerfield--a wonderful man--immensely wealthy--the cleverest man of
his age--he might have been anything he pleased. His lordship really
believed his English property would drop to pieces if Dangerfield
retired from its management, and he was vastly obliged to him inwardly,
for retaining the agency even for a little time longer. He was coming
over to visit the Irish estates--perhaps to give Nutter a wrinkle or
two. He was a bachelor, and his lordship averred would be a prodigious
great match for some of our Irish ladies. Chapelizod would be his
headquarters while in Ireland. No, he was not sure--he rather thought he
was _not_ of the Thorley family; and so on for a mighty long time. But
though he tired them prodigiously, he contrived to evoke before their
minds' eyes a very gigantic, though somewhat hazy figure, and a good
deal stimulated the interest with which a new arrival was commonly
looked for in that pleasant suburban village. There is no knowing how
long Lord Castlemallard might have prosed upon this theme, had he not
been accidentally cut short, and himself laid fast asleep in his chair,
without his or anybody else's intending it. For overhearing, during a
short pause, in which he sipped some claret, Surgeon Sturk applying some
very strong, and indeed, frightful language to a little pamphlet upon
magnetism, a subject then making a stir--as from a much earlier date it
has periodically done down to the present day--he languidly asked Dr.
Walsingham his opinion upon the subject.
Now, Dr. Walsingham was a great reader of out-of-the-way lore, and
retained it with a sometimes painful accuracy; and he forthwith began--
'There is, my Lord Castlemallard, a curious old tract of the learned Van
Helmont, in which he says, as near as I can remember his words, that
magnetism is a magical faculty, which lieth dormant in us by the opiate
of primitive sin, and, therefore, stands in need of an excitator, which
excitator may be either good or evil; but is more frequently Satan
himself, by reason of some previous oppignoration or compact with
witches. The power, indeed, is in the witch, and not conferred by him;
but this versipellous or Protean impostor--these are his words--will not
suffer her to know that it is of her own natural endowment, though for
the present charmed into somnolent inactivity by the narcotic of
primitive sin.'
I verily believe that a fair description--none of your poetical
balderdash, but an honest plodding description of a perfectly
comfortable bed, and of the process of going to sleep, would,
judiciously administered soon after dinner, overpower the vivacity of
any tranquil gentleman who loves a nap after that meal--gently draw the
curtains of his senses, and extinguish the bed-room candle of his
consciousness. In the doctor's address and quotation there was so much
about somnolency and narcotics, and lying dormant, and opiates, that my
Lord Castlemallard's senses forsook him, and he lost, as you, my kind
reader, must, all the latter portion of the doctor's lullaby.
'I'd give half I'm pothethed of, Thir, and all my prothpecth in life,'
lisped vehemently plump little Lieutenant Puddock, in one of those stage
frenzies to which he was prone, 'to be the firtht Alecthander on the
boardth.'
Between ourselves, Puddock was short and fat, very sentimental, and a
little bit of a _gourmet_; his desk stuffed with amorous sonnets and
receipts for side-dishes; he, always in love, and often in the kitchen,
where, under the rose, he loved to direct the cooking of critical little
_plats_, very good-natured, rather literal, very courteous, _a
chevallier_, indeed, _sans reproche_. He had a profound faith in his
genius for tragedy, but those who liked him best could not help thinking
that his plump cheeks, round, little light eyes, his lisp, and a certain
lack-a-daisical, though solemn expression of surprise, which Nature, in
one of her jocular moods, seemed to have fixed upon his countenance,
were against his shining in that walk of the drama. He was blessed, too,
with a pleasant belief in his acceptance with the fair sex, but had a
real one with his comrades, who knew his absurdities and his virtues,
and laughed at and loved him.
'But hang it, there 'th no uthe in doing things by halves. Melpomene's
the most jealous of the Muses. I tell you if you stand well in her
gratheth, by Jove, Thir, you mutht give yourthelf up to her body and
thoul. How the deuthe can a fellow that's out at drill at hicth in the
morning, and all day with his head filled with tacticth and gunnery,
and--and--'
'And 'farced pigeons' and lovely women,' said Devereux.
'And such dry professional matterth,' continued he, without noticing,
perhaps hearing the interpolation, 'How can he pothibly have a chance
againth geniuses, no doubt--vathly thuperior by nature'--(Puddock, the
rogue, believed no such thing)--'but who devote themthelveth to the
thtudy of the art incethantly, exclusively, and--and----'
'Impossible,' said O'Flaherty. 'There now, was Tommy Shycock, of
Ballybaisly, that larned himself to balance a fiddle-stick on his chin;
and the young leedies, and especially Miss Kitty Mahony, used to be all
around him in the ball-room at Thralee, lookin', wondhrin', and
laughin'; and I that had twiste his brains, could not come round it,
though I got up every morning for a month at four o'clock, and was
obleeged to give over be rason of a soart iv a squint I was gettin' be
looking continually at the fiddle-stick. I began with a double bass, the
way he did--it's it that was the powerful fateaguin' exercise, I can
tell you. Two blessed hours a-day, regular practice, besides an odd
half-hour, now and agin, for three mortial years, it took him to larn
it, and dhrilled a dimple in his chin you could put a marrow-fat pay
in.'
'Practice,' resumed Puddock, I need not spell his lisp, 'study--time to
devote--industry in great things as in small--there's the secret.
_Nature_, to be sure--'
'Ay, Nature, to be sure--we must sustain Nature, dear Puddock, so pass
the bottle,' said Devereux, who liked his glass.
'Be the powers, Mr. Puddock, if I had half your janius for play-acting,'
persisted O'Flaherty, 'nothing i'd keep me from the boards iv
Smock-alley play-house--incog., I mean, of course. There's that
wonderful little Mr. Garrick--why he's the talk of the three kingdoms as
long as I can remember--an' making his thousand pounds a week--coining,
be gannies--an' he can't be much taller than you, for he's contimptably
small.'
'I'm the taller man of the two,' said little Puddock, haughtily, who had
made enquiries, and claimed half an inch over Rocius, honestly, let us
hope. 'But this is building castles in the air; joking apart, however, I
do confess I should dearly love--just for a maggot--to play two
parts--Richard the Third and Tamerlane.'
'Was not that the part you spoke that sympathetic speech out of for me
before dinner?'
'No, that was Justice Greedy,' said Devereux.
'Ay, so it was--was it?--that smothered his wife.'
'With a pudding clout,' persisted Devereux.
'No. With a--pooh!--a--you know--and stabbed himself,' continued
O'Flaherty.
'With a larding-pin--'tis written in good Italian.'
'Augh, not at all--it isn't Italian, but English, I'm thinking of--a
pilla, Puddock, you know--the _black_ rascal.'
'Well, English or Italian--tragedy or comedy,' said Devereux, who liked
Puddock, and would not annoy him, and saw he was hurt by Othello's
borrowing his properties from the kitchen; 'I venture to say you were
well entertained: and for my part, Sir, there are some characters'--(in
farce Puddock was really highly diverting)--'in which I prefer Puddock
to any player I every saw.'
'Oh--ho--ho!' laughed poor little Puddock, with a most gratified
derisiveness, for he cherished in secret a great admiration for
Devereux.
And so they talked stage-talk. Puddock lithping away, grand and
garrulous; O'Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere
applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy
word now and again.
'I shall never forget Mrs. Cibber's countenance in that last scene--you
know--in the "Orphan"--Monimia _you_ know, Devereux.' And the table
being by this time in high chat, and the chairs a little irregular,
Puddock slipped off his, and addressing himself to Devereux and
O'Flaherty--just to give them a notion of Mrs. Cibber--began, with a
countenance the most wobegone, and in a piping falsetto--
'When I am laid low, i' the grave, and quite forgotten.'
Monimia dies at the end of the speech--as the reader may not be aware;
but when Puddock came to the line--
'When I am dead, as presently I shall be,'
all Mrs. Cibber's best points being still to come, the little
lieutenant's heel caught in the edge of the carpet, as he sailed with an
imaginary hoop on grandly backward, and in spite of a surprising
flick-flack cut in the attempt to recover his equipoise, down came the
'orphan,' together with a table-load of spoons and plates, with a crash
that stopt all conversation.
Lord Castlemallard waked up, with a snort and a 'hollo, gentlemen!'
'It's only poor dear Monimia, general,' said Devereux with a melancholy
bow, in reply to a fiery and startled stare darted to the point by that
gallant officer.
'Hey--eh?' said his lordship, brightening up, and gazing glassily round
with a wan smile; and I fancy he thought a lady had somehow introduced
herself during his nap, and was pleased, for he admired the sex.
'If there's any recitation going on, I think it had better be for the
benefit of the company,' said the general, a little surly, and looking
full upon the plump Monimia, who was arranging his frill and hair, and
getting a little awkwardly into his place.
'And I think 'twould be no harm, Lieutenant Puddock, my dear,' says
Father Roach, testily, for he had been himself frightened by the crash,
'if you'd die a little aisier the next time.'
Puddock began to apologise.
'Never mind,' said the general, recovering, 'let's fill our glasses--my
Lord Castlemallard, they tell me this claret is a pretty wine.'
'A very pretty wine,' said my lord.
'And suppose, my lord, we ask these gentlemen to give us a song? I say,
gentlemen, there are fine voices among you. Will some gentleman oblige
the company with a song?'
'Mr. Loftus sings a very fine song, I'm told,' said Captain Cluffe, with
a wink at Father Roach.
'Ay,' cried Roach, backing up the joke (a good old one, and not yet
quite off the hooks), 'Mr. Loftus sings, I'll take my davy--I've heard
him!'
Loftus was shy, simple, and grotesque, and looked like a man who could
not sing a note. So when he opened his eyes, looked round, and blushed,
there was a general knocking of glasses, and a very flattering clamour
for Mr. Loftus's song.
But when silence came, to the surprise of the company he submitted,
though with manifest trepidation, and told them that he would sing as
the company desired. It was a song from a good old writer upon fasting
in Lent, and was, in fact, a reproof to all hypocrisy. Hereupon there
was a great ringing of glasses and a jolly round of laughter rose up in
the cheer that welcomed the announcement. Father Roach looked queer and
disconcerted, and shot a look of suspicion at Devereux, for poor Dan
Loftus had, in truth, hit that divine strait in a very tender spot.
The fact is, Father Roach was, as Irish priests were sometimes then, a
bit of a sportsman. He and Toole used occasionally to make mysterious
excursions to the Dublin mountains. He had a couple of mighty good dogs,
which he lent freely, being a good-natured fellow. He liked good living
and jolly young fellows, and was popular among the officers, who used to
pop in freely enough at his reverence's green hall-door whenever they
wanted a loan of his dogs, or to take counsel of the ghostly father
(whose opinion was valued more highly even than Toole's) upon the case
of a sick dog or a lame nag.
Well, one morning--only a few weeks before--Devereux and Toole together
had looked in on some such business upon his reverence--a little
suddenly--and found him eating a hare!--by all the gods, it
_was_--hare-pie in the middle of Lent!
It was at breakfast. His dinner was the meal of an anchorite, and who
would have guessed that these confounded sparks would have bounced into
his little refectory at that hour of the morning? There was no room for
equivocation; he had been caught in the very act of criminal
conversation with the hare-pie. He rose with a spring, like a
Jack-in-a-box, as they entered, and knife and fork in hand, and with
shining chops, stared at them with an angry, bothered, and alarmed
countenance, which increased their laughter. It was a good while before
he obtained a hearing, such was the hilarity, so sustained the fire of
ironical compliments, enquiries, and pleasantries, and the general
uproar.
When he did, with hand uplifted, after the manner of a prisoner
arraigned for murder, he pleaded 'a dispensation.' I suppose it was
true, for he backed the allegation with several most religious oaths and
imprecations, and explained how men were not always quite so strong as
they looked; that he might, if he liked it, by permission of his bishop,
eat meat at every meal in the day, and every day in the week; that his
not doing so was a voluntary abstinence--not conscientious, only
expedient--to prevent the 'unreasonable remarks' of his parishioners (a
roar of laughter); that he was, perhaps, rightly served for not having
publicly availed himself of his bishop's dispensation (renewed peals of
merriment). By this foolish delicacy (more of that detestable
horse-laughter), he had got himself into a false position; and so on,
till the _ad misericordiam_ peroration addressed to 'Captain Devereux,
dear,' and 'Toole, my honey.' Well, they quizzed him unmercifully; they
sat down and eat all that was left of the hare-pie, under his wistful
ogle. They made him narrate minutely every circumstance connected with
the smuggling of the game, and the illicit distillation for the mess.
They never passed so pleasant a morning. Of course he bound them over to
eternal secrecy, and of course, as in all similar cases, the vow was
religiously observed; nothing was ever heard of it at mess--oh, no--and
Toole never gave a dramatic representation of the occurrence, heightened
and embellished with all the little doctor's genius for farce.
There certainly was a monologue to which he frequently afterwards
treated the Aldermen of Skinner's Alley, and other convivial bodies, at
supper, the doctor's gestures were made with knife and fork in hand, and
it was spoken in a rich brogue and tones sometimes of thrilling pathos,
anon of sharp and vehement indignation, and again of childlike
endearment, amidst pounding and jingling of glasses, and screams of
laughter from the company. Indeed the lord mayor, a fat slob of a
fellow, though not much given to undue merriment, laughed his ribs into
such a state of breathless torture, that he implored of Toole, with a
wave of his hand--he could not speak--to give him breathing time, which
that voluble performer disregarding, his lordship had to rise twice, and
get to the window, or, as he afterwards said, he should have lost his
life; and when the performance was ended, his fat cheeks were covered
with tears, his mouth hung down, his head wagged slowly from side to
side, and with short gasping 'oohs,' and 'oohs,' his hands pressed to
his pudgy ribs, he looked so pale and breathless, that although they
said nothing, several of his comrades stared hard at him, and thought
him in rather a queer state.
Shortly after this little surprise, I suppose by way of ratifying the
secret treaty of silence, Father Roach gave the officers and Toole a
grand Lent dinner of fish, with no less than nineteen different _plats_,
baked, boiled, stewed, in fact, a very splendid feast; and Puddock
talked of some of those dishes more than twenty years afterwards.