Lavengro · Part I · Chapter 1 39 (2/2)

‘Whether sick or sound my receipt was the same,

To Stafford I stepp’d and better became;

A visit to Stafford’s bounteous hall

Was the best receipt of all, of all.

‘Midnight fell round us and drinking found us,

At morn again flow’d his whisky;

By his insight he knew ’twas the only way true

To keep Torlough alive and frisky.

‘Now deep healths quaffing, now screeching now laughing,

At my harp-strings tearing, and to madness nearing:

That was the life I led, and which I yet do;

For I will swear it, and to all the world declare it,

If you would fain be happy, you must aye be⁠—’

“Fou!” said Francis Ardry, suddenly pushing open the door of the room from which the voice proceeded; “That’s the word, I think, captain.”

“By my shoul, Mr. Francis Ardry, you enter with considerable abruptness, sir,” said one of two men who were seated smoking at a common deal table, in a large ruinous apartment in which we now found ourselves. “You enter with considerable abruptness sir,” he repeated; “do you know on whom you are intruding?”

“Perfectly well,” said Francis; “I am standing in the presence of Torlough O’ Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating all the English⁠—”

“And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary,” said the captain with a menacing look. “I do not like to be broken in upon as if I were a nobody. However, as you are here, I suppose I must abide by it. I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient in the rudiments of hospitality. You may both of you sit down and make yourselves aisy.”

But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the room being occupied by the captain and the other. I therefore leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment.

The captain might be about forty. His head was immensely large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature. He was about the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting considerable strength. He wore a blue coat, the lappets of which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon the ground. Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned his nether man.

His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat exactly resembling those worn by hackneys. He had a quiet, droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that the point of it nearly entered his mouth.

“Who may this friend of yours be?” said the captain to Ardry, after staring at me.

“A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry and philology.”

“Is he Irish?”

“No, he is English; but I have heard him say that he has a particular veneration for Ireland.”

“He has, has he; by my shoul, then, all the better for him. If he had not⁠ ⁠… Can he fight?”

“I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when necessary.”

“He can, can he? by my shoul, I should like to try him. But first of all I have another customer to dispose of. I have just determined to send a challenge to Bishop Sharpe whom these English call the best of their light weights.158 Perhaps he is, but if I don’t⁠—”

“The Bishop is a good man,” interrupted his companion of the greatcoat and glazed hat, in a strange croaky tone.

“Is it a good man that you are calling him?” said the captain. “Well, be it so; the more merit in my baiting him.”

“That’s true; but you have not beat him yet,” said his companion.

“Not bate him yet? Is not there the paper that I am going to write the challenge on? and is not there the pen and the ink that I am going to write it with? and is not there yourself, John Turner, my hired servant, that’s bound to take him the challenge when ’tis written?”

“That’s true; here we are all four⁠—pen, ink, paper, and John Turner; but there’s something else wanted to beat Bishop Sharpe.”

“What else is wanted?” shouted the captain.

“Why, to be a better man than he.”

“And ain’t I that man?”

“Why, that remains to be seen.”

“Ain’t I an Irishman?”

“Yes, I believe you to be an Irishman. No one, to hear you talk, but would think you that, or a Frenchman. I was in conversation with one of that kind the other day. Hearing him talk rather broken, I asked him what countryman he was. ‘What countryman are you?’ said I.⁠—‘I?’ said he, ‘I am one Frenchman,’ and then he looked at me as if I should sink into the earth under his feet.⁠—‘You are not the better for that,’ said I; ‘you are not the better for being a Frenchman, I suppose,’ said I.⁠—‘How?’ said he; ‘I am of the great nation which has won all the battles in the world.’⁠—‘All the battles in the world?’ said I. ‘Did you ever hear of the battle of Waterloo?’ said I. You should have seen how blue he looked. ‘Ah! you can’t get over that,’ said I; ‘you can’t get over the battle of Waterloo,’ said I.”

“Is it the battle of Waterloo you are speaking of, you spalpeen? And to one who was there, an Irish cavalier, fighting in the ranks of the brave French! By the powers! if the sacrifice would not be too great, I would break this pipe in your face.”

“Why, as to that, two can play at that,” said he of the glazed hat, smoking on very composedly. “I remember I once said so to young Cope⁠—you have heard of young Cope. I was vally to young Cope and servant of all work twenty year ago at Brighton. So one morning after I had carried up his boots, he rings the bell as if in a great fury. ‘Do you call these boots clean?’ said young Cope, as soon as I showed myself at the door. ‘Do you call these clean?’ said he, flinging one boot at my head, and then the other. ‘Two can play at that game,’ said I, catching the second boot in my hand, ‘two can play at that game,’ said I, aiming it at young Cope’s head⁠—not that I meant to fling it at young Cope’s head, for young Cope was a gentleman; yes, a gentleman, captain, though not Irish, for he paid me my wages.”

These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who continued smoking and talking with great composure. Suddenly replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, and in a tone of great hauteur said:⁠—

“So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of the humanities.”

“Yes,” said I, “I am very fond of humanity, and was always a great admirer of the lines of Gay:⁠—

‘Cowards are cruel, but the brave

Love mercy and delight to save.’ ”

“By my shoul, sir, it’s an ignorant beast I’m thinking ye. It was not humanity I was speaking of, but the humanities, which have nothing at all to do with it.” Then turning to Frank, he demanded, “Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and whatnot?”

“To be sure I did,” said Frank.

“Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as ignorant as your friend here?”

“You pretend to be a humanist, sir,” said he to me, “but I will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance. Now, sir, do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected with the Irish humanities?”

“I must hear it first,” said I.

“You must hear it, must ye? Then you shall hear it to your confusion. A pretty humanist I will show you to be; open your ears, sir!”⁠—

‘Triuir ata sé air mo bhás.’159

“Now, sir, what does the poet mean by saying that there are three looking after his death? Whom does he allude to, sir? hey?”

“The devil, the worms, and his children,” said I, “who are looking after three things which they can’t hope to get before he is dead⁠—the children his property, the worms his body, and the devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on.”

The captain looked at me malignantly.

“Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Wherefore?” said I. “Have I not given the meaning of the poem?”

“You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough; I find no fault with your interpretation. What I mean is this: Are you not ashamed to be denying your country?”

“I never denied my country; I did not even mention it. My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the truth.”

“Sorrow befall you for saying so,” said the captain. “But I see how it is, you have been bought; yes, sir, paid money, to deny your country; but such has ever been the policy of the English; they can’t bate us, so they buy us. Now here’s myself. No sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let myself be beat. What is that you say, sir?” said he, addressing his companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound⁠—“No hopes of that, did you say? Do you think that I could be bate without allowing myself to be bate? By the powers!⁠—but you are beneath my notice.”

“Well, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on me, “though you have cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not enough to deny the merit of the elegy. What do you think of the elegy, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff,” said I.

“Hear him!” said the captain looking about him. “But he has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all that belongs to it. Well, sir, what do you think of Carolan, Carolan the Great? What do you think of his Receipt, sir?”

“I think it very sorry stuff, too.”

“Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me a receipt for all this before you leave. One word more. I suppose you’ll next deny that we have any poetry or music at all.”

“Far be it from me to say any such thing. There is one song connected with Ireland which I have always thought very fine, and likewise the music that accompanies it.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir; there is one piece of Irish poetry and music which meets your approbation! Pray name the piece, sir.”

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified.

“What, sir?” said he.

“ ‘Croppies Lie Down!’ ”

The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table; then tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a bulldog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of suppressed fury: “I think I have heard of that song before, sir; but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me. I should admire to hear from your lips what it is. Perhaps you will sing me a line or two.”

“With great pleasure,” said I:⁠—

“There are many brave rivers run into the sea,

But the best of them all is Boyne water for me;

There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled,

With Jamie the runagate king at their head.

When crossing the ford

In the name of the Lord,

The conqueror brandished his conquering sword;

Then down, down, Croppies lie down!”

“By the powers! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne trooper. You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy renegade!⁠—the black North, but old Ireland still. But here’s Connemara for ye⁠—take this⁠—and this⁠—Och, murther!⁠—What have we got here⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Who and what is this O’Donahue?” said I to Frank Ardry after we had descended into the street.

“An ill-tempered Irishman,” said Frank, “the most disagreeable animal alive, once a rare bird on the earth. His father, after having taught him some Irish and less Latin, together with an immoderate hatred of the English, sent him abroad at the age of sixteen to serve the French. In that service he continued until the time of the general peace, when he quitted it for the Austrian. I first became acquainted with him at Vienna, where he bore the rank of captain, but had the character of a notorious gambler. It was owing, I believe, to his gambling practices that he was eventually obliged to leave the Austrian service. He has been in London about six months, where he supports himself as best he can, chiefly, I believe, by means of the gaming-table. His malignity against England has of late amounted almost to insanity, and has been much increased by the perusal of Irish newspapers which abound with invective against England and hyperbolical glorification of Ireland and the Irish. The result is that he has come to the conclusion that the best way for him to take revenge for the injuries of Ireland and to prove the immense superiority of the Irish over the English will be to break the head of Bishop Sharpe in the ring.”

“Well,” said I, “I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be, should not be settled in the ring.”

“Nor I either,” said Frank, “and I could wish my countrymen to choose none other than O’Donahue. With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe⁠ ⁠…”

At that moment a voice sounded close by me: “Coach, your honour, coach? Will carry you anywhere you like.” I stopped, and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side.

“What do you want?” said I. “Have you brought me any message from your master?”

“Master? What master? Oh! you mean the captain. I left him rubbing his head. No, I don’t think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he has had enough of you. All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride.”

“I thought you were the captain’s servant.”

“Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park, but he’s no master of mine⁠—he doesn’t pay me. Who cares? I don’t serve him for money. I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English⁠—Lord help him! Now, where do you wish to go? Any coach you like⁠—any coachman⁠—and nothing to pay.”

“Why do you wish me to ride?” said I.

“Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I think what he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for a week at least. Come, come along, both of you. The stand is close by, and I’ll drive you myself.”

“Will you ride?” said I to Francis Ardry.

“No,” said Frank.

“Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?”

“To London Bridge.”]