Struggles and Triumphs · Chapter 45 (2/5)

“Nothing at all, Mr. Backus,” said my grandfather, with apparent seriousness. “These gentlemen choose to wear their beards according to the prevailing fashion in the place they came from; and I think it is very hard that they should be stared at and insulted by you Yorkers because your fashion happens to differ a trifle from theirs.”

Backus half believed my grandfather in earnest, and the bystanders were quite convinced such was the fact, for not a smile appeared upon one of the half-shaved countenances.

After sitting a few minutes the passengers were shown to their rooms, and at teatime every man appeared at the table precisely as he came from the sloop. The ladies looked astonished, the waiters winked and laughed, but the subjects of this merriment were as grave as judges. In the evening they maintained the same gravity in the barroom, and at ten o’clock they retired to bed with all due solemnity. In the morning, however, bright and early, they were in the barber’s shop, undergoing an operation that soon placed them upon a footing with the rest of mankind.

It is hardly necessary to explain that the clergyman did not appear in that singular procession of Sunday afternoon. He tied a handkerchief over his face, and taking his valise in his hand, started for Market Street, where it is presumed he found a good brother and a good razor in season to fill his appointment.

Let me give an illustration of a “practical joke,” which is quite professional as well as practical with the operator, and in nine cases out of ten, no doubt, profitable withal. When I was in Paris in 1845, there came one day to my room in the Hotel Bedford, where I was staying, a smart little Frenchman with a case of instruments under his arm. He announced himself as a chiropodist who could instantly remove the worst corns, not only without pain, but he promised by means of a mysterious liniment in his possession to immediately heal the spot from which he removed the corn.

Now I had not a corn on my feet, but willing to test his wonderful powers, I told him to examine my left foot, and to remove a troublesome corn on the little toe. Surely enough he did remove and exhibit such a corn as I am sure would have prevented my walking, had I known that I was so grievously afflicted. He then poured some of his red oil on the toe and triumphantly showed me that the place had already entirely healed. Pretending to be delighted with his skill, I held out another toe for “operation,” and watching him carefully I saw him slip a manufactured corn into his oil bottle, which, after fumbling awhile and pretending to pare the unoffending toe, he “extracted.” More delighted than ever, I rang the bell, and told the servant to send up the landlord, as I wished him to witness the extraordinary skill of the corn-doctor. The landlord arrived, and, after a few words of eulogy upon the chiropodist, I submitted another healthy toe, and forth came another monstrous corn; for the same process of extraction, with the same results, could have been performed on the foot of a marble statue.

It was now my turn, to “operate,” so I rose and bolted the door and took off my coat, telling the “doctor” that I greatly admired his gold mounted instruments and the brazen impudence with which he swindled the public, but that this time he had “caught a Tartar,” and that he could not leave the room till he had been searched.

The quack bristled up in grand style at what he termed my ungentlemanly behavior, and threatened if I touched him to bring me before the “Tribunal.” I remarked that I rather thought the “Tribunal” was the last place on earth at which he desired to appear, and then assuring the landlord that the fellow was an arrant imposter, and that if he would assist me in searching him I would prove it and warrant that no harm should come to the searchers, he consented, and collared the chiropodist. The fellow seeing that we were resolved, quietly submitted. We first searched his pockets and found nothing; but upon examining his morocco instrument case, we discovered a drawer in which were eighty ready-made corns and a small piece of horn which furnished the raw material for the manufacture! Fortunately, my right foot was not bare, and I forthwith gave the chiropodist a lesson in the shape of a warm visitation of shoe-leather, which sent him flying downstairs, where the dose was doubled by an attentive servant till the chiropodist reached the street. He did not call at the Hotel Bedford again during my stay.

I was a good deal amused when I was in Brighton, England, during the same year, to see how some people manage to reconcile cash and conscience. Everyone knows that Brighton is a fashionable watering-place, frequented by all sorts of people; but the actual residents, many of whom are very wealthy, are supposed to be quite removed from the fashionable and other follies of the visitors from abroad during the “season.” The millionaires of Brighton, when I was there, were great churchgoers, and at the same time were extensive owners in the stock of the railway which brought so many visitors to the place. It was therefore for their interest that trains should run on Sundays, as well as on other days, but as such a course would clash with their religious professions, it was necessary that some plan should be devised by which a compromise could be effected between profits and profession, cash and conscience⁠—for the idea of ever sacrificing interest to principle never enters the minds of those whose religion may be in their heads while it never reaches their hearts. The compromise between the duty and the dividends of the Brighton railway shareholders was effected as follows:

After a great deal of talk pro and con on the subject, the trains on Sunday were permitted to arrive and depart on the following conditions. But little noise and confusion was manifest and there were fewer porters employed about the station than on weekdays, obliging the arriving and departing passengers not only to look after, but to lift their baggage, and as bell-ringing, that is, locomotive bell-ringing, would disturb the sanctity of the Sabbath, a bugle gave notice of the incoming and outgoing of the trains. But even this was not enough; it was expressly stipulated that the bugle-player should play nothing but sacred music! Thus trains came in to “Old Hundred,” or some similar Psalm tune, and went out to the air of “Dismission” common to the hymn commencing, “Lord, dismiss us with thy blessing.” I do not know that this custom is still kept up at Brighton, but it certainly was so when I was there in 1845; and it was gravely recommended to others who favored a very strict observance of Sunday, and yet liked their dividends, or were eager for Sunday mails. In common phrase, it was whipping the Evil One round the stump in a curious way.

It reminded me of the good old deacon in Connecticut who was in the habit of selling milk to his neighbors on all days in the week. One Sunday, however, his parson came home with him to tea, and while they were at the table a little girl came in for a quart of milk. The deacon was afraid of being scandalized in the presence of the parson, and so he told the girl he did not sell milk on Sunday. The girl, who had been accustomed to buy on that day as on other days, was much surprised and turned to go away, when the sixpence in her hand was too much of a temptation for the deacon, who called out:

“Here, little girl! you can leave the money now, and call and get the milk tomorrow!”

During my journeyings abroad I was not wholly free from the usual infirmity of travellers, viz, a desire to look at the old castles of feudal times, whether in preservation or in ruins; but there was one of our party, Mr. H. G. Sherman, who had a peculiar and irresistible taste for the antique. He gathered trunks full of stone and timber mementos from every place of note which we visited; and, if there was anything which he admired more than all else, it was an old castle. He spent many hours in clambering the broken walls of Kenilworth, in viewing the towers and dungeons of Warwick, and climbing the precipices of Dumbarton. When travelling by coach, Sherman always secured an outside seat, and, if possible, next to the coachman, so as to be able to make inquiries regarding everything which he might happen to see.

On our journey from Belfast to Drogheda, Sherman occupied his usual seat beside the driver, and asked him a thousand questions. The coachman was a regular wag, with genuine Irish wit, and he determined to have a little bit of fun at the expense of the inquisitive Yankee. As we came within eight miles of Drogheda, the watchful eye of Sherman caught the glimpse of a large stone pile, appearing like a castle, looming up among some trees in a field half a mile from the roadside.

“Oh, look here! what do you call that?” exclaimed Sherman, giving the coachman an elbowing in the ribs which was anything but pleasant.

“Faith,” replied the coachman, “you may well ask what we call that, for divil a call do we know what to call it. That is a castle, sir, beyond all question the oldest in Ireland; indade, none of the old books nor journals contain any account of it. It is known, however, that Brian Borrhoime inhabited it some time, though it is supposed to have been built centuries before his day.”

“I’ll give you half-a-crown to stop the coach long enough for me to run and bring a scrap of it away,” said Sherman.

“Sure, and isn’t this the royal mail coach? and I would not dare detain it for half the Bank of Ireland,” replied the honest coachman.

“How far is it to Drogheda?” inquired Sherman.

“About eight miles, more or less,” answered the coachman.

“Stop your coach, and let me down then,” replied Sherman; “I’ll walk to Drogheda, and would sooner walk three times the distance than not have a nearer view, and carry off a portion of the oldest castle in Ireland.”

With that Sherman dismounted, and, raising his umbrella to protect him from the cold rain which was falling in torrents, he marched off in the mud, calling out to me that I might expect him in Dublin by the next train to that which would take us from Drogheda, the railroad being then completed only to that point from Dublin.

We arrived in Dublin about five o’clock, cold and uncomfortable; but warm apartments and good fires were in waiting for us, and in a few hours we had partaken of an excellent supper, and were as happy as lords. About nine o’clock in the evening, the door of our parlor was opened, and who should come in but poor Sherman, drenched to the skin with cold rain⁠—the legs of his boots pulled over the bottoms of his pantaloons, and covered with thick mud to the very tops, and himself looking like a half-famished, weary and frozen traveller.

“For Heaven’s sake, let me get to the fire!” exclaimed Sherman, and we were too much struck with his suffering appearance not to heed it.

“Well, Sherman,” I remarked, “that must have been a tedious walk for you⁠—eight long Irish miles through the rain and mud.”

“I guess you would have thought so if you had walked it yourself,” replied Sherman, doggedly.

“I hope you have brought away trophies enough from the castle to pay you for all this trouble,” I continued.

“Oh, curse the castle!” exclaimed Sherman.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, in astonishment.

“Oh, you need not look surprised,” replied Sherman; “for I have no doubt that you and that bog-trotting Irish coachman have had fun enough at my expense before this time.”

I assured him that I positively had not heard the coachman speak on the subject, and begged him to tell me what had occurred to vex him in this manner.

“Why, if you don’t already know,” replied Sherman, “I would not have you know for twenty pounds, for you would be sure to publish it. However, now your curiosity is excited, you would be certain to find it all out, if you had to hire a post-chaise, and ride there on purpose; so I may as well tell you.”

“Do tell me,” I replied, “for I confess my curiosity is excited, and I am unable to guess why you are so angry; for I know you love to see castles, and that pleasure you surely have enjoyed, for I caught a glimpse of one myself.”

“No, you have not seen a castle today, nor I either!” exclaimed Sherman.

“What on earth was it, then?” I asked.

“A thundering old limekiln!” exclaimed Sherman; “and I only wish I could pitch that infernal Irish coachman into it while it was under full blast!”

It was many a long day before Sherman heard the last of the limekiln; in fact, this trick of the Irish coachman rendered him cautious in making inquiries of strangers.

One day we rode to Donnybrook, the place so much celebrated for its fairs and its black eyes; for it would be quite out of character for Pat to attend a fair without having a flourish of the shillelah, and a scrimmage which would result in a few broken heads and bloody noses.

Near Donnybrook we saw something on the summit of a hill which appeared like a round stone tower. It was probably sixty feet in circumference and twenty-five feet high.

“I would like to know what that is,” said Sherman.

I advised him to inquire of the first coachman that came along, but, with a forced smile, he declined my advice.

“It can’t be a limekiln, at any rate,” continued Sherman; “it must be a castle of some description.”

The more we looked at it the more mysterious did it appear to us, and Sherman’s castle-hunting propensities momentarily increased. At last he exclaimed: “A man who travels with a tongue in his head is a fool if he don’t use it; and I am not going within a hundred rods of what may be the greatest curiosity in Ireland, without knowing it.”

With that he turned our horse’s head towards a fine-looking mansion on our right, where we halted. Sherman jumped from the carriage, opened the small gate, proceeded up the alley of the lawn fronting the house, and rang the bell. A servant appeared at the door; but Sherman, knowing the stupidity of Irish servants, was determined to apply at headquarters for the information he so much desired.

“Is your master in?” asked Sherman.

“I will see, sir. What name, if you plaze?”

“A stranger from the United States of America!” replied Sherman.

The servant departed, and in a minute returned and invited Sherman to enter the parlor. He found the gentleman of the mansion sitting by a pleasant fire, near which were also his lady and several visitors and members of the family. Sherman was not troubled with diffidence. Being seated, he hoped he would be excused for having called without an invitation; but the fact was, he was an American traveller, desirous of picking up all important information that might fall in his way.

The gentleman politely replied that no apology was necessary, that he was most happy to see him, and that any information which he could impart regarding that or any other portion of the country should be given with pleasure.

“Thank you,” replied Sherman; “I will not trouble you except on a single point. I have seen all that is important in Dublin and its vicinity, and in and about Donnybrook; there is but one thing respecting which I want information, and that is the stone tower or castle which we see standing on the hill, about a quarter of a mile south of your house. If you could give me the name and history of that pile, I shall feel extremely obliged.”

“Oh, nothing is easier,” replied the gentleman, with a smile. “That ‘pile,’ as you call it, was built some forty years ago by my father; and it was a lucky ‘pile’ for him, for it was the only windmill in these parts, and always had plenty to do: but a few years ago a hurricane carried off the wings of the mill, and ever since that it has stood as it now does, a memorial of its former usefulness. Is there any other important information that I can give you?” asked the gentleman, with a smile.