Chapter IV: Part 4

An Irish baronet of very ancient family (an honour which he never suffered any person to be ignorant of after twenty minutes’ conversation), proprietor of a large Galway territory, garnished with the usual dilapidated chateau, brogueless tenantry, managing attorneys, and mis-managing agents, having sufficiently squeezed his estate to get (as he terms) the _juice_ out of it, determined to serve a few campaigns about St. James’ Street, &c., and try if he could _retrench_ at the several club-houses and “hells” to be met with amidst what is called “high life” in our economical metropolis.

After having enacted with _éclat_ all the parts in the various scenes usually performed on that great theatre, he at length found, that the place was not much _cheaper_ than _sweet_ Glinsk, or any old principality of his own dear country. He therefore resolved to change the scene for a more diverting and cheerful one; and by way of a _finish_, came over to Paris, where any species of ruin may be completed with a taste, ease, and despatch unknown in our boorish country.

The baronet brought over three or four thousand pounds in his fob, just (as he told me) to try, by way of comparison, how long that quantity of _the dross_ would last in Paris[9]—on which point his curiosity was promptly satisfied:—“Frascati” and the “Salon des Etrangers,” by a due application of spotted bones, coloured pasteboard, and painted whirligigs, under the superintendence of the Marquis de Livere, informed him at the termination of a short novitiate, that nearly the last of his “Empereurs” had been securely vested in the custody of the said Marquis de Livere.

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Footnote 9:

Last year, the son of a very great man in England came over to Paris
with a considerable sum in his pocket for the very same purpose. The
first thing he did was gravely to ask his banker (an excellent and
sensible man), “How long six thousand pounds would last him in Paris?”
The reply was a true and correct one, “If you play, three days; if you
don’t, six weeks.”

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Though this seemed, _primâ facie_, rather _inconvenient_, yet the baronet’s dashing establishment did not immediately suffer diminution, until his valet’s repeated answer, _pas chez lui_, began to alarm the crew of grooms, goddesses, led captains, &c.

Misfortune (and he began to fancy this was very like one) seldom delays long to fill up the place of ready money when that quits a gentleman’s service: and it now seemed disposed to attach itself to the baronet in another way. Madam Pandora’s box appeared to fly open, and a host of bodily ills beset Sir John, who, having but indifferent nerves, was quite thrown on his back.

Such was the hapless situation of Sir John Burke, while exercising his portion of the virtue of patience, in _waiting for remittances_—a period of suspense particularly disagreeable to travellers abroad—every post-day being pretty certain to carry off the _appetite_; which circumstance, to be sure, may be sometimes considered _convenient_ enough.

Families from the interior of Hibernia are peculiarly subject to that suspense; and where their Irish agent happens to be an old _confidential solicitor_, or a _very dear friend_, or a near relation of the _family_, the attack is frequently acute. An instance, indeed, occurred lately, wherein the _miscarriage_ of an Irish letter actually caused the very same accident to a new-married lady!

The baronet, however, bore up well; and being extremely good-humoured, the surliest _créanciers_ in Paris could not find in their hearts for some time to be angry with him; and so, most unreasonably left him to be angry with himself, which is a thousand times more tormenting to a man, because _sans_ intermission.

At length, some of his most _pressing_ friends, who a short time before had considered it their highest honour to enjoy the _pratique_ of Monsieur le Chevalier, began to show symptoms of losing temper;—as smoke generally forebodes the generation of fire, something like a blaze seemed likely to burst forth; and as the baronet most emphatically said to me—“The d—d duns, like a flock of jack snipes, were eternally thrusting their _long bills_ into me, as if I was a piece of _bog_!”

Complaisance and smooth words very rarely fail to conciliate a Frenchman; and, after all, the baronet never experienced more civil or kinder friends in Paris than some of these very _snipes_ who stuck their long bills into him. But “remittances” from the county of Galway have been, time immemorial, celebrated for the extreme slowness of their movements; and though in general very _light_, they travel more deliberately than a broad-wheel waggon. Hence, Sir John Burke’s “corporal ills” were both perpetuated and heightened by his mental uneasiness.

Doctors were called in, in hopes that one or other of them might _by chance_ hit upon a remedy; and Sir John submitted to their prescriptions (to use his own words), like a lamb going to the slaughter.—“I knew very well,” said he, “that one _banker_ could do me more good by a single dose, than all the _doctors_ in Paris put together;—but as my friends Messrs. * * * * * had declined to administer any more _metallic_ prescriptions, I really feared that my _catastrophe_ was not very distant.”

And, indeed, the doctors, neither jointly nor severally agreeing as to the nature of his symptoms, nor to the necessary mode of treatment, after several _consultations_ respecting the _weather_ and the _war_ (as customary), gave Sir John’s case up as desperate: and having showed the palms of their hands without any favourable result, shook their heads, made each three low and lingering bows, and left the baronet to settle affairs himself with Madam Pandora as well as he could.

One of these medical gentlemen, however,—a fair, square, straightforward, skilful nosologist,—could not bring himself so easily to give up the baronet: he returned; and by dint of medicamenta, phlebotomy, blistering, leeching, cupping, smothering in vapour, &c. &c. (the pains of the patient’s mind, meanwhile, being overcome by the pains of his body) the doctor at last got him _thorough the thing_ (as they say in Ireland). He was not, however, quite free from the danger of a relapse; and an unlucky flask _extraordinary_ of “Epernay sec” (taken to celebrate his recovery) set Sir John’s solids and fluids again fermenting, knocked down his convalescence, which Dr. T—— had so indefatigably re-established, and introduced a certain inflammatory gentleman called fever.

The clergy were now summoned, and attended with an extra quantity of oil and water to lighten and prepare the baronet’s soul for speedy transportation; some souls, they said, and I believe truly, being much easier put into dying order than others. The skill of Doctor T——, however, once more preserved his patient for further adventures, and both physician and baronet agreed that, as the priests had done his body none, and his soul no _perceptible_ service, and as holy men were of course above all lust of lucre, there was no necessity for cashing _them_; so that the contemplated fees for masses should in strict justice be transferred to prescriptions. A few more plenteous bleedings were therefore substituted for extreme unction: with the aid of a sound natural constitution, Sir John once more found himself on his legs; and having but little flesh, and no fat, his shanks had not much difficulty in carrying his body moderate distances.

At the last bleeding, the incident occurred to which the foregoing is but matter of induction. The blood which the doctor had just extracted from the baronet was about twenty ounces of genuine ruby Galway gore, discharged unadulterated from the veins of a high-crested, aboriginal Irishman. It lay proudly basking and coagulating before the sun in china basins, at the chamber-window. Sir John seeming still rather weak, the physician determined to bring all his skill into a focus, discover the latent source of indisposition, and if possible at once root it out of the baronet’s constitution, thereby gaining the double advantage of increasing professional fame and the amount of his fees. Now, at precisely the same point of time, the baronet was inventing an apology for _not paying_ the doctor.

After musing some time, as every physician in the world does, whether he is thinking of the patient or not, Doctor T—— said, “Pray, let me see your tongue, Sir John.”

“My _tongue_!” exclaimed the baronet, “ah! you might be greatly disappointed by _that_ organ; there’s no depending on _tongues_ now-a-days, doctor!”

“Yet the tongue is very symptomatic, I can assure you, Sir John,” pursued the doctor gravely.

“Possibly, in _your_ part of the world,” replied the baronet. “But I do assure you, we place very little reliance on tongues in my country.”

“You know best,” said the doctor coolly: “then, pray let me feel your pulse, Sir John,” looking steadfastly on his stop-watch, counting the seconds and the throbs of the Milesian artery. “Heyday! why, your pulse is not only irregular, but _intermits_!”

“I wish my remittances did not,” remarked Sir John, mournfully, and thinking he had got an excellent opportunity of apologising to the doctor.

The latter, however, had no idea of any roundabout _apologies_ (never having been in Ireland), and resumed: “your remittances! ah, ah, Sir John! But seriously, your pulse is all astray; pray, do you feel a pain any where?”

“Why, doctor,” said Sir John, (sticking in like manner to _his_ point,) “whenever I put my hand into my breeches-pocket, I feel a confounded twitch, which gives me very considerable uneasiness, I assure you.”

“Hah!” said the doctor, conceiving he had now discovered some new symptom about the femoral artery—“are you sure there’s nothing _in_ your pocket that hurts you, Sir John?—Perhaps some—”

“O no, doctor,” said the baronet rather impatiently; “there’s _nothing at all_ in my pocket, Doctor T——.”

“Then the twitch may be rather serious,” and the doctor looked _knowing_, although he was still _at fault_ concerning the _éclaircissement_. “It is a singular symptom. Do you feel your head at all heavy, Sir John—a sensation of weight?”

“Not at all,” replied the other:—“my head is (except my _purse_) the lightest thing I possess at present.”

The disciple of Galen still supposed Sir John was jesting as to his purse, inasmuch as the plum-coloured vis-a-vis, with arms, crests, and mantlings to match—with groom, geldings, and the baronet’s white Arabian, still remained at the Hotel de Wagram, Rue de la Paix.

“Ha! ha! Sir John,” cried he, “I am glad to see you in such spirits.”

Nothing, however, either as to the malady or the fees being fully explained, it at length flashed across the doctor’s comprehension that the baronet might _possibly_ be in downright _earnest_ as to his _remittances_. Such a thought must, under the circumstances, have a most disheartening effect on the contour of any medical man in Europe. On the first blush of this fatal suspicion the doctor’s features began to droop—his eyebrows descended, and a sort of _in utrumque paratus_ look, that many of my readers must have borne when expecting a money letter, but not quite sure it may not be an _apology_, overspread his countenance, while his nasal muscles puckering up (as in the tic douloureux), seemed to quaver between a smile and a sardonic grin.

Sir John could scarcely contain himself at the doctor’s ludicrous embarrassment. “By Jove,” said he, “I am serious!”

“Serious! as to what, Sir John?” stammered the physician, getting out of conceit both with his patient and himself.

“The fact,” said Sir John, “is this: your long and indefatigable attention merits all my confidence, and you shall have it.”

“Confidence!” exclaimed the doctor, bowing, “you do me honour; but—”

“Yes, doctor, I now tell you (_confidentially_) that certain papers and matters called in Ireland _custodiums_,[10] have bothered both me and my brother Joseph, notwithstanding all his exertions for me as agent, receiver, remitter, attorney, banker, auditor, and arranger-general; which said custodiums have given up all my lands, in spite of Joe, to the king, as trustee for a set of horse-jockies, Jews, mortgagees, gamblers, solicitors, and annuity-boys—who have been tearing me to pieces for twenty years past without my having the slightest suspicion of their misdemeanors; and now, doctor, they have finally, by divers law fictions, got _his majesty_ to patronise them.”

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Footnote 10:

A _custodium_ is a law proceeding in Ireland, not practised much any
where else, and is vastly worse than even an “extent in aid.” By one
fiction the debtor is supposed to owe money to the king:—by another
“fiction,” the king demands his money;—and the debtor, by a third
“fiction,” is declared a rebel, because he does not pay the king.—A
commission of rebellion then issues in the name of the king against
the debtor; and by a fourth “fiction,” he is declared an outlaw, and
all his estates are seized and sequestered to pay _his majesty_. A
receiver of every shilling belonging to the debtor is then appointed
by the king’s chief baron of the exchequer; every tenant on the
estates is served with the “fictions,” as well as the landlord; and a
_debt_ of _one hundred pounds_ has been frequently ornamented with a
bill of costs to the amount of _three thousand_ in the name of his
majesty, who does not know the least circumstance of the matter.

There was scarcely a gentleman in the county of Galway, formerly, but
was as great an _outlaw_ as Robin Hood; with this difference, that
Robin Hood might be _hanged_, and his majesty could only _starve_ the
gentleman.

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“But, sir! sir!” interrupted the doctor.

“I assure you, however,” continued Sir John, placidly, “that my brother Joe (whose Christian name—between you and me, doctor—ought to have been Ulick, after Ulick the Milesian, if my mother had done him common justice at his christening) is a long-headed fellow, and will promptly bring those infernal custodium impostors into proper order.”

“But, sir, sir!” repeated the doctor.

“One fellow,” pursued the baronet, “hearing that Joe intended to _call him out_ for laying on his papers, has stopped all law proceedings already, and made a proper apology. The very name of Burke of Glinsk, doctor, is as sounding as _Waterloo_, in the county of Galway.”

“Pardon me, Sir John,” said Doctor T——, “but what can all this have to do with—”

“Never mind,” again interrupted the baronet, catching hold of one of the doctor’s coat-buttons,[11] “never mind; I give you my word, Joe is a steady, good, clever fellow, and looks two ways at every thing before he does it—I don’t allude to the cast in his eye: a horse with a wall-eye, you know, doctor, is the very lad for hard work!—ha! ha! ha!”

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Footnote 11:

How admirably does Horace describe the grievance of a _bore_ catching
hold of your button, and making the proprietor a prisoner till his
speech is expended. Doctor T—— told me that the satire came into his
head whilst Sir John had him in hold, and that in his hurry to
emancipate himself, he made a large cut in a new surtout, and quite
spoiled its beauty.

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The doctor could stand this no longer, and said, “I know nothing about wall-eyed horses, Sir John.”—Indeed, being now hopeless, he made the second of the three bows he had determined to depart with; but he found his button still in custody between Sir John’s fingers, and was necessitated to suspend his exit, or leave it behind him.

“A plan has occurred to me, doctor,” said the baronet, thoughtfully, “which may not only liquidate my just and honourable debt to you for attendance and operations, but must, if you are as skilful as I think you are, eventually realise you a pretty fortune.”

This in a moment changed the countenance of the doctor, as a smouldering fire, when it gets a blast of the bellows, instantly blazes up and begins to generate its hydrogen. “And pray, sir,” asked the impatient physician, “what plan may this be? what new _bank_ are you thinking of?”

“’Tis no _bank_,” said Sir John; “its a much better thing than any bank, for the more you _draw_, the richer you’ll be.”

The doctor’s eyelids opened wide; his eyebrows became elevated, and he drew his ear close to the proposer, that he might not lose a single word of so precious an _exposé_.

“You know,” said Sir John, “though you are a Sarnion (Guernsey-man) by birth, you _must_ know, as _all the world_ knows, that the name of the Burkes or O’Bourkes (Irlandois), and their castle of Glinsk, have been established and celebrated in Ireland some dozen centuries.”

“I have heard the name, sir,” said the doctor, rather peevishly.

“Be assured ’tis the very first cognomen in Ireland,” said Sir John.

“Possibly,” said the doctor.

“Nay, _positively_,” rejoined the baronet: “far more ancient than the O’Neils, O’Briens, O’Flahertys, who indeed are comparatively _moderns_. We were native princes and kings several centuries before even the term Anno _Domini_ was used.”

“I will not dispute it, sir.”

“Nay, I can prove it. I had six and twenty quarters on my shield without a blot upon either—save by one marriage with a d—d _Bodkin_ out of the twelve tribes of Galway, about a hundred and eighty years ago. We never got over that!”

“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” said Doctor T——, “do come to the point.”

“Pardon me,” said Sir John, “I am on the point itself.”

“As how?” inquired the other.

“Come here,” said Sir John, “and I will soon satisfy you on that head:” and as he spoke he led him to the window, where three china cups full of the baronet’s gore lay in regular order. “See! that’s the genuine crimson stuff for you, doctor! eighteen ounces at least of it; the richest in Europe! and as to colour—what’s carmine to it?”

The doctor was bewildered; but so passive, he stood quite motionless.

“Now,” continued Sir John, “we are bringing the matter to the point. You can _guarantee_ this gore to be genuine Glinsk blood: it gushed beautifully after your lancet, doctor, eh! didn’t it?”

“What of that, sir?” said Doctor T——: “really, Sir John, I can stay no longer.”

“You have much ordinary professional practice,” said the baronet—“I mean exclusive of your noble patients in Rue Rivoli, &c.—visits, for instance, to the Boulevard St. Martin, St. Antoine, Place de Bastile, De Bourse, &c., which you know are principally peopled by brokers with aspiring families; rich _négocians_, with ambitious daughters, &c., who, if they were to give five hundred thousand francs, can’t get into one fashionable _soirée_ for want of a touch of gentility—not even within smell of sweet little Berry’s[12] under nursery-maids. Now,” said Sir John, pausing a moment, “we’re at the point.”

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Footnote 12:

Sir John is the greatest eulogist of the Duchess of Berry, and has got
the Legion of Honour for having given up his bed, blankets, and all,
to the Duke of Berry, somewhere on the road, when they were both
running away from Napoleon Bonaparte.

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“So much the better,” said the man of medicine.

“I understand that there is a member of the faculty in Paris, who undertakes the _transfusion of blood_ with miraculous success, and has not only demonstrated its practicability, but insists that it may by improvement be rendered sufficiently operative to harmonise and amalgamate the different qualities of different species of animals. I am told he does not yet despair of seeing, by _transfusion of blood_, horses becoming the best mousers, cats setting partridges, and the vulgarest fellows upon earth metamorphosed into gentlemen.”

“Pshaw! pshaw!” exclaimed Doctor T——.

“Now, I perceive no reason,” resumed Sir John, “why any man should perform such an operation better than yourself: and if you advertise in the _Petit Avis_ that you have a quantity of genuine Glinsk O’Bourke _gore_ always at command, to transfuse into persons who wish to acquire the _gentilities_ and the feelings of noblesse, without pain or patent, my blood, fresh from the veins, would bring you at least a _Nap_ a spoonful: and in particular proportions, would so refine and purify the vulgar puddle of the _bourgeois_, that they might soon be regarded (in conjunction with their money) as high at least as the half-starved _quatrième_ nobility, who hobble down to their sugar and water at _soirées_ in the fauxbourg St. Germain, and go to bed in the dark to save candle-light.”

The doctor felt hurt beyond all endurance: he blushed up to his very whiskers, sealed his lips hermetically—by a sardonic smile only disclosing one of his dog-teeth, and endeavoured to depart: but the button was still fast between Sir John’s fingers, who begged of his victim not to spare his veins, saying, “that he would with pleasure stand as much phlebotomy as would make a fortune for any reasonable practitioner.”

This was decisive: the doctor could stand it no longer; so snatching up the toilet scissors, he cut the button clean off his new surtout, and vanished without waiting ceremoniously to make the third bow, as had always previously been his custom.

However, the baronet, when Joe (who should have been Ulick) afterward sent him over some of the _dross_, made full metallic compensation to the doctor,—and within this last month I met them walking together in great harmony.

This incident, which I had known and noted long before, was then repeated by Sir John in the doctor’s presence; and it affords the very strongest proof what a truly valuable liquid genuine Irish gore is considered by the chiefs of County Galway.

There is not a baronet in the United Kingdom who (with the very essence of good-humour) has afforded a greater opportunity for notes and anecdotes than Sir John Burke of Glinsk Castle and tilt-yard;—and no person ever will, or ever can, relate them so well as himself.

Sir John Burke is married to the sister of Mr. Ball, the present proprietor of Oatlands, commonly called the _Golden Ball_. I witnessed the courtship; negotiated with the brother; read over the skeleton of the marriage settlement, and was present at the departure of the baronet and his new lady for Rome, to kiss the pope’s toe. I also had the pleasure of hailing them on their return, as _le Marquis_ and _la Marquise de Bourke_ of the Holy Roman Empire. Sir John had the _promise_ of a _principality_ from the papal see when he should be prepared to pay his holiness the regulation price for it. At all events, he came back highly freighted with a papal bull, a nobleman’s patent, holy relics, mock cameos, real lava, wax tapers, Roman paving-stones, &c. &c.; and after having been overset into the Po, and making the fortune of his courier, he returned in a few months to Paris, to ascertain what fortune his wife had;—a circumstance which his anxiety to be married and kiss the pope’s toe had not given him sufficient time to investigate before. He found it very large, and calculated to bear a good deal of cutting and hacking ere it should quit his service—with no great probability of his ever coaxing it back again. Sir John’s good temper, however, settles that matter with great facility by quoting Dean Swift’s admirable eulogium upon poverty:—“Money’s the devil, and God keeps it from us,” said the dean. If this be orthodox, there will be more gentlemen’s souls saved in Ireland than in any other part of his Britannic Majesty’s dominions.

Previous to Sir John’s marriage, Miss Ball understood, or rather had formed a conception, that Glinsk Castle was placed in one of the most cultivated, beautiful, and romantic districts of romantic Ireland, in which happy island she had never been, and I dare say never will be. Burke, who seldom says any thing without laughing heartily at his own remark, was questioned by her pretty closely as to the beauty of the demesne, and the architecture of the castle. “Now, Sir John,” said she, “have you much dressed grounds upon the demesne of Glinsk?”

“Dressed, my love!” repeated Sir John, “why, my whole estate has been nearly _dressed up_ these seven years past.”

“That’s very uncommon,” said Miss Ball; “there must have been a great expenditure on it.”

“Oh, very great,” replied the baronet, “very great.”

“The castle,” said her future ladyship, “is, I suppose, in good order?”

“It ought to be,” answered Sir John; “for (searching his pockets) I got a bill from my brother Joe of, I think, two hundred pounds, only for nails, iron cramps, and holdfasts—for a single winter.”

The queries of Miss Ball innocently proceeded, and, I think, the replies were among the pleasantest and most adroit I ever heard. The lady seemed quite delighted, and nearly expressed a wish to go down to the castle as soon as possible. “As Sir John’s rents may not come in instantly,” said she, “I have, I fancy, a few thousand pounds in the bank just now, and that may take us down and new-furnish, at least, a wing of the castle!”

This took poor Sir John dreadfully aback. Glinsk was, he told me, actually in a tumbling state. Not a gravel walk within twenty miles of it: and as to timber, “How the devil,” said he, “could I support both my trees and my establishment at the same time?—Now,” he pursued, “Barrington, my good friend, do just tell her what I told you about my aunt Margaret’s ghost, that looks out of the castle window on every anniversary of her own death and birth-day, and on other periodical occasions. She’ll be so frightened (for, thank God! she’s afraid of ghosts), that she’ll no more think of going to Glinsk than to America.”

“Tell her yourself, Sir John,” said I:—“nobody understands a romance better; and I’m sure, if this be not a _meritorious_, it is certainly an _innocent_ one.”

In fine, he got his groom to tell her maid all about _the ghost_: the maid told the mistress, with frightful exaggerations: Sir John, when appealed to, spoke mysteriously of the matter; and the purchase of Glinsk Castle could not have induced Miss Ball to put her foot in it afterwards. She is a particularly mild and gentlewomanly lady, and, I fancy, would scarcely have survived a visit to Glinsk, even if the ghost of Madam Margaret had not prevented her making the experiment.

SWEARING NO VICE.

English slang contrasted with Irish imprecation—The chase of St.
Chrysostom, and his rescue—Meet garnish for an Hibernian
anecdote—Futile attempts at imitation by English dramatists,
&c.—Remarks of a puritan on the author and his book—A caution, and a
shrewd way of observing it—Michael Heney, steward of the author’s
father—His notions concerning swearing—Curious dialogue between him
and the author—New mode of teaching children filial respect.

Though I have more than ordinary cause to be gratified by the reception the first two volumes of this work so unexpectedly met with, and am extremely grateful for that reception, yet I am well aware that certain starched moralists may conceive, and perhaps, _primâ facie_, with reason, that there is too much “imprecation,” and what the fastidious of Bond-street call _vulgarity_ introduced into the Irish colloquies. I admit that a person who has never been in the interior of Ireland, or accustomed to the Irish people and their peculiarities, might naturally think so. I therefore feel it a duty to such critics, to give them at least one or two reasons why they should not consider Irish oaths immoral, or Irish colloquy vulgar.

The outrageous blasphemy and indecency, so copious in the _slang_ of England, with neither wit, point, or national humour, to qualify it, might indeed disgust even the seven hundred imps whom the devil sent into this world to capture St. Chrysostom.[13] The curses and imprecations of Ireland are of a nature totally different. They have no great variety; they are neither premeditated, nor acquired through habits of dissipation. They are idiomatic, a part and parcel of the regular language of the country, and repeated in other countries as a necessary appendage to the humour of an Irish story, though they would be utterly unadapted to any other people. Walter Scott’s delightful writings, with all the native simplicity and idiomatic dialect of the ancient Celtic, would be totally spoiled, for instance, had he mingled or introduced in them the oaths and idioms indispensable as a seasoning to Irish colloquy; an observation sufficiently illustrated by the absurd and stupid attempts to imitate Irish phraseology made by English dramatic mimics and grimacers.

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Footnote 13:

There is a manuscript of great antiquity in the library of the
Vatican, which gives a full and circumstantial account of the chase
and running down of St. Chrysostom by a legion of devils, and of his
recapture by an inconsiderable number of saints, who came from heaven
to the rescue.

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Here I am quite prepared for the most severe criticism. “Upon my word (the lank-haired puritan will say), this is a most dangerous and sinful writer; holding out that an anecdote, if it be Irish, would lose its relish if there were neither oaths nor imprecations tacked to it. No man can, in the opinion of that immoral writer, repeat an innocent Irish story, unless he at the same time calls down the wrath of Heaven upon himself; and, moreover, upon such of his auditors as take any pleasure in hearing him.”

I know two very young ladies who told me that their mammas directed them to skim over any _improper_ parts of the Sketches;—and that they read every word, to _find out_ those improper parts. The book, they said, was extremely diverting; and as to the oaths, they never swore themselves, and never would, and therefore reading _that part_ could do them no harm.

My own notions respecting this Irish habit of imprecation were illustrated many years ago by an actual dialogue with a man of low rank in that country; and as our conversation bore upon a subject of which scarce a day passes without reminding me, I have retained its import as if it had taken place yesterday: and though, after an interval of more than forty-five years, it is not to be expected I should repeat the exact _words_ uttered, yet I really think my memory serves as to the precise _sentences_.

We had got accidentally upon the topic; and I expressed my opinion, as I have already stated it here, that these objectionable phrases were merely idiomatic and involuntary—betraying no radical or intentional vice. His notion went further; he apologised for the practice not only statistically, but said, with characteristic fervour, that the genuine Irish people could not “do without it.” “Many,” said he, “would not mind what was said to them, unless there was a curse tacked on to the direction. For instance, old Ned Doran, of Cherry Hill, ordered all his children, male and female, neither to curse nor swear, as they regarded their father’s orders; and the consequence was, the people all said they were going to turn _swadlers_, and not a maid or a labourer would do a farthing’s worth of work—for want of being _forced_ to do it in the ‘owld way.’”

The man I talked with was a character not very general in England, but frequently met with among the Irish commonalty, whose acuteness of intellect, naturally exceeding that of English labourers, is rather increased by the simplicity of their ideas. Self-taught, they turn any thing they learn to all the purposes that their humble and depressed state can give room for.

Fortune had denied him the means of emerging from obscurity; and Michael Heney was for many years the faithful steward of my father, living with him to the period of his death. His station in life had been previously very low; his education was correspondent; but he had from Nature a degree of mental strength which operated in possessing him with a smattering of every thing likely or proper to be understood by persons of his grade. He was altogether a singularity, and would not give up one iota of his opinions. To address him as a casuist, was the greatest favour you could confer on Mick Heney; and the originality of his ideas, and promptitude of his replies, often amused me extremely.

But for the detail of our dialogue:—

“Is it not extraordinary, Michael,” said I one day (as a great number of labourers were making up hay in one of the meadows, and Michael and myself were seated on a heap of it), “that those poor fellows can scarcely pronounce a sentence without some oath to confirm, or some deity to garnish it with?”

“Master Jonah, (he never said ‘please your honour’ to any body but his master,) sure its their _only_ way of talking _English_. They can speak very good _Irish_ without either swearing or cursing, because it’s their own tongue. Besides, all their forefathers used to be cursing the English day and night for many a hundred years; so that they never used the Sassanagh tongue without mixing curses along with it, and now it’s grown a custom, and they say that the devil himself could not break them of it—poor crethurs!”

“I should think the devil won’t try, Mick Heney.”

“It’s no joke, Master Jonah.”

“But,” said I, (desirous of drawing him out,) “they never fail to take the name of J—s on every silly occasion. Sure there’s no reason in _that_?”

“Yes, but there is, Master Jonah,” said Heney: “in the owld time, when the English used to be cutting and hacking, starving and burning the poor Irish, and taking all their lands, cattle and goods from them, the crethurs were always praying to Jesus and his holy Mother to save them from the Sassanaghs: and so, praying to Jesus grew so _pat_, that now they can’t help it.”

“But then, Michael,” said I, “the commandments!”

“Poo-o! what have the crethurs to do with the commandments? Sure it’s the Jews, and not the poor Catholics, that have to do with them: and sure the parliament men make many a law twice as strong as any commandments; and the very gentlemen that made those said laws don’t observe their own enactments, except it suits their own purposes—though every ’sizes some of the _crethurs_ are hanged for breaking one or two of them.”

Heney was now waxing warm on the subject, and I followed him up as well as I could. “Why, Mick, I wonder, nevertheless, that your clergy don’t put a stop to the practice: perpetually calling on the name of our Redeemer, without any substantial reason for so doing, is certainly bad.”

“And what better name could they call on, Master Jonah?” said Heney. “Why should the clergy hinder them? It’s only putting them in mind of the name they are to be saved by. Sure there’s no other name could do them a pennyworth of good or grace. It’s well for the crethurs they have that same name to use. As father Doran says, pronouncing the glorified name puts them in mind every minute of the only friend any poor Irish boy can depend upon; and there can be no sin in reminding one of the place we must all go to, and the Holy Judge we’ll be all judged by at the latter end. Sure it’s not Sergeant Towler,[14] or the likes of him, you’d have the crethurs swearing by, Master Jonah. He makes them remember _him_ plentifully when he comes to these parts.”

-----

Footnote 14:

Toler, now Lord Norbury, of whom the common people had a great dread.

-----

“And even the schoolmasters don’t punish young children for the same thing,” remarked I.

“Why should they?” rejoined Michael Heney. “Sure Mr. Beal, though he’s a Protestant, does not forbid it.”

“How so?”

“Why, because he says if he did, it would encourage disobedience to their parents, which is by all clergy forbidden as a great sin as well as shame.”

“Disobedience!” said I, in wonder.

“Yes; the fathers and mothers of the _childer_ generally curse and swear their own full share every day, at any rate: and if the master told the childer it was a great sin, they would consider their fathers and mothers wicked people, and so despise and fly in their faces!”

“But, surely you are ordered not to take God’s name in vain?”

“And sure,” said Heney, “its _not_ in vain when it makes people believe the truth; and many would not believe a word a man said in this country unless he swore to it, Master Jonah.”

“But cursing,” persisted I, “is ill-natured as well as wicked.”

“Sure there’s no harm in cursing a _brute beast_,” said Heney, “because there’s no soul in _it_; and if one curses a _Christian_ for doing a bad act, sure its only telling him what he’ll get a taste of on the day of judgment.”

“Or, perhaps, _the day after_, Michael Heney,” said I, laughing.

“The devil a priest in the county can tell that,” said Heney; “but, (looking at his watch,) you’re playing your _pranks_ on me, Master Jonah! the bells should have been rung for the mowers’ dinner half an hour ago, and be d—d to them! The devil sweep them altogether, the idle crethurs!”

“Fie to yourself, Mr. Heney!” cried I: but he waited for no further argument, and I got out, I really think, the reasons which they all believe justify the practice. The French law makes an abatement of fifteen years out of twenty at the gallies, if a man kills another without premeditation: and I think the same principle may apply to the involuntary assemblage of oaths which, it should seem, have been indigenous in Ireland for some centuries past.

A BARRISTER BESIEGED.

Dinner-party at the Rev. Mr. Thomas’s—The author among the guests, in
company with John Philpot Curran—General punctuality of the latter at
dinner-time—His mysterious non-appearance—Speculations and
reports—Diver, from Newfoundland—His simultaneous absence—The house
searched—Discovery of a ghost, and its metamorphosis into Curran—A
curious blockade—Its relief, and accompanying circumstances—Comments
of the author.

The late Mr. Curran was certainly one of the most distinguished of Irishmen, not only in wit and eloquence, but in eccentricity: of this quality in him, one or two traits have been presented to the reader in the former part of this work; and the following incident will still further illustrate it.

The Reverend Mr. Thomas, whose _sobriquet_ in his neighbourhood was “Long Thomas,” he being nearly six feet and a half high, resided near Carlow, and once invited Curran and myself to spend a day and sleep at his house on our return from the assizes. We accepted the invitation with pleasure, as he was an old college companion of mine—a joyous, good-natured, hospitable, hard-going divine as any in his county.

The Reverend Jack Read, a three-bottle parson of Carlow, with several other jolly neighbours, were invited to meet us, and to be treated with the wit and pleasantry of the celebrated Counsellor Curran, who was often extremely fond of shining in that class of society.

We all arrived in due time;—dinner was appointed for five _precisely_, as Curran always stipulated (wherever he could make so free) for the punctuality of the dinner-bell to a single minute. The very best cheer was provided by our host: at the proper time, the dishes lay basking before the fire, in readiness to receive the several provisions all smoking for the counsellor, &c. The clock, which, to render the cook more punctual, had been that very noon regulated by the sundial, did not on its part vary one second. Its hammer and bell melodiously sounded _five_, and announced the happy signal for the banquet. All the guests assembled in the dining-room, which was, in honest Thomas’s house, that apartment which the fine people of our day would call a drawing-room—the latter being then by no means regarded as indispensable in the dwelling-house of a moderate gentlemen. The family parlour, in fact, answered its purpose mighty well.

Every guest of the reverend host having now decided on his chair, and turned down his plate, in order to be as near as possible to Counsellor Curran, proceeded to whet his knife against the edge of his neighbour’s, to give it a due keenness for the most tempting side of the luscious sirloin, which by anticipation frizzed upon its pewter dish. Veal, mutton, turkey, ham, duck, and partridge, all “piping hot,” were ready and willing to leap from their pots and spits into their respective dishes, and to take a warm bath each in its proper gravy. The cork-screw was busily employed: the wine-decanters ornamented the four corners of the well-dressed table, and the punch, jugged, and bubbling hot upon the hearth-stone, perfumed the whole room with its aromatic potsheen odour.

Every thing bespoke a most joyous and protracted banquet;—but, meanwhile, where was the great object of the feast?—the wheedler of the petty juries, and the admonisher of the grand ones? Where was the great orator, in consequence of whose brilliant reputation such a company was collected? The fifth hour had long passed, and impatience became visible on every countenance. Each guest, who had a watch, gave his fob no tranquillity, and never were timekeepers kept on harder duty. The first half-hour surprised the company; the next quarter _astonished_, and the last _alarmed_ it. The clock, by _six_ solemn notes, set the whole party surmising, and the host appeared nearly in a state of stupefaction. Day had departed, and twilight was rapidly following its example, yet no tidings of the orator: never had the like been known with regard to Curran—punctuality at dinner being a portion of his very nature. There are not more days in a leap year than there were different conjectures broached as to the cause of my friend’s non-appearance. The people about the house were sent out on the several roads to reconnoitre. He had been seen, certainly, in the garden at four o’clock, but never after;—yet every now and then a message came in to announce, that “an old man had seen _a counsellor_, as he verily believed, walking very quick on the road to Carlow.” Another reported that “a woman who was driving home her cow met one of the counsellors going leisurely toward Athy, and that he seemed very _melancholy_; that she had seen him at the ’sizes that blessed morning, and the people towld her it was the great law preacher that was in it.” Another woman who was bringing home some turf from the bog, declared before the Virgin and all the Saints that she saw “a little man in black with a stick in his hand going toward the Barrow;” and a collough sitting at her own cabin door feeding the _childer_, positively saw a “black gentleman going down to the river, and soon afterward heard a great splash of water at the said river; whereupon, she went _hot-foot_ to her son, Ned Coyle, to send him thither to see if the gentleman was in the water; but that Ned said, sure enuff nothing natural would be after going at that time of the deep dusk to the place where poor Armstrong’s corpse lay the night he was murthered; and he’d see all the gentlemen in the county to the devil (God bless them!) before he’d go to the said place till morning early.”

The faithful clock now announced _seven_, and the matter became too serious to admit of any doubt as to poor Curran having met his catastrophe. I was greatly shocked; our only conjectures now being, not _whether_, but _how_, he had lost his life. As Curran was known every day to strip naked and wash himself all over with a sponge and cold water, I conjectured, as most rational, that he had, in lieu of his usual ablution, gone to the Barrow to bathe before dinner, and thus unfortunately perished. All agreed in my hypothesis, and hooks and a draw-net were sent for immediately to Carlow, to scour the river for his body. Nobody, whatever might have been their feelings, _said_ a word about dinner. The beef, mutton, and veal, as if in grief, had either turned into broth, or dropped piecemeal from the spit; the poultry fell from their strings, and were seen broiling in the dripping-pan. The cook had forgotten her calling, and gone off to make inquiries. The stable-boy left his horses; indeed, all the domestics, with one accord, dispersed with lanterns to search for Counsellor Curran in the Barrow. The Irish cry was let loose, and the neighbourhood soon collected; and the good-natured parson, our host, literally wept like an infant. I never saw so much confusion at any _dinner-table_. Such of the guests as were gifted by Nature with keen appetites, suffered all the tortures of hunger, of which, nevertheless, they could not in humanity complain; but a stomachic sympathy of woe was very perceptible in their lamentations for the untimely fate of so great an orator.

It was at length suggested by our reverend host that his great Newfoundland dog, who was equally sagacious, if not more so, with many of the parishioners, and rivalled, in canine proportion, the magnitude of his master, was not unlikely, by diving in the Barrow, to discover where the body lay deposited—and thus direct the efforts of the nets and hookers from Carlow. This idea met with universal approbation; and every body took up his hat, to go down to the river. Mary, a young damsel, the only domestic who remained in the house, was ordered to call Diver, the dog;—but Diver was absent, and did not obey the summons. Every where resounded, “Diver! Diver!” but in vain.

New and multifarious conjectures now crossed the minds of the different persons assembled:—the mystery thickened: all the old speculations went for nothing; it was clear that Curran and Diver had absconded together.

At length, a gentleman in company mentioned the circumstance of a friend of his having been drowned while bathing, whose dog never left his clothes, on the bank, till discovered nearly dead with hunger. The conjecture founded hereon was, however, but momentary, since it soon appeared that such _could not_ be the case with Curran. I knew that he both feared and hated big dogs;[15] and besides, there was no _acquaintance_ between him and the one in question. Diver had never seen the counsellor before that day, and therefore could have no personal fondness for him, not to say, that those animals have a sort of instinctive knowledge as to who likes or dislikes them, and it was more probable that Diver, if either, would be an enemy instead of a friend to so great a stranger. But the creature’s absence, at any rate, was unaccountable, and the more so, inasmuch as he never before had wandered from his master’s residence.

-----

Footnote 15:

Curran had told me, with infinite humour, of an adventure between him
and a mastiff when he was a boy. He had heard somebody say, that any
person throwing the skirts of his coat over his head, stooping low,
holding out his arms and creeping along backward, might frighten the
fiercest dog and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt on
a miller’s animal in the neighbourhood, who _would never let_ the boys
_rob the orchard_; but found to his sorrow that he had a dog to deal
with who did not care which end of a boy went foremost, so as he could
get a good bite out of it. “I pursued the instructions,” said Curran;
“and, as I had no eyes save those in front, fancied the mastiff was in
full retreat: but I was confoundedly mistaken; for at the very moment
I thought myself victorious, the enemy attacked my rear, and having
got a reasonably good mouthful out of it, was fully prepared to take
another before I was rescued. Egad, I thought for a time the beast had
devoured my entire _centre of gravity_, and that I never should go on
a steady perpendicular again.” “Upon my word, Curran,” said I, “the
mastiff may have left you your _centre_, but he could not have left
much _gravity_ behind him, among the bystanders.”

I had never recollected this story until the affair of Diver at Parson
Thomas’s, and I told it that night to the country gentlemen before
Curran, and for a moment occasioned a hearty laugh against him; but he
soon _floored_ me, in our social converse, which whiled away as
convivial an evening as I ever experienced.

-----

Mary, the maid, was now desired to search _all_ the rooms and offices for Diver, while we sat pensive and starving in the parlour. We were speedily alarmed by a loud shriek, immediately after which Mary rushed tottering into the room, just able to articulate:—

“O, holy Virgin! holy Virgin! yes, gentlemen! the counsellor _is_ dead, sure enough. And I’ll die too, gentlemen! I’ll never recover it!” and she crossed herself twenty times over in the way the priest had taught her.

We all now flocked round, and asked her simultaneously how she _knew_ the counsellor was dead?

Crossing herself again, “I saw his _ghost_, please your reverence!” cried poor Mary, “and a frightful ghost it was! just out of the river, and not even _decent_ itself. I’m willing to take my affidavy that I saw his ghost, quite _indecent_, straight forenent me.”

“Where? where?” cried every body, as if with one breath.

“In the double-bedded room next your reverence’s,” stammered the terrified girl.

We waited for no more to satisfy us either that she was mad, or that robbers were in the house: each person seized something by way of a weapon: one took a poker, another a candlestick, a third a knife or fire-shovel, and up stairs we rushed. Only one could go in, conveniently, abreast; and I was among the first who entered. The candles had been forgotten; but the moon was rising, and we certainly saw what, in the opinion of some present, corroborated the statement of Mary. Two or three instantly drew back in horror, and attempted to retreat, but others pressed behind; and lights being at length produced, an exhibition far more ludicrous than terrific presented itself. In a far corner of the room stood, erect and formal, and _stark naked_ (as a _ghost_ should be), John Philpot Curran, one of his majesty’s counsel, learned in the law,—trembling as if in the ague, and scarce able to utter a syllable, through the combination of cold and terror. Three or four paces in his front lay Diver, from Newfoundland, stretching out his immense shaggy carcase, his long paws extended their full length, and his great head lying on them with his nose pointed toward _the ghost_, as true as the needle to the pole. His hind legs were gathered up like those of a wild beast ready to spring upon his prey. He took an angry notice of the first of us that came near him, growled, and seemed disposed to resent our intrusion;—but the moment his master appeared, his temper changed, he jumped up, wagged his tail, licked the parson’s hand, cast a scowling look at Curran, and then a wistful one at his master,—as much as to say, “I have done my duty, now do you yours:” he looked, indeed, as if he only waited for the word of command, to seize the counsellor by the throttle.

A blanket was now considerately thrown over Curran by one of the company, and he was _put to bed_ with half a dozen more blankets heaped upon him: a tumbler of hot potsheen punch was administered, and a second worked miracles: the natural heat began to circulate, and he was in a little time enabled to rise and tell us a story which no hermit even telling his last beads could avoid laughing at. Related by _any one_, it would have been good; but as told by Curran, with his powers of description and characteristic humour, was superexcellent;—and we had to thank Diver, the water-dog, for the highest zest of the whole evening.

The fact was, that a little while previous to dinner-time, Curran, who had omitted his customary ablution in the morning, went to our allotted bed-chamber to perform that ceremony; and having stripped, had just begun to apply the sponge, when Diver, strolling about his master’s premises to see if all was right, placed by chance his paw against the door, which not being fastened, it flew open, he entered unceremoniously, and observing what he conceived to be an extraordinary and suspicious figure, concluded it was somebody with no very honest intention, and stopped to reconnoitre. Curran, unaccustomed to so strange a valet, retreated, while Diver advanced, and very significantly showed an intention to seize him by the naked throat; which operation, if performed by Diver, whose tusks were a full inch in length, would no doubt have admitted an inconvenient quantity of atmospheric air into his œsophagus. He therefore crept as close into the corner as he could, and had the equivocal satisfaction of seeing his adversary advance and turn the meditated _assault_ into a complete _blockade_—stretching himself out, and “maintaining his position” with scarcely the slightest motion, till the counsellor was rescued, and the siege raised.