CHAPTER XI.
THE BROGUE.
Having proved by a perfect syllogism that the Irish must blunder, we might rest satisfied with our labours; but there are minds of so perverse a sort, that they will not yield their understandings to the torturing power of syllogism.
It may be waste of time to address ourselves to persons of such a cast; we shall therefore change our ground, and adapt our arguments to the level of vulgar capacities. Much of the comic effect of Irish bulls, or of such speeches as are mistaken for bulls, has depended upon the tone, or brogue, as it is called, with which they are uttered. The first Irish blunders that we hear are made or repeated in this peculiar tone, and afterward, from the power of association, whenever we hear the tone we expect the blunder. Now there is little danger that the Irish should be cured of their brogue; and consequently there is no great reason to apprehend that we should cease to think or call them blunderers.
Of the powerful effect of any peculiarity of pronunciation to prepossess the mind against the speaker, nay, even to excite dislike amounting to antipathy, we have an instance attested by an eye-witness, or rather an ear-witness.
“In the year 1755,” says the Rev. James Adams, “I attended a public disputation in a foreign university, when at least 400 Frenchmen literally hissed a grave and learned English doctor, not by way of insult, but irresistibly provoked by the quaintness of the repetition of sh. The thesis was, the concurrence of God in actionibus viciosis: the whole hall resounded with the hissing cry of sh, and its continual occurrence in actio, actione, viciosa, &c.”
It is curious that Shibboleth should so long continue a criterion among nations!
What must have been the degree of irritation that could so far get the better of the politeness of 400 Frenchmen as to make them hiss in the days of l’ancien régime! The dread of being the object of that species of antipathy or ridicule, which is excited by unfashionable peculiarity of accent, has induced many of the misguided natives of Ireland to affect what they imagine to be the English pronunciation. They are seldom successful in this attempt, for they generally overdo the business. We are told by Theophrastus, that a barbarian, who had taken some pains to attain the true Attic dialect, was discovered to be a foreigner by his speaking the Attic dialect with a greater degree of precision and purity than was usual amongst the Athenians themselves. To avoid the imputation of committing barbarisms, people sometimes run into solecisms, which are yet more ridiculous. Affectation is always more ridiculous than ignorance.
There are Irish ladies, who, ashamed of their country, betray themselves by mincing out their abjuration, by calling tables teebles, and chairs cheers! To such renegadoes we prefer the honest quixotism of a modern champion55 for the Scottish accent, who boldly asserted that “the broad dialect rises above reproach, scorn, and laughter,” enters the lists, as he says of himself, in Tartan dress and armour, and throws down the gauntlet to the most prejudiced antagonist. “How weak is prejudice!” pursues this patriotic enthusiast. “The sight of the Highland kelt, the flowing plaid, the buskined leg, provokes my antagonist to laugh! Is this dress ridiculous in the eyes of reason and common sense? No; nor is the dialect of speech: both are characteristic and national distinctions.
“The arguments of general vindication,” continues he, “rise powerful before my sight, like the Highland bands in full array. A louder strain of apologetic speech swells my words. What if it should rise high as the unconquered summits of Scotia’s hills, and call back, with voice sweet as Caledonian song, the days of ancient Scotish heroes; or attempt the powerful speech of the Latian orator, or his of Greece! The subject, methinks, would well accord with the attempt: Cupidum, Scotia optima, vires deficiunt. I leave this to the king of songs, Dunbar and Dunkeld, Douglas in Virgilian strains, and later poets, Ramsay, Ferguson, and Burns, awake from your graves; you have already immortalized the Scotish dialect in raptured melody! Lend me your golden target and well-pointed spear, that I might victoriously pursue, to the extremity of South Britain, reproachful ignorance and scorn still lurking there: let impartial candour seize their usurped throne. Great, then, is the birth of this national dialect,” &c.
So far so good. We have some sympathy with the rhapsodist, whose enthusiasm kindles at the names of Allan Ramsay and of Burns; nay, we are willing to hear (with a grain of allowance) that “the manly eloquence of the Scotish bar affords a singular pleasure to the candid English hearer, and gives merit and dignity to the noble speakers, who retain so much of their own dialect and tempered propriety of English sounds, that they may be emphatically termed British orators.” But we confess that we lose our patient decorum, and are almost provoked to laughter, when our philological Quixote seriously sets about to prove that Adam and Eve spoke broad Scotch in Paradise.
How angry has this grave patriot reason to be with his ingenious countryman Beattie,56 the celebrated champion of Truth, who acknowledges that he never could, when a boy or man, look at a certain translation of Ajax’s speech into one of the vulgar Scotch dialects without laughing!
We shall now with boldness, similar to that of the Scotch champion, try the risible muscles of our English reader; we are not, indeed, inclined to go quite such lengths as he has gone: he insists that the Scotch dialect ought to be adopted all over England; we are only going candidly to confess, that we think the Irish, in general, speak better English than is commonly spoken by the natives of England. To limit this proposition so as to make it appear less absurd, we should observe, that we allude to the lower classes of the people in both countries. In some counties in Ireland, a few of the poorest labourers and cottagers do not understand English, they speak only Irish, as in Wales there are vast numbers who speak only Welsh; but amongst those who speak English we find fewer vulgarisms than amongst the same rank of persons in England. The English which they speak is chiefly such as has been traditional in their families from the time of the early settlers in the island. During the reign of Elizabeth and the reign of Shakspeare, numbers of English migrated to Ireland; and whoever attends to the phraseology of the lower Irish may, at this day, hear many of the phrases and expressions used by Shakspeare. Their vocabulary has been preserved nearly in its pristine purity since that time, because they have not had intercourse with those counties in England which have made for themselves a jargon unlike to any language under heaven. The Irish brogue is a great and shameful defect, but it does not render the English language absolutely unintelligible. There are but a few variations of the brogue, such as the long and the short, the Thady brogue and Paddy brogue, which differ much in tone, and but little in phraseology; but in England, almost all of our fifty-two counties have peculiar vulgarisms, dialects, and brogues, unintelligible to their neighbours. Herodotus tells us that some of the nations of Greece, though they used the same language, spoke it so differently, that they could not understand each other’s conversation. This is literally the case at present between the provincial inhabitants of remote parts of England. Indeed the language peculiar to the metropolis, or the cockney dialect, is proverbially ridiculous. The Londoners, who look down with contempt upon all that have not been bred and born within the sound of Bow, talk with unconscious absurdity of weal and winegar, and vine and vindors, and idears, and ask you ow you do? and ‘ave ye bin taking the hair in ‘yde park? and ‘as your ‘orse ‘ad any hoats, &c.? aspirating always where they should not, and never aspirating where they should.
The Zummerzetzheer dialect, full of broad oos and eternal zeds, supplies never-failing laughter when brought upon the stage. Even a cockney audience relishes the broad pronunciation of John Moody, in the Journey to London, or of Sim in Wild Oats.
The cant of Suffolk, the vulgarisms of Shropshire, the uncouth phraseology of the three ridings of Yorkshire, amaze and bewilder foreigners, who perhaps imagine that they do not understand English, when they are in company with those who cannot speak it. The patois of Languedoc and Champagne, such as “Mein fis sest ai bai via,” Mon fils c’est un beau veau, exercises, it is true, the ingenuity of travellers, and renders many scenes of Molière and Marivaux difficult, if not unintelligible, to those who have never resided in the French provinces; but no French patois is more unintelligible than the following specimen of Tummas and Meary’s Lancashire dialogue:—
Thomas. “Whau, but I startit up to goa to th’ tits, on slurr’d deawn to th’ lower part o’ th’ heymough, on by th’ maskins, lord! whot dust think? boh leet hump stridd’n up o’ summot ot felt meety heury, on it startit weh meh on its back, deawn th’ lower part o’ th’ mough it jumpt, crost th’ leath, eaw’t o’ th’ dur whimmey it took, on into th’ weturing poo, os if th’ dule o’ hell had driv’n it, on there it threw meh en, or I fell off, I connaw tell whether, for th’ life o’ meh, into the poo.”
Mary. “Whoo-wo, whoo-wo, whoo! whot, ith neme o’ God! widneh sey?”
Thomas. “If it wur naw Owd Nick, he wur th’ orderer on’t, to be shure——. Weh mitch powlering I geet eawt o’ th’ poo, ‘lieve57 meh, as to list, I could na tell whether i’r in a sleawm or wak’n, till eh groapt ot meh een; I crope under a wough and stode like o’ gawmbling,58 or o parfit neatril, till welly day,” &c.
Let us now listen to a conversation which we hope will not be quite so unintelligible.
CHAPTER XII.
BATH COACH CONVERSATION.
In one of the coaches which travel between Bath and London, an Irish, a Scotch, and an English gentleman happened to be passengers. They were well informed and well-bred, had seen the world, had lived in good company, and were consequently superior to local and national prejudice. As their conversation was illustrative of our subject, we shall make no apology for relating it. We pass the usual preliminary compliments, and the observations upon the weather and the roads. The Irish gentleman first started a more interesting subject—the Union; its probable advantages and disadvantages were fully discussed, and, at last, the Irishman said, “Whatever our political opinions may be, there is one wish in which we shall all agree, that the Union may make us better acquainted with one another.”
“It is surprising,” said the Englishman, “how ignorant we English in general are of Ireland: to be sure we do not now, as in the times of Bacon and Spenser, believe that wild Irishmen have wings; nor do we all of us give credit, to Mr. Twiss’s assertion, that if you look at an Irish lady, she answers, ‘port if you please.’”
Scotchman.—“That traveller seems to be almost as liberal as he who defined oats—food for horses in England, and for men in Scotland: such illiberal notions die away of themselves.”
Irishman.—“Or they are contradicted by more liberal travellers. I am sure my country has great obligations to the gallant English and Scotch military, not only for so readily assisting to defend and quiet us, but for spreading in England a juster notion of Ireland. Within these few months, I suppose, more real knowledge of the state and manners of that kingdom has been diffused in England by their means, than had been obtained during a whole century.”
Scotchman.—“Indeed, I do not recollect having read any author of note who has given me a notion of Ireland since Spenser and Davies, except Arthur Young.”
Englishman.—“What little knowledge I have of Ireland has been drawn more from observation than from books. I remember when I first went over there, I did not expect to see twenty trees in the whole island: I imagined that I should have nothing to drink but whiskey, that I should have nothing to eat but potatoes, that I should sleep in mud-walled cabins; that I should, when awake, hear nothing but the Irish howl, the Irish brogue, Irish answers, and Irish bulls; and that if I smiled at any of these things, a hundred pistols would fly from their holsters to give or demand satisfaction. But experience taught me better things: I found that the stories I had heard were tales of other times. Their hospitality, indeed, continues to this day.”
Irishman.—“It does, I believe; but of later days, as we have been honoured with the visits of a greater number of foreigners, our hospitality has become less extravagant.”
Englishman.—“Not less agreeable: Irish hospitality, I speak from experience, does not now consist merely in pushing about the bottle; the Irish are convivial, but their conviviality is seasoned with wit and humour; they have plenty of good conversation as well as good cheer for their guests; and they not only have wit themselves, but they love it in others; they can take as well as give a joke. I never lived with a more good-humoured, generous, open-hearted people than the Irish.”
Irishman.—“I wish Englishmen, in general, were half as partial to poor Ireland as you are, sir.”
Englishman.—“Or rather you wish that they knew the country as well, and then they would do it as much justice.”
Irishman.—“You do it something more than justice, I fear. There are little peculiarities in my countrymen which will long be justly the subject of ridicule in England.”
Scotchman.—“Not among well-bred and well-informed people: those who have seen or read of great varieties of customs and manners are never apt to laugh at all that may differ from their own. As the sensible author of the Government of the Tongue says, ‘Half-witted people are always the bitterest revilers.’”
Irishman.—“You are very indulgent, gentlemen; but in spite of all your politeness, you must allow, or, at least, I must confess, that there are little defects in the Irish government of the tongue at which even whole-witted people must laugh.”
Scotchman.—“The well-educated people in all countries, I believe, escape the particular accent, and avoid the idiom, that are characteristic of the vulgar.”
Irishman.—“But even when we escape Irish brogue, we cannot escape Irish bulls.”
Englishman.—“You need not say Irish bulls with such emphasis; for bulls are not peculiar to Ireland. I have been informed by a person of unquestionable authority, that there is a town in Germany, Hirschau, in the Upper Palatinate, where the inhabitants are famous for making bulls.”
Irishman.—“I am truly glad to hear we have companions in disgrace. Numbers certainly lessen the effect of ridicule as well as of shame: but, after all, the Irish idiom is peculiarly unfortunate, for it leads perpetually to blunder.”
Scotchman.—“I have heard the same remarked of the Hebrew. I am told that the Hebrew and Irish idiom are much alike.”
Irishman (laughing).—“That is a great comfort to us, certainly, particularly to those amongst us who are fond of tracing our origin up to the remotest antiquity; but still there are many who would willingly give up the honour of this high alliance to avoid its inconveniences; for my own part, if I could ensure myself and my countrymen from all future danger of making bulls and blunders, I would this instant give up all Hebrew roots; and even the Ogham character itself I would renounce, ‘to make assurance doubly sure.’”
Englishman.—”‘To make assurance doubly sure.’ Now there is an example in our great Shakspeare of what I have often observed, that we English allow our poets and ourselves a licence of speech that we deny to our Hibernian neighbours. If an Irishman, instead of Shakspeare, had talked of making ‘assurance doubly sure,’ we should have asked how that could be. The vulgar in England are too apt to catch at every slip of the tongue made by Irishmen. I remember once being present when an Irish nobleman, of talents and literature, was actually hissed from the hustings at a Middlesex election because in his speech he happened to say, ‘We have laid the root to the axe of the tree of liberty,’ instead of ‘we have laid the axe to the root of the tree.’”
Scotchman,—“A lapsus linguae, that might have been made by the greatest orators, ancient or modern; by Cicero or Chatham, by Burke, or by ‘the fluent Murray.’”
Englishman,—“Upon another occasion I have heard that an Irish orator was silenced with ‘inextinguishable laughter’ merely for saying, ‘I am sorry to hear my honourable friend stand mute.’”
Scotchman.—“If I am not mistaken, that very same Irish orator made an allusion at which no one could laugh. ‘The protection,’ said he, ‘which Britain affords to Ireland in the day of adversity, is like that which the oak affords to the ignorant countryman, who flies to it for shelter in the storm; it draws down upon his head the lightning of heaven:’ may be I do not repeat the words exactly, but I could not forget the idea.”
Englishman.—“I would with all my heart bear the ridicule of a hundred blunders for the honour of having made such a simile: after all, his saying, ‘I am sorry to hear my honourable friend stand mute,’ if it be a bull, is justified by Homer; one of the charms in the cestus of Venus is,
Scotchman.—“Silence that speaks, sir, is, I am afraid, an English, not a Grecian charm. It is not in the Greek; it is one of those beautiful liberties which Mr. Pope has taken with his original. But silence that speaks can be found in France as well as in England. Voltaire, in his chef-d’oeuvre, his Oedipus, makes Jocasta say,
Englishman.—“And in our own Milton, Samson Agonistes makes as good, indeed a better bull; for he not only makes the mute speak, but speak loud:—
And in Paradise Lost we have, to speak in fashionable language, two famous bulls. Talking of Satan, Milton says,
Created thing nought valued he nor shunn’d.’
And speaking of Adam and Eve, and their sons and daughters, he confounds them all together in a manner for which any Irishman would have been laughed to scorn:—
His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.’
Yet Addison, who notices these blunders, calls them only little blemishes.”
Scotchman.—“He does so; and he quotes Horace, who tells us we should impute such venial errors to a pardonable inadvertency; and, as I recollect, Addison makes another very just remark, that the ancients, who were actuated by a spirit of candour, not of cavilling, invented a variety of figures of speech, on purpose to palliate little errors of this nature.”
“Really, gentlemen,” interrupted the Hibernian, who had sat all this time in silence that spoke his grateful sense of the politeness of his companions, “you will put the finishing stroke to my obligations to you, if you will prove that the ancient figures of speech were invented to palliate Irish blunders.”
Englishman.—“No matter for what purpose they were invented; if we can make so good a use of them we shall be satisfied, especially if you are pleased. I will, however, leave the burden of the proof upon my friend here, who has detected me already in quoting from Pope’s Iliad instead of Homer’s. I am sure he will manage the ancient figures of rhetoric better than I should; however, if I can fight behind his shield I shall not shun the combat.”
Scotchman.—“I stand corrected for quoting Greek. Now I will not go to Longinus for my tropes and figures; I have just met with a little book on the subject, which I put into my pocket to-day, intending to finish it on my journey, but I have been better employed.”
He drew from his pocket a book, called, “Deinology; or, the Union of Reason and Elegance.” “Look,” said he, “look at this long list of tropes and figures; amongst them we could find apologies for every species of Irish bulls; but in mercy, I will select, from ‘the twenty chief and most moving figures of speech,’ only the oxymoron, as it is a favourite with Irish orators. In the oxymoron contradictions meet: to reconcile these, Irish ingenuity delights. I will further spare four out of the seven figures of less note: emphasis, enallage, and the hysteron proteron you must have; because emphasis graces Irish diction, enallage unbinds it from strict grammatical fetters, and hysteron proteron allows it sometimes to put the cart before the horse. Of the eleven grammatical figures, Ireland delights chiefly in the antimeria, or changing one part of speech for another, and in the ellipsis or defect. Of the remaining long list of figures, the Irish are particularly disposed to the epizeuxis, as ‘indeed, indeed—at all, at all,’ and antanaclasis, or double meaning. The tautotes, or repetition of the same thing, is, I think, full as common amongst the English. The hyperbole and catachresis are so nearly related to a bull, that I shall dwell upon them with pleasure. You must listen to the definition of a catachresis:—‘A catachresis is the boldest of any trope. Necessity makes it borrow and employ an expression or term contrary to the thing it means to express.’”
“Upon my word this is something like a description of an Irish bull,” interrupted the Hibernian.
Scotchman.—“For instance, it has been said, Equitare in arundine longá, to ride on horseback on a stick. Reason condemns the contradiction, but necessity has allowed it, and use has made it intelligible. The same trope is employed in the following metaphorical expression:—the seeds of the Gospel have been watered by the blood of the martyrs.”
Englishman.—“That does seem an absurdity, I grant; but you know great orators trample on impossibilities.” 60
Scotchman.—“And great poets get the letter of them. You recollect Shakspeare says,
And I will strive with things impossible,
Yea, get the better of them.’”
Englishman.—“And Corneille, in the Cid, I believe, makes his hero a compliment upon his having performed impossibilities—‘Vos mains seules ont le droit de vaincre un invincible.’” 61
Scotchman.—“Ay, that would be a bull in an Irishman, but it is only an hyperbole in a Frenchman.”
Irishman.—“Indeed this line of Corneille’s out-hyperboles the hyperbole, considered in any but a prophetic light; as a prophecy, it exactly foretels the taking of Bonaparte’s invincible standard by the glorious forty-second regiment of the British: ‘Your hands alone have a right to vanquish the invincible.’ By-the-by, the phrase ont le droit cannot, I believe, be literally translated into English; but the Scotch and Irish, have a right, translates it exactly. But do not let me interrupt my country’s defence, gentlemen; I am heartily glad to find Irish blunderers may shelter themselves in such good company in the ancient sanctuary of the hyperbole. But I am afraid you must deny admittance to the poor mason, who said, ‘This house will stand as long as the world, and longer.’”
Scotchman.—“Why should we ‘shut the gates of mercy’ upon him when we pardon his betters for more flagrant sins? For instance, Mr. Pope, who, in his Essay on Criticism, makes a blunder, or rather uses an hyperbole, stronger than that of your poor Irish mason:—
A work t’outlast immortal Rome design’d.’
And to give you a more modern case, I lately heard an English shopkeeper say to a lady in recommendation of his goods, ‘Ma’am, it will wear for ever, and make you a petticoat afterwards.’”
Irishman.—“Upon my word, I did not think you could have found a match for the mason; but what will you say to my countryman, who, on meeting an acquaintance, accosted him with this ambiguous compliment—‘When first I saw you I thought it was you, but now I see it is your brother.’”
Scotchman.—“If I were not afraid you would take me for a pedant, I should quote a sentence from Cicero that is not far behind this blunder.”
Irishman.—“I can take you for nothing but a friend: pray let us have the Latin.”
Scotchman.—“It is one of Cicero’s compliments to Caesar—‘Qui, cum ipse imperator in toto imperio populi Romani unus esset, esse me alterum passus est.‘62 Perhaps,” continued the Scotchman, “my way of pronouncing Latin sounds strangely to you, gentlemen?”
Irishman.—“And perhaps ours would be unintelligible to Cicero himself, if he were to overhear us: I fancy we are all so far from right, that we need not dispute about degrees of wrong.”
The coach stopped at this instant, and the conversation was interrupted.
CHAPTER XIII.
BATH COACH CONVERSATION.
After our travellers had dined, the conversation was renewed by the English gentleman’s repeating Goldsmith’s celebrated lines on Burke:
And thought of convincing, whilst they thought of dining;
In short, ‘twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.”
“What humour and wit there are in that poem of Goldsmith’s! and where is there any thing equal to his ‘Traveller?’”
Irishman.—“Yet this is the man who used to be the butt of the company for his bulls.”
Englishman.—“No, not for his bulls, but for blurting out opinions in conversation that could not stand the test of Dr. Johnson’s critical powers. But what would become of the freedom of wit and humour if every word that came out of our mouths were subject to the tax of a professed critic’s censure, or if every sentence were to undergo a logical examination? It would be well for Englishmen if they were a little more inclined, like your open-hearted countrymen, to blurt out their opinions freely.”
Scotchman,—“I cannot forgive Dr. Johnson for calling Goldsmith an inspired idiot; I confess I see no idiotism, but much inspiration, in his works.”
Irishman.—“But we must remember, that if Johnson did laugh at Goldsmith, he would let no one else laugh at him, and he was his most sincere and active friend. The world would, perhaps, never have seen the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ if Johnson had not recommended it to a bookseller; and Goldsmith might have died in jail if the doctor had not got him a hundred pounds for it, when poor Goldsmith did not know it was worth a shilling. When we recollect this, we must forgive the doctor for calling him, in jest, an inspired idiot.”
Scotchman.—“Especially as Goldsmith has wit enough to bear him up against a thousand such jests.”
Englishman.—“It is curious to observe how nearly wit and absurdity are allied. We may forgive the genius of Ireland if he sometimes
Even English genius is not always to be restrained within the strict limits of common sense. For instance, Young is witty when he says,
Of such a wonder as insolvent gold.’
But Johnson is, I am afraid, absurd when he says,
Nor sell for gold what gold can never buy.’”
“One case, to be sure, must be excepted,” said the Irishman; “a patriot may sell his reputation, and the purchaser get nothing by it. But, gentlemen, I have just recollected an example of an Irish bull in which are all the happy requisites, incongruity, confusion, and laughable confusion, both in thought and expression. When Sir Richard Steele was asked, how it happened that his countrymen made so many bulls, he replied, ‘It is the effect of climate, sir; if an Englishman were born in Ireland, he would make as many.’”
Scotchman.—“This is an excellent bull, I allow; but I think I can match it.”
Englishman.—“And if he can, you will allow yourself to be fairly vanquished?”
Irishman.—“Most willingly.”
Scotchman.—“Then I shall owe my victory to our friend Dr. Johnson, the leviathan of English literature. In his celebrated preface to Shakspeare he says, that ‘he has not only shown human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it would be found in situations to which it cannot be exposed.’ These are his own words; I think I remember them accurately.”
The English gentleman smiled, and our Hibernian acknowledged that the Scotchman had fairly gained the victory. “My friends,” added he, “as I cannot pretend to be ‘convinced against my will,’ I certainly am not ‘of the same opinion still.’ But stay—there are such things as practical bulls: did you never hear of the Irishman who ordered a painter to draw his picture, and to represent him standing behind a tree?”
Englishman.—“No: but I have heard the very same story told of an Englishman. The dealers in good jokes give them first to one nation and then to another, first to one celebrated character and then to another, as it suits the demand and fashion of the day: just as our printsellers, with a few touches, change the portrait of General Washington into the head of the king of France, and a capital print of Sir Joshua Reynolds into a striking likeness of the Monster.
“But I can give you an instance of a practical bull that is not only indisputably English, but was made by one of the greatest men that England ever produced, Sir Isaac Newton, who, after he had made a large hole in his study-door for his cat to creep through, made a small hole beside it for the kitten. You will acknowledge, sir, that this is a good practical bull.”
“Pardon me,” said the Hibernian, “we have still some miles further to go, and, if you will give me leave, I will relate ‘an Hibernian tale,’ which exemplifies some of the opinions held in this conversation.”
The Scotch and English gentlemen begged to hear the story, and he began in the following manner.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE IRISH INCOGNITO.
Sir John Bull was a native of Ireland, bred and born in the city of Cork. His real name was Phelim O’Mooney, and he was by profession a stocah, or walking gentleman; that is, a person who is too proud to earn his bread, and too poor to have bread without earning it. He had always been told that none of his ancestors had ever been in trade or business of any kind, and he resolved, when a boy, never to demean himself and family, as his elder brother had done, by becoming a rich merchant. When he grew up to be a young man, he kept this spirited resolution as long as he had a relation or friend in the world who would let him hang upon them; but when he was shaken off by all, what could he do but go into business? He chose the most genteel, however; he became a wine merchant. I’m only a wine merchant, said he to himself, and that is next door to being nothing at all. His brother furnished his cellars; and Mr. Phelim O’Mooney, upon the strength of the wine that he had in his cellars, and of the money he expected to make of it, immediately married a wife, set up a gig, and gave excellent dinners to men who were ten times richer than he even ever expected to be. In return for these excellent dinners, his new friends bought all their wine from Mr. O’Mooney, and never paid for it; he lived upon credit himself, and gave all his friends credit, till he became a bankrupt. Then nobody came to dine with him, and every body found out that he had been very imprudent; and he was obliged to sell his gig, but not before it had broken his wife’s neck; so that when accounts came to be finally settled, he was not much worse than when he began the world, the loss falling upon his creditors, and he being, as he observed, free to begin life again, with the advantage of being once more a bachelor. He was such a good-natured, free-hearted fellow, that every body liked him, even his creditors. His wife’s relations made up the sum of five hundred pounds for him, and his brother offered to take him into his firm as partner; but O’Mooney preferred, he said, going to try, or rather to make, his fortune in England, as he did not doubt but he should by marriage, being, as he did not scruple to acknowledge, a personable, clever-looking man, and a great favourite with the sex.
“My last wife I married for love, my next I expect will do the same by me, and of course the money must come on her side this time,” said our hero, half jesting, half in earnest. His elder and wiser brother, the merchant, whom he still held in more than sufficient contempt, ventured to hint some slight objections to this scheme of Phelim’s seeking fortune in England. He observed that so many had gone upon this plan already, that there was rather a prejudice in England against Irish adventurers.
This could not affect him any ways, Phelim replied, because he did not mean to appear in England as an Irishman at all.
“How then?”
“As an Englishman, since that is most agreeable.”
“How can that be?”
“Who should hinder it?”
His brother, hesitatingly, said “Yourself.”
“Myself!—What part of myself? Is it my tongue?—You’ll acknowledge, brother, that I do not speak with the brogue.”
It was true that Phelim did not speak with any Irish brogue: his mother was an English woman, and he had lived much with English officers in Cork, and he had studied and imitated their manner of speaking so successfully, that no one, merely by his accent, could have guessed that he was an Irishman.
“Hey! brother, I say!” continued Phelim, in a triumphant English tone; “I never was taken for an Irishman in my life. Colonel Broadman told me the other day, I spoke English better than the English themselves; that he should take me for an Englishman, in any part of the known world, the moment I opened my lips. You must allow that not the smallest particle of brogue is discernible on my tongue.”
His brother allowed that not the smallest particle of brogue was to be discerned upon Phelim’s tongue, but feared that some Irish idiom might be perceived in his conversation. And then the name of O’Mooney!
“Oh, as to that, I need not trouble an act of parliament, or even a king’s letter, just to change my name for a season; at the worst, I can travel and appear incognito.”
“Always?”
“No: only just till I’m upon good terms with the lady —— Mrs. Phelim O’Mooney, that is to be, God willing. Never fear, nor shake your head, brother; you men of business are out of this line, and not proper judges: I beg your pardon for saying so, but as you are my own brother, and nobody by, you’ll excuse me.”
His brother did excuse him, but continued silent for some minutes; he was pondering upon the means of persuading Phelim to give up this scheme.
“I would lay you any wager, my dear Phelim,” said he, “that you could not continue four days in England incognito.”
“Done!” cried Phelim. “Done for a hundred pounds; done for a thousand pounds, and welcome.”
“But if you lose, how will you pay?”
“Faith! that’s the last thing I thought of, being sure of winning.”
“Then you will not object to any mode of payment I shall propose.”
“None: only remembering always, that I was a bankrupt last week, and shall be little better till I’m married; but then I’ll pay you honestly if I lose.”
“No, if you lose I must be paid before that time, my good sir,” said his brother, laughing. “My bet is this:—I will lay you one hundred guineas that you do not remain four days in England incognito; be upon honour with me, and promise, that if you lose, you will, instead of laying down a hundred guineas, come back immediately, and settle quietly again to business.”
The word business was always odious to our hero’s proud ears; but he thought himself so secure of winning his wager, that he willingly bound himself in a penalty which he believed would never become due; and his generous brother, at parting, made the bet still more favourable, by allowing that Phelim should not be deemed the loser unless he was, in the course of the first four days after he touched English ground, detected eight times in being an Irishman.
“Eight times!” cried Phelim. “Good bye to a hundred guineas, brother, you may say.”
“You may say,” echoed his brother, and so they parted.
Mr. Phelim O’Mooney the next morning sailed from Cork harbour with a prosperous gale, and with a confidence in his own success which supplied the place of auspicious omens. He embarked at Cork, to go by long sea to London, and was driven into Deal, where Julius Caesar once landed before him, and with the same resolution to see and conquer. It was early in the morning; having been very sea-sick, he was impatient, as soon as he got into the inn, for his breakfast: he was shown into a room where three ladies were waiting to go by the stage; his air of easy confidence was the best possible introduction.
“Would any of the company choose eggs?” said the waiter.
“I never touch an egg for my share,” said O’Mooney, carelessly; he knew that it was supposed to be an Irish custom to eat eggs at breakfast; and when the malicious waiter afterwards set a plate full of eggs in salt upon the table, our hero magnanimously abstained from them; he even laughed heartily at a story told by one of the ladies, of an Hibernian at Buxton, who declared that “no English hen ever laid a fresh egg.”
O’Mooney got through breakfast much to his own satisfaction, and to that of the ladies, whom he had taken a proper occasion to call the three graces, and whom he had informed that he was an old baronet of an English family, and that his name was Sir John Bull. The youngest of the graces civilly observed, “that whatever else he might be, she should never have taken him for an old baronet.” The lady who made this speech was pretty, but O’Mooney had penetration enough to discover, in the course of the conversation, that she and her companions were far from being divinities; his three graces were a greengrocer’s wife, a tallowchandler’s widow, and a milliner. When he found that these ladies were likely to be his companions if he were to travel in the coach, he changed his plan, and ordered a postchaise and four.
O’Mooney was not in danger of making any vulgar Irish blunders in paying his bill at an inn. No landlord or waiter could have suspected him, especially as he always left them to settle the matter first, and then looked over the bill and money with a careless gentility, saying, “Very right,” or “Very well, sir;” wisely calculating, that it was better to lose a few shillings on the road, than to lose a hundred pounds by the risk of Hibernian miscalculation.
Whilst the chaise was getting ready he went to the custom-house to look after his baggage. He found a red-hot countryman of his own there, roaring about four and fourpence, and fighting the battle of his trunks, in which he was ready to make affidavit there was not, nor never had been, any thing contraband; and when the custom-house officer replied by pulling out of one of them a piece of Irish poplin, the Hibernian fell immediately upon the Union, which he swore was Disunion, as the custom-house officers managed it. Sir John Bull appeared to much advantage all this time, maintaining a dignified silence; from his quiet appearance and deportment, the custom-house officers took it for granted that he was an Englishman. He was in no hurry; he begged that gentleman’s business might be settled first; he would wait the officer’s leisure, and as he spoke he played so dexterously with half-a-guinea between his fingers, as to make it visible only where he wished. The custom-house officer was his humble servant immediately; but the Hibernian would have been his enemy, if he had not conciliated him by observing, “that even Englishmen must allow there was something very like a bull in professing to make a complete identification of the two kingdoms, whilst, at the same time, certain regulations continued in full force to divide the countries by art, even more than the British Channel does by nature.”
Sir John talked so plausibly, and, above all, so candidly and coolly on Irish and English politics, that the custom-house officer conversed with him for a quarter of an hour without guessing of what country he was, till in an unlucky moment Phelim’s heart got the better of his head. Joining in the praises bestowed by all parties on the conduct of a distinguished patriot of his country, he, in the height of his enthusiasm, inadvertently called him the Speaker.
“The Speaker!” said the officer.
“Yes, the Speaker—our Speaker!” cried Phelim, with exultation. He was not aware how he had betrayed himself, till the officer smiled and said—
“Sir, I really never should have found out that you were an Irishman but from the manner in which you named your countryman, who is as highly thought of by all parties in this country as in yours: your enthusiasm does honour to your heart.”
“And to my head, I’m sure,” said our hero, laughing with the best grace imaginable. “Well, I am glad you have found me out in this manner, though I lose the eighth part of a bet of a hundred guineas by it.”
He explained the wager, and begged the custom-house officer to keep his secret, which he promised to do faithfully, and assured him, “that he should be happy to do any thing in his power to serve him.” Whilst he was uttering these last words, there came in a snug, but soft-looking Englishman, who opining from the words “happy to do any thing in my power to serve you,” that O’Mooney was a friend of the custom-house officer’s, and encouraged by something affable and good-natured in our hero’s countenance, crept up to him, and whispered a request—“Could you tell a body, sir, how to get out of the custom-house a very valuable box of Sèvre china that has been laying in the custom-house three weeks, and which I was commissioned to get out if I could, and bring up to town for a lady.”
As a lady was in the case, O’Mooney’s gallantry instantly made his good-nature effective. The box of Sèvre china was produced, and opened only as a matter of form, and only as a matter of curiosity its contents were examined—a beautiful set of Sèvre china and a pendule, said to have belonged to M. Egalité! “These things must be intended,” said Phelim, “for some lady of superior taste or fortune.”
As Phelim was a proficient in the Socratic art of putting judicious interrogatories, he was soon happily master of the principal points it concerned him to know: he learnt that the lady was rich—a spinster—of full age—at her own disposal—living with a single female companion at Blackheath—furnishing a house there in a superior style—had two carriages—her Christian name Mary—her surname Sharperson.
O’Mooney, by the blessing of God, it shall soon he, thought Phelim. He politely offered the Englishman a place in his chaise for himself and Sèvre china, as it was for a lady, and would run great hazard in the stage, which besides was full. Mr. Queasy, for that was our soft Englishman’s name, was astonished by our hero’s condescension and affability, especially as he heard him called Sir John: he bowed sundry times as low as the fear of losing his wig would permit, and accepted the polite offer with many thanks for himself and the lady concerned.
Sir John Bull’s chaise and four was soon ready; and Queasy seated in the corner of it, and the Sèvre china safely stowed between his knees. Captain Murray, a Scotch officer, was standing at the inn-door, with his eyes intently fixed on the letters that were worked in nails on the top of Sir John’s trunk; the letters were P. O’M. Our hero, whose eyes were at least as quick as the Scotchman’s, was alarmed lest this should lead to a second detection. He called instantly, with his usual presence of mind, to the ostler, and desired him to uncord that trunk, as it was not to go with him; raising his voice loud enough for all the yard to hear, he added—“It is not mine at all; it belongs to my friend, Mr. O’Mooney: let it be sent after me, at leisure, by the waggon, as directed, to the care of Sir John Bull.”
Our hero was now giving his invention a prodigious quantity of superfluous trouble; and upon this occasion, as upon most others, he was more in danger from excess than deficiency of ingenuity: he was like the man in the fairy tale, who was obliged to tie his legs lest he should outrun the object of which he was in pursuit. The Scotch officer, though his eyes were fixed on the letters PO’S., had none of the suspicions which Phelim was counteracting; he was only considering how he could ask for the third place in Sir John’s chaise during the next stage, as he was in great haste to get to town upon particular business, and there were no other horses at the inn. When he heard that the heavy baggage was to go by the waggon, he took courage and made his request. It was instantly granted by the good-natured Hibernian, who showed as much hospitality about his chaise as if it had been his house. Away they drove as fast as they could. Fresh dangers awaited him at the next inn. He left his hat upon the table in the hall whilst he went into the parlour, and when he returned, he heard some person inquiring what Irish gentleman was there. Our hero was terribly alarmed, for he saw that his hat was in the inquirers hand, and he recollected that the name of Phelim O’Mooney was written in it. This the inquisitive gentleman did not see, for it was written in no very legible characters on the leather withinside of the front; but “F. Guest, hatter, Damestreet, Dublin,” was a printed advertisement that could not be mistaken, and that was pasted within the crown. O’Mooney’s presence of mind did not forsake him upon this emergency.
“My good sir,” said he, turning to Queasy, who, without hearing one word of what was passing, was coming out of the parlour, with his own hat and gloves in his hand; “My good sir,” continued he, loading him with parcels, “will you have the goodness to see these put into my carriage? Ill take care of your hat and gloves,” added O’Mooney, in a low voice. Queasy surrendered his hat and gloves instantly, unknowing wherefore; then squeezed forward with his load through the crowd, crying—“Waiter! hostler! pray, somebody put these into Sir John Bull’s chaise.”
Sir John Bull, equipped with Queasy’s hat, marched deliberately through the defile, bowing with the air of at least an English county member to this side and to that, as way was made for him to his carriage. No one suspected that the hat did not belong to him; no one, indeed, thought of the hat, for all eyes were fixed upon the man. Seated in the carriage, he threw money to the waiter, hostler, and boots, and drew up the glass, bidding the postilions drive on. By this cool self-possession our hero effected his retreat with successful generalship, leaving his new Dublin beaver behind him, without regret, as bona waviata. Queasy, before whose eyes things passed continually without his seeing them, thanked Sir John for the care he had taken of his hat, drew on his gloves, and calculated aloud how long they should be going to the next stage. At the first town they passed through, O’Mooney bought a new hat, and Queasy deplored the unaccountable mistake by which Sir John’s hat had been forgotten. No further mistakes happened upon the journey. The travellers rattled on, and neither ‘stinted nor stayed’ till they arrived at Blackheath, at Miss Sharperson’s. Sir John sat Queasy down without having given him the least hint of his designs upon the lady; but as he helped him out with the Sèvre china, he looked through the large opening double doors of the hall, and slightly said—“Upon my word, this seems to be a handsome house: it would be worth looking at, if the family were not at home.”
“I am morally sure, Sir John,” said the soft Queasy, “that Miss Sharperson would be happy to let you see the house tonight, and this minute, if she knew you were at the door, and who you were, and all your civility about me and the china.—Do, pray, walk in.”
“Not for the world: a gentleman could not do such a thing without an invitation from the lady of the house herself.”
“Oh, if that’s all, I’ll step up myself to the young lady; I’m certain she’ll be proud——”
“Mr. Queasy, by no means; I would not have the lady disturbed for the world at this unseasonable hour.—It is too late—quite too late.”
“Not at all, begging pardon, Sir John,” said Queasy, taking out his watch: “only just tea-time by me.—Not at all unseasonable for any body; besides, the message is of my own head:—all, you know, if not well taken——”
Up the great staircase he made bold to go on his mission, as he thought, in defiance of Sir John’s better judgment. He returned in a few minutes with a face of self-complacent exultation, and Miss Sharperson’s compliments, and begs Sir John Bull will walk up and rest himself with a dish of tea, and has her thanks to him for the china.
Now Queasy, who had the highest possible opinion of Sir John Bull and of Miss Sharperson, whom he thought the two people of the greatest consequence and affability, had formed the notion that they were made for each other, and that it must be a match if they could but meet. The meeting he had now happily contrived and effected; and he had done his part for his friend Sir John, with Miss Sharperson, by as many exaggerations as he could utter in five minutes, concerning his perdigious politeness and courage, his fine person and carriage, his ancient family, and vast connexions and importance wherever he appeared on the road, at inns, and over all England. He had previously, during the journey, done his part for his friend Miss Sharperson with Sir John, by stating that “she had a large fortune left her by her mother, and was to have twice as much from her grandmother; that she had thousands upon thousands in the funds, and an estate of two thousand a year, called Rascàlly, in Scotland, besides plate and jewels without end.”
Thus prepared, how could this lady and gentleman meet without falling desperately in love with each other!
Though a servant in handsome livery appeared ready to show Sir John up the great staircase, Mr. Queasy acted as a gentleman usher, or rather as showman. He nodded to Sir John as they passed across a long gallery and through an ante-chamber, threw open the doors of various apartments as he went along, crying—“Peep in! peep in! peep in here! peep in there!—Is not this spacious? Is not this elegant! Is not that grand? Did I say too much?” continued he, rubbing his hands with delight. “Did you ever see so magnificent and such highly-polished steel grates out of Lon’on?”
Sir John, conscious that the servant’s eyes were upon him, smiled at this question, “looked superior down;” and though with reluctant complaisance he leaned his body to this side or to that, as Queasy pulled or swayed, yet he appeared totally regardless of the man’s vulgar reflections. He had seen every thing as he passed, and was surprised at all he saw; but evinced not the slightest symptom of astonishment. He was now ushered into a spacious, well-lighted apartment: he entered with the easy, unembarrassed air of a man who was perfectly accustomed to such a home. His quick coup-d’oeil took in the whole at a single glance. Two magnificent candelabras stood on Egyptian tables at the farther end of the room, and the lights were reflected on all sides from mirrors of no common size. Nothing seemed worthy to attract our hero’s attention but the lady of the house, whom he approached with an air of distinguished respect. She was reclining on a Turkish sofa, her companion seated beside her, tuning a harp. Miss Sharperson half rose to receive Sir John: he paid his compliments with an easy, yet respectful air. He was thanked for his civilities to the person who had been commissioned to bring the box of Sèvre china from Deal.
“Vastly sorry it should have been so troublesome,” Miss Sharperson said, in a voice fashionably unintelligible, and with a most becoming yet intimidating nonchalance of manner. Intimidating it might have been to any man but our hero; he, who had the happy talent of catching, wherever he went, the reigning manner of the place, replied to the lady in equal strains; and she, in her turn, seemed to look upon him more as her equal. Tea and coffee were served. Nothings were talked of quite easily by Sir John. He practised the art “not to admire,” so as to give a justly high opinion of his taste, consequence, and knowledge of the world. Miss Sharperson, though her nonchalance was much diminished, continued to maintain a certain dignified reserve; whilst her companion, Miss Felicia Flat, condescended to ask Sir John, who had doubtless seen every fine house in England and on the continent, his opinion with respect to the furniture and finishing of the room, the placing of the Egyptian tables and the candelabras.
No mortal could have guessed by Sir John Bull’s air, when he heard this question, that he had never seen a candelabra before in his life. He was so much, and yet seemingly so little upon his guard, he dealt so dexterously in generals, and evaded particulars so delicately, that he went through this dangerous conversation triumphantly. Careful not to protract his visit beyond the bounds of propriety, he soon rose to take leave, and he mingled “intrusion, regret, late hour, happiness, and honour,” so charmingly in his parting compliment, as to leave the most favourable impression on the minds of both the ladies, and to procure for himself an invitation to see the house next morning.
The first day was now ended, and our hero had been detected but once. He went to rest this night well satisfied with himself, but much more occupied with the hopes of marrying the heiress of Rascàlly than of winning a paltry bet.
The next day he waited upon the ladies in high spirits. Neither of them was visible, but Mr. Queasy had orders to show him the house, which he did with much exultation, dwelling particularly in his praises on the beautiful high polish of the steel grates. Queasy boasted that it was he who had recommended the ironmonger who furnished the house in that line; and that his bill, as he was proud to state, amounted to many, many hundreds. Sir John, who did not attend to one word Queasy said, went to examine the map of the Rascàlly estate, which was unrolled, and he had leisure to count the number of lords’ and ladies’ visiting tickets which lay upon the chimney-piece. He saw names of the people of first quality and respectability: it was plain that Miss Sharperson must be a lady of high family as well as large fortune, else she would not be visited by persons of such distinction. Our hero’s passion for her increased every moment. Her companion, Miss Flat, now appeared, and entered very freely into conversation with Sir John; and as he perceived that she was commissioned to sit in judgment upon him, he evaded all her leading questions with the skill of an Irish witness, but without giving any Hibernian answers. She was fairly at a fault. Miss Sharperson at length appeared, elegantly dressed; her person was genteel, and her face rather pretty. Sir John, at this instant, thought her beautiful, or seemed to think so. The ladies interchanged looks, and afterwards Sir John found a softness in his fair one’s manner, a languishing tenderness in her eyes, in the tone of her voice, and at the same time a modest perplexity and reserve about her, which altogether persuaded him that he was quite right, and his brother quite wrong en fait d’amour. Miss Flat appeared now to have the most self-possession of the three, and Miss Sharperson looked at her from time to time, as if she asked leave to be in love. Sir John’s visit lasted a full half hour before he was sensible of having been five minutes engaged in this delightful conversation.
Miss Sharperson’s coach now came to the door: he handed her into it, and she gave him a parting look, which satisfied him all was yet safe in her heart. Miss Flat, as he handed her into the carriage, said, “Perhaps they should meet Sir John at Tunbridge, where they were going in a few days.” She added some words as she seated herself, which he scarcely noticed at the time, but they recurred afterwards disagreeably to his memory. The words were, “I’m so glad we’ve a roomy coach, for of all things it annoys me to be squeedged in a carriage.”
This word squeedged, as he had not been used to it in Ireland, sounded to him extremely vulgar, and gave him suspicions of the most painful nature. He had the precaution, before he left Blackheath, to go into several shops, and to inquire something more concerning his fair ladies. All he heard was much to their advantage; that is, much to the advantage of Miss Sharperson’s fortune. All agreed that she was a rich Scotch heiress. A rich Scotch heiress, Sir John wisely considered, might have an humble companion who spoke bad English. He concluded that squeedged was Scotch, blamed himself for his suspicions, and was more in love with his mistress and with himself than ever. As he returned to town, he framed the outline of a triumphant letter to his brother on his approaching marriage. The bet was a matter, at present, totally beneath his consideration. However, we must do him the justice to say, that like a man of honour he resolved that, as soon as he had won the lady’s heart, he would candidly tell her his circumstances, and then leave her the choice either to marry him or break her heart, as she pleased. Just as he had formed this generous resolution, at a sudden turn of the road he overtook Miss Sharperson’s coach: he bowed and looked in as he passed, when, to his astonishment, he saw, squeedged up in the corner by Miss Felicia, Mr. Queasy. He thought that this was a blunder in etiquette that would never have been made in Ireland. Perhaps his mistress was of the same opinion, for she hastily pulled down the blind as Sir John passed. A cold qualm came over the lover’s heart. He lost no time in idle doubts and suspicions, but galloped on to town as fast as he could, and went immediately to call upon the Scotch officer with whom he had travelled, and whom he knew to be keen and prudent. He recollected the map of the Rascàlly estate, which he saw in Miss Sharperson’s breakfast-room, and he remembered that the lands were said to lie in that part of Scotland from which Captain Murray came; from him he resolved to inquire into the state of the premises, before he should offer himself as tenant for life. Captain Murray assured him that there was no such place as Rascàlly in that part of Scotland; that he had never heard of any such person as Miss Sharperson, though he was acquainted with every family and every estate in the neighbourhood where she fabled hers to be. O’Mooney drew from memory, the map of the Rascàlly estate. Captain Murray examined the boundaries, and assured him that his cousin the general’s lands joined his own at the very spot which he described, and that unless two straight lines could enclose a space, the Rascàlly estate could not be found.
Sir John, naturally of a warm temper, proceeded, however, with prudence. The Scotch officer admired his sagacity in detecting this adventurer. Sir John waited at his hotel for Queasy, who had promised to call to let him know when the ladies f would go to Tunbridge. Queasy came. Nothing could equal his astonishment and dismay when he was told the news.
“No such place as the Rascàlly estate! Then I’m an undone man! an undone man!” cried poor Queasy, bursting into tears: “but I’m certain it’s impossible; and you’ll find, Sir John, you’ve been misinformed. I would stake my life upon it, Miss Sharperson’s a rich heiress, and has a rich grandmother. Why, she’s five hundred pounds in my debt, and I know of her being thousands and thousands in the books of as good men as myself, to whom I’ve recommended her, which I wouldn’t have done for my life if I had not known her to be solid. You’ll find she’ll prove a rich heiress, Sir John.”
Sir John hoped so, but the proofs were not yet satisfactory. Queasy determined to inquire about her payments to certain creditors at Blackheath, and promised to give a decisive answer in the morning. O’Mooney saw that this man was too great a fool to be a knave; his perturbation was evidently the perturbation of a dupe, not of an accomplice: Queasy was made to “be an anvil, not a hammer.” In the midst of his own disappointment, our good-natured Hibernian really pitied this poor currier.
The next morning Sir John went early to Blackheath. All was confusion at Miss Sharperson’s house; the steps covered with grates and furniture of all sorts; porters carrying out looking-glasses, Egyptian tables, and candelabras; the noise of workmen was heard in every apartment; and louder than all the rest, O’Mooney heard the curses that were denounced against his rich heiress—curses such as are bestowed on a swindler in the moment of detection by the tradesmen whom she has ruined.
Our hero, who was of a most happy temper, congratulated himself upon having, by his own wit and prudence, escaped making the practical bull of marrying a female swindler.
Now that Phelim’s immediate hopes of marrying a rich heiress were over, his bet with his brother appeared to him of more consequence, and he rejoiced in the reflection that this was the third day he had spent in England, and that he had but once been detected.—The ides of March were come, but not passed!
“My lads,” said he to the workmen, who were busy in carrying out the furniture from Miss Sharperson’s house, “all hands are at work, I see, in saving what they can from the wreck of the Sharperson. She was as well-fitted out a vessel, and in as gallant trim, as any ship upon the face of the earth.”
“Ship upon the face of the yearth.’” repeated an English porter with a sneer; “ship upon the face of the water, you should say, master; but I take it you be’s an Irishman.”
O’Mooney had reason to be particularly vexed at being detected by this man, who spoke a miserable jargon, and who seemed not to have a very extensive range of ideas. He was one of those half-witted geniuses who catch at the shadow of an Irish bull. In fact, Phelim had merely made a lapsus lingual, and had used an expression justifiable by the authority of the elegant and witty Lord Chesterfield, who said—no, who wrote—that the English navy is the finest navy upon the face of the earth! But it was in vain for our hero to argue the point; he was detected—no matter how or by whom. But this was only his second detection, and three of his four days of probation were past.
He dined this day at Captain Murray’s. In the room in which they dined there was a picture of the captain, painted by Romney. Sir John, who happened to be seated opposite to it, observed that it was a very fine picture; the more he looked at it, the more he liked it. His admiration was at last unluckily expressed: he said, “That’s an incomparable, an inimitable picture; it is absolutely more like than the original.” 63