The morning after the receipt of the letter, the contents of which I have in part made known to the reader, O'Grady called on me to accompany him into the city.
'I am on a borrowing expedition, Jack,' cried he; 'and there's nothing like having a new face with one. Cavendish, Hopeton, and the rest of them, are so well known, it's of no use having them. But you, my boy, you 're fresh; your smooth chin does not look like a protested bill, and you've got a dégagé, careless manner, a kind of unsuspicious look about you, a man never has, after a bailiff has given him an epaulette of five dirty fingers.'
'But, Phil,' said I, 'if you really want money——'
'My very excellent young friend,' interrupted he, in a kind of sermon voice, 'don't finish it, I beseech you; that is the very last thing in the way of exchequer a gentleman is ever driven to—borrowing from a friend. Heaven forbid! But even supposing the case that one's friend has money, why, the presumption is, that he must have borrowed it himself; so that you are sponging upon his ingenuity, not his income. Besides, why riddle one's own ships, while there is an enemy before us to fight? Please to remember the money-lenders, the usurers, the stockbroking knaves at fifty per cent, that the world is glutted with; these are the true game for a sporting gentleman, who would rather harpoon a shark any day, than spear a salmon.'
'But what's become of Paul? Is he not available.'
'Don't you know what has happened there? But I was forgetting you 've kept the house this week past. In the first place, La Belle Louise has gone home, Paul has taken his departure for the circuit, and Mrs. Paul, after three days' sharp hysterics, has left town for her villa, near Bray—old Harvey finding it doubtless more convenient to visit her there, with twenty guineas for his fee, than to receive one for his call at Stephen's Green.'
'And what is supposed to be the cause of all this?' said I, scarce able to conceal my agitation.
'The report goes,' replied he, 'that some bank has broke in Calcutta or the Caucasus, or somewhere, or that some gold-mine in Peru, in which Paul had a share, has all turned out to be only plated goods; for it was on the receipt of a letter, on the very morning of Paul's departure, that she took so dangerously ill; and as Paul, in his confusion, brought the attorney, instead of the surgeon-general, the case became alarming, and they gave her so much ether and sal-volatile that it required the united strength of the family to keep her from ascending like a balloon. However, the worst of it all is, the house is shut, the windows closed, and where lately on the door-steps a pair of yellow plush breeches figured bright and splendent as the glorious sun, a dusky-looking planet in threadbare black now informs you that the family are from home, and not expected back for the summer.'
'Perhaps I can explain the mystery,' said I, as a blush of shame burned on my cheek. Read this.'
So saying, I handed O'Grady the letter, doubled down at the part where Lord Dudley's mention of the Rooneys began. Grieved as I felt thus to expose the absurd folly of my mother's conduct, yet I felt the necessity of having at least one friend to advise with, and that, to render his counsel of any value, a perfect candour on my part was equally imperative.
While his eye glanced over the lines, I walked towards the window, expecting at each moment some open burst of indignation would escape him—some outbreak of passionate warmth, at the cold-blooded ingratitude and malevolence of one whom previously we had regarded but as a fool. Not so; on the contrary, he read the letter to the end with an unchanged countenance, folded it up with great composure, and then turning his back to the fire, he burst out into a fit of the most immoderate laughter.
'Look ye, Jack,' cried he, in a voice almost suffocated with the emotion, 'I am a poor man, have scarcely a guinea I can call my own, yet I 'd have given the best hack in my stable to have seen the Rooneys reading that letter. There, there! don't talk to me, boy, about villainy, ingratitude, and so forth. The fun of it, man, covers all the rest. Only to think of Mr. Paul Rooney, the Amphytrion of viceroys, chancellors, bishops, major-generals, and lord mayors, asked for his bill—to score up all your champagne and your curacoa, your turtle, your devilled kidneys; all the heavy brigade of your grand dinners, and all the light infantry of luncheons, breakfasts, grilled bones, and sandwiches! The Lord forgive your mother for putting it in his head! My chalk would be a fearful one, not to speak of the ugly item of “cash advanced.” Oh, it 'll kill me, I know that! Don't look so serious, man; you may live fifty years, and never have so good a joke to laugh at. Tell me, Jack, do you think your mother has kept a copy of the letter? I would give my right eye for it. What a fearful temper Paul will be in, on circuit! and as to Mrs. Rooney, it will go hard with her but she cuts the whole aristocracy for at least a week. There never was anything like it. To hint at transporting the Princess O'Toole, whose ancestor was here in the time of Moses. Ah, Jack, how little respect your mother appears to have for an old family! She evidently has no classical associations to hallow her memory withal.'
'I confess,' said I, somewhat tartly, 'had I anticipated the spirit with which you have taken up this matter, I doubt whether I should have shown you the letter.'
'And if you had not,' replied he, 'I 'd not have forgiven you till the day of my death. Next to a legacy, a good laugh is the best thing I know; indeed, sometimes it is better, for you can't be choused out of it by your lawyer.'
'Laughing is a very excellent practice, no doubt, but I looked for some advice——-'
'Advice! to be sure, my boy; and so you shall have it. Only give me a good training canter of a hearty laugh, and you 'll see what running I' ll make, when it comes to sound discretion afterwards. The fun of a man's temperament is like the froth on your champagne; while it gives a zest to the liquor of life by its lightness and its sparkle, it neither detracts from the flavour nor the strength of the beverage. At the same time, when I begin to froth up, don't expect me to sober down before twenty-four hours. So take your hat, come along into town, and thank your stars that you have been able to delight the heart of a man who's trying to get a bill discounted. Now hear me, Jack,' said he, as we descended the stairs; 'if you expect me to conduct myself with becoming gravity and decorum, you had better avoid any mention of the Rooneys for the rest of the day. And now to business!'
As we proceeded down Dame Street my friend scientifically explained to me the various modes there were of obtaining money on loan.
'I don't speak,' said he, 'of those cases where a man has landed security, or property of one kind or other, or even expectations, because all these are easy—the mere rule of three in financial arithmetic What I mean are the decimal fractions of a man's difficulties, when, with as many writs against him as would make a carpet for his bedroom, he can still go out with an empty pocket in the morning and come back with it furnished at night. And now to begin. The maxims of the sporting world are singularly applicable to the practice before us. You're told that before you enter a preserve your first duty is to see that your gun is properly loaded—all the better if it be a double-barrelled one. Now, look here'—as he spoke he drew from his sabretache five bills for one hundred pounds each; 'you see I am similarly prepared. The game may get up at any moment, and not find me at half-cock; and although I only go out for a single bird—that is, but one hundred, yet, if by good-luck I flush a covey, you see I am ready for them all. The doctrine of chances shows us that five to one is better than an even bet; so, by scattering these five bills in different directions, the odds are exactly so many in my favour that I raise a hundred somewhere.' 'And now,' said I, 'where does the game lie?' 'I'm coming to that, Jack. Your rich preserves are all about the neighbourhood of Clare Street, Park Street, Merrion Street, and that direction. With them, alas! I have nothing to do. My broad acres have long since taken wings to themselves; and I fear a mortgage upon Mount O'Grady, as it at present exists, would be a poor remedy for an empty pocket. The rich money-lenders despise poor devils like me; they love not contingencies; and, as Macbeth says, “They have no speculation in their eyes.” For them, my dear Jack, you must have messuages and tenements, and outhouses, townlands, and turbaries; corn, cattle, and cottages; pigs, potatoes, and peasantry. They love to let their eyes range over a rich and swelling scene of woodland and prairie; for they are the landscape-gardeners of usury—they are the Hobbimas and Berghems of the law.
'Others again, of smaller range and humbler practice, there are, to whom, upon occasion, you assign your grandfather's plate and the pictures of your grand-aunts for certain monied conveniences you stand in need of. These are a kind of Brobdingnag pawnbrokers, who have fine houses, the furniture of which is everlastingly changing, each creditor sending his representative, like a minister to a foreign court; with them, also, I have nothing to do. The family have had so little to eat for the last two generations that they trouble themselves but slightly on the score of silver dishes; and as to pictures, I possess but one in the world—a portrait of my father in his wig and robes. This, independent of other reasons, I couldn't part with, as it is one of the only means I possess of controlling Corny when his temper becomes more than usually untractable. Upon these occasions, I hang up the “jidge” over the chimney-piece, and the talisman has never failed yet.
'Now, Jack, my constituency live about fleet Street, and those small, obscure, dingy-looking passages that branch from it on either side. Here live a class of men who, having begun life as our servants or valets, are in perfect possession of all our habits of life, our wants, and our necessities. Having amassed enough by retail robbery of us while in our service, to establish some petty tavern, or some low livery-stable, they end by cheating us wholesale, for the loan of our own money, at their rate of interest. Well aware that, however deferred, we must pay eventually, they are satisfied—good, easy souls!—to renew and renew bills, whose current percentage varies from five-and-twenty to forty. And even, notwithstanding all this, Jack, they are difficult devils to deal with, any appearance of being hard up, any show of being out-at-elbows, rendering a negotiation as difficult as the assurance of a condemned ship for a China voyage. No, my boy; though your house be besieged by duns, though in every passenger you see a bailiff, and never nap after dinner without dreaming of the Marshalsea, yet still, the very moment you cross the precincts of their dwelling, you must put your care where your cash ought to be—in your pocket. You must wear the easy smile of a happy conscience, and talk of your want of a few hundreds as though it were a question of a pinch of snuff, or a glass of brandy-and-water, while you agree to the exorbitant demands they exact, with the careless indifference of one to whom money is no object, rather than with the despair of a wretch who looks for no benefit in life save in the act for insolvent debtors. This you 'll say is a great bore, and so I once thought too; now, however, I have got somewhat used to it, and sometimes don't actually dislike the fun. Why, man, I have been at it for three months at a time. I remember when I never blew my nose without pulling out a writ along with my pocket-handkerchief, and I never was in better spirits in all my life. But here we are. This is Bill Fagan's, a well-known drysalter; you'll have to wait for me in the front parlour for a moment while I negotiate with Billy.'
Elbowing our way through a squalid and miserable-looking throng of people that filled the narrow hall of a house in fleet Street, we forced on till we reached an inner door in which a sliding panel permitted those within to communicate with others on the outside. Tapping at this with his cane, O'Grady called out something which I could not catch, the panel at once flew back, a red carbuncled face appeared at the opening, the owner of which, with a grin of very peculiar signification, exclaimed—' Ah, it's yourself, Captain? Walk in, sir.' With these words the door was opened, and we were admitted into the inner hall. This was also crowded, but with a different class from what I had seen without. These were apparently men in business, shopkeepers and traders, who, reduced by some momentary pressure, to effect a loan, were content to prop up their tottering credit by sapping the very core of their prosperity. Unlike the others, on whom habitual poverty and daily misery had stamped its heavy impress, and whose faces too, inured to suffering, betrayed no shame at being seen—these, on the contrary, looked downward or aside; seemed impatient, fretful, and peevish, and indicated in a hundred ways how unused they were to exigencies of this nature, muttering to themselves in angry mood at being detained, and feigning a resolution to depart at every moment. O'Grady, after a conference of a few moments with the rubicund Cerberus I have mentioned, beckoned to me to follow him. We proceeded accordingly up a narrow creaking stair, into a kind of front drawing-room, in which about a dozen persons were seated, or listlessly lounging in every imaginable attitude—some on chairs, some on the window-sills, some on the tables, and one even on the mantel-piece, with his legs gracefully dangling in front of the fire. Perfectly distinct from the other two classes I have mentioned, these were all young men whose dress, look, and bearing bespoke them of rank and condition. Chatting away gaily, laughing, joking, and telling good stories, they seemed but little to care for the circumstances which brought them there; and, while they quizzed one another about their various debts and difficulties, seemed to think want of money as about the very best joke a gentleman could laugh at. By all of these O'Grady was welcomed with a burst of applause, as they eagerly pressed forward to shake hands with him.
'I say, O'Grady,' cried one, 'we muster strong this morning. I hope Fagan's bank will stand the run on it. What 's your figure?'
'Oh, a couple of hundred,' said Phil carelessly; 'I have got rather a heavy book on the steeplechase.'
'So I hear,' said another; 'and they say Ulick Burke won't ride for you. He knows no one can sit the horse but himself; and Maher, the story goes, has given him a hundred and fifty to leave you in the lurch!'
'How good!' said Phil, smiling; for although this intelligence came upon him thus suddenly, he never evinced the slightest surprise nor the most trifling irritation.
'You'll pay forfeit, of course, Phil,' said the gentleman on the chimney.
'I fancy not.'
'Then will you take two fifties to one, against your horse?'
'Will you give it?' was the cool reply. 'Yes.'
'And I—and I also,' said different voices round the room.
'Agreed, gentlemen, with all of you. So, if you please, we 'll book this. Jack, have you got a pencil?'
As I drew forth my pocket-book I could not help whispering to O'Grady that there seemed something like a coalition among his opponents. Before I could conclude, the red face appeared at the door. O'Grady hastily muttered, 'Wait for me here,' and left the room.
During his absence I had abundant time to study those about me. Indeed, a perfect sameness in their characters as in their pursuits rendered it an easy process; for as with unguarded frankness they spoke of their several difficulties, their stories presented one uniform feature-reckless expenditure and wasteful extravagance, with limited means and encumbered fortunes. They had passed through every phase of borrowing, every mode of raising money, and were now reduced to the last rung of the ladder of expediency, to become the prey of the usurer, who meted out to them a few more months of extravagance at the cost of many a future year of sorrow and repining.
I was beginning to grow impatient as the door gently opened, and I saw my friend, as he emerged from the back drawing-room. Without losing a moment's time I joined him. We descended the stairs together, and walked out into the street.
'Are you fond of pickled herrings, Jack?' said O'Grady, as he took my arm.
'Pickled herrings! Why, what do you mean?'
'Probably,' resumed he, in the same dry tone of voice, 'you prefer ash bark, or asafetida?'
'Why, I can't say.'
'Ah, my boy, you 're difficult to please, then. What do you say to whale oil and Welsh wigs?'
'Confound me if I understand you!'
'Nothing more easy after all, for of each of these commodities I 'm now a possessor to the amount of some two hundred and twenty pounds. You look surprised, but such is the nature of our transactions here; and for my bill of five hundred, payable in six months, I have become a general merchant to the extent I've told you, not to mention paying eighty more for a certain gig and horse, popularly known in this city as the discount dennet. This,' continued he with a sigh, 'is about the tenth time I've been the owner of that vile conveyance; for you must know whenever Fagan advances a good round sum he always insists upon something of this kind forming part of it, and thus, according to the figure of your loan, you may drive from his door in anything, from a wheel-barrow to a stage-coach. As for the discount dennet, it is as well known as the black-cart that conveys the prisoners to Newgate, and the reputation of him who travels in either is pretty much on a par. From the crank of the rusty springs, to the limping amble of the malicious old black beast in the shafts, the whole thing has a look of beggary about it. Every jingle of the ragged harness seems to whisper in your ear, “Fifty per cent.”; and drive which way you will, it is impossible to get free of the notion that you're not trotting along the road to ruin. To have been seen in it once is as though you had figured in the pillory, and the very fact of its being in your possession is a blow of a battering-ram to your credit for ever!'
'But why venture into it? If you must have it, let it be like the pickled herrings and the paving-stones—so much of pure loss.'
'The fact is, Jack, it is generally passed off on a young hand, the first time he raises money. He knows little of the town, less of its secret practices, and not until he has furnished a hearty laugh to all his acquaintances does he discover the blunder he has committed. Besides, sometimes you're hard up for something to carry you about.
I remember once keeping it an entire winter, and as I painted Latitat a good piebald, and had his legs whitewashed every morning, few recognised him, except such as had paid for their acquaintance. After this account, probably, you'll not like to drive with me; but as I am going to Loughrea for the races, I 've determined to take the dennet down, and try if I can't find a purchaser among the country gentlemen. And now let's think of dinner. What do you say to a cutlet at the club, and perhaps we shall strike out something there to finish our evening?'
We dined at the club-house, and sat chatting over our wine till near ten o'clock. The events of the morning were our principal topics; for although I longed myself to turn the conversation to the Rooneys, I was deterred from doing so by the fear of another outbreak of O'Grady's mirth. Meanwhile the time rolled on, and rapidly too, for my companion, with an earnestness of manner and a force of expression I little knew he possessed, detailed to me many anecdotes of his own early career. From these I could glean that while O'Grady suffered himself to be borne along the current of dissipation and excess, yet in his heart he hated the life he led, and, when a moment of reflection came, felt sorrow for the past, and but little hope for the future.
'Yes, Jack,' said he, on concluding a narrative of continual family misfortune, 'there would seem a destiny in things; and if we look about us in the world we cannot fail to see that families, like individuals, have their budding spring of youth and hope, their manhood of pride and power, and their old age of feebleness and decay. As for myself, I am about the last branch of an old tree, and all my endeavour has been, to seem green and cheerful to the last. My debts have hung about my neck all through life; the extravagances of my early years have sat like a millstone upon me; and I who began the world with a heart brimful of hope, and a soul bounding with ambition, have lingered on my path like a truant schoolboy. And here I am, at the age of three-and-thirty, without having realised a single promise of my boyhood, the poorest of all imaginable things—a gentleman without fortune, a soldier without service, a man of energy without hope.'
'But why, Phil,' said I, 'how comes it that you never went out to the Peninsula?'
'Alas, my boy! from year to year I have gone on expecting my gazette to a regiment on service. Too poor to purchase, too proud to solicit, I have waited in anxious expectancy from some of those with whom, high as was their station, I've lived on terms of intimacy and friendship, that notice they extended to others less known than I was; but somehow the temperament that would seem to constitute my happiness, has proved my bane, and those qualities which have made me a boon companion, have left me a beggar. Handed over from one viceroy to another, like a state trumpeter or a butt of sherry, I have been left to linger out my best years a kind of court-jester; my only reward being, the hour of merriment over, that they who laughed with, should laugh at me.'
There was a tone of almost ferocity in the way he spoke these words; while the trembling lip, the flashing eye, and the swollen veins of his temple betrayed that the very bitterest of all human emotions—self-scorn—was racking his heart within him.
For some time we were both silent. Had I even known what to say at such a moment, there was that comfortless expression about his face, that look of riveted despair, which would have rendered any effort on my part to console him a vain and presumptuous folly.
'But come, Jack,' said he, filling his glass and pushing over the decanter to me, 'I have learned to put little faith in patrons; and although the information has been long in acquiring, still it has come at last, and I am determined to profit by it. I am now endeavouring to raise a little money to pay off the most pressing of my creditors, and have made an application to the Horse Guards to be appointed to any regiment on service, wherever it may be. If both these succeed, and it is necessary both should, then, Jack, I 'll try a new path, and even though it lead to nothing, yet, at least, it will be a more manly one to follow. And if I am to linger on to that period of life when to look back is nearly all that's left us—why, then, the retrospect will be less dashed with shame than with such a career as this is. Meanwhile, my boy, the decanter is with you, so fill your glass; I 'll join you presently.'
As he spoke, O'Grady sprang up and walked to the other end of the room, where a party of some half-dozen persons were engaged in putting on greatcoats, and buttoning up previous to departure. In an instant I could hear his voice high above the rest—that cheerful ringing tone that seemed the very tocsin of a happy heart—while at some observation he made, the whole party around him were convulsed with laughter. In the midst of all this he drew one of them aside, and conversing eagerly with him for a few seconds, pointed to me as he spoke.
'Thank you, my lord, thank you,' said he, as he turned away. 'I'll be answerable for my friend. Now, Hinton,' whispered he, as he leaned his hand upon my shoulder and bent over me, 'we 're in luck to-night, at all events, for I have just got permission to bring you with me where I am to spend the evening. It's no small favour if you knew but all; so finish your wine, for my friends there are moving already.'
All my endeavours to ascertain where we were going, or to whose house, were in vain; the only thing I could learn was, that my admission was a prodigious favour—while to satisfy my scruples about dress he informed me that no change of costume was necessary.
'I perceive,' said O'Grady, as he drew the curtain and looked out into the street, 'the night is fine and starlight; so what say you if we walk? I must tell you, however, our place of rendezvous is somewhat distant.'
Agreeing to the proposition with pleasure, I took his arm, and we sallied forth together. Our way led at first through a most crowded and frequented part of the capital We traversed Dame Street, passed by the Castle, and ascended a steep street beyond it; after this we took a turning to the left, and entered a part of the city, to me at least, utterly unknown. For about half an hour we continued to wander on, now to the right, now to the left, the streets becoming gradually narrower, less frequented, and less lighted; the shops were all closed, and few persons stirred in the remote thoroughfares.
'I fear I must have made a mistake,' said O'Grady, endeavouring to take a short cut; 'but here comes a watchman. I say, is this Kevin Street?'
'No, sir; the second turning to your right brings you into it.'
'Kevin Street!' said I, repeating the name half aloud to myself.
'Yes, Jack, so it is called; but all your ingenuity will prove too little in discovering whither you are going. So come along; leave time to tell you what guessing never will.'
By this time we arrived at the street in question, when very soon after O'Grady called out—
'All right—here we are!'
With these words he knocked three times in a peculiar manner at the door of a large and gloomy-looking house. An ill-trimmed lamp threw a faint and nickering light upon the old and ruined building, and I could trace here and there, through all the wreck of time, some remnants of a better day. The windows now, however, were broken in several places, those on the lower storey being defended on the outside by a strong iron railing; not a gleam of light shone through any one of them, but a darkness unrelieved, save by the yellow gleam of the street lamp, enveloped the entire building. O'Gradys summons was twice repeated ere there seemed any chance of its being replied to, when, at last, the step of a heavy foot descending the stairs announced the approach of some one. While I continued my survey of the house O'Grady never spoke, and, perceiving that he made a mystery of our visit, I resolved to ask no further questions, but patiently await the result; my impression, however, was, that the place was the resort either of thieves or of some illegal association, of which more than one, at that time, were known to have their meetings in the capital. While I was thus occupied in my conjectures, and wondering within myself how O'Grady had become acquainted with his friends, the door opened, and a diminutive, mean-looking old man, shading the candle with his hand, stood at the entrance.
'Good-evening, Mickey,' cried O'Grady, as he brushed by him into the hall. 'Are they come?'
'Yes, Captain,' said the little man, as, snuffing the long wick with his fingers, he held the light up to O'Grady's face. 'Yes, Captain, about fifteen.'
'This gentleman's with me—come along, Jack—he is my friend, Mickey.'
'Oh, I can't do it by no means, Mister Phil,' said the dwarf, opposing himself as a barrier to my entrance. 'You know what they said the last night'—here he strained himself on his toes, and, as O'Grady stooped down, whispered some words I couldn't catch, while he continued aloud—'and you know after that, Captain, I daren't do it.'
'I tell you, you old fool, I've arranged it all; so get along there, and show us the light up these confounded stairs. I suppose they never mended the hole on the lobby?'
'Troth they didn't,' growled the dwarf; 'and it would be chaper for them nor breaking their shins every night.'
I followed O'Grady up the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath us at every step; the hand-rail, broken in many places, swung to and fro with every motion of the stair, and the walls, covered with green, and damp mould, looked the very picture of misery and decay. Still grumbling at the breach of order incurred by my admission, the old man shuffled along, wheezing, coughing, and cursing between times, till at length we reached the landing-place, where the hole of which I heard them speak permitted a view of the hall beneath. Stepping across this, we entered a large room lighted by a lamp upon the chimney-piece; around the walls were hung a variety of what appeared to be cloaks of a lightish drab colour, while over each hung a small skull-cap of yellow leather.
'Don't you hear the knocking below, Mickey? There's some one at the door,' said O'Grady.
The little man left the room, and as we were now alone, I expected some explanation from my friend as to the place we were in, and the people who frequented it. Not so, however. Phil merely detached one of the cloaks from its peg, and proceeded to invest himself in its folds; he placed the skull-cap on his head, after which, covering the whole with a hood, he fastened the garment around his waist with a girdle of rope, and stood before me the perfect picture of a monk of St. Benedict, as we see them represented in old pictures—the only irregularity of costume being, that instead of a rosary, the string from his girdle supported a corkscrew and a horn spoon of most portentous proportions.
'Come, my son,' said he reverently, 'indue thy garment.' So saying, he proceeded to clothe me in a similar manner, after which he took a patient survey of me for a few seconds. 'You 'll do very well; wear the hood well forward; and mark me, Jack, I 've but one direction to give you—never speak a word, not a syllable, so long as you remain in the house; if spoken to, cross your arms thus upon your breast, and bow your head in this manner. Try that—perfectly—you have your lesson; now don't forget it.'
O'Grady now, with his arms crossed upon his bosom, and his head bent slightly forward, walked slowly forth, with a solemn gravity well befitting his costume. Imitating him as well as I was able, I followed him up the stairs. On reaching the second landing, he tapped twice with his knuckles at a low door, whose pointed arch and iron grating were made to represent the postern of a convent.
'Benedicite,' said Phil, in a low voice.
'Et tu quoque, frater,' responded some one from within, and the door was opened.
Saluting a venerable-looking figure, who, with a long grey beard, bowed devoutly as we passed, we entered an apartment, where, so sudden was the change from what I had hitherto seen, I could scarcely trust my eyes. A comfortable, well-carpeted room, with curtained windows, cushioned chairs, and, not least inviting of all, a blazing fire of wood upon the hearth, were objects I was little prepared for; but I had little time to note them, my attention being directed with more curiosity to the living occupants of this strange dwelling. Some fifteen or sixteen persons, costumed like ourselves, either walked up and down engaged in conversation, or sat in little groups around the fire. Card-tables there were in different parts of the room, but one only was occupied. At this a party of reverend fathers were busily occupied at whist. In the corner next the fire, seated in a large chair of carved oak, was a figure, whose air and bearing bespoke authority; the only difference in his costume from the others being a large embroidered corkscrew, which he wore on his left shoulder.
'Holy Prior, your blessing,' said Phil, bowing obsequiously before him.
'You have it, my son: much good may it do you,' responded the superior, in a voice which, somehow or other, seemed not perfectly new to me.
While O'Grady engaged in a whispered conversation with the prior, I turned my eyes towards a large-framed paper which hung above the chimney. It ran thus:—
'Rules and regulations to be observed in the monastery of the venerable and pious brothers, the Monks of the Screw.'
Conceiving it scarcely delicate in a stranger to read over the regulations of a society of which he was not a member, I was turning away, when O'Grady, seizing me by the arm, whispered, 'Remember your lesson'; then added aloud, 'Holy Father, this is the lay brother of whom I spoke.'
The prior bowed formally, and extended his hands towards me with a gesture of benediction—
'Accipe benedictionem——-'
'Supper, by the Lord Harry!' cried a jolly voice behind me, and at the same moment a general movement was made by the whole party.
The prior now didn't wait to conclude his oration, but tucking up his garments, put himself at the head of the procession which had formed, two and two, in order of march. At the same moment, two fiddles from the supper-room, after a slight prelude, struck up the anthem of the order, which was the popular melody of, 'The Night before Larry was stretched!'
Marching in measured tread, we entered the supper-room, when, once having made the circuit of the table, at a flourish of the fiddles we assumed our places, the superior seating himself at the head in a chair of state, slightly elevated above the rest. A short Latin grace, which I was unfortunate enough not to catch, being said, the work of eating began; and, certainly, whatever might have been the feats of the friars of old, when the bell summoned them to the refectory, their humble followers, the Monks of the Screw, did them no discredit. A profusion of dishes covered the table; and although the entire service was of wood, and the whole 'equipage' of the most plain and simple description, yet the cookery was admirable, and the wines perfection itself.
While the supper proceeded, scarcely a word was spoken. By the skilful exercise of signs, with which they all seemed familiar, roast ducks, lobsters, veal-pies, and jellies flew from hand to hand; the decanters also paraded up and down the table with an alacrity and despatch I had seldom seen equalled. Still, the pious brethren maintained a taciturn demeanour that would have done credit to La Trappe itself. As for me, my astonishment and curiosity increased every moment. What could they be? What could they mean? There was something too farcical about it all to suppose that any political society or any dangerous association could be concealed under such a garb; and if mere conviviality and good fellowship were meant, their unbroken silence and grave demeanour struck me as a most singular mode of promoting either.
Supper at length concluded, the dishes were removed by two humble brethren of the order, dressed in a species of grey serge; after which, marching to a solemn tune, another monk appeared, bearing a huge earthenware bowl, brimful of steaming punch—at least so the odour and the floating lemons bespoke it. Each brother was now provided with a small, quaint-looking pipkin, after which the domestics withdrew, leaving us in silence as before. For about a second or two this continued, when suddenly the fiddles gave a loud twang, and each monk, springing to his legs, threw hack his cowl, and, bowing to the superior, reseated himself. So sudden was the action, so unexpected the effect, for a moment or two I believed it a dream. What was my surprise, what my amazement, that this den of thieves, this hoard of burglars, this secret council of rebels, was nothing more or less than an assemblage of nearly all the first men of the day in Ireland! And as my eye ran rapidly over the party, here I could see the Chief Baron, with a venerable dignitary of St. Patrick's on his right; there was the Attorney-General; there the Provost of Trinity College; lower down, with his skull-cap set jauntily on one side, was Wellesley Pole, the secretary of state; Yelverton, Day, Plunket, Parsons, Toler; in a word, all those whose names were a guarantee for everything that was brilliant, witty, and amusing, were there; while, conspicuous among the rest, the prior himself was no other than John Philpot Curran! Scarcely was my rapid survey of the party completed, when the superior, filling his pipkin from the ample bowl before him, rose to give the health of the order. Alas me! that time should have so sapped my memory! I can but give my impression of what I heard.
The speech, which lasted about ten minutes, was a kind of burlesque on speeches from the throne, describing in formal phrase the prosperous state of their institution, its amicable foreign relations, the flourishing condition of its finances—brother Yelverton having paid in the two-and-sixpence he owed for above two years—concluding all with the hope that by a rigid economy, part of which consisted in limiting John Toler to ten pipkins, they would soon be enabled to carry into effect the proposed works on the frontier, and expend the sum of four shillings and nine-pence in the repair of the lobby. Winding up all with a glowing eulogium on monastic institutions in general, he concluded with recommending to their special devotion and unanimous cheers 'the Monks of the Screw.' Never, certainly, did men compensate for their previous silence better than the worthy brethren in question. Cheering with an energy I never heard the like of, each man finished his pipkin with just voice enough left to call for the song of the order.
Motioning with his hand to the fiddlers to begin, the prior cleared his throat, and, to the same simple but touching melody they had marched in to supper, sang the following chant:—
The song over, and another cheer given to the brethren of the Screw, the pipkins were replenished, and the conversation, so long pent up, burst forth in all its plenitude. Nothing but fun, nothing but wit, nothing but merriment, was heard on either side. Here were not only all the bright spirits of the day, but they were met by appointment; they came prepared for the combat, armed for the fight; and, certainly, never was such a joust of wit and brilliancy. Good stories rained around; jests, repartees, and epigrams flew like lightning; and one had but time to catch some sparkling gem as it glittered, ere another and another succeeded.
But even already I grow impatient with myself while I speak of these things. How poor, how vapid, and how meagre is the effort to recall the wit that set the table in a roar! Not only is memory wanting, but how can one convey the incessant roll of fun, the hailstorm of pleasantry, that rattled about our ears; each good thing that was uttered ever suggesting something still better; the brightest fancy and the most glowing imagination stimulated to their utmost exercise; while powers of voice, of look, and of mimicry unequalled, lent all their aid to the scene.
While I sat entranced and delighted with all I saw and all I heard, I had not remarked that O'Grady had been addressing the chair for some time previous.
'Reverend brother,' replied the prior, 'the prayer of thy petition is inadmissible. The fourth rule of our faith says, de confessione: No subject, mirthful, witty, or jocose, known to, or by, any member of the order, shall be withheld from the brotherhood under a penalty of the heaviest kind. And it goes on to say, that whether the jest involve your father or your mother, your wife, your sister, or the aunt from whom you expect a legacy, no exception can be made. What you then look for is clearly impossible; make a clean breast of it, and begin.'
This being a question of order, a silence was soon established, when, what was my horror to find that Phil O'Grady began the whole narrative of my mother's letter on the subject of the Rooneys! Not limiting himself, however, to the meagre document in question, but colouring the story with all the force of his imagination, he displayed to the brethren the ludicrous extremes of character personated by the London fine lady and the Dublin attorney's wife. Shocked as I was at first, he had not proceeded far, when I was forced to join the laughter. The whole table pounced upon the story. The Rooneys were well known to them all; and the idea of poor Paul, who dispensed his hospitalities with a princely hand, having his mansion degraded to the character of a chop-house, almost convulsed them with laughter.
'I am going over to London next week,' said Parsons, 'with old Lambert; and if I thought I should meet this Lady Charlotte Hinton, I'd certainly contrive to have him presented to her as Mr. Paul Rooney.'
This observation created a diversion in favour of my lady-mother, to which I had the satisfaction of listening without the power to check.
'She has,' said Dawson, 'most admirable and original views about Ireland; and were it only for the fact of calling on the Rooneys for their bill, she deserves our gratitude. I humbly move, therefore, that we drink to the health of our worthy sister, Lady Charlotte Hinton.'
The next moment found me hip-hipping, in derision, to my mother's health, the only consolation being that I was escaping unnoticed and unknown.
'Well, Barrington, the duke was delighted with the corps; nothing could be more soldierlike than their appearance, as they marched past.'
'Ah, the attorneys', isn't it—the Devil's Own, as Curran calls them?'
'Yes, and remarkably well they looked. I say, Parsons, you heard what poor Rooney said when Sir Charles Asgill read aloud the general order complimenting them: “May I beg, Sir Charles,” said he, “to ask if the document in your hand be an attested copy?”'
'Capital, 'faith! By-the-bye, what's the reason, can any one tell me, Paul has never invited me to dine for the last two years?'
'Indeed!' said Curran; 'then your chance is a bad one, for the statute of limitations is clearly against you.'
'Ah, Kellar, the Rooneys have cut all their low acquaintances, and your prospects look very gloomy. You know what took place between Paul and Lord Manners?'
'No, Barrington; let's hear it, by all means!'
'Paul had met him at Kinnegad, where both had stopped to change horses. “A glass of sherry, my lord?” quoth Paul, with a most insinuating look.
'“No, sir, thank you,” was the distant reply.
'“A bowl of gravy, then, my lord?” rejoined he. '“Pray, excuse me,” more coldly than before.
'“Maybe a chop and a crisped potato would tempt your lordship?”
'“Neither, sir, I assure you.”
'“Nor a glass of egg-flip?” repeated Paul, in an accent bordering on despair.
'“Nor even the egg-flip,” rejoined his lordship, in the most pompous manner.
'“Then, my lord,” said Paul, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking him firmly in the face, “I've only to say, the 'onus' is now on you.” With which he stalked out of the room, leaving the chancellor to his own reflections.'
'Brethren, the saint!' cried out the prior, as he rose from the chair.
'The saint! the saint!'re-echoed from lip to lip; and at the same moment the door opened, and a monk appeared, bearing a silver image of St. Patrick, about a foot and a half high, which he deposited in the middle of the table with the utmost reverence. All the monks rose, filling their pipkins, while the junior of the order, a fat little monk with spectacles, began the following ditty, in which all the rest joined, with every energy of voice and manner:—