We were mortal hungry, and for a time conversation was a little dull; but I had the pleasure of hearing Theodora’s beautiful voice every now and then, between the sounds of chumping, and munching, and gulping all round, calling on me for those little refined attentions that constitute, I may say, all the chivalry of the supper-table. Now it was:
“Mr. Toole, may I be troublesome to you for the gherkins?” And again—
“Another help o’ the stuffin’, ask mamma, Mr. Toole.” Or—
“Show me the mustard, if you please?” Or—
“Will ye give me a dust of that pepper, Mr. Toole?”
I do assure you it was one delightful round of similar requests and attentions all through the suppertime, and as the glorious girl had a fine appetite, she worked me, in that way, to my heart’s content.
But this was only child’s play compared with what followed, when the old lady called out: “Come, Molloy, where’s the punch? What are you foosthering about? We’re all choking with the drooth, and lookin’ at ye like so many dying fishes out o’ water. There’s Mr. Upside—”
“Sidebotham,” said the lieutenant.
“Upsidedownbotham—well, whatever it is, the young captain there, that we knew in Athlone, is makin’ signs to me this half hour for drink. Come, man, stir. Juggy, good girl, bring the kittle; there’s two bottle of the right sort at your elbow, and half a dozen elegant lemons. Putt down the bowl before him, Juggy, that’s a darlint, and don’t be sousing the wather in as if you were drownding so many rats. Do you know what, Mr. Upside, Mr. Downbotham, that’s it; just look at that bowl—it houlds seven pints and about a wineglass; that’s the very bowl Molloy was baptized in!” And she nodded impressively at Sidebotham, just as Molloy squeezed a lemon into the sacred vessel. “As sure as you sit there, Mr. Back—what your name?—no matter, I wish there was no such things as names, barrin’ Christian names, of course, for the sake of religion; but what was I saying? Yes; he was baptized in that very bowl!”
“Not ducked in it?” says Sidebotham.
“No; but sprinkled out of it by the Reverend Father Haddock.”
“He drank like a fish, I dare say, ma’am,” said Sidebotham, who didn’t care a fig what he said to anyone.
“I don’t know, my dear, but he baptized like a Christian; and he met his death, most unfortunately, by being drownded in a bog-hole. He being a portly man, standing too near the edge, the bank gave way, and himself, and a child, and an ass and cart was all drownded together. I remember seeing him myself.”
“Not in the bog-hole?” said the lieutenant.
“No, honey! It was in the high street of Athlone, when I was only a little slip of a colleen.”
“We must drink to his memory, ma’am,” said Sidebotham.
“With all my heart, joole,” said Mrs. Molloy, who, barring a few political toasts, did not object to drink to anything.
By this time the punch, one of the few good things we unquestionably owe to England, was brewed; and infinite credit it did its “composer.”
Our Philomel was the only one of the party who partook of that wonderful elixir with extreme moderation. That nightingale only touched it lightly, as it were, with her musical beak, once or twice, and, content with this little sip, listened to our agreeable conversation, our toasts, and sentiments, and to a great deal of fiery and confidential nonsense from your humble servant.
After this, I can recal nothing distinctly, except the general consciousness that I never was so happy in the course of my life; only I once or twice observed that Kramm, who sat at Theodora’s other side, and did not seem to hear a word I said, kept interrupting the girl with his long-winded stories; and then I remember Sidebotham seeing me home, and talking to him a great deal about Theodora, and something very touching was said that affected me, for I remember crying while he held my hand, and I held the railings, and I lent him some money, and how I got to my bed I don’t know.
[This amusing story, by the gifted author of Uncle Silas and In a Glass Darkly, was left at the time of the author’s death unfinished as it is here, but the Editor ventures nevertheless to give it in this state to the readers of Temple Bar. Humour is not a product of this furiously earnest age, and we cannot afford to lose any contribution to our mirth which comes in our way.—Editor.]
Endnotes
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This prophecy has since been realised; for the aisle in which Sir Robert’s remains were laid has been suffered to fall completely to decay; and the tomb which marked his grave, and other monuments more curious, form now one indistinguishable mass of rubbish. ↩
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This paper, from a memorandum, I find to have been written in 1803. The lady to whom allusion is made, I believe to be Miss Mary F⸺d. She never married, and survived both her sisters, living to a very advanced age. ↩
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This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate a statement of Mr. O’Connell’s, which occurs in his evidence given before the House of Commons, wherein he affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood “are democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.”—See digest of the evidence upon the state of Ireland, given before the House of Commons. ↩
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It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred very nearly at noon. ↩
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Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration for the beauties of nature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of
