Untitled

Wellington Independent, Issue 43, 24 December 1845, Page 4

HIBERNUN HOSPITALITY.

From the last number of " Jack Hinton," we extract a portion illustrative of the mania for erecting, without furnishing, mansions in Connaught, which, we trust, will conduce to the amusement of the reader as much as it has done to our own. * Yon have been in Csetle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide bleak line of country there, that breaches away to the westward, with nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, halt an acre of lumpers (potatoes) or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on their.way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they traverse ; and the very fish that swim in them .are brown and smutty also. 'In the veiy heart of this .wild country, I took it into my head to build a house. A strange notion it was for there whs no neighbourhood and no sporting ; but, somehow, I had tiken a dislike to mixed society some time before that, and I found it somewhat convenient to liye in retirement; —■Sα that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me, ueither were the process-setyers; and the truth was, I kept a much sharper look out for the subsheriff thon I did for the snip. ' Of course, as I was overhead and ears in debt, my notion was to build something very considerable nnd imposing; and, to be sure, I had a fine portico, fnd a flight of steps leading up to it; and. there were ten windows in front, and a grand buletrade at the top; and, faith, takin it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick, the windows so narrow, and tfee siones so black, that my cousin, Darcy Mahon, called it Newgate ; and not a'bad imiiie either —and the divel another it ever went by : and even that same had its advantages ; for when the creditors used to read that at the top of my letter*, they'd say—" Poor devil I he has enough on his hands; there is no use of troubling him any more." W.ll big as Newgate looked from without, it had not much accommodation when you got in■ida. There was 'tis true, a fine hall, all flagged I and, out of if, you entered what ought to have been the dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-aad-twenty, but which was used for herding sheep in jwintsr. On the right hand, there was a cozy little breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the back of the hull, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was a grand stair-case of old Irish oak, that qught to have led up to a great suit of bed-rooras, but it only conducted to one, a little, crib for myself. Tbe remainder were never plastered nor floored; and indeed, in one of them, that .was over the big drawing-room, the joists.were mever laid, which was all the better, for it was jjjiere we used to keep our hay and straw. " Now at the time I mention, the .harvest ,was not brought in, and instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low;—so that, when you opened the door above stairs, instead of finding the hay up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you. " I can't help boring, you with these details; first, because they are essential to my story ; and next, because, being a young man, and a foreigner to boot, it may.lead you to a little better understanding of some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have, after lueh aud the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a big hpuse,spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the case may be, in getting it half $nished,,and then live in a corner of it, ' just for grandeur,' as ja body may say. It's a droll notion, after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn't at least six specimens of what 1 mention. " Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the sheep lived in the pat lour, an, the i; cows were kept in the blue drawing r rpom, Darby Whaley slept in the boudoir, and two b,ull dogs and a buck goat kept those in the library—faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not one that saw it, from the high road to Ennis—and you could see it for twelve miles ,in every, direction—didn't say— ' That Mahon must be a snug fellow; look what a beautiful place of it he has of there ! ' Little they knew that it <was safer to go up the ' Reeks' than my grand staircase, and it was like rope dancing tepass from one room to the other. •' Well it was about four o'clock ia the afternoon of a daik lowering day in December, that I/was treading homewards in no very good humour, for except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout. behind me. and a voice called out— ••' It's Bob Mahon boys J ' By the hill of Scariff, we are in luck !' "I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red coats—they were the Blazers. Thera was Dan. Lambert, Tom Burke, JHarry Eyre, Joe M'Mahon,' and the rest of them, fourteen souls in all. Tiey had come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake's about ten mUe'e from me ; but, in the strange mountain country they lost the dogs—they lost their way and their temper ; in truth, to all ' appearance, they |ost everything but their appetites, Their horses were dead beat too, and they looked a,s miserable a crew as ever you itt eye» on. "Isn't it lucky, Bob, that yre found you at Jtiome ?' said Lambert. ' : ' '' * They told us you were away,' said Bourke. .' Some said you were grown «o pious, that yon never went out except tn Sundays,' added "old Hairy, v/ith a grin, •Begad,' eaid I, «as to the luck, I wont say much for it, for here's all that I can give you for your dinner; and so I pulled out the f .ur birds md shook them at them ; end as to the piety, troth, maybe, you'd like to keep a fast with as devoted a eon of the church as myself.' ♦ But isn't that Newgate up there ? ' said one. • That same.' ♦ And you don't mean ti say, that such a house •s th..t hasn't a Rood larder and a fine cellar ? ' 'Your right,', laid I, "and they're both full

at this rerr moment—the one with seed potatoes and the other with Whitehaven coals.' • Have you got any bacon ? ' said Mahon. • Oh yes I ' says I. • there's bacon.' • And eggs,' sdd another. 'For the matter of that you might swim in batter.' • Come, come, , said Dan Lambert' we're badly off after all.' • Is there whiskey ?' cried Eyre. ' Sixty-three gallons, and they never paid the king sixpence!' " As I said this, they gave .three cheers you'd have heard a mile on*. , 4 After about twenty minutes walking, we got up to the house, and when poor opened the door, I thought he'd faint; for, you see, the red coat made him think it was the army, coming to take me away; and he was for running off and to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck. v 4 It's the Blazers', you old fool' said I. «The gentlemen are come to dine here.' ' Hurro ! said he, clapping hie h*nds upon his knees—' There must be great dittreae entirely, down about Nenagh and them parts or they'd never think of coming up hero for a bit to eat. • Which way lay the stables, Bob ? said Burke. ' Leave that to Darby, said I; for je see he had only to whistle and bring up as many people as he liked—and so he did too; and as there was room for a qavalry regiment, the horses were soon beddied down and comfortable, and in tea minutes time we were all sitting pleasantly roundji big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs. 'Now if you'd like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come along with me.' /By all means, said be. The others were standing up too; but, I observed, that as the house was large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it ..was better to wait till I'd come back. ' This was a real piece of good luck, Bob, said Dan, as he followed me up stairs : ' capital quarters we've fallen into: and what a .snug bed-room you have here.' •Yes, , said I, carelessly; ' it's one of the small rooms—there.sre eight like this, and five Jarge ones, plainly furnished,,ES you ccc; but for .the present, .you know ' • Oh, begad ! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here —the other fellows may care for your four posters with satin hangings.' •Well,' said I,'if you really are not joking,! may tell you, that the room is one of .the warmest in the house—and this was telling no lies. • Here I'll sleep, , said he rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and giving the bed a most affectionate look. ' And now let us jo£n the, re t.' • When I brought D.an down, I took up Burke, and after him M'Mahon, and so on to the last; but every timel entered, the parlonr, I found them all bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet he had got the best bed-room. ' Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the kitchen and back again as hard as he could trot. •Do you,know now, that many a time since when I have been giving venison and Burgundy, asd clarit, enough to swim a Ijfe-boat in, r I often thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren't half as pleasent as they were that evening on bacon and whisky !. • I've a theory on that subject, Hinton, I'll talk to you more about another time; I'll only observe now, that J'm sure, we .all over-feed our company. • My guests were,,.to do them justice, a good illustration of my. theory. A pleasanter and a merrier party never, sat down together. We had good songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink ;,until at last poor Darby became so qyerpowered, by the r fumes of .the hot water I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so were compelled to boil r the kettle in .jfche parlour. This,.,l think, precipitated matters; for by some mistake, they put punch into it inetead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the Hquous, it was only the more tipsey you were getting; About two o'clock, five of $te party were under the table, three more were nodding backward and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest were mighty ,and now and then rather disposed to be.quarelsome. .„«.•-' .' Bob,' said Lambert in a whisper, »,If it's ,the thing to you, Ml slip away, and get into bed. 'Of course, if wou't take any more. Just make yourself at home; and as you don't know the way here—follow me 1 • I'm afraid, said he, I'd not fine my way alone. 'I think, said 1, it's very likely. But cprae .along. I walked up stairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room, that I have told jou already was over the big drawing T room. Just as I put my hand on the lock, 1 contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the wind. •What "a dranght there is here, said I; but just step in, and I'll go for a light. * •He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himsblf on my beautiful little carpet, down he went fourteen fpet into the hay at .the bottom. Hooked down upon him for a minute or two, and then called out— " ' •As I am doing the honours of the least I could do was to s,hew yon the droD. Good night Dan '. but Jet me' advise you to little further from the door, as there are more coming. •Well Sir, when .Jthey missed Dan pu t o f the room, two or three more stood up, and declared fot bed also. Th* ,6 st Jt took up was Ffrench, of Green Park, for indeed he was not a cute felloy at the best of ( jtimes; H nd }( it was not tba ( t the hay was so low, he'd never have guessed it was not a fe~ather-bed till he woke in the morning: Well, down he went. Then came EyVe 1 Thee Joe Mahon— two-and-twenty stone—no less. Lord pity them!—this was a r greatshock entirely] But when I o| ened the door lor Tom Burke', npon my conscience you'd think it was Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and roaring with all their might. «Good night, Tom, said I, pushing Bur Tie forward, It's the cows you hear underneath. 1 Wuh t:iat, he snatched the candle out of my

hand, and looked down into the pit, Never wai such a sight seen before or since. Dan wan pitching into poor Ffrench, who ticking he Lad an enemy before him, was hitting out manfully at 8n old turf-creel, that rocked and creeked at every blow, a.s he called out— • I'll smash you 1 I'll dinge your ribs for you, you infernal scoundrel. t , • Eyre was struggling in the hay, ,fchiqking he was swimming for his life; and poor Mahon whs patting him on th« head, and saying, ' Poor fellow! good dog , .' for he thought it was Towser, the bull-terrier, that was prowling round the calves of his legs. ' If they don't get tired, there 'ill not be a man of them alive by morning 1 said Tom, as he closed the door. • And now, if yoji'U allow me to sleep on the carpet, I'll take it as a favour. • By this time they were all quiet in the parlour; sol lent Tom a couple of blankets and a bolster, and baring locked my door, went to bed with an 'easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then a cry would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below stairs, but I soon fell asleep and heard no more of them. ' By daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when,l was trying to awake at half-past ten I found Colonel M'Morris, of the Mayo, with a message from the whole four. 'A bad business this, Captain Mahon, said he; my friends have been shockingly treated. • Its mighty hard, said I, to want to shoot me, because I hadn't fourteen feather-beds in the house. 'They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir. ' Troth! said I, If the country is not in very low spirits, I think they will. ' There ii not a man of them can see! —their eyes are actually closed up 1 • The Lord be praised! said I. It's not likely they'll hit me. 1 But to make a shoit story of it, out we went. Tom Bui ke was my Iriend; I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing : for such faces no man ever looked at. But for self preservation sake, I thought r it best to hit one of tham; so I just pinked ffrencb. a little under the skirt of the coat. ' Come Lambert 1 said the colonel, it is your turn now. " 'Was not that Lambert, said ; I, that I hit ? • No, said he, that was Ffrench 'Begad, lam sorry for It. Ffench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for you see you are all so like each other about the eyes t}uß morning —— With this there was a roar of laughing from, them all, in which, I assure you, Lambert" took not a very prominent part; for somehow, he did not fancy my polite inquiries after him; and so we all »hook,tindfi, and left the g-ound as good friends as ever, though to this hoar the name of Newgate brings lees pleasant recollections to their minds, than if their fathers had been hanged at its profcstJPe.' A Candidate for the Honours of the Polka , —At the Bow-street Police-office, a short gentlemaa, inclining to corpulency, and whose attire was in a state of venijlation, appropriate to the summer season, was charged with having disturbed the public peace on the previous night. The prisoner, who said his name was Michael Doherty, and that he was by profession a journeyman tailor, was evidently at hie ease, and endeavoured to concea) his ragged habiliments. A police constable deposed that his attention was directed to the prisoner, who was pitching somersets, and performing a varitty of gymnastics to the infinite amusement of a crowd of disorderly persons. The constable being of opinion that these evolutions, however creditable to the agility of Mr. Doherty, were calculated to disturb the repose of such of her Majesty's subjects as were taking horizontal refreshment in their beds, was constrained in the conscientious discharge of his duty, to place the gentleman under arrest. The Magistrates.: Well Mr. Doherty, ( what did you mean by pitching somersets in the open streets at midnight ? Prisoner : I didn't pitch somersau'ts, my lord ; I was dancing the Polka for my own gratification. Constable: Your conduct was disgraceful. Prisoner: Dirty butter. Who you a.judge of manners ? Constable: It was a charity to take you up. Prisoner : Ob, indtedl You and charity might be married, for you are no way related. (Laughter.) Magistrate: It's'all very .well to dance the Polka at home, or in a house, but in !the public street . Prisoner: But you see, my loi d, the delicate situation in which I am placed, I have got neither heuse nor heme, and if I don't jdance in ihe street, I can't dance it at all. (Loud Laughter.) Magistrate: Will you promise me never again to dunce the Polka in public if I discbarge you ? Indeed, I will, my lord, I'll dance it in the portico of Covent Garden Theatre, for no body goes there. Dance it I must somewhere, for know you nap what the poet,(that's myse.fj has said on the head of it?— 'Tis sweet on summer eve to rove Adown tbe river Talka, But ah! it is a sweeter thing, . By far,to.dance tbe Polka? Won't jou dance the Polka J Can't you dance the Polka ? The joys of life are little worth Unless you dance the Polka. (Laughter.) Ladies wanting husbands true, you must dance the Polka. Bachelors, if you would woo, You must dance the Polka. Married folks of all degree If your children you would ccc Happy prosperous, and frej.; Teach them all the < P^lka.' T 5 Can't yoii dance the Polka >> ; Won't you dance the Polka ? The joys of earth'—are lrtle worth, Unless ycu dance the Polka. (Loud Laughter.) The M»gis.tfate : That will do, Mr. Doherty. you are discharged. The piis ncr bowed respectfully to the Bench,'and withdrew amid general laughter.