recovered her bundle from the sleight-of-hand man, who, after several audacious attempts at a renewal of acquaintance, which on the part of the fosterer were as decidedly repulsed, was obliged to put up with a seat beside the kitchen fire, and there enjoy the tantalizing prospect of watching the progress of a supper at which his presence had been interdicted. A noise outside attracted the fair vocalist and her protector to the window. It was a recruiting party en route to a neighbouring pattern, to pick up "food for powder." There, a festival was held, where fame spoke truly, love and penance, whisky and broken heads, were all so agreeably united, that the man who could not be happy at Cahirmore must be suited only for "stratagems and treasons," and a personage upon whom pleasure would be thrown away. The charge of foot which halted at the Cock and Punchbowl consisted of a sergeant, whose waist the sash found difficulty to encompass-a brace of privates too dirty for the ranks, but who crimped inimitably a boy, taller than his drum by the head-and a lean and sallow fifer who had counted forty summers; these with a couple of recruits completed this "gallant gathering." On the shoulders of the stouter, the sergeant's pack was strapped; while to the honourable keeping of the other, the commander's bilboa was entrusted-a weapon, whose unstained steel had never yet been "incarnadined" with human gore. The soldiers presently ensconced themselves in a room beneath— Mrs. O'Leary paraded the expected supper-Mark Antony and his fair friend seated themselves and commenced active operations, the fosterer eating as men eat who have walked thirty miles of Irish measurement, and the vocalist, as if to her, poor girl! for many a day a comfortable meal had been unknown. In the mean time the rejected Israelite bade fair to sup with Duke Humphry. Admission to the state apartment was hopeless, for from thence he had been peremptorily excluded. In the kitchen, divers hints had been dropped that his absence would be preferable to his company; and as Jews don't list, the soldiers repudiated him altogether. Deeply incensed against the wandering actress for deserting him in this "his hour of need," and stung to the quick by the firmness and contempt with which Mark Antony repelled all advances towards intimacy, he secretly vowed vengeance against both. Luckily, a Hebrew's resources procured him an unexpected supply. Some countrymen, returning from market, stopped to refresh themselves by the way. The Jew amused them with his tricks, and in return thimble-rigged as many sixpences from the farmers, as enabled him to obtain a lodging in the Cock and Punchbowl for the night. When supper was removed, and Mrs. O'Leary had produced the necessary materials for finishing an evening comfortably, at the pressing invitation of her guest she sat down with the youthful travellers. From the first, Mark Antony had found favour in the widow's sight, and a more extended acquaintance confirmed the early impression. Towards the girl Mrs. O'Leary evinced a kindly feeling, and proposed that as the house was crowded, the wayfarer should share her bed― an offer, by Miss Julia Montague, gratefully accepted. The buxom widow was a fair specimen of an Irish hostess; and had her eyes not been as dark as a blackberry and her complexion a gipsy brown, the old alliteration, "fat, fair, and forty," would have described her to a hair. Her comely countenance was rich with archness and espieglerie-and in Jack Falstaff's vein a lover might have safely wooed her-" You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha-then there's more sympathy!" "In vino veritas." Hang that musty proverb! What's wine to whisky punch? That is, indeed, the opener of the human heart. Love may be eschewed-but who is proof against potecine? A hot tumbler would undo the caution of a Jesuit, and make a Trappist speak out like a man. Mrs. O'Leary felt the genial influence of mountain dew agreeably diluted; and in the brief colloquy that ensued, there were but few circumstances connected with the Cock and Punchbowl which remained a secret to the fosterer and his wandering friend. "Mr. O'Toole-there's an O before your name, I b'lieve-you're kindly welcome. Here's ye'r health-and bad luck to ye if I wish it. As I told ye, Mr. O'Leary-Lord rest his sowl!-was an ailin' man, and might have been my father. Well, after the cold Christmas he went like snow off a ditch. The Lord sees he had the best of tratement in his last days, wid a grand wake and a ginteel funeral. I'm a lone woman three years come Patrick mass-and och! I have had my trouble. A woman's helpless, Mr. O'Toole, and that ye know. Wellblessed be God! I'm well to do owe nobody a rap-and my carakter's at the defiance of the parish. But och! I'm lonely after all; and a pushin' woman like me requires a man's assistance. Not that I'm over anxious to get married; but if a young man, discreat and wellbehaved, would—” Here a furious knocking of pewter pots upon the tables underneath interrupted Mrs. O'Leary's narration, and she made a hasty exit to attend those turbulent customers, with an intimation however that she would return anon, and make a clean breast touching her hymeneal intentions, should" a young man, discreat and well-behaved," present himself. It was quite evident from the hilarious revelry in the kitchen, that the company below had no sin of omission, as far as drinking went, to answer for. Indeed it was pretty apparent that they were set in for a regular carouse. The sergeant and his comrades prudently uniting mirth with business, had favoured the countrymen with their company, in the double hope of enjoying a potation, scot-free-and if luck were on their side, crimping a clod-hopper into the bargain. The antiquated fifer, on his "ear-piercing' instrument had executed "the Groves of Blarney," with a variety of flourishes which elicited a thunder of applause. As to the commander, he was affability itselfspoke of his "feats of broil," and recounted the numerous "battles, sieges, fortunes," through which he had passed, with a vividness of description that made the very hair of the listeners stand on end. Nothing could be more glowing than the narrative, albeit, it was apocryphal entirely; for during his peaceful life, he, worthy man, had never witnessed a musket snapped in anger. At the request of a gentleman, whose solitary stripe announced him to be still on the lowest step of the ladder of preferment, the sergeant obliged the company with a rigmarole effusion which he was pleased to call a song; and it is only necessary to say, that the poetry and performance were worthy of each other. THE SERGEANT'S SONG. Now, brave boys, we're bound for marchin' Drums are batin', colours flyin' And the divil a-back we'll come again; The colonel cries, "Boys are ye ready?" The mother cries, "Boys, do not wrong me; And after death my ghost will haunt yees." Och, Judy, dear! ye'r young and tender- Och, Judy! should I die in glory, Och! Love, farewell! Great was the applause which the sergeant's melody drew down, and, what was probably even more satisfactory to the honest gentleman, a loud demand arose for a fresh supply of "the raw material;" and the carouse was vigorously resumed. Left to themselves, the young travellers had talked over their meeting on the mountain, and spoke of their journey to the neighbouring town next day where their roadcompanionship was to terminate. The intended parting was not mentioned with indifference, for the poor girl sighed heavily, her face became sad, and her eyes filled fast. In a faction fight, where skulls were cracked like walnuts, Mark Antony was every inch a hero-but his heart was true Milesian, and a woman's sorrow rendered it soft as a turnip. He took the wanderer's hand affectionately, kissed away the tear that trickled down her cheek, and endeavoured to dispel her melancholy. "Cheer up," he said; "you have happier days before you, and youth enough to wait for them. How can I serve you, Julia? I know an empty pocket makes a heavy heart-but we'll share to the last shilling" and quick as lightning a green silk purse that I had given to the fosterer the night we parted, was transferred from his pocket to the wanderer's hand. "Come, Julia," he continued, "will I bring you home?" The poor girl shook her head, and gratefully returned the purse. "Take half, at least," exclaimed Mark Antony; "there's only five pounds in notes, and three guineas and a half in gold. May'be it may carry ye to your friends-and if it won't-I'll list, and that will make up the difference." "Friends !" said the girl, bitterly; "I have no friends: I lost my mother when an infant; and the cruel desertion of my father broke the old soldier's heart. Alas! I feel that I am left alone upon the earth, without one being who would care for me.” "A sister, by Heaven!" cried the fosterer. "Am I not also a soldier's orphan ?" 66 Why, ye thundering villain!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Leary, who had stolen softly up stairs, and caught the Jew with his ear at the key-hole, "Off wid ye, ye blackavised disciple. Bad luck attend ye, night an' day, , you ugly thief! Off, I say-" and, suiting the action to the word, she bestowed a heavy buffet upon the countenance of the Israelite that made him in no way desirous of abiding another visitation from the widow's fist. "Well, dears!" said the jolly hostess as she bustled into the room: 66 may'be ye were courtin' a bit, as young people will at times-and think of that black-muzzled ruffin lis'ning to every word ye sed! I wish he was clane out of the house, for he has the gallows in his face." "I wish, indeed," observed the girl, "that he was gone-I dread that man." "Arrah!" returned the burly widow, "don't vex ye'rself about him: ye'r safe wid me-the devil a toe he'll venture to put near my room. Ye'r tired, avourneein; and come away to ye'r-bed: and if you, Mr. O'Toole, will jist step down and take an air of the fire below, I'll make ye a shake-down here as the house is crowded to the thatch." Mark Antony accordingly bade his companion a good night, and descended to the kitchen, where, by a sort of common consent, the whole of the guests had united themselves for a general jollification. The whisky now seemed "uppermost," and most of the party were as it is termed in Ireland "the worse of liquor;" but the hilarity was as yet undisturbed, "And all went merry as a marriage bell." The worthy sergeant who, like Bardolph, was "white-livered and red-faced," with Pistol's qualification of having "a killing tongue and quiet sword," was evidently the lion of the evening; and being a romancer of the first magnitude, no man was better suited to fascinate a company who took delight in listening to deeds of arms. He was graciously pleased to reply to the inquiry of a recruit, who had expressed a strong curiosity touching the personal appearance of Napoleon le grand. Having bolted a dose of alcohol presented to him by a countryman, and deposited the pewter measure on the table, the commander thus modestly continued:: "An' so ye would like to know what Boney's like? Well, the divil a man ye would meet in a day's walk could tell you that same thing better. He has a regular gunpowder complexion, a look that would frighten a horse, and whiskers you could hang your hat upon. Father Abraham's in the corner there-and 'pon my conscience, honest man, ye would be the better of a barber-are but a joke to them." And he pointed to the Jew. "And where did you see him?" inquired a countryman. 6 "Where did I see him? Where-but in Agypt," returned the commander. "Before I was pris'ner five minutes, he sends an aidicamp hot-foot-well, up I comes-for there was no use, you know, resistin'. At first he looked red-pepper at me: Corp'lar Mulrooney,' says he and how the dickens he med my name out, I nivir could larn- Mulrooney,' says he, for once in ye'r life, tell truth, and shame the divil.-How many thousand strong are ye? Twenty-five thousand,' says I, strivin' to dacave him. 'Bad luck to the liars!' says he. Amen,' says I, just givin' the word back to him. Arrahcome,' says he, don't be makin' a Judy Fitzsummon's mother of ye'rself, but tell the truth, Mulrooney, and I'll make a man of ye: an' if ye don't'-sw'aring an oath that I now disremimber, because it was in Frinch-'I'll blow the contents of this pistol thro' your scull,' pulling out one with a barrel like a blunderbuss. Well, I was rather scared; but, thinks I, there's nothin' like being bould. 'Fire away,' says I, 'an' put ye'r information in ye'r pocket afterwards; for it's all ye'll get from me.' Bonypart looked bothered: 'Be gogstay," says he, to the aidicamp, that's cliver of the corp'lar. Let him off,' says he; 'an' if there's a drain of spirits in the bottle, give it to him, the crature, for the day's hot.' Wid that, he pulls out a thirty-shillin' note. 'Divil blister the rap I have more, or ye should have it,' says he, shakes me dacently by the han', and sends me clane back. 'Pon me soul! Boney's not a bad man, after all." The sergeant's interview with Napoleon had been listened to with great attention; and at the production of the pistol of blunderbuss calibre, the recruits actually turned pale. The Israelite alone exhibited symptoms of incredulity, but what could be expected from an unbeliever? As to Mark Antony, he laughed outright ;-however, that was an effect which some of the bloodiest exploits of the gallant sergeant frequently produced upon his auditory, and accordingly, he, "good easy man," passed it by unnoticed. The symposium promised to terminate in harmony and peace, alas! how delusory that promise proved! |