The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole. W. H. Maxwell

common-place occurrence as the Jew hurried up and joined them. A few minutes more brought them to the Cock and Punch-bowl, which proved to be a low and straggling edifice situated at the junction of four roads.

      As Mark Antony had rapidly adopted the prejudices of his fair monitress, he now regarded the Israelite with feelings of aversion and contempt. To fear he was a stranger—and the very knowledge that the Jew was a regular prize-fighter, probably occasioned on his part a more unequivocal display of personal antipathy. On entering the hostlerie, Mr. O’Toole asked for and obtained a private apartment—ordered supper for the Prima Donna and himself—intimating plainly to the fat landlady, that notwithstanding his celebrity in the comic line, Mr. Montague was not to be a member of the mess—and that, accordingly, the Jew and himself must remain what they had hitherto been—strangers to each other.

      It was now twilight. The girl, but not without some difficulty, had 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 sealed 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 poteeine? 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. Well—blessed 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 well-behaved, 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 itself—spoke 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 he 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.

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      Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’

      Both to Portingale and Spain;

      Drums are batin’, colours flyin’—

      And the divil a-back we’ll come again;

      So, Love, farewell!

      The colonel cries, “Boys are ye ready?”

      “We’re at your back, both firm and steady;

      Our pouches filt with balls and powther,

      And a clane firelock on each shouther.”

      Love, farewell!

      The mother cries, “Boys, do not wrong me;

      Ye wouldn’t take my daughter from me?

      If ye do, I will torment yees,