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

O’Leary was making a radical change in her toilet when she heard the alarm, and before she was ready for battle, the battle was over. Down she sallied like a Bacchante. Alas! it was only to see a defeated Israelite on the floor, and witness a demolition of property, the value of which was, like pearls, above price.

      “Oh, heavenly Antony!” she exclaimed, and clapped her hands wildly together, “if ivir I underwint such ruination since I was a girl. A man kilt in the house, and the image of my brother Dick that came from Philadelphy, all in smithereens!” and she picked up fragments of plaster of Paris which once had formed “a busto framed with every grace.”

      “There’s the Queen of Sheba on the-broad of her back upon the floor, and the divil a morsel of the Prodigal Son left, good nor bad.” She cast her eyes doubtfully around her, “Holy Bridget!” she continued, “why the door of the clock-case is in two halves! Murder! murder!—was ivir a lone woman brought to sich desalashin, and all done while ye could say Jack Robison! Arrah! what set ye a fightin’, wid plenty of liquor, and ye singin’ like blackbirds when I left ye. May the widda’s curse fall on them, night and day, that caused the skrimmage!” Then turning to the fosterer, she inquired if he had been wounded in the affray, and with a marked anxiety Mrs. O’Leary investigated the outer man of Mark Antony. Perceiving, however, that he was personally undamaged, she continued her inquiries as to the origin of what she called the ruchshin, intending no doubt to ameree the offender heavily for the losses she had sustained. Manifold were the causes alleged; but all, and by common consent, laid the blame on Mr. Montague. He was a Jew, therefore no allegation against him could be too bad. He was dead, and consequently he could deny nothing. Accordingly, the downfal of the Queen of Sheba, the demolition of my brother Dick, and the destruction of the Prodigal Son, all and every were placed to the account of the defunct, and carried in the affirmative, neniine contradicente.

      But Mr. Montague was not dead. Like greater men, finding that the current of popular opinion had turned against him, he decided that nothing professional could be effected by a longer sojourn at the Cock and Punch-bowl, and that the sooner he abdicated the better. Accordingly while a noisy reconciliation was being effected, Mr. Montague “cut his lucky,” the belligerents returned to the table,—in a deep “doch a durris” all animosity was extinguished, and the whole separated as a Christian company should part, having in due course, and after the fashion of that pleasant country, drank, fought, committed murder, and sworn an eternal friendship afterwards.

      Morning came, and the hostlerie of Mrs. O’Leary at cock-crow was in a bustle. The fosterer and his fair companion preparing for the road, and the sergeant, with his charge of foot, girding up their loins to proceed to Cahirmore. All however seemed in melancholy mood; some laying it upon love, while others left it upon liquor. Mark Antony was regularly bothered; and the actress, poor girl, sadly cast down at the immediate prospect of parting from one, who had proved himself a kind and generous protector. Nor had the jolly hostess escaped a visitation of the heart. What, though for three years she had eschewed all overtures to revisit the temple of Hymen, and rejected more suitors than Penelope, still the widow was flesh and blood like other people; and satisfied that in the person of Mark Antony O’Toole the cardinal virtues were united, she was ready for matrimony on demand, and prepared on the first summons to surrender the Cock and Punch-bowl—of course on honourable terms.

      All these visitations were of the sentimental order; but those sustained by the men of war were unhappily corporeal. It is true that the sergeant had a thick skull, but what chances have skulls with cupboards? and in the recent collision the skull of the commander was damaged grievously; the fifer’s mouth was totally destroyed by a flush hit; each of the recruits had been favoured with a black eye; and, even to the diminutive drummer, none passed the ordeal unscathed.

      Somebody,—I think Shenstone,—after insinuating that he had travelled “earth’s dull round,” declares that “the warmest welcome’s in an inn.” Well, that may be the case; but the wayfarer cunningly passes over that brief but painful moment when the bell is gently touched, and a bill reluctantly requested with all the indifference a man in such circumstances can assume. That unlucky period had arrived. The sergeant inquired “what was to pay?” and the hostess responded, by producing a huge slate, and pointing to a long array of figures scored to the debit of the commander. At the sight of this, the countenance of the worthy man underwent a striking elongation; and he who beneath the withering glance of the conqueror of Lodi had not blanched, became pale as a ghost while he gazed on the hieroglyphics of the lady of the Cock and Punch-bowl. The commander shook his head, and the shake was significant; while the fifer stoutly affirmed that the whole of the nocturnal symposium had been charged against the protectors of the realm.

      “Arrah, what balderdash!” exclaimed the hostess; “don’t ye see four and eightpence agin the Carneys, wid a cross upon it, because it’s ped? Mr. O’Toole goes free; and there’s fairly against ye all, two and fourpence for ating, and eleven and ninepence for the drink.”

      But the charge of foot, even from the drum-boy to the commander, persisted in protestations of incredulity; and Mrs. O’Leary, irritated that the accuracy of her reckoning should be doubted, gave indications of a “flare-up” which might have brought about another general engagement.

      “Bad luck attend yes for a set of thieves! Wasn’t it enough for ye to tatter my consarn, without bilkin me of my bill?”

      In Ireland, questions are answered by interrogatories; and if you ask the way to a place, the reply will probably be an inquiry as to whether you “met a donkey on the road, or noticed a blind woman with twins upon her back?”

      “Who tattered y’er consarn?” responded the sergeant.

      “Who knocked the fire out of my eye wid a clod of turf as hard as a paving stone?” inquired a recruit.

      “Who druv me thro’ the drum-head?” screamed the boy.

      “Who split my lip?” demanded the fifer.

      “Don’t be bothering me about y’er drums and y’er misfortins!” replied the hostess, cold to the losses thus sustained in person and property by her unhappy visitors; “but for once in y’er lives, be honest, and down wid the reckoning.”

      The sergeant saw that it was idle to remonstrate, and he produced a one-pound note, called for a pint of whisky, received it and the change, bolted his “morning”—an example duly followed by all, even to the drummer; and, accompanied by his gallant following, wended his way in sadness and silence towards the Pattern of Cahirmore. For once, military pomp and pride were dispensed with,—the fife was mute, the drum beat no point of war, and the commander and his charge of foot stole off as modestly from the hostelrie, as if instead of being engaged over-night in pointing out the path of glory to the Carneys, they had picked pockets like the Jew, or robbed the widow’s hen-roost.

      The parting between the men of war and the lady of the Cock and Punch-bowl was not accompanied with any ebullition of “sweet sorrow” upon either side, the commander hinting that it was his intention to transfer his patronage to the Cat and Bagpipes for the future; and the hostess declaring, that “the loss was small, and were he better they were welcome to him.” But a tenderer trial was at hand; and when Mark Antony and the fair cantatrice announced that they were about to take the road, the widow’s grief burst forth.

      “Arrah, stay!” she said. “Rest yourselves for a day or two longer. Well, ye won’t. Put up y’er purse, astore. Is it for me to charge craters of y’er sort for a trifle of entertainment? Sorrow rap I’d take if ye stay’d here a twelvemonth. The world’s wide; and many a straggler finds it hard to get across it. Well, jewel! if you stick fast, as many a man has done before ye, turn back to the widow’s home, and here’s y’er ceade fealteagh * waiting for ye. When ye want it, ye’ll find something in the basket,” and she placed a small one in the fosterer’s hand. “And now, as y’er for goin, may the Lord protect ye both!” Mrs. O’Leary wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron, kissed the pale girl affectionately, while the smack she gave Mark Antony might have been heard distinctly across the road. Next moment the wayfarers were over the hospitable threshold,