Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

‘I say, O’Grady,’ cried one, ‘we muster strong this morning. I hope Fagan’s bank will stand the run on it. What ‘s your figure?’

‘Oh, a couple of hundred,’ said Phil carelessly; ‘I have got rather a heavy book on the steeplechase.’

‘So I hear,’ said another; ‘and they say Ulick Burke won’t ride for you. He knows no one can sit the horse but himself; and Maher, the story goes, has given him a hundred and fifty to leave you in the lurch!’

‘How good!’ said Phil, smiling; for although this intelligence came upon him thus suddenly, he never evinced the slightest surprise nor the most trifling irritation.

‘You’ll pay forfeit, of course, Phil,’ said the gentleman on the chimney.

‘I fancy not.’

‘Then will you take two fifties to one, against your horse?’

‘Will you give it?’ was the cool reply. ‘Yes.’

‘And I – and I also,’ said different voices round the room.

‘Agreed, gentlemen, with all of you. So, if you please, we ‘ll book this. Jack, have you got a pencil?’

As I drew forth my pocket-book I could not help whispering to O’Grady that there seemed something like a coalition among his opponents. Before I could conclude, the red face appeared at the door. O’Grady hastily muttered, ‘Wait for me here,’ and left the room.

During his absence I had abundant time to study those about me. Indeed, a perfect sameness in their characters as in their pursuits rendered it an easy process; for as with unguarded frankness they spoke of their several difficulties, their stories presented one uniform feature-reckless expenditure and wasteful extravagance, with limited means and encumbered fortunes. They had passed through every phase of borrowing, every mode of raising money, and were now reduced to the last rung of the ladder of expediency, to become the prey of the usurer, who meted out to them a few more months of extravagance at the cost of many a future year of sorrow and repining.

I was beginning to grow impatient as the door gently opened, and I saw my friend, as he emerged from the back drawing-room. Without losing a moment’s time I joined him. We descended the stairs together, and walked out into the street.

‘Are you fond of pickled herrings, Jack?’ said O’Grady, as he took my arm.

‘Pickled herrings! Why, what do you mean?’

‘Probably,’ resumed he, in the same dry tone of voice, ‘you prefer ash bark, or asafetida?’

‘Why, I can’t say.’

‘Ah, my boy, you ‘re difficult to please, then. What do you say to whale oil and Welsh wigs?’

‘Confound me if I understand you!’

‘Nothing more easy after all, for of each of these commodities I ‘m now a possessor to the amount of some two hundred and twenty pounds. You look surprised, but such is the nature of our transactions here; and for my bill of five hundred, payable in six months, I have become a general merchant to the extent I’ve told you, not to mention paying eighty more for a certain gig and horse, popularly known in this city as the discount dennet. This,’ continued he with a sigh, ‘is about the tenth time I’ve been the owner of that vile conveyance; for you must know whenever Fagan advances a good round sum he always insists upon something of this kind forming part of it, and thus, according to the figure of your loan, you may drive from his door in anything, from a wheel-barrow to a stage-coach. As for the discount dennet, it is as well known as the black-cart that conveys the prisoners to Newgate, and the reputation of him who travels in either is pretty much on a par. From the crank of the rusty springs, to the limping amble of the malicious old black beast in the shafts, the whole thing has a look of beggary about it. Every jingle of the ragged harness seems to whisper in your ear, “Fifty per cent.”; and drive which way you will, it is impossible to get free of the notion that you’re not trotting along the road to ruin. To have been seen in it once is as though you had figured in the pillory, and the very fact of its being in your possession is a blow of a battering-ram to your credit for ever!’

‘But why venture into it? If you must have it, let it be like the pickled herrings and the paving-stones – so much of pure loss.’

‘The fact is, Jack, it is generally passed off on a young hand, the first time he raises money. He knows little of the town, less of its secret practices, and not until he has furnished a hearty laugh to all his acquaintances does he discover the blunder he has committed. Besides, sometimes you’re hard up for something to carry you about.

I remember once keeping it an entire winter, and as I painted Latitat a good piebald, and had his legs whitewashed every morning, few recognised him, except such as had paid for their acquaintance. After this account, probably, you’ll not like to drive with me; but as I am going to Loughrea for the races, I ‘ve determined to take the dennet down, and try if I can’t find a purchaser among the country gentlemen. And now let’s think of dinner. What do you say to a cutlet at the club, and perhaps we shall strike out something there to finish our evening?’

CHAPTER XVII. AN EVENING IN TOWN

We dined at the club-house, and sat chatting over our wine till near ten o’clock. The events of the morning were our principal topics; for although I longed myself to turn the conversation to the Rooneys, I was deterred from doing so by the fear of another outbreak of O’Grady’s mirth. Meanwhile the time rolled on, and rapidly too, for my companion, with an earnestness of manner and a force of expression I little knew he possessed, detailed to me many anecdotes of his own early career. From these I could glean that while O’Grady suffered himself to be borne along the current of dissipation and excess, yet in his heart he hated the life he led, and, when a moment of reflection came, felt sorrow for the past, and but little hope for the future.

‘Yes, Jack,’ said he, on concluding a narrative of continual family misfortune, ‘there would seem a destiny in things; and if we look about us in the world we cannot fail to see that families, like individuals, have their budding spring of youth and hope, their manhood of pride and power, and their old age of feebleness and decay. As for myself, I am about the last branch of an old tree, and all my endeavour has been, to seem green and cheerful to the last. My debts have hung about my neck all through life; the extravagances of my early years have sat like a millstone upon me; and I who began the world with a heart brimful of hope, and a soul bounding with ambition, have lingered on my path like a truant schoolboy. And here I am, at the age of three-and-thirty, without having realised a single promise of my boyhood, the poorest of all imaginable things – a gentleman without fortune, a soldier without service, a man of energy without hope.’

‘But why, Phil,’ said I, ‘how comes it that you never went out to the Peninsula?’

‘Alas, my boy! from year to year I have gone on expecting my gazette to a regiment on service. Too poor to purchase, too proud to solicit, I have waited in anxious expectancy from some of those with whom, high as was their station, I’ve lived on terms of intimacy and friendship, that notice they extended to others less known than I was; but somehow the temperament that would seem to constitute my happiness, has proved my bane, and those qualities which have made me a boon companion, have left me a beggar. Handed over from one viceroy to another, like a state trumpeter or a butt of sherry, I have been left to linger out my best years a kind of court-jester; my only reward being, the hour of merriment over, that they who laughed with, should laugh at me.’

There was a tone of almost ferocity in the way he spoke these words; while the trembling lip, the flashing eye, and the swollen veins of his temple betrayed that the very bitterest of all human emotions – self-scorn – was racking his heart within him.

For some time we were both silent. Had I even known what to say at such a moment, there was that comfortless expression about his face, that look of riveted despair, which would have rendered any effort on my part to console him a vain and presumptuous folly.

‘But come, Jack,’ said he, filling his glass and pushing over the decanter to me, ‘I have learned to put little faith in patrons; and although the information has been long in acquiring, still it has come at last, and I am determined to profit by it. I am now endeavouring to raise a little money to pay off the most pressing of my creditors, and have made an application to the Horse Guards to be appointed to any regiment on service, wherever it may be. If both these succeed, and it is necessary both should, then, Jack, I ‘ll try a new path, and even though it lead to nothing, yet, at least, it will be a more manly one to follow. And if I am to linger on to that period of life when to look back is nearly all that’s left us – why, then, the retrospect will be less dashed with shame than with such a career as this is. Meanwhile, my boy, the decanter is with you, so fill your glass; I ‘ll join you presently.’

As he spoke, O’Grady sprang up and walked to the other end of the room, where a party of some half-dozen persons were engaged in putting on greatcoats, and buttoning up previous to departure. In an instant I could hear his voice high above the rest – that cheerful ringing tone that seemed the very tocsin of a happy heart – while at some observation he made, the whole party around him were convulsed with laughter. In the midst of all this he drew one of them aside, and conversing eagerly with him for a few seconds, pointed to me as he spoke.

‘Thank you, my lord, thank you,’ said he, as he turned away. ‘I’ll be answerable for my friend. Now, Hinton,’ whispered he, as he leaned his hand upon my shoulder and bent over me, ‘we ‘re in luck to-night, at all events, for I have just got permission to bring you with me where I am to spend the evening. It’s no small favour if you knew but all; so finish your wine, for my friends there are moving already.’

All my endeavours to ascertain where we were going, or to whose house, were in vain; the only thing I could learn was, that my admission was a prodigious favour – while to satisfy my scruples about dress he informed me that no change of costume was necessary.

‘I perceive,’ said O’Grady, as he drew the curtain and looked out into the street, ‘the night is fine and starlight; so what say you if we walk? I must tell you, however, our place of rendezvous is somewhat distant.’

Agreeing to the proposition with pleasure, I took his arm, and we sallied forth together. Our way led at first through a most crowded and frequented part of the capital We traversed Dame Street, passed by the Castle, and ascended a steep street beyond it; after this we took a turning to the left, and entered a part of the city, to me at least, utterly unknown. For about half an hour we continued to wander on, now to the right, now to the left, the streets becoming gradually narrower, less frequented, and less lighted; the shops were all closed, and few persons stirred in the remote thoroughfares.

‘I fear I must have made a mistake,’ said O’Grady, endeavouring to take a short cut; ‘but here comes a watchman. I say, is this Kevin Street?’

‘No, sir; the second turning to your right brings you into it.’

‘Kevin Street!’ said I, repeating the name half aloud to myself.

‘Yes, Jack, so it is called; but all your ingenuity will prove too little in discovering whither you are going. So come along; leave time to tell you what guessing never will.’

By this time we arrived at the street in question, when very soon after O’Grady called out —

‘All right – here we are!’

With these words he knocked three times in a peculiar manner at the door of a large and gloomy-looking house. An ill-trimmed lamp threw a faint and nickering light upon the old and ruined building, and I could trace here and there, through all the wreck of time, some remnants of a better day. The windows now, however, were broken in several places, those on the lower storey being defended on the outside by a strong iron railing; not a gleam of light shone through any one of them, but a darkness unrelieved, save by the yellow gleam of the street lamp, enveloped the entire building. O’Gradys summons was twice repeated ere there seemed any chance of its being replied to, when, at last, the step of a heavy foot descending the stairs announced the approach of some one. While I continued my survey of the house O’Grady never spoke, and, perceiving that he made a mystery of our visit, I resolved to ask no further questions, but patiently await the result; my impression, however, was, that the place was the resort either of thieves or of some illegal association, of which more than one, at that time, were known to have their meetings in the capital. While I was thus occupied in my conjectures, and wondering within myself how O’Grady had become acquainted with his friends, the door opened, and a diminutive, mean-looking old man, shading the candle with his hand, stood at the entrance.

‘Good-evening, Mickey,’ cried O’Grady, as he brushed by him into the hall. ‘Are they come?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ said the little man, as, snuffing the long wick with his fingers, he held the light up to O’Grady’s face. ‘Yes, Captain, about fifteen.’

‘This gentleman’s with me – come along, Jack – he is my friend, Mickey.’

‘Oh, I can’t do it by no means, Mister Phil,’ said the dwarf, opposing himself as a barrier to my entrance. ‘You know what they said the last night’ – here he strained himself on his toes, and, as O’Grady stooped down, whispered some words I couldn’t catch, while he continued aloud – ‘and you know after that, Captain, I daren’t do it.’

‘I tell you, you old fool, I’ve arranged it all; so get along there, and show us the light up these confounded stairs. I suppose they never mended the hole on the lobby?’

‘Troth they didn’t,’ growled the dwarf; ‘and it would be chaper for them nor breaking their shins every night.’

I followed O’Grady up the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath us at every step; the hand-rail, broken in many places, swung to and fro with every motion of the stair, and the walls, covered with green, and damp mould, looked the very picture of misery and decay. Still grumbling at the breach of order incurred by my admission, the old man shuffled along, wheezing, coughing, and cursing between times, till at length we reached the landing-place, where the hole of which I heard them speak permitted a view of the hall beneath. Stepping across this, we entered a large room lighted by a lamp upon the chimney-piece; around the walls were hung a variety of what appeared to be cloaks of a lightish drab colour, while over each hung a small skull-cap of yellow leather.

‘Don’t you hear the knocking below, Mickey? There’s some one at the door,’ said O’Grady.

The little man left the room, and as we were now alone, I expected some explanation from my friend as to the place we were in, and the people who frequented it. Not so, however. Phil merely detached one of the cloaks from its peg, and proceeded to invest himself in its folds; he placed the skull-cap on his head, after which, covering the whole with a hood, he fastened the garment around his waist with a girdle of rope, and stood before me the perfect picture of a monk of St. Benedict, as we see them represented in old pictures – the only irregularity of costume being, that instead of a rosary, the string from his girdle supported a corkscrew and a horn spoon of most portentous proportions.

‘Come, my son,’ said he reverently, ‘indue thy garment.’ So saying, he proceeded to clothe me in a similar manner, after which he took a patient survey of me for a few seconds. ‘You ‘ll do very well; wear the hood well forward; and mark me, Jack, I ‘ve but one direction to give you – never speak a word, not a syllable, so long as you remain in the house; if spoken to, cross your arms thus upon your breast, and bow your head in this manner. Try that – perfectly – you have your lesson; now don’t forget it.’

O’Grady now, with his arms crossed upon his bosom, and his head bent slightly forward, walked slowly forth, with a solemn gravity well befitting his costume. Imitating him as well as I was able, I followed him up the stairs. On reaching the second landing, he tapped twice with his knuckles at a low door, whose pointed arch and iron grating were made to represent the postern of a convent.

‘Benedicite,’ said Phil, in a low voice.

‘Et tu quoque, frater,’ responded some one from within, and the door was opened.

Saluting a venerable-looking figure, who, with a long grey beard, bowed devoutly as we passed, we entered an apartment, where, so sudden was the change from what I had hitherto seen, I could scarcely trust my eyes. A comfortable, well-carpeted room, with curtained windows, cushioned chairs, and, not least inviting of all, a blazing fire of wood upon the hearth, were objects I was little prepared for; but I had little time to note them, my attention being directed with more curiosity to the living occupants of this strange dwelling. Some fifteen or sixteen persons, costumed like ourselves, either walked up and down engaged in conversation, or sat in little groups around the fire. Card-tables there were in different parts of the room, but one only was occupied. At this a party of reverend fathers were busily occupied at whist. In the corner next the fire, seated in a large chair of carved oak, was a figure, whose air and bearing bespoke authority; the only difference in his costume from the others being a large embroidered corkscrew, which he wore on his left shoulder.

‘Holy Prior, your blessing,’ said Phil, bowing obsequiously before him.

‘You have it, my son: much good may it do you,’ responded the superior, in a voice which, somehow or other, seemed not perfectly new to me.

While O’Grady engaged in a whispered conversation with the prior, I turned my eyes towards a large-framed paper which hung above the chimney. It ran thus: —

‘Rules and regulations to be observed in the monastery of the venerable and pious brothers, the Monks of the Screw.’

Conceiving it scarcely delicate in a stranger to read over the regulations of a society of which he was not a member, I was turning away, when O’Grady, seizing me by the arm, whispered, ‘Remember your lesson’; then added aloud, ‘Holy Father, this is the lay brother of whom I spoke.’

The prior bowed formally, and extended his hands towards me with a gesture of benediction —

‘Accipe benedictionem– ’

‘Supper, by the Lord Harry!’ cried a jolly voice behind me, and at the same moment a general movement was made by the whole party.

The prior now didn’t wait to conclude his oration, but tucking up his garments, put himself at the head of the procession which had formed, two and two, in order of march. At the same moment, two fiddles from the supper-room, after a slight prelude, struck up the anthem of the order, which was the popular melody of, ‘The Night before Larry was stretched!’

Marching in measured tread, we entered the supper-room, when, once having made the circuit of the table, at a flourish of the fiddles we assumed our places, the superior seating himself at the head in a chair of state, slightly elevated above the rest. A short Latin grace, which I was unfortunate enough not to catch, being said, the work of eating began; and, certainly, whatever might have been the feats of the friars of old, when the bell summoned them to the refectory, their humble followers, the Monks of the Screw, did them no discredit. A profusion of dishes covered the table; and although the entire service was of wood, and the whole ‘equipage’ of the most plain and simple description, yet the cookery was admirable, and the wines perfection itself.

While the supper proceeded, scarcely a word was spoken. By the skilful exercise of signs, with which they all seemed familiar, roast ducks, lobsters, veal-pies, and jellies flew from hand to hand; the decanters also paraded up and down the table with an alacrity and despatch I had seldom seen equalled. Still, the pious brethren maintained a taciturn demeanour that would have done credit to La Trappe itself. As for me, my astonishment and curiosity increased every moment. What could they be? What could they mean? There was something too farcical about it all to suppose that any political society or any dangerous association could be concealed under such a garb; and if mere conviviality and good fellowship were meant, their unbroken silence and grave demeanour struck me as a most singular mode of promoting either.

Supper at length concluded, the dishes were removed by two humble brethren of the order, dressed in a species of grey serge; after which, marching to a solemn tune, another monk appeared, bearing a huge earthenware bowl, brimful of steaming punch – at least so the odour and the floating lemons bespoke it. Each brother was now provided with a small, quaint-looking pipkin, after which the domestics withdrew, leaving us in silence as before. For about a second or two this continued, when suddenly the fiddles gave a loud twang, and each monk, springing to his legs, threw hack his cowl, and, bowing to the superior, reseated himself. So sudden was the action, so unexpected the effect, for a moment or two I believed it a dream. What was my surprise, what my amazement, that this den of thieves, this hoard of burglars, this secret council of rebels, was nothing more or less than an assemblage of nearly all the first men of the day in Ireland! And as my eye ran rapidly over the party, here I could see the Chief Baron, with a venerable dignitary of St. Patrick’s on his right; there was the Attorney-General; there the Provost of Trinity College; lower down, with his skull-cap set jauntily on one side, was Wellesley Pole, the secretary of state; Yelverton, Day, Plunket, Parsons, Toler; in a word, all those whose names were a guarantee for everything that was brilliant, witty, and amusing, were there; while, conspicuous among the rest, the prior himself was no other than John Philpot Curran! Scarcely was my rapid survey of the party completed, when the superior, filling his pipkin from the ample bowl before him, rose to give the health of the order. Alas me! that time should have so sapped my memory! I can but give my impression of what I heard.

The speech, which lasted about ten minutes, was a kind of burlesque on speeches from the throne, describing in formal phrase the prosperous state of their institution, its amicable foreign relations, the flourishing condition of its finances – brother Yelverton having paid in the two-and-sixpence he owed for above two years – concluding all with the hope that by a rigid economy, part of which consisted in limiting John Toler to ten pipkins, they would soon be enabled to carry into effect the proposed works on the frontier, and expend the sum of four shillings and nine-pence in the repair of the lobby. Winding up all with a glowing eulogium on monastic institutions in general, he concluded with recommending to their special devotion and unanimous cheers ‘the Monks of the Screw.’ Never, certainly, did men compensate for their previous silence better than the worthy brethren in question. Cheering with an energy I never heard the like of, each man finished his pipkin with just voice enough left to call for the song of the order.

Motioning with his hand to the fiddlers to begin, the prior cleared his throat, and, to the same simple but touching melody they had marched in to supper, sang the following chant: —

GOOD-LUCK TO THE FRIARS OF OLD‘Of all trades that flourished of old,Before men knew reading and writing,The friars’ was best I am told,If one wasn’t much given to fighting;For, rent free, you lived at your ease —You had neither to work nor to labour —You might eat of whatever you please,For the prog was supplied by your neighbour.Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!‘Your dress was convenient and cheap —A loose robe like this I am wearing:It was pleasant to eat in or sleep,And never much given to tearing.Not tightened nor squeezed in the least —How of modern days you might shame us!With a small bit of cord round your waist —With what vigour you’d chant the oremus!Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!‘What miracles then, too, you made!The fame to this hour is lasting;But the strangest of all, it is said,You grew mighty fat upon fasting!And though strictly forbid to touch wine,How the fact all your glory enhances!You well knew the taste of the vine —Some miraculous gift of St. Francis!Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!‘To trace an example so meek,And repress all our carnal desires,We mount two pair stairs every week,And put on the garment of friars;And our order itself it is old —The oldest between me and you, sir;For King David, they say, was enrolled,And a capital Monk of the Screw, sir.So, good-luck to the friars of old!’

The song over, and another cheer given to the brethren of the Screw, the pipkins were replenished, and the conversation, so long pent up, burst forth in all its plenitude. Nothing but fun, nothing but wit, nothing but merriment, was heard on either side. Here were not only all the bright spirits of the day, but they were met by appointment; they came prepared for the combat, armed for the fight; and, certainly, never was such a joust of wit and brilliancy. Good stories rained around; jests, repartees, and epigrams flew like lightning; and one had but time to catch some sparkling gem as it glittered, ere another and another succeeded.