LITMIR.BIZ

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which went off into a storm of laughter, in which Father Roach made an absurd attempt to join. But it was only a gunpowder glare, swallowed in an instant in darkness, and down came the black portcullis of his scowl with a chop, while clearing his voice, and directing his red face and vicious little eyes straight on simple Dan Loftus he said, rising very erect and square from an unusually ceremonious bow —

      'I don't know, Mr. Loftus, exactly what you mean by a “ring-goat in a Spanish dress”' (the priest had just smuggled over a wonderful bit of ecclesiastical toggery from Salamanca): 'and – a – person wearing patches, you said of – of – patches of concupiscence, I think.' (Father Roach's housekeeper unfortunately wore patches, though, it is right to add, she was altogether virtuous, and by no means young); 'but I'm bound to suppose, by the amusement our friends seem to derive from it, Sir, that a ring-goat, whatever it means, is a good joke, as well as a good-natured one.'

      'But, by your leave, Sir,' emphatically interposed Puddock, on whose ear the ecclesiastic's blunder grated like a discord, 'Mr. Loftus sang nothing about a goat, though kid is not a bad thing: he said, “ringos,” meaning, I conclude, eringoeous, a delicious preserve or confection. Have you never eaten them, either preserved or candied – a – why I – a – I happen to have a receipt – a – and if you permit me, Sir – a capital receipt. When I was a boy, I made some once at home, Sir; and, by Jupiter, my brother, Sam, eat of them till he was quite sick – I remember, so sick, by Jupiter, my poor mother and old Dorcas had to sit up all night with him – a – and – I was going to say, if you will allow me, Sir, I shall be very happy to send the receipt to your housekeeper.'

      'You'll not like it, Sir,' said Devereux, mischievously: 'but there really is a capital one – quite of another kind – a lenten dish – fish, you know, Puddock – the one you described yesterday; but Mr. Loftus has, I think, a still better way.'

      'Have you, Sir?' asked Puddock, who had a keen appetite for knowledge.

      'I don't know, Captain Puddock,' murmured Loftus, bewildered.

      'What is it?' remarked his reverence, shortly.

      'A roast roach,' answered Puddock, looking quite innocently in that theologian's fiery face.

      'Thank you,' said Father Roach, with an expression of countenance which polite little Puddock did not in the least understand.

      'And how do you roast him – we know Loftus's receipt,' persisted Devereux, with remarkable cruelty.

      'Just like a lump,' said Puddock, briskly.

      'And how is that?' enquired Devereux.

      'Flay the lump – splat him – divide him,' answered Puddock, with great volubility; 'and cut each side into two pieces; season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg, and baste with clarified butter; dish him with slices of oranges, barberries, grapes, gooseberries, and butter; and you will find that he eats deliriously either with farced pain or gammon pain.'

      This rhapsody, delivered with the rapidity and emphasis of Puddock's earnest lisp, was accompanied with very general tokens of merriment from the company, and the priest, who half suspected him of having invented it, was on the point of falling foul of him, when Lord Castlemallard rose to take leave, and the general forthwith vacated the chair, and so the party broke up, fell into groups, and the greater part sauntered off to the Phœnix, where, in the club-room, they, with less restraint, and some new recruits, carried on the pleasures of the evening, which pleasures, as will sometimes happen, ended in something rather serious.

      Chapter VII

      Showing How Two Gentlemen May Misunderstand One Another, Without Enabling the Company To Understand Their Quarrel

      Loftus had by this time climbed to the savage lair of his garret, overstrewn with tattered papers and books; and Father Roach, in the sanctuary of his little parlour, was growling over the bones of a devilled-turkey, and about to soothe his fretted soul in a generous libation of hot whiskey punch. Indeed, he was of an appeasable nature, and on the whole a very good fellow.

      Dr. Toole, whom the young fellows found along with Nutter over the draught-board in the club-room, forsook his game to devour the story of Loftus's Lenten Hymn, and poor Father Roach's penance, rubbed his hands, and slapped his thigh, and crowed and shouted with ecstasy. O'Flaherty, who called for punch, and was unfortunately prone to grow melancholy and pugnacious over his liquor, was now in a saturnine vein of sentiment, discoursing of the charms of his peerless mistress, the Lady Magnolia Macnamara – for he was not one of those maudlin shepherds, who pipe their loves in lonely glens and other sequestered places, but rather loved to exhibit his bare scars, and roar his tender torments for the edification of the market-place.

      While he was descanting on the attributes of that bewitching 'crature,' Puddock, not two yards off, was describing, with scarcely less unction, the perfections of 'pig roast with the hair on:' and the two made a medley like 'The Roast Beef of Old England,' and 'The Last Rose of Summer,' arranged in alternate stanzas. O'Flaherty suddenly stopped short, and said a little sternly to Lieutenant Puddock —

      'Does it very much signify, Sir (or as O'Flaherty pronounced it “Sorr,”) whether the animal has hair upon it or not?'

      'Every thing, Thir, in thith particular retheipt,' answered Puddock, a little loftily.

      'But,' said Nutter, who, though no great talker, would make an effort to prevent a quarrel, and at the same time winking to Puddock in token that O'Flaherty was just a little 'hearty,' and so to let him alone; 'what signifies pigs' hair, compared with human tresses?'

      'Compared with human tresses?' interrupted O'Flaherty, with stern deliberation, and fixing his eyes steadily and rather unpleasantly upon Nutter (I think he saw that wink and perhaps did not understand its import.)

      'Ay, Sir, and Mrs. Magnolia Macnamara has as rich a head of hair as you could wish to see,' says Nutter, thinking he was drawing him off very cleverly.

      'As I could wish to see?' repeated O'Flaherty grimly.

      'As you could desire to see, Sir,' reiterated Nutter, firmly, for he was not easily put down; and they looked for several seconds in silence a little menacingly, though puzzled, at one another.

      But O'Flaherty, after a short pause, seemed to forget Nutter, and returned to his celestial theme.

      'Be the powers, Sir, that young leedy has the most beautiful dimple in her chin I ever set eyes on!'

      'Have you ever put a marrow fat pea in it, Sir?' enquired Devereux, simply, with all the beautiful rashness of youth.

      'No, Sorr,' replied O'Flaherty, in a deep tone, and with a very dangerous glare; 'and I'd like to see the man who, in my presence, id preshum to teeke that libertee.'

      'What a glorious name Magnolia is!' interposed little Toole in great haste; for it was a practice among these worthies to avert quarrels – very serious affairs in these jolly days – by making timely little diversions, and it is wonderful, at a critical moment, what may be done by suddenly presenting a trifle; a pin's point, sometimes – at least, a marvellously small one – will draw off innocuously, the accumulating electricity of a pair of bloated scowling thunder-clouds.

      'It was her noble godmother, when the family resided at Castlemara, in the county of Roscommon, the Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol, who conferred it,' said O'Flaherty, grandly, 'upon her god-daughter, as who had a better right – I say, who had a better right?' and he smote his hand upon the table, and looked round inviting contradiction. 'My godmothers, in my baptism – that's catechism – and all the town of Chapelizod won't put that down – the Holy Church Catechism – while Hyacinth O'Flaherty, of Coolnaquirk, Lieutenant Fireworker, wears a sword.'

      'Nobly said, lieutenant!' exclaimed Toole, with a sly wink over his shoulder.

      'And what about that leedy's neeme, Sir?' demanded the enamoured fireworker.

      'By Jove, Sir, it is quite true, Lady Carrick-o'-Gunniol was her godmother:' and Toole ran off into the story of how that relationship was brought about; narrating it, however, with great caution and mildness, extracting all the satire, and giving it quite a dignified and creditable character, for the Lieutenant

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