Stories by English Authors: Ireland

A CERTAIN old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous quite equalled his taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont, upon festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse his friends by drawing out one of his servants, exceedingly fond of what he termed, his “thravels,” and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, perhaps more than all, long and faithful services had established a right of loquacity. He was one of those few trusty and privileged domestics who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire said, “I’ll turn that rascal off,” my friend Pat would say, “Throth you won’t, sir;” and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon the “subject-matter in hand,” he was sure to throw in some good reason, either from former services—general good conduct—or the delinquent’s “wife and children,” that always turned the scale.
But I am digressing. On such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the master, after making certain “approaches,” as a military man would say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of his servant, might, perchance, assail Pat thus: “By the by, Sir John” (addressing a distinguished guest), “Pat has a very curious story, which something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat” (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus paid to himself)—“you remember that queer adventure you had in France?”
“Throth I do, sir,” grins forth Pat.
“What!” exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, “was Pat ever in France?”
“Indeed he was,” cries mine host; and Pat adds, “Ay, and farther, plase your honour.”
“I assure you, Sir John,” continues mine host, “Pat told me a story once that surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French.”
“Indeed!” rejoined the baronet; “really, I always supposed the French to be a most accomplished people.”
“Throth, then, they’re not, sir,” interrupts Pat.