CHAPTER XIX. A RUN TO CONNAUGHT—A PRESENT—A PUZZLE—MOLL RAFFLE—A LUCKY ACCUSATION—CROWN WITNESSES—WHO BLEW UP KING WILLIAM?—SURGICAL ASSISTANCE—A REJECTED SUITOR—GEORGE ROBINS—THE GREEK COUNT: THE RATS—THE CHILD OF THE ALLEY—THE LUCKY SHOT.
In the year 1842, I indulged in an excursion to the County of Mayo, and enjoyed a sojourn of a fortnight at the house of a most hospitable friend near Crossmolina. On leaving Dublin, I travelled by rail to Mullingar, and from thence proceeded by the mail-coach to my destination. I may mention here that a few months previous, a transaction had occurred in the vicinity of Strokestown which was of a most unusual, perhaps I might say an exceptional, character in Connaught—namely, the murder of a landlord. I was the sole occupant of the inside of the vehicle, and as the journey was nocturnal, I had several hours of sound and refreshing sleep. The stoppage of the coach in Strokestown to change horses awakened me, and I lowered the window in order to alight. The door was at once opened for me by a young fellow, who said, "Strokestown, sir." "Oh!" I replied, "this is where you shot Major M——." "Troth it is," said he, "we are all rale docthors here, and when we can't cure, of coorse we kill." Such a jest, although prompt and witty, was not calculated to produce a favorable impression on the mind of a stranger; but during my visit to the West, I did not hear an angry word spoken, nor did I observe any tendency on the part of the humbler classes to treat those in higher positions with hostility or disrespect. I was perfectly pleased with the country and the people, and my friend's hospitality afforded me social gratifications in which there was one novelty which I peculiarly relished. It was a liquor derived from no foreign vineyard, but was so peculiarly Irish as to induce one whom I am certainly not singular in believing to be the greatest lyric poet that ever existed, to make it the subject of song adapted to the joyous and spirit-stirring air of "Paddy O'Rafferty." I shall quote the lines of the immortal Moore as fully justifying the predilection which I have acknowledged for the potation he describes:-
"Drink of this cup—you'll find there's spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it.
Send round the cup—for oh! there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
"Never was philter form'd with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd
To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup—you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
"And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no one—
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
In secret this philter was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And ev'n though it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden,
Fill up, there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm though as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup—for oh! there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality."