HALF AN HOUR IN IRELAND.
(From Charles O’Malley.)
When the Bermuda transport sailed from Portsmouth for Lisbon, I happened to make one of some four hundred interesting individuals, who, before they became food for powder, were destined to try their constitutions on pickled pork. The second day after our sailing, the winds became adverse; it blew a hurricane from every corner of the compass but the one it ought; and the good ship, that should have been standing straight for the Bay of Biscay, was scudding away with a double-reefed topsail towards the coast of Labrador. For six days we experienced every sea-manœuvre that usually preludes a shipwreck; and at length, when, what from sea sickness and fear, we had become utterly indifferent to the result, the storm abated, the sea went down, and we found ourselves lying comfortably in the harbour of Cork, we had a strange suspicion on our minds that the frightful scenes of the past week had been nothing but a dream.
“Come, Mr Medlicot,” said the skipper to me, “we shall be here for a couple of days to refit; had you not better go ashore and see the country?”
I sprung to my legs with delight; visions of cowslips, larks, daisies, and mutton chops, floated before my excited imagination, and in ten minutes I found myself standing at that pleasant little inn at Cove, which, opposite Spike Island, rejoices in the name of the Goat and Garters.
“Breakfast, waiter,” said I; “a beefsteak—fresh beef, mark ye; fresh eggs, bread, milk, and butter, all fresh.” No more hard tack, thought I, no salt butter, but a genuine land breakfast.
“Up stairs, No. 4, sir,” said the waiter, as he flourished a dirty napkin, indicating the way.
Up stairs I went, and in due time the appetizing little dejeune made its appearance. Never did a miser’s eye revel over his broad acres with more complacent enjoyment than did mine skim over the mutton and the muffin, the teapot, the trout, and the devilled kidney, so invitingly spread out before me. Yes, thought I, as I smacked my lips, this is the reward of virtue; pickled pork is a probationary state that admirably fits us for future enjoyments. I arranged my napkin upon my knee, I seized my knife and fork, and proceeded with most critical acumen to bisect a beefsteak. Scarcely, however, had I touched it, when with a loud crash the plate smashed beneath it, and the gravy ran piteously across the cloth. Before I had time to account for the phenomenon, the door opened hastily, and the waiter rushed into the room, his face redolent with smiles, while he rubbed his hands in an ecstacy of delight.
“It’s all over, sir;” said he, “glory be to God, it’s all done.”
“What’s over? what’s done?” said I with impatience.
“M’Mahon is satisfied,” replied he, “and so is the other gentleman.”
“Who and what the devil do you mean?”
“It’s over, sir, I say,” replied the waiter again; “he fired in the air.”
“Fired in the air,” said I. “Did they fight in the room below stairs?”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter with a benign smile.
“That will do,” said I, as seizing my hat I rushed out of the house, and hurrying to the beach took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an hour had elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had fully as many reasons, that although there may be few more amusing, there are some safer places to live in than the green island.
All men are masked; the world is one universal disguise, each individual endeavouring to fathom his neighbour’s intentions, at the same time wishing to hide his own, and, above all, striving to secure a reputable character rather by words than deeds.
Persons who are always innocently cheerful and good-humoured are very useful in the world; they maintain peace and happiness, and spread a thankful temper amongst all who live around them.—Miss Talbot.
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