Like Homer, she sung her own verses; or, if they were made for her, the secret of the authorship was never divulged. For several years previous to the time I now speak of, she had abandoned the Muses, save on some special and striking occasions, when she would come before the world with some lyric, which, however, did little more than bear the name of its once famed composer.
So much for the past. Now to the present history of Betty Cobbe.
In a large unceilinged room, with a great fire blazing on the hearth, over which a huge pot of potatoes was boiling, sat Betty, in a straw chair. She was evidently very old, as her snow-white hair and lustreless eye bespoke; but the fire of a truculent, unyielding spirit still warmed her blood, and the sharp, ringing voice told that she was decided to wrestle for existence to the last, and would never “give in” until fairly conquered.
Betty's chair was the only one in the chamber: the rest of the company disposed themselves classically in the recumbent posture, or sat, like primitive Christians, cross-legged. A long deal table, sparingly provided with wooden plates and a few spoons, occupied the middle of the room, and round the walls were several small bundles of straw, which I soon learned were the property of private individuals.
“Come along till I show ye to ould Betty,” said one of the varlets to me, as he pushed his way through the crowded room; for already several other gangs had arrived, and were exchanging recognitions.
“She's in a sweet temper, this evening,” whispered another, as we passed. “The Polis was here a while ago, and took up 'Danny White,' and threatened to break up the whole establishment.”
“The devil a thing at all they'll lave us of our institushuns,” said a bow-legged little blackguard, with the 'Evening Freeman' written round his hat; for he was an attaché of that journal.
“Ould Betty was crying all the evening,” said the former speaker; by this time we had gained the side of the fireplace, where the old lady sat.
“Mother! mother, I say!” cried my guide, touching her elbow gently; then, stooping to her ear, he added, “Mother Betty!”
“Eh! Who's callin' me?” said the hag, with her hand aloft. “I'm here, my Lord, neither ashamed nor afeard to say my name.”