Without bribery or dessate.
May God prolong your days,
Your Court to reglate,
And force sly roges and villines
To pay their dews and rates.
[CHARLEY CROFTS.]
In the immortal "Maxims of O'Doherty," written by the late Dr. Maginn, mention is made of a dinner at the late Lord Doneraile's, in the South of Ireland, in which a reproof was administered to his Lordship's meanness in the article of—tippling. He says, "My friend, Charley Crofts, was also of the party. The claret went lazily round the table, and his Lordship's toad-eaters hinted that they preferred punch, and called for hot water. My Lord gave in, after a humbug show of resistance, and whiskey-punch was in a few minutes the order of the night. Charley, however, to the annoyance of the host, kept swilling away at the claret, on which Lord Doneraile lost all patience, and said to him, 'Charley, you are missing quite a treat; this punch is so excellent.' 'Thank ye, my Lord,' said Charley, 'I am a plain man, who does not want trates; I am no epicure, so I stick to the claret.'"
This free-and-easy gentleman, of whom I have some personal recollection, belonged to a class of which, I suspect, he was the very latest specimen. Charley Crofts, who had acquired no book-learning, because he was born to a large landed property, was of a respectable family in the west of the county Cork, and, even in his decline, was highly honoured by the multitude, as coming from "the good ould stock." Brought up, but not educated, by his mother, Charley entered the world with very flattering prospects. He had a good property, good looks, good temper, and (what he most prized) good horses. Cursed with an easy disposition, he had never learned how to utter the monosyllable "No," but had unfortunately learned how to sign his name—his friends kindly giving him very frequent opportunities of practicing that autograph, by obtaining it, across narrow slips of stamped paper, ('yclept "bills" and "promissory notes") underneath the words "Accepted, payable at the Bank of James Delacour, Mallow." In the long run, these autographs ruined him—as, bit-by-bit, all his property went to meet the sums to which they pledged him, and Charley Crofts found himself, at the age of thirty, without home or money. He had preserved one thing, however—his personal character. He had committed a great many of the frailties of his sex and youth, but the shadow of a disreputable or doubtful action never rested on his name. He could proudly say, like Francis the First, after the battle of Pavia, "All lost, except honour."
The result was that, in his poverty, he was as highly thought of as in his affluence, and was ever a welcome guest in the first houses of his native county.
Like the rest of his class, (I mean the estated Irish gentlemen of the last century,) Charley Crofts had learned to drink deeply. He used to narrate, with great glee, an incident connected with his entrance into vivacious habits. His mother, having occasion to leave their country residence, in order to transact some business in Cork, left her hopeful son in full possession of the house and full command of the servants, for the fortnight she intended being absent. Charley, who was then in his sixteenth year, determined that he would hold no powerless sceptre of vice-royalty, and invited sundry acquaintances to visit him, which they did. As a hogshead of fine claret was always on tap, there was no difficulty in obtaining an adequate supply of drink. One day, however, a guest happened to express a desire to vary the post-prandial proceedings by the introduction of a few bottles of port. Now, it happened that Mrs. Crofts possessed (and was known to possess) some remarkably fine port wine, which she carefully kept locked up, reserving it for "State days and holidays." Charley had been left the key of the cellar, and, considering that his hospitality was especially appealed to, by the hint about the port, went down and had a supply brought up. That afternoon's performance went rather hard against the port. Indeed, so much of it was drank that Charley Crofts was puzzled how to account for it, without making full confession. A few days after his mother's return, she asked him to accompany her to the cellar, to provide a suitable location for a supply of sherry which she expected from Cork. The first thing which attracted her notice was the remarkable diminution in the stock of her valued and nearly unique port wine. Catching her eye, Charley anticipated her inquiry, by remarking that, in her absence, a remarkable thunder-storm had penetrated to the cellar and broken a quantity of the bottled wine. Taking up two or three of the bottles, and fully aware that it would be useless to repine or get angry over the mischief done, she drew her hopeful son's attention to them, and only said, "A dreadful storm, indeed! It has actually drawn the corks out of the necks of the bottles, instead of bursting them in the usual way!"