Bits of Blarney

by R. Shelton Mackenzie

For the last five-and-thirty years of his life, Charley Crofts may be said to have literally lived all around. He had a number of tried friends, who were glad to have him as their guest and boon companion, for a month at a time. He could tell a good story, knew the private history of every family in the county, was undoubted authority on horseflesh and every subject connected with the sports of the field, and could take any quantity of wine without its apparently affecting him. Nature had endowed him with great muscular power, immense physical strength, a temper which nothing could cloud, and a mode of expression so terse as sometimes to be almost epigrammatic. He was exactly qualified for the shifting sort of life upon which he had fallen.

When I met him, the brighter portion of his career had passed. He was but the wreck of what he once had been, I was assured by every one; but one may judge, from the ruin, what the structure had been in its pride. Numerous anecdotes were afloat as to his sayings and doings, but it is difficult to realize their effect in our days, unless you could imagine the person on whom they were affiliated. Though I fear that I shall fail in the attempt, I shall endeavour to record two or three.

As a four-bottle man, who could drink every one else under the table, Charley Crofts was not so much of a favourite with wives as with their husbands. They knew, by experience, that with Charley Crofts in the van, a wet evening might be looked for—in the dining-room.

Mr. Wrixon, of Ballygiblin, near Mallow, (father of Sir W. Wrixon-Becher, who married Miss O'Neill, the eminent actress,) had only a small hereditary property when he succeeded to vast estates, on condition that he superadded the name of "Becher" to his own patronymic. As plain Mr. Wrixon, with a small property, he had lived unnoticed, but his circle of friends immensely increased when he became Mr. Wrixon-Becher, and a man of "Ten Thousand a Year." Soon after, he married an English lady, with some fortune, much pride, a fair share of beauty, and a decided abhorrence of the drinking habits of her husband's friends. She had heard of, and had been cautioned against, the vivacious enormities of Charley Crofts, and had actually declared to her husband (in private, of course) that whenever Mr. Crofts took a seat at her table, she would immediately relinquish hers.

One day, when Wrixon had been out with the Duhallow hounds, and the run had been quick and long, the only man who was in with him "at the death," was Charley Crofts, and under the circumstances—the rain beginning to fall heavily, Crofts' place of sojourn being at least ten miles distant, and Ballygiblin at hand,—Wrixon felt that he must invite Charley home, or rest under the imputation of behaving in an unsportsmanlike and inhospitable manner.

So, he told Charley that half a dozen other good fellows were to take "pot-luck" with him that day, and that he must insist on Charley's joining them. Without any pressing or denial, the invitation was accepted.

Now, Charley Crofts knew, just as well as if he had been present when the affair was discussed, how and why it was that, of all the houses in the barony of Duhallow, the mansion of Ballygiblin was the only one to which he had not a general invitation. Wrixon, the moment he reached home, turning over his companion to the friendly custody of a mutual acquaintance, who was to form one of the party that day, hastened to "his lady's chamber," where he found his wife dressed for dinner, and (as her glass told her) looking remarkably well. A few well-expressed and well-timed compliments on her appearance, a congratulation or two on her exquisite taste in dress, a half-hint and half-promise as to the killing effect of a set of pearl in contrast with her ebon looks, and more "blarney" of the same sort, made the lady so very gracious that the husband ventured to communicate under what circumstances he had been compelled to invite Charley Crofts to her table. The lady took them, as they sometimes do in French courts of justice, as "extenuating circumstances," and consented to receive the dreaded Charley. This done, she found her way into the drawing-room, where the guests waited upon her—the most subdued and quiet of them being Charley Crofts. At first, with his grave air and grave attire, she thought that he might have been a clergyman.

As the only stranger in the party, Charley had to escort Mrs. Wrixon to the dining-room, to sit next her, to perform the duties of carving for her, to supply her with a little of the small change of conversation. Nobody could behave more decorously, more unlike the lady's fearful anticipations of the dreaded guest. Now and then, when addressed by his friends, a quaint remark or a satiric witticism would make her smile, and convince her that the dangerously seductive companionable character of her guest had not been undeservedly obtained. On the whole, she had every reason to think him very much of a gentleman, and graciously smiled on him when she quitted the table.

"You have conquered her, by Jove," exclaimed Wrixon. "Not yet," said Charley, "but in a fair way for it." The wine went round. The conversation branched off into its usual channels, and settled, at last, upon a meet of the hounds which was to take place on Mr. Wrixon's property, at which all the company present would attend.

In the middle of the discussion, one of the footmen duly announced that his lady was waiting for them, with tea and coffee, in the drawing-room. Heretofore, in that house, such an announcement had always been a mere matter of form. Not so now. Charley Crofts started up and proceeded to obey the summons. "Nonsense!" they all exclaimed. "Don't turn milksop. No one ever goes to tea or coffee in this house." "Say what you may," said Charley, "the lady shall not have to complain of my want of politeness."