Yea, should have esteemed it to be Hari-kari, which is Japanese, you know, for “happy dispatch.” 1
1 “The Hari-kari, or 'Happy Dispatch,' is still practised
by the Japanese. This consists in ripping open their own
bowels with two cuts, in the form of a cross.... Princes,
and the high classes, receive permission to rip themselves
up, as a special favour, when under sentence of death.”—
Japan, and her People, by A Steinmitz.
In expiation of these sanguinary thoughts, I subsequently presented a fourpenny piece, as conscience money, to a miserable-looking beggar, who “had not tasted food,” &c. &c. &c. &c., and who only asked for “a halfpenny, to buy a piece of bread.” But he had scarcely left me (having previously requested all the saints to pay me particular attention), when I heard one of two men, who were leaning against the wall, on which I sat smell-bound, say to his neighbour that “the jintleman must have more brass than brains, to go and give his money to a drunken shoemaker, who'd been out three days on the spree.” Yes, my groat was gone to buy alcohol for this impostor, this Cork Leg; and I felt as though I very closely resembled that bird which the French call “Le Bruant Fou,” and we “The Foolish Bunting,” because it is so easily ensnared.
It was, indeed, a joyous departure from humbug, dead fish, and sewers, to the waves, that were dancing in a pleasant breeze (which prudently declined to venture ashore); and we were as glad to make an escape as our great sailor, Sir Francis, when, outnumbered by the Spaniards, he came, crowding all sail, into Cork Harbour, and hid himself securely in “Drakes Pool.”
Lovely as the scene around her, there sat upon the deck, as we returned to Passage, a winsome Irish bride, fondly gazed upon by her happy husband, and less ostensibly by ourselves, and about a dozen officers, who were bound for Cork, from the Garrison and Club house at Queenstown. Was it that mysterious talent of beauty, which without words can say, “I recognise your homage, and it does not displease me;” or was it only our own enormous vanity which caused each of us to imagine, as I feel convinced we did, that, could she only have foreknown our peculiar fascinations, she would have laughed to scorn the inferior animal, who was now grinning by her side?
We returned to the Imperial for luncheon (and I am unacquainted with any midday refreshment more interesting than prawns, fresh and full-grown, with bread and butter à discrétion, and the golden ales of Burton), and then took car for Blarney. Our horse was evidently as fond of his home as that enthusiastic citizen who, with a charming indifference to anachronisms, declared that Athens was called “the Cork of Greece,” and would keep perpetually turning round to gaze upon the beautiful city. In vain the driver inquired satirically whether he had dropped his umbrella, or forgotten to order dinner, or whether there was anything on his mind; in vain he addressed him vituperatively, called him an old clothes-horse, and threatened to take him to the asylum; in vain, trying the persuasive, he assured him that we had come all the way from England to see him, having heard so much of his speed and beauty, and that, if he would keep up his character, and be a gentleman, he should have such a feed of old beans that day, as would cause him to neigh for joy. All in vain! from time to time round went this uncomfortable horse, until at last, as some fond lover takes one more look at his beloved, and then rushes wildly away, where duty calls or glory waits him, our eccentric quadruped suddenly started off at full trot, and during the remainder of our journey comported himself with great propriety.
CHAPTER XX. BLARNEY
THE old Castle of Blarney, like the castle of Macbeth, by Inverness,