Fancying he alluded to robbers, I did not feel comfortable:—“And pray, friend,” said I, “why not?”
“I’ll tell your honour that:—becaze, plaze your honour, all the ould people say that the devil comes out of Castlebar after sun-down, to look for prey, from the day the Virgin was delivered till Candlemas eve, and all the priests can’t do nothing against him in this quarter. But he’s never seen no more the same year till the holly and ivy drive him out of all the chapels and towns again coming Christmas—and that’s the truth, and nothing else, plaze your honour’s honour!”
IRISH INNS.
Their general character—Objections commonly made to them—Answer thereto—Sir Charles Vernon’s mimicry—Moll Harding—Accident nearly of a fatal nature to the author.
An Irish inn has been an eternal subject of ridicule to every writer upon the habits and accommodations of my native country. It is true that, in the early period of my life, most of the inns in Ireland were nearly of the same quality—a composition of slovenliness, bad meat, worse cooking, and few vegetables (save the royal Irish potato); but with plenty of fine eggs, smoked bacon, often excellent chickens, and occasionally the hen, as soon as she had done hatching them—if you could chew her. They generally had capital claret, and plenty of civility in all its ramifications.[[37]]
[37]. I have visited many small inns, where they never gave a bill, only a verbal—“What your honour pleases!” I once asked a poor innkeeper in Ossory, why he did not make out his bills as other publicans did:—he gave me many reasons for not doing so:—“The gentlemen of the country,” said he, (“God bless them!) often give us nothing at all, and the strange quality generally give us more than we’d ask for; so both ends meet! But,” added he, proceeding to the most decisive reason of all, “there is never a schollard in the house—and the schoolmaster drinks too much punch, plaze your honour, when Mary sends for him, to draw out a bill for us; so we take our chance!”
The poor people did their best to entertain their guests, but did not understand their trade; and even had it been otherwise, they had neither furniture, nor money, nor credit, nor cattle, nor customers enough to keep things going well together. There were then no post-horses nor carriages,—consequently, very little travelling in Ireland; and if there had been, the ruts and holes would have rendered thirty miles a-day a good journey. Yet I verily believe, on the whole, that the people in general were happier, at least they appeared vastly more contented, than at present. I certainly never met with so bad a thing in Ireland as the “Red Cow” in John Bull: for whatever might have been its quality, there was plenty of something or other always to be had at the inns to assuage hunger and thirst.
The best description I ever recollect to have heard of an Irish inn, its incidents and appurtenances, was in a sort of medley sung and spoken by the present Sir Charles Vernon, when he had some place in the Lord Lieutenant’s establishment at Dublin Castle: it was delivered by him to amuse the company after supper, and was an excellent piece of mimicry. He took off ducks, geese, pigs, chickens, cattle-drivers, the cook and the landlady, the guests, &c., to the greatest possible perfection.