“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; it doesn’t mean much, but it’s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall door.”
Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes and start away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though, through not knowin’ the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin’ on a rock, he took off his hat, and, says he—
“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”
“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould man, cockin’ one eye at him.
“Any divarshun’ goin on?” says Essex.
“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” says the ould man, “or you’d know this was a ‘band night’ in Dalkey.”
“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”
“Ay,” says the ould man, bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night.” Well, when Essex heard that, he disrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them—thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day—one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Mountaigle, a playboy like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:—
“Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.
“Fair Enchantress,—I wish I was back in London, baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’ for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neill or his men can I find. A policeman at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’ self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows.