“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, me ould sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the ear for turnin’ his back on her), “very well me ould sauce-box,” says he, “I’ll write off to O’Neill this very minute, and tell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”
Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one—the terms being—
1. Hugh O’Neill to be King of Great Britain.
2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of England.
3. The O’Neill family to be supported by Government, with free passes to all theatres and places of entertainment.
4. The London Markets to buy only from Irish dealers.
5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelopes, directed to H. O’Neill, and marked “private.” Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O’Neill. Terms cash.
Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for England.
“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was not for littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he, very grand; “Her Majesty is above stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her breakwhist.”
“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an interview,” says Essex.