“Well, sir, I know that; but, Misther Doorish, you ought to know bow to meek both a bow and a curchy. Whin you marry a wife, Misther Doorish, it mightn’t come wrong for you to know how to taich her a curchy. Have you the gad and suggaun wid you?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well, on wid them; the suggaun on the right foot, or what ought to be the right foot, an’ the gad upon what ought to be the left. Are you ready?” “Yes, sir.” “Come, thin, do as I bid you—Rise upon suggaun an’ sink upon gad; rise upon suggaun an’ sink upon gad; rise upon—— Hould, sir; you’re sinkin’ upon suggaun an’ risin’ upon gad, the very thing you ought not to do. But, God help you! sure you’re left-legged! Ah, Misther Doorish, it ’ud be long time before you’d be able to dance Jig Polthogue or the College Hornpipe upon a drum-head, as I often did. However, don’t despeer, Misther Doorish—if I could only get you to know your right leg—but, God help you! sure you hav’nt sich a thing—from your left, I’d make something of you yet, Dick.”
The Irish dancing-masters were eternally at daggers-drawn among themselves; but as they seldom met, they were forced to abuse each other at a distance, which they did with a virulence and scurrility proportioned to the space between them. Buckram-Back had a rival of this description, who was a sore thorn in his side. His name was Paddy Fitzpatrick, and from having been a horse-jockey, he gave up the turf, and took to the calling of a dancing-master. Buckram-Back sent a message to him to the effect that “if he could not dance Jig Polthogue on the drum-head, he had better hould his tongue for ever.” To this Paddy replied, by asking if he was the man to dance the Connaught Jockey upon the saddle of a blood-horse, and the animal at a three-quarter gallop.
At length the friends on each side, from a natural love of fun, prevailed upon them to decide their claims as follows:—Each master, with twelve of his pupils, was to dance against his rival with twelve of his; the match to come off on the top of Mallybeny Hill, which commanded a view of the whole parish. I have already mentioned that in Buckram-Back’s school there stood near the middle of the floor a post, which according to some new manœuvre of his own was very convenient as a guide to the dancers when going through the figure. Now, at the spot where this post stood it was necessary to make a curve, in order to form part of the figure of eight, which they were to follow; but as many of them were rather impenetrable to a due conception of the line of beauty, he forced them to turn round the post rather than make an acute angle of it, which several of them did. Having premised thus much, we proceed with our narrative.
At length they met, and it would have been a matter of much difficulty to determine their relative merits, each was such an admirable match for the other. When Buckram-Back’s pupils, however, came to perform, they found that the absence of the post was their ruin. To the post they had been trained—accustomed;—with it they could dance; but wanting that, they were like so many ships at sea without rudders or compasses. Of course a scene of ludicrous confusion ensued, which turned the laugh against poor Buckram-Back, who stood likely to explode with shame and venom. In fact he was in an agony.
“Gintlemen, turn the post!” he shouted, stamping upon the ground, and clenching his little hands with fury; “leedies, remimber the post! Oh, for the honour of Kilnahushogue don’t be bate. The post! gintlemen; leedies, the post if you love me! Murdher alive, the post!”
“Be gorra, masther, the jockey will distance us,” replied Bob Magawly; “it’s likely to be the winnin’-post to him anyhow.”
“Any money,” shouted the little fellow, “any money for long Sam Sallaghan; he’d do the post to the life. Mind it, boys dear, mind it or we’re lost. Divil a bit they heed me; it’s a flock o’ bees or sheep they’re like. Sam Sallaghan, where are you? The post, you blackguards!”
“Oh, masther dear, if we had even a fishin’-rod, or a crow-bar, or a poker, we might do yet. But, anyhow, we had better give in, for it’s only worse we’re gettin’.”
At this stage of the proceedings Paddy came over to him, and making a low bow, asked him, “Arra, how do you feel, Misther Dogherty?” for such was Buckram-Back’s name.
“Sir,” replied Buckram-Back, bowing low, however, in return, “I’ll take the shine out o’ you yet. Can you shiloote a leedy wid me?—that’s the chat! Come, gintlemen, show them what’s betther than fifty posts—shiloote your partners like Irishmen. Kilnahushogue for ever!”