To all official accounts of modern battles, “preliminary observations” are prefixed. In early life, Mr. Spicer had been professional—but, obtaining what he considered a safer line of business, he abandoned the ring, to repose himself under the shade of his own laurels. Blinded by the green monster, he reckoned a little too much upon his former science, forgetting the odds that youth and superior size had placed against him. Both parties had their backers.—“Now, old-un, mind your dodge!” exclaimed the supporters of Mr. Spicer—while the admirers of Mark Antony, recommending the “young-un to be awake,” added, “that the ould file was a deep dodger;” and intimated that it would be advisable to “look sharp to his left daddle, for that was his nasty one.” One other appeal—and a last one, came from the corner; “For the sake of Jasus, to keep the skrimmage as far from the corps as they could.” The admonition was the cry of wisdom, and it was disregarded accordingly.
A briefer conflict never disappointed a sporting assembly. The artful dodge, on which Mr. Spicer depended, failed; and in trying his left, he received a per contra favour that brought the battle to a close. A flush hit sent him into the corner with astonishing velocity; and in his rapid transit, he took with him not only the master of the ceremonies, but also, the mortal remains of Mistress Malone, and the whole apparatus on which the defunct lady had been extended.
At this appalling catastrophe, the outbreak of the chief mourner was responded to by “the cry of women.” The single-legged professor declared his ruin complete, that instrument from which he discoursed such excellent music being “in smithereens,” while it was exceedingly doubtful, whether that Mr. Spicer was not defunct as Mrs. Malone. When the first uproar had partially subsided, the corpse was lifted by the ladies—the polygamist raised by his friends and allies—and the fiddler allowed to regain his perpendicular as he best could—while the admirers of Mark Antony, after eulogizing his pluck, and paying a delicate compliment to his powers as “a punisher,” hinted that it would be prudent to withdraw, that it might be ascertained if Mr. Spicer had been gathered to his fathers, or whether he was only “kilt, not killed and, finally, until the mortal remains of Mrs. Malone should be duly reported in statu quo ante bellum,” which, being translated, means “stretched genteelly as before the shindy had occurred.”
To the ratcatcher the prudence of an immediate retreat was manifest; and while general attention was divided between “the dying and the dead,” the fosterer and his friend quietly levanted, leaving, what a few minutes before had been an harmonious assemblage, in most admired disorder.
The rapidity with which Irish rows are commenced and concluded is proverbial. Under the directions of a sailor, the wreck was cleared; and Mr. Spicer, whose advent had brought on the battle and “crossed the obsequies, and true-love’s rights,” was declared to be still a living man; and being resuscitated by gin and neighbourly attention, he was once more committed to the care of his gentle helpmate. The dear departed one again received
“The latest favour at the hands
That, living, honoured her;”
and the wake being restored to pristine solemnity, the afflicted husband resumed his seat, vented his sorrows in soft melody, and again gratified the company with a song. What were the after-proceedings at Mr. Malone’s evening party we are not prepared to say; but no doubt some notice touching the wind-up of the symposium, might be discovered by the curious in the police chronicles of the time.
On the following afternoon, the funeral of Mrs. Malone was correctly “performed;” and on the same evening on which I had made my entree on the world, that lamented gentlewoman bade it a last adieu. The mourners separated at the grave-yard, each to return to his respective vocations; and the captain and the fosterer retired to the Fox and Goose, to deliberate on affairs of paramount importance. The question was one of ways and means; and, as it would appear, the subject had not been considered until circumstances imperatively required that financial arrangements should be entered on.
“What the devil’s to be done?” observed the ratcatcher. “We’re down to thirty shillings between us—and a week’s rent due to-morrow.”