# Charles O'Malley; the Irish Dragoon (Rackham, 1897)/Chapter 6

Chapter VI
The Dinner
When I retired to my room to dress for dinner, I found my servant waiting with a note from my uncle, to which, he informed me the messenger expected an answer.
I broke the seal and read:—
“Dear Charley,—Do not lose a moment in securing old Blake—if you have not already done so, as information has just reached me that the Government party has promised a cornetcy to young Matthew, if he can bring over his father. And these are the people I have been voting with-a few private cases excepted—for thirty odd years!
“I am very sorry for your accident. Considine informs me that it will need explanation at a later period. He has been in Athlone since Tuesday, in hopes to catch the new candidate on his way down, and get him into a little private quarrel before the day; if he succeeds, it will save the county much expense, and conduce greatly to the peace and happiness of a parties. But ‘these things,’ as Father Roach says, ‘are in the hands of Providence.’ You must also persuade old Blake to write a few lines to Simon Mallock, about the Coolnamuck mortgage. We can give him no satisfaction at Present, at least such as he looks for, and don’t be philandering any longer where you are, when your health permits a change of quarters.—Your affectionate uncle, Godfrey O’Malley.
“P.S—I have just heard from Considine; he was out this morning and shot a fellow in the knee, but finds that after all he was not the candidate, but a tourist that was writing a book about Connemara.
“P.S No. 2—Bear the mortgage in mind, for old Mallock is a spiteful fellow, and has a grudge against me, since I horsewhipped his son in Banagher. Oh, the world, the world!-G. O’M.”
Until I had read this very clear epistle to the end, I had no very precise conception how completely I had forgotten all my uncle’s interests and neglected all his injunctions. Already five days had elapsed, and I had not as much as mooted the question to Mr, Blake, ​and probably all this time my uncle was calculating on the thing as concluded; but, with one hole in my head and some half-dozen in my heart, my memory was none of the best.
Snatching up the letter, therefore, I resolved to lose no more time; and proceeded at once to Mr. Blake’s room, expecting that I should, as the event proved, find him engaged in the very laborious duty of making his toilette.
“Come in, Charley,” said he, as I tapped gently at the door; “it’s only Charley, my darling; Mrs, B, won’t mind you.”
“Not the least in life,” responded Mrs, B., disposing at the same time a pair of her husband’s corduroys, tippet fashion, across her ample shoulders, which before were displayed in the plenitude and breadth of colouring we find in a Rubens, “Sit down, Charley, and tell us what’s the matter.”
As, until this moment, I was in perfect ignorance of the Adam and Eve like simplicity in which the private economy of Mr. Blake’s household was conducted, I would have gladly retired from what I found to be a mutual territory of dressing-room, had not Mr, Blake’s injunctions been issued somewhat like an order to remain.
“Its only a letter, sir,” said I, stuttering, “from my uncle, about the election. © He says that, as his majority is now certain, he should feel better pleased in going to the poll with all the family—you know, sir—along with him, Ho wishes me just to sound your intentions—to make gut how you feel disposed towards him; and—and, faith, as I am but a poor diplomatist, I thought the best way was to come straight to the point and tell you so.”
“I perceive,” said Mr. Blake, giving bis chin, at tho moment, an awful gash with the razor,—“I perceive, go on.”
“Well, sir, I have little more to say; my uncle knows what influence you have in Seariff, and expects you’ll-do what you can there.”
“Anything more?” said Blake, with a very dry and quizzical expression I didn’t half like; “anything more?”
“Oh yes, you are to write a line to old Mallock.”
“I understand; about Coolnamuck, isn’t it?”
“Exactly: I believe that’s all.”
“Well now, Charley, you may go downstairs, and we’ll talk it over after dinner.”
“Yes, Charley dear, go down, for I’m going to draw on my stockings,” said the fair Mrs, Blake, with a look of very modest consciousness.
When I had left the room I couldn’t help muttering a “Thank God,” for the success of a mission I more than once feared for, and hastened to despatch a note to my uncle, assuring him of the Blake interest, and adding that, for propriety’s sake, I should defer my departure for a day or two longer.
This done, with a heart lightened of its load, and in high spirits at my cleverness, I descended to the drawing-room. Here a very large party were already assembled, and, at every opening of the door, a new relay of Blakes, Burkes, and Bodkins was introduced. In the absence of the host, Sir George Dashwood was “making the agreeable” to the guests, and shook hands with every new arrival, with all the warmth ​and cordiality of old friendship. While thus he inquired for various absent individuals, and asked, most affectionately, for sundry aunts, and uncles, not forthcoming, a slight incident occurred, which, by its ludicrous turn, served to shorten the long half-hour before dinner. An individual of the party, a Mr, Blake, had, from certain peculiarities of face, obtained in his boyhood the sobriquet of “Shave the wind.” This hatchet-like conformation had with his growth, and perpetuated upon him a nickname, by which alone was he ever spoken of among his friends and acquaintances; the only difference being that, as he came to man’s estate, brevity, that soul of wit, had curtailed the epithet to mere “Shave.” Now, Sir George had been hearing frequent reference made to him, always by this name, heard him ever so addressed, and perceived him to reply to it; so that, when he was himself asked by some one, what sport he had found that day among the woodcocks, he answered at once, with a bow of very grateful acknowledgment, “Excellent, indeed; but entirely owing to where I was placed in the copse; Had it not been for Mr. Shave there——”
I need not say that the remainder of his speech, being heard on all sides, became one universal shout of laughter, in which, to do him justice, the excellent Shave himself heartily joined, Scarcely were the sounds of mirth lulled into an apparent calm, when the door opened, and the host and hostess appeared. Mrs. Blake advanced in all the plenitude of her charms, arrayed in crimson satin, sorely injured in its freshness by a patch of grease upon the front, about the same size and shape as the continent of Europe in Arrowsmith’s atlas; a swansdown tippet covered her shoulders; massive bracelets ornamented her wrists; while from her ears descended two Irish diamond earrings, rivaling in magnitude and value the glass pendants of a lustre. Her reception of her guests made ample amends, in warmth and cordiality, for any deficiency of elegance; and, as she disposed her ample proportions upon the sofa, and looked round upon the company, she appeared the very impersonation of hospitality.
After several openings and shuttings of the drawing-room door, accompanied by the appearance of old Simon, the butler, who counted the party at least five times before he was certain that the score was correct, dinner was at length announced. Now came a moment of difficulty, and one which, as testing Mr. Blake’s tact, he would gladly have seen devolve upon some other shoulders; for he well knew that the marshalling a room full of mandarins, blue, green, and yellow, was “cakes and gingerbread,” to ushering a Galway party in to dinner,
First, there was Mr. Miles Bodkin, whose grandfather would have been a lord if Cromwell bad not hanged him one fine morning. Then, Mrs, Mosey Blake’s first husband was promised the title of Kilmacud if it was ever restored, whereas Mrs. French of Knocktumnor’s mother was then at law for a title; and lastly, Mrs. Joe Barke was fourth cousin to Lord Clanricarde, as is or will be every Burke from this to the day of judgment. Now, luckily for her prospects, the lord was alive: and Mr. Blake remembering a very sage adage about “dead lions,” &c., solved the difficulty at once by gracefully tucking the lady ​under his arm, and leading the way; the others soon followed; the priest of Portumna and m worthy self bringing up the rear.
When, many a year afterwards, the hard ground of a mountain bivouac, with its pitiful portion of pickled cork-tree, yelept mess-beef, and that pyroligneous aqua-fortis they call corn-brandy, have been my hard fare, I often looked back to that day’s dinner with a most heart-yearning sensation—a turbot as big as the Waterloo shield; a sirloin that seemed cut from the sides of a rhinoceros; a sauce-boat that contained an oyster-bed. There was a turkey which singly would have formed the main army of a French dinner, doing mere outpost duty—fanked by a picquet of ham and a detached squadron of chickens, carefully ambushed in a forest of greens; potatoes not disguised â la maítre de hôtel and tortured to resemble bad macaroni, but piled like shot in an ordnance yard, were posted at different quarters: while massive decanters of port and sherry stood proudly up like standard-bearers amid the goodly array. This was none of your austere “great dinners,” where a cold and chilling plateau of artificial nonsense cuts off one-half of the table from intercourse with the other—where whispered sentences constitute the conversation, and all the friendly recognition of wine-drinking, which renews acquaintance end cements an intimacy, is replaced by the ceremonious filling of your glass by a lacquey—where smiles go current in lieu of kind speeches, and epigram and smartness form the substitute for the broad jest and merry story. Far from it; here the company ate, drank, talked, laughed, did all but sing, and certainly enjoyed themselves heartily. As for me, I was little more than a listener, and such was the crash of plates, the jingle of glasses, and the clatter of voices, that fragments only of what was passing around reached me, giving to the conversation of the party a character occasionally somewhat incongruous. Thus, such sentences as the following ran foul of each other every instant:—
“No better land in Galway”—“where could you find such facilities”—“for shooting Mr, Jones on his way home”— the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”—“kiss”—“Miss Blake, she’s the girl with a foot and ankle”—“Daly has never had wool on his sheep”—“how could he?”—“what does he pay for the mountain?”—“four and tenpence a yard”—“not a penny less”—“all the cabbage stalks and potato skins, with some bog stuff through it”—“ that’s the thin to”—“make soup, with a red herring in it instead of salt”—“and when he proposed for my niece, ma’am, says he”—“mix a strong tumbler, and I’ll make a shake down for you on the floor”—“and may the Lord have mercy on your soul”—“and now, down the middle and up again”—“Captain Magan, my dear, he is the man”—“to shave a pig properly”—“it’s not money I’m looking for, says he, the girl of my heart”—“if she had not a wind gall and two spavins”—“I’d have given her the rights of the Church, of course,” said Father Roach, binging up the rear of this ill-assorted jargon.
Such were the scattered links of conversation I was condemned to listen to, till a general rise on the part of the ladies left us alone to discuss our wine, and enter in good earnest upon the more serious duties of the evening.
Scarcely was the door closed, when one of the company seizing ​the bell-rope, said, “With your leave, Blake, we’ll have the ‘dew’ now,”
“Good claret-no better,” said another: “but it sits mighty cold on the stomach.”
“There’s nothing like the groceries, after all—eh, Sir George?” said an old Galway squire to the English General, who acceded to the fact, which he understood in a very different sense.
“Oh, punch, you are my darlin’,” hummed another, as a large square half-gallon decanter of whisky was placed on the table—the various decanters of wine being now ignominiously sent down to the end of the board, without any evidence of regret on any face, save Sir George Dashwood’s, who mixed his tumbler with a very rebellious conscience.
Whatever were the noise and clamour of the company before, they were nothing to what now ensued. As one party were discussing the approaching contest, another was planing a steeplechase; while two individuals, unhappily removed from each other the entire length of the table, were what is called “challenging each other’s effects,” in a very remarkable manner, the process so styled being an exchange of property, when each party setting an imaginary value upon some article, barters it for another, the amount of boot paid and received being determined by a third person, who is the umpire. Thus a gold breast-pin was swapped, as the phrase is, against a horse; then a pair of boots, then a Kerry bull, &c., every imaginable species of property coming into the market. Sometimes, as matters of very dubious value turned up, great laughter was the result. In this very national pastime a Mr. Miles Redkin, a noted fire-eater of the West, was a great proficient, and, it is said, once so completely succeeded in despoiling an uninitiated hand, that after winning in succession his horse, gig, harness, &., he proceeded, seriatum, to his watch, ring, clothes, and portmanteau, and actually concluded by winning all he possessed, and kindly lent him a card-cloth to cover him on, his way to the hotel. His success on the present occasion was considerable, and his spirits proportionate, The decanter had thrice been replenished, and the flushed faces and thickened utterance of the guests evinced that from the cold properties of the claret there was but little to dread. As for Mr. Bodkin, his manner was incapable of any higher flight, when under the influence of whisky, from what it evinced on common occasions; and, as he sat at the end of the table, fronting Mr. Blake, he assumed all the dignity of the ruler of the feast, with an energy no one seemed disposed to question. In answer to some observations of Sir George, he was led into something like an oration upon the peculiar excellences of his native country, which ended in a declaration that there was nothing like Galway.
“Why don’t you give us a song, Miles? and maybe the General would learn more from it than all your speech-making.”
“To be sure,” cried out several voices together; “to be sure: let us hear the ‘Man for Galway.’”
Sir George having joined most warmly in the request, Mr. Bodkin filled up his glass to the brim, bespoke a chorus to his chant, and, clearing his voice with deep hem, began the following ditty, to the ​air which Moore has since rendered immortal, by the beautiful song, “Wreath the Bowl,” &e. And although the words are well known in the, West, for the information of less favoured regions, I here’ transcribe
“The Man for Galway.”
I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would not be as favourable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first heard it; for certainly the applause was almost deafening; and even Sir George, the defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out of his reach, was highly amused and laughed heartily,
The conversation once more reverted to the election, and although I was too far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear much, I could catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one. This was gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long neglecting my good uncle’s cause.
“We have Scariff to a man,” said Bodkin,
“And Mosey’s tenantry,” said another. “I swear that though there’s not a freehold registered on the estate, that they’ll vote, every mother’s son of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they’ll leave standing on another,”
​“And may the Lord look to the Returning Officer,” said a third, throwing up his eyes.
“Mosey’s tenantry are droll boys, and, like their landlord, more by token—they never pay any rent.”
“And what for shouldn’t they vote?” said a dry-looking little old fellow in a red waistcoat: “when I was the dead agent——”
“The dead agent,” interrupted Six George, with a start.
“Just so,” said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his forehead, and casting a half angry look at Sir George, for what he had suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.
“The General does not know, maybe, what that is,” said some one.
“You have just anticipated me,” said Sir George; “I am really in most profound ignorance.”
“It is the dead agent,” says Mr. Blake, “who always provides substitutes for any voters that may have died since the last election, A very important fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll books of this county, which proves to be the healthiest part of Europe—a freeholder has not died in it for the last fifty years.”
“The ’Kiltopher boys’ won’t come this time—they say there’s no use trying to vote, when so many were transported last assizes for perjury.”
“They’re poor-spirited creatures,” said another.
“Not they—they are as decent boys as any we have—they’re willing to wreck the town for fifty shillings’ worth of spirits; besides, if they don’t vote for the county, they will for the borough.”
This declaration seemed to restore these interesting individuals to favour, and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was detailing the plan of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by himself. By this time all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given way—whisky was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy, every cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and applauded, in a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable gift of “mountain dew.”
The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles Bodkin, who had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a telegraphic signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing should prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his hand, delivered himself as follows:—
“No, no, Phil Blake, ye needn’t be winkin’ at me that way—it’s little I care for the spawn of the ould serpent.” [Here great cheers greeted the speaker, in which, without well knowing why, I heartily joined.] “I’m going to give you a toast, boys—a real good toast—none of your sentimental things about wall-flowers, or the vernal equinox, or that kind of thing, but a sensible, patriotic, manly, intrepid toast; a toast you must drink in the most universal, laborious, and awful manner—do ye see now?”—[Loud cheers.] “If any man of you here present doesn’t drain this toast to the bottom’—[here the speaker looked fixedly at me, as did the rest of the company]—“then, by the great gun of Athlone, I’ll make him eat the decanter, glass stopper and all, for the good of his digestion—d’ye see now.”
The cheering at this mild determination prevented my hearing what followed; but the peroration consisted of a very glowing eulogy upon ​some person unknown, and a speedy return to him as Member for Galway. Amid all the noise and tumult at this critical moment, nearly every eye at the table was turned upon me, and, as I concluded that they had been drinking my uncle’s health, I thundered away at the mahogany with all my energy. At length, the hip, hipping, over, and comparative quiet restored, I rose from my seat to return thanks, but, strange enough, Sir George Dashwood did so likewise, and there we both stood amid an uproar that might well have shaken the courage of more practised orators; while from every side came cries of “Hear, hear”—“Go on, Sir George”—“ Speak out, General”—“Sit down, Charley ”—“Confound the boy”—“Knock the legs from under him,” &c. Not understanding why Sir George should interfere with what I regarded as my peculiar duty, I resolved not to give way, and avowed this determination in no very equivocal terms. “In that case,” said the General, “I am to suppose that the young gentleman moves an amendment to your proposition, and, as the etiquette is in his favour, I yield.” Here he resumed his place, amid a most terrific scene of noise and tumult, while several humane proposals, as to my treatment, were made around me, and a kind suggestion thrown out to break my neck, by a near neighbour. Mr, Blake at length prevailed upon the party to hear what I had to say—for he was certain I should not detain them above a minute. The commotion having in some measure subsided, I began—“Gentlemen, as the adopted son of the worthy man whose health you have just drunk——” Heaven knows how I should have continued—but here my eloquence was met by such a roar of laughing as I never before listened to; from one end of the board to the other it was one continued shout, and went on too as if all the spare lungs of the party had been kept in reserve for the occasion. I turned from one to the other—I tried to smile, and seemed to participate in the joke, but failed—I frowned—I looked savagely about where I could see enough to turn my wrath thitherward; and, as it chanced, not in vain; for Mr. Miles Bodkin, with an intuitive perception of my wishes, most suddenly ceased his mirth, and, assuming a look of frowning defiance that had done him good service upon many former occasions, rose and said:—
“Well, sir, I hope you’re proud of yourself—you’ve made a nice beginning of it, and a pretty story you’ll have for your uncle. But if you’d like to break the news by a letter, the General will have great pleasure in franking it for you; for, by the rock of Cashel, we’ll carry him in against all the O’Malleys that ever cheated the sheriff.”
Scarcely were the words uttered, when 1 seized my wineglass, and hurled it with all my force at his head; so sudden was the act, and so true the aim, that Mr, Bodkin measured his length upon the floor ere his friends could appreciate his late eloquent effusion. The scene now became terrific; for, though the redoubted Miles was hors de combat, his friends made a tremendous rush at, and would infallibly have succeeded in capturing me, had not Blake and four or five others interposed. Amid a desperate struggle, which lasted for some minutes, I was torn from the spot, carried bodily upstairs, and pitched headlong into my own room, where, having doubly locked the door on the outside, they left me to my own cool and not over-agreeable reflections.