THE IRISH INCOGNITO.

MARIA EDGEWORTH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1801

(TEXT FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG.)

THE IRISH INCOGNITO

Sir John Bull was a native of Ireland, bred and born in the city of Cork. His real name was Phelim O’Mooney, and he was by profession a stocah, or walking gentleman; that is, a person who is too proud to earn his bread, and too poor to have bread without earning it. He had always been told that none of his ancestors had ever been in trade or business of any kind, and he resolved, when a boy, never to demean himself and family, as his elder brother had done, by becoming a rich merchant. When he grew up to be a young man, he kept this spirited resolution as long as he had a relation or friend in the world who would let him hang upon them; but when he was shaken off by all, what could he do but go into business? He chose the most genteel, however; he became a wine merchant. I’m only a wine merchant, said he to himself, and that is next door to being nothing at all. His brother furnished his cellars; and Mr. Phelim O’Mooney, upon the strength of the wine that he had in his cellars, and of the money he expected to make of it, immediately married a wife, set up a gig, and gave excellent dinners to men who were ten times richer than he even ever expected to be. In return for these excellent dinners, his new friends bought all their wine from Mr. O’Mooney, and never paid for it; he lived upon credit himself, and gave all his friends credit, till he became a bankrupt. Then nobody came to dine with him, and every body found out that he had been very imprudent; and he was obliged to sell his gig, but not before it had broken his wife’s neck; so that when accounts came to be finally settled, he was not much worse than when he began the world, the loss falling upon his creditors, and he being, as he observed, free to begin life again, with the advantage of being once more a bachelor. He was such a good-natured, free-hearted fellow, that every body liked him, even his creditors. His wife’s relations made up the sum of five hundred pounds for him, and his brother offered to take him into his firm as partner; but O’Mooney preferred, he said, going to try, or rather to make, his fortune in England, as he did not doubt but he should by marriage, being, as he did not scruple to acknowledge, a personable, clever-looking man, and a great favourite with the sex.

“My last wife I married for love, my next I expect will do the same by me, and of course the money must come on her side this time,” said our hero, half jesting, half in earnest. His elder and wiser brother, the merchant, whom he still held in more than sufficient contempt, ventured to hint some slight objections to this scheme of Phelim’s seeking fortune in England. He observed that so many had gone upon this plan already, that there was rather a prejudice in England against Irish adventurers.

This could not affect him any ways, Phelim replied, because he did not mean to appear in England as an Irishman at all.

“How then?”

“As an Englishman, since that is most agreeable.”

“How can that be?”

“Who should hinder it?”

His brother, hesitatingly, said “Yourself.”

“Myself!—What part of myself? Is it my tongue?—You’ll acknowledge, brother, that I do not speak with the brogue.”

It was true that Phelim did not speak with any Irish brogue: his mother was an English woman, and he had lived much with English officers in Cork, and he had studied and imitated their manner of speaking so successfully, that no one, merely by his accent, could have guessed that he was an Irishman.

“Hey! brother, I say!” continued Phelim, in a triumphant English tone; “I never was taken for an Irishman in my life. Colonel Broadman told me the other day, I spoke English better than the English themselves; that he should take me for an Englishman, in any part of the known world, the moment I opened my lips. You must allow that not the smallest particle of brogue is discernible on my tongue.”

His brother allowed that not the smallest particle of brogue was to be discerned upon Phelim’s tongue, but feared that some Irish idiom might be perceived in his conversation. And then the name of O’Mooney!

“Oh, as to that, I need not trouble an act of parliament, or even a king’s letter, just to change my name for a season; at the worst, I can travel and appear incognito.”

“Always?”

“No: only just till I’m upon good terms with the lady —— Mrs. Phelim O’Mooney, that is to be, God willing. Never fear, nor shake your head, brother; you men of business are out of this line, and not proper judges: I beg your pardon for saying so, but as you are my own brother, and nobody by, you’ll excuse me.”

His brother did excuse him, but continued silent for some minutes; he was pondering upon the means of persuading Phelim to give up this scheme.

“I would lay you any wager, my dear Phelim,” said he, “that you could not continue four days in England incognito.”

“Done!” cried Phelim. “Done for a hundred pounds; done for a thousand pounds, and welcome.”

“But if you lose, how will you pay?”

“Faith! that’s the last thing I thought of, being sure of winning.”

“Then you will not object to any mode of payment I shall propose.”

“None: only remembering always, that I was a bankrupt last week, and shall be little better till I’m married; but then I’ll pay you honestly if I lose.”

“No, if you lose I must be paid before that time, my good sir,” said his brother, laughing. “My bet is this:—I will lay you one hundred guineas that you do not remain four days in England incognito; be upon honour with me, and promise, that if you lose, you will, instead of laying down a hundred guineas, come back immediately, and settle quietly again to business.”

The word business was always odious to our hero’s proud ears; but he thought himself so secure of winning his wager, that he willingly bound himself in a penalty which he believed would never become due; and his generous brother, at parting, made the bet still more favourable, by allowing that Phelim should not be deemed the loser unless he was, in the course of the first four days after he touched English ground, detected eight times in being an Irishman.

“Eight times!” cried Phelim. “Good bye to a hundred guineas, brother, you may say.”

“You may say,” echoed his brother, and so they parted.

Mr. Phelim O’Mooney the next morning sailed from Cork harbour with a prosperous gale, and with a confidence in his own success which supplied the place of auspicious omens. He embarked at Cork, to go by long sea to London, and was driven into Deal, where Julius Caesar once landed before him, and with the same resolution to see and conquer. It was early in the morning; having been very sea-sick, he was impatient, as soon as he got into the inn, for his breakfast: he was shown into a room where three ladies were waiting to go by the stage; his air of easy confidence was the best possible introduction.

“Would any of the company choose eggs?” said the waiter.

“I never touch an egg for my share,” said O’Mooney, carelessly; he knew that it was supposed to be an Irish custom to eat eggs at breakfast; and when the malicious waiter afterwards set a plate full of eggs in salt upon the table, our hero magnanimously abstained from them; he even laughed heartily at a story told by one of the ladies, of an Hibernian at Buxton, who declared that “no English hen ever laid a fresh egg.”

O’Mooney got through breakfast much to his own satisfaction, and to that of the ladies, whom he had taken a proper occasion to call the three graces, and whom he had informed that he was an old baronet of an English family, and that his name was Sir John Bull. The youngest of the graces civilly observed, “that whatever else he might be, she should never have taken him for an old baronet.” The lady who made this speech was pretty, but O’Mooney had penetration enough to discover, in the course of the conversation, that she and her companions were far from being divinities; his three graces were a greengrocer’s wife, a tallowchandler’s widow, and a milliner. When he found that these ladies were likely to be his companions if he were to travel in the coach, he changed his plan, and ordered a postchaise and four.

O’Mooney was not in danger of making any vulgar Irish blunders in paying his bill at an inn. No landlord or waiter could have suspected him, especially as he always left them to settle the matter first, and then looked over the bill and money with a careless gentility, saying, “Very right,” or “Very well, sir;” wisely calculating, that it was better to lose a few shillings on the road, than to lose a hundred pounds by the risk of Hibernian miscalculation.

Whilst the chaise was getting ready he went to the custom-house to look after his baggage. He found a red-hot countryman of his own there, roaring about four and fourpence, and fighting the battle of his trunks, in which he was ready to make affidavit there was not, nor never had been, any thing contraband; and when the custom-house officer replied by pulling out of one of them a piece of Irish poplin, the Hibernian fell immediately upon the Union, which he swore was Disunion, as the custom-house officers managed it. Sir John Bull appeared to much advantage all this time, maintaining a dignified silence; from his quiet appearance and deportment, the custom-house officers took it for granted that he was an Englishman. He was in no hurry; he begged that gentleman’s business might be settled first; he would wait the officer’s leisure, and as he spoke he played so dexterously with half-a-guinea between his fingers, as to make it visible only where he wished. The custom-house officer was his humble servant immediately; but the Hibernian would have been his enemy, if he had not conciliated him by observing, “that even Englishmen must allow there was something very like a bull in professing to make a complete identification of the two kingdoms, whilst, at the same time, certain regulations continued in full force to divide the countries by art, even more than the British Channel does by nature.”

Sir John talked so plausibly, and, above all, so candidly and coolly on Irish and English politics, that the custom-house officer conversed with him for a quarter of an hour without guessing of what country he was, till in an unlucky moment Phelim’s heart got the better of his head. Joining in the praises bestowed by all parties on the conduct of a distinguished patriot of his country, he, in the height of his enthusiasm, inadvertently called him the Speaker.

“The Speaker!” said the officer.

“Yes, the Speaker—our Speaker!” cried Phelim, with exultation. He was not aware how he had betrayed himself, till the officer smiled and said—

“Sir, I really never should have found out that you were an Irishman but from the manner in which you named your countryman, who is as highly thought of by all parties in this country as in yours: your enthusiasm does honour to your heart.”

“And to my head, I’m sure,” said our hero, laughing with the best grace imaginable. “Well, I am glad you have found me out in this manner, though I lose the eighth part of a bet of a hundred guineas by it.”

He explained the wager, and begged the custom-house officer to keep his secret, which he promised to do faithfully, and assured him, “that he should be happy to do any thing in his power to serve him.” Whilst he was uttering these last words, there came in a snug, but soft-looking Englishman, who opining from the words “happy to do any thing in my power to serve you,” that O’Mooney was a friend of the custom-house officer’s, and encouraged by something affable and good-natured in our hero’s countenance, crept up to him, and whispered a request—“Could you tell a body, sir, how to get out of the custom-house a very valuable box of Sèvre china that has been laying in the custom-house three weeks, and which I was commissioned to get out if I could, and bring up to town for a lady.”

As a lady was in the case, O’Mooney’s gallantry instantly made his good-nature effective. The box of Sèvre china was produced, and opened only as a matter of form, and only as a matter of curiosity its contents were examined—a beautiful set of Sèvre china and a pendule, said to have belonged to M. Egalité! “These things must be intended,” said Phelim, “for some lady of superior taste or fortune.”

As Phelim was a proficient in the Socratic art of putting judicious interrogatories, he was soon happily master of the principal points it concerned him to know: he learnt that the lady was rich—a spinster—of full age—at her own disposal—living with a single female companion at Blackheath—furnishing a house there in a superior style—had two carriages—her Christian name Mary—her surname Sharperson.

O’Mooney, by the blessing of God, it shall soon he, thought Phelim. He politely offered the Englishman a place in his chaise for himself and Sèvre china, as it was for a lady, and would run great hazard in the stage, which besides was full. Mr. Queasy, for that was our soft Englishman’s name, was astonished by our hero’s condescension and affability, especially as he heard him called Sir John: he bowed sundry times as low as the fear of losing his wig would permit, and accepted the polite offer with many thanks for himself and the lady concerned.

Sir John Bull’s chaise and four was soon ready; and Queasy seated in the corner of it, and the Sèvre china safely stowed between his knees. Captain Murray, a Scotch officer, was standing at the inn-door, with his eyes intently fixed on the letters that were worked in nails on the top of Sir John’s trunk; the letters were P. O’M. Our hero, whose eyes were at least as quick as the Scotchman’s, was alarmed lest this should lead to a second detection. He called instantly, with his usual presence of mind, to the ostler, and desired him to uncord that trunk, as it was not to go with him; raising his voice loud enough for all the yard to hear, he added—“It is not mine at all; it belongs to my friend, Mr. O’Mooney: let it be sent after me, at leisure, by the waggon, as directed, to the care of Sir John Bull.”

Our hero was now giving his invention a prodigious quantity of superfluous trouble; and upon this occasion, as upon most others, he was more in danger from excess than deficiency of ingenuity: he was like the man in the fairy tale, who was obliged to tie his legs lest he should outrun the object of which he was in pursuit. The Scotch officer, though his eyes were fixed on the letters PO’S., had none of the suspicions which Phelim was counteracting; he was only considering how he could ask for the third place in Sir John’s chaise during the next stage, as he was in great haste to get to town upon particular business, and there were no other horses at the inn. When he heard that the heavy baggage was to go by the waggon, he took courage and made his request. It was instantly granted by the good-natured Hibernian, who showed as much hospitality about his chaise as if it had been his house. Away they drove as fast as they could. Fresh dangers awaited him at the next inn. He left his hat upon the table in the hall whilst he went into the parlour, and when he returned, he heard some person inquiring what Irish gentleman was there. Our hero was terribly alarmed, for he saw that his hat was in the inquirers hand, and he recollected that the name of Phelim O’Mooney was written in it. This the inquisitive gentleman did not see, for it was written in no very legible characters on the leather withinside of the front; but “F. Guest, hatter, Damestreet, Dublin,” was a printed advertisement that could not be mistaken, and that was pasted within the crown. O’Mooney’s presence of mind did not forsake him upon this emergency.

“My good sir,” said he, turning to Queasy, who, without hearing one word of what was passing, was coming out of the parlour, with his own hat and gloves in his hand; “My good sir,” continued he, loading him with parcels, “will you have the goodness to see these put into my carriage? Ill take care of your hat and gloves,” added O’Mooney, in a low voice. Queasy surrendered his hat and gloves instantly, unknowing wherefore; then squeezed forward with his load through the crowd, crying—“Waiter! hostler! pray, somebody put these into Sir John Bull’s chaise.”

Sir John Bull, equipped with Queasy’s hat, marched deliberately through the defile, bowing with the air of at least an English county member to this side and to that, as way was made for him to his carriage. No one suspected that the hat did not belong to him; no one, indeed, thought of the hat, for all eyes were fixed upon the man. Seated in the carriage, he threw money to the waiter, hostler, and boots, and drew up the glass, bidding the postilions drive on. By this cool self-possession our hero effected his retreat with successful generalship, leaving his new Dublin beaver behind him, without regret, as bona waviata. Queasy, before whose eyes things passed continually without his seeing them, thanked Sir John for the care he had taken of his hat, drew on his gloves, and calculated aloud how long they should be going to the next stage. At the first town they passed through, O’Mooney bought a new hat, and Queasy deplored the unaccountable mistake by which Sir John’s hat had been forgotten. No further mistakes happened upon the journey. The travellers rattled on, and neither ‘stinted nor stayed’ till they arrived at Blackheath, at Miss Sharperson’s. Sir John sat Queasy down without having given him the least hint of his designs upon the lady; but as he helped him out with the Sèvre china, he looked through the large opening double doors of the hall, and slightly said—“Upon my word, this seems to be a handsome house: it would be worth looking at, if the family were not at home.”

“I am morally sure, Sir John,” said the soft Queasy, “that Miss Sharperson would be happy to let you see the house tonight, and this minute, if she knew you were at the door, and who you were, and all your civility about me and the china.—Do, pray, walk in.”

“Not for the world: a gentleman could not do such a thing without an invitation from the lady of the house herself.”

“Oh, if that’s all, I’ll step up myself to the young lady; I’m certain she’ll be proud——”

“Mr. Queasy, by no means; I would not have the lady disturbed for the world at this unseasonable hour.—It is too late—quite too late.”

“Not at all, begging pardon, Sir John,” said Queasy, taking out his watch: “only just tea-time by me.—Not at all unseasonable for any body; besides, the message is of my own head:—all, you know, if not well taken——”

Up the great staircase he made bold to go on his mission, as he thought, in defiance of Sir John’s better judgment. He returned in a few minutes with a face of self-complacent exultation, and Miss Sharperson’s compliments, and begs Sir John Bull will walk up and rest himself with a dish of tea, and has her thanks to him for the china.

Now Queasy, who had the highest possible opinion of Sir John Bull and of Miss Sharperson, whom he thought the two people of the greatest consequence and affability, had formed the notion that they were made for each other, and that it must be a match if they could but meet. The meeting he had now happily contrived and effected; and he had done his part for his friend Sir John, with Miss Sharperson, by as many exaggerations as he could utter in five minutes, concerning his perdigious politeness and courage, his fine person and carriage, his ancient family, and vast connexions and importance wherever he appeared on the road, at inns, and over all England. He had previously, during the journey, done his part for his friend Miss Sharperson with Sir John, by stating that “she had a large fortune left her by her mother, and was to have twice as much from her grandmother; that she had thousands upon thousands in the funds, and an estate of two thousand a year, called Rascàlly, in Scotland, besides plate and jewels without end.”

Thus prepared, how could this lady and gentleman meet without falling desperately in love with each other!

Though a servant in handsome livery appeared ready to show Sir John up the great staircase, Mr. Queasy acted as a gentleman usher, or rather as showman. He nodded to Sir John as they passed across a long gallery and through an ante-chamber, threw open the doors of various apartments as he went along, crying—“Peep in! peep in! peep in here! peep in there!—Is not this spacious? Is not this elegant! Is not that grand? Did I say too much?” continued he, rubbing his hands with delight. “Did you ever see so magnificent and such highly-polished steel grates out of Lon’on?”

Sir John, conscious that the servant’s eyes were upon him, smiled at this question, “looked superior down;” and though with reluctant complaisance he leaned his body to this side or to that, as Queasy pulled or swayed, yet he appeared totally regardless of the man’s vulgar reflections. He had seen every thing as he passed, and was surprised at all he saw; but evinced not the slightest symptom of astonishment. He was now ushered into a spacious, well-lighted apartment: he entered with the easy, unembarrassed air of a man who was perfectly accustomed to such a home. His quick coup-d’oeil took in the whole at a single glance. Two magnificent candelabras stood on Egyptian tables at the farther end of the room, and the lights were reflected on all sides from mirrors of no common size. Nothing seemed worthy to attract our hero’s attention but the lady of the house, whom he approached with an air of distinguished respect. She was reclining on a Turkish sofa, her companion seated beside her, tuning a harp. Miss Sharperson half rose to receive Sir John: he paid his compliments with an easy, yet respectful air. He was thanked for his civilities to the person who had been commissioned to bring the box of Sèvre china from Deal.

“Vastly sorry it should have been so troublesome,” Miss Sharperson said, in a voice fashionably unintelligible, and with a most becoming yet intimidating nonchalance of manner. Intimidating it might have been to any man but our hero; he, who had the happy talent of catching, wherever he went, the reigning manner of the place, replied to the lady in equal strains; and she, in her turn, seemed to look upon him more as her equal. Tea and coffee were served. Nothings were talked of quite easily by Sir John. He practised the art “not to admire,” so as to give a justly high opinion of his taste, consequence, and knowledge of the world. Miss Sharperson, though her nonchalance was much diminished, continued to maintain a certain dignified reserve; whilst her companion, Miss Felicia Flat, condescended to ask Sir John, who had doubtless seen every fine house in England and on the continent, his opinion with respect to the furniture and finishing of the room, the placing of the Egyptian tables and the candelabras.

No mortal could have guessed by Sir John Bull’s air, when he heard this question, that he had never seen a candelabra before in his life. He was so much, and yet seemingly so little upon his guard, he dealt so dexterously in generals, and evaded particulars so delicately, that he went through this dangerous conversation triumphantly. Careful not to protract his visit beyond the bounds of propriety, he soon rose to take leave, and he mingled “intrusion, regret, late hour, happiness, and honour,” so charmingly in his parting compliment, as to leave the most favourable impression on the minds of both the ladies, and to procure for himself an invitation to see the house next morning.

The first day was now ended, and our hero had been detected but once. He went to rest this night well satisfied with himself, but much more occupied with the hopes of marrying the heiress of Rascàlly than of winning a paltry bet.

The next day he waited upon the ladies in high spirits. Neither of them was visible, but Mr. Queasy had orders to show him the house, which he did with much exultation, dwelling particularly in his praises on the beautiful high polish of the steel grates. Queasy boasted that it was he who had recommended the ironmonger who furnished the house in that line; and that his bill, as he was proud to state, amounted to many, many hundreds. Sir John, who did not attend to one word Queasy said, went to examine the map of the Rascàlly estate, which was unrolled, and he had leisure to count the number of lords’ and ladies’ visiting tickets which lay upon the chimney-piece. He saw names of the people of first quality and respectability: it was plain that Miss Sharperson must be a lady of high family as well as large fortune, else she would not be visited by persons of such distinction. Our hero’s passion for her increased every moment. Her companion, Miss Flat, now appeared, and entered very freely into conversation with Sir John; and as he perceived that she was commissioned to sit in judgment upon him, he evaded all her leading questions with the skill of an Irish witness, but without giving any Hibernian answers. She was fairly at a fault. Miss Sharperson at length appeared, elegantly dressed; her person was genteel, and her face rather pretty. Sir John, at this instant, thought her beautiful, or seemed to think so. The ladies interchanged looks, and afterwards Sir John found a softness in his fair one’s manner, a languishing tenderness in her eyes, in the tone of her voice, and at the same time a modest perplexity and reserve about her, which altogether persuaded him that he was quite right, and his brother quite wrong en fait d’amour. Miss Flat appeared now to have the most self-possession of the three, and Miss Sharperson looked at her from time to time, as if she asked leave to be in love. Sir John’s visit lasted a full half hour before he was sensible of having been five minutes engaged in this delightful conversation.

Miss Sharperson’s coach now came to the door: he handed her into it, and she gave him a parting look, which satisfied him all was yet safe in her heart. Miss Flat, as he handed her into the carriage, said, “Perhaps they should meet Sir John at Tunbridge, where they were going in a few days.” She added some words as she seated herself, which he scarcely noticed at the time, but they recurred afterwards disagreeably to his memory. The words were, “I’m so glad we’ve a roomy coach, for of all things it annoys me to be squeedged in a carriage.”

This word squeedged, as he had not been used to it in Ireland, sounded to him extremely vulgar, and gave him suspicions of the most painful nature. He had the precaution, before he left Blackheath, to go into several shops, and to inquire something more concerning his fair ladies. All he heard was much to their advantage; that is, much to the advantage of Miss Sharperson’s fortune. All agreed that she was a rich Scotch heiress. A rich Scotch heiress, Sir John wisely considered, might have an humble companion who spoke bad English. He concluded that squeedged was Scotch, blamed himself for his suspicions, and was more in love with his mistress and with himself than ever. As he returned to town, he framed the outline of a triumphant letter to his brother on his approaching marriage. The bet was a matter, at present, totally beneath his consideration. However, we must do him the justice to say, that like a man of honour he resolved that, as soon as he had won the lady’s heart, he would candidly tell her his circumstances, and then leave her the choice either to marry him or break her heart, as she pleased. Just as he had formed this generous resolution, at a sudden turn of the road he overtook Miss Sharperson’s coach: he bowed and looked in as he passed, when, to his astonishment, he saw, squeedged up in the corner by Miss Felicia, Mr. Queasy. He thought that this was a blunder in etiquette that would never have been made in Ireland. Perhaps his mistress was of the same opinion, for she hastily pulled down the blind as Sir John passed. A cold qualm came over the lover’s heart. He lost no time in idle doubts and suspicions, but galloped on to town as fast as he could, and went immediately to call upon the Scotch officer with whom he had travelled, and whom he knew to be keen and prudent. He recollected the map of the Rascàlly estate, which he saw in Miss Sharperson’s breakfast-room, and he remembered that the lands were said to lie in that part of Scotland from which Captain Murray came; from him he resolved to inquire into the state of the premises, before he should offer himself as tenant for life. Captain Murray assured him that there was no such place as Rascàlly in that part of Scotland; that he had never heard of any such person as Miss Sharperson, though he was acquainted with every family and every estate in the neighbourhood where she fabled hers to be. O’Mooney drew from memory, the map of the Rascàlly estate. Captain Murray examined the boundaries, and assured him that his cousin the general’s lands joined his own at the very spot which he described, and that unless two straight lines could enclose a space, the Rascàlly estate could not be found.

Sir John, naturally of a warm temper, proceeded, however, with prudence. The Scotch officer admired his sagacity in detecting this adventurer. Sir John waited at his hotel for Queasy, who had promised to call to let him know when the ladies f would go to Tunbridge. Queasy came. Nothing could equal his astonishment and dismay when he was told the news.

“No such place as the Rascàlly estate! Then I’m an undone man! an undone man!” cried poor Queasy, bursting into tears: “but I’m certain it’s impossible; and you’ll find, Sir John, you’ve been misinformed. I would stake my life upon it, Miss Sharperson’s a rich heiress, and has a rich grandmother. Why, she’s five hundred pounds in my debt, and I know of her being thousands and thousands in the books of as good men as myself, to whom I’ve recommended her, which I wouldn’t have done for my life if I had not known her to be solid. You’ll find she’ll prove a rich heiress, Sir John.”

Sir John hoped so, but the proofs were not yet satisfactory. Queasy determined to inquire about her payments to certain creditors at Blackheath, and promised to give a decisive answer in the morning. O’Mooney saw that this man was too great a fool to be a knave; his perturbation was evidently the perturbation of a dupe, not of an accomplice: Queasy was made to “be an anvil, not a hammer.” In the midst of his own disappointment, our good-natured Hibernian really pitied this poor currier.

The next morning Sir John went early to Blackheath. All was confusion at Miss Sharperson’s house; the steps covered with grates and furniture of all sorts; porters carrying out looking-glasses, Egyptian tables, and candelabras; the noise of workmen was heard in every apartment; and louder than all the rest, O’Mooney heard the curses that were denounced against his rich heiress—curses such as are bestowed on a swindler in the moment of detection by the tradesmen whom she has ruined.

Our hero, who was of a most happy temper, congratulated himself upon having, by his own wit and prudence, escaped making the practical bull of marrying a female swindler.

Now that Phelim’s immediate hopes of marrying a rich heiress were over, his bet with his brother appeared to him of more consequence, and he rejoiced in the reflection that this was the third day he had spent in England, and that he had but once been detected.—The ides of March were come, but not passed!

“My lads,” said he to the workmen, who were busy in carrying out the furniture from Miss Sharperson’s house, “all hands are at work, I see, in saving what they can from the wreck of the Sharperson. She was as well-fitted out a vessel, and in as gallant trim, as any ship upon the face of the earth.”

“Ship upon the face of the yearth.’” repeated an English porter with a sneer; “ship upon the face of the water, you should say, master; but I take it you be’s an Irishman.”

O’Mooney had reason to be particularly vexed at being detected by this man, who spoke a miserable jargon, and who seemed not to have a very extensive range of ideas. He was one of those half-witted geniuses who catch at the shadow of an Irish bull. In fact, Phelim had merely made a lapsus lingual, and had used an expression justifiable by the authority of the elegant and witty Lord Chesterfield, who said—no, who wrote—that the English navy is the finest navy upon the face of the earth! But it was in vain for our hero to argue the point; he was detected—no matter how or by whom. But this was only his second detection, and three of his four days of probation were past.

He dined this day at Captain Murray’s. In the room in which they dined there was a picture of the captain, painted by Romney. Sir John, who happened to be seated opposite to it, observed that it was a very fine picture; the more he looked at it, the more he liked it. His admiration was at last unluckily expressed: he said, “That’s an incomparable, an inimitable picture; it is absolutely more like than the original.” 63

A keen Scotch lady in company smiled, and repeated, “More like than the original! Sir John, if I had not been told by my relative here that you were an Englishman, I should have set you doon, from that speech, for an Irishman.”

This unexpected detection brought the colour, for a moment, into Sir John’s face; but immediately recovering his presence of mind, he said, “That was, I acknowledge, an excellent Irish bull; but in the course of my travels I have heard as good English bulls as Irish.”

To this Captain Murray politely acceded, and he produced some laughable instances in support of the assertion, which gave the conversation a new turn.

O’Mooney felt extremely obliged to the captain for this, especially as he saw, by his countenance, that he also had suspicions of the truth. The first moment he found himself alone with Murray, our hero said to him, “Murray, you are too good a fellow to impose upon, even in jest. Your keen country-woman guessed the truth—I am an Irishman, but not a swindler. You shall hear why I conceal my country and name; only keep my secret till to-morrow night, or I shall lose a hundred guineas by my frankness.”

O’Mooney then explained to him the nature of his bet. “This is only my third detection, and half of it voluntary, I might say, if I chose to higgle, which I scorn to do.”

Captain Murray was so much pleased by this openness, that as he shook hands with O’Mooney, he said, “Give me leave to tell you, sir, that even if you should lose your bet by this frank behaviour, you will have gained a better thing—a friend.”

In the evening our hero went with his friend and a party of gentlemen to Maidenhead, near which place a battle was to be fought next day, between two famous pugilists, Bourke and Belcher. At the appointed time the combatants appeared upon the stage; the whole boxing corps and the gentlemen amateurs crowded to behold the spectacle. Phelim O’Mooney’s heart beat for the Irish champion Bourke; but he kept a guard upon his tongue, and had even the forbearance not to bet upon his countryman’s head. How many rounds were fought, and how many minutes the fight lasted, how many blows were put in on each side, or which was the game man of the two, we forbear to decide or relate, as all this has been settled in the newspapers of the day; where also it was remarked, that Bourke, who lost the battle, “was put into a post-chaise, and left standing half an hour, while another fight took place. This was very scandalous on the part of his friends,” says the humane newspaper historian, “as the poor man might possibly be dying.”

Our hero O’Mooney’s heart again got the better of his head. Forgetful of his bet, forgetful of every thing but humanity, he made his way up to the chaise, where Bourke was left. “How are you, my gay fellow?” said he. “Can you see at all with the eye that’s knocked out?”

The brutal populace, who overheard this question, set up a roar of laughter: “A bull! a bull! an Irish bull! Did you hear the question this Irish gentleman asked his countryman?”

O’Mooney was detected a fourth time, and this time he was not ashamed. There was one man in the crowd who did not join in the laugh: a poor Irishman, of the name of Terence M’Dermod. He had in former times gone out a grousing, near Cork, with our hero; and the moment he heard his voice, he sprang forward, and with uncouth but honest demonstrations of joy, exclaimed, “Ah, my dear master! my dear young master! Phelim O’Mooney, Esq. And I have found your honour alive again? By the blessing of God above, I’ll never part you now till I die; and I’ll go to the world’s end to sarve yees.”

O’Mooney wished him at the world’s end this instant, yet could not prevail upon himself to check this affectionate follower of the O’Mooneys. He, however, put half a crown into his hand, and hinted that if he wished really to serve him, it must be at some other time. The poor fellow threw down the money, saying, he would never leave him. “Bid me do any thing, barring that. No, you shall never part me. Do what you plase with me, still I’ll be close to your heart, like your own shadow: knock me down if you will, and wilcome, ten times a day, and I’ll be up again like a ninepin: only let me sarve your honour; I’ll ask no wages nor take none.”

There was no withstanding all this; and whether our hero’s good-nature deceived him we shall not determine, but he thought it most prudent, as he could not get rid of Terence, to take him into his service, to let him into his secret, to make him swear that he would never utter the name of Phelim O’Mooney during the remainder of this day. Terence heard the secret of the bet with joy, entered into the jest with all the readiness of an Irishman, and with equal joy and readiness swore by the hind leg of the holy lamb that he would never mention, even to his own dog, the name of Phelim O’Mooney, Esq., good or bad, till past twelve o’clock; and further, that he would, till the clock should strike that hour, call his master Sir John Bull, and nothing else, to all men, women, and children, upon the floor of God’s creation.

Satisfied with the fulness of this oath, O’Mooney resolved to return to town with his man Terence M’Dermod. He, however, contrived, before he got there, to make a practical bull, by which he was detected a fifth time. He got into the coach which was driving from London instead of that which was driving to London, and he would have been carried rapidly to Oxford, had not his man Terence, after they had proceeded a mile and a half on the wrong road, put his head down from the top of the coach, crying, as he looked in at the window, “Master, Sir John Bull, are you there? Do you know we’re in the wrong box, going to Oxford?”

“Your master’s an Irishman, dare to say, as well as yourself,” said the coachman, as he let Sir John out. He walked back to Maidenhead, and took a chaise to town.

It was six o’clock when he got to London, and he went into a coffee-house to dine. He sat down beside a gentleman who was reading the newspaper. “Any news to-day, sir?”

The gentleman told him the news of the day, and then began to read aloud some paragraphs in a strong Hibernian accent. Our hero was sorry that he had met with another countryman; but he resolved to set a guard upon his lips, and he knew that his own accent could not betray him. The stranger read on till he came to a trial about a legacy which an old woman had left to her cats. O’Mooney exclaimed, “I hate cats almost as much as old women; and if I had been the English minister, I would have laid the dog-tax upon cats.”

“If you had been the Irish minister, you mean,” said the stranger, smiling; “for I perceive now you are a countryman of my own.”

“How can you think so, sir?” said O’Mooney: “you have no reason to suppose so from my accent, I believe.”

“None in life—quite the contrary; for you speak remarkably pure English—not the least note or half note of the brogue; but there’s another sort of freemason sign by which we Hibernians know one another, and are known all over the globe. Whether to call it a confusion of expressions or of ideas, I can’t tell. Now an Englishman, if he had been saying what you did, sir, just now, would have taken time to separate the dog and the tax, and he would have put the tax upon cats, and let the dogs go about their business.” Our hero, with his usual good-humour, acknowledged himself to be fairly detected.

“Well, sir,” said the stranger, “if I had not found you out before by the blunder, I should be sure now you were my countryman by your good-humour. An Irishman can take what’s said to him, provided no affront’s meant, with more good-humour than any man on earth.”

“Ay, that he can,” cried O’Mooney: “he lends himself, like the whale, to be tickled even by the fellow with the harpoon, till he finds what he is about, and then he pays away, and pitches the fellow, boat and all, to the devil. Ah, countryman! you would give me credit indeed for my good humour if you knew what danger you have put me in by detecting me for an Irishman. I have been found out six times, and if I blunder twice more before twelve o’clock this night, I shall lose a hundred guineas by it: but I will make sure of my bet; for I will go home straight this minute, lock myself up in my room, and not say a word to any mortal till the watchman cries ‘past twelve o’clock,’—then the fast and long Lent of my tongue will be fairly over; and if you’ll meet me, my dear friend, at the King’s Arms, we will have a good supper and keep Easter for ever.”

Phelim, pursuant to his resolution, returned to his hotel, and shut himself up in his room, where he remained in perfect silence and consequent safety till about nine o’clock. Suddenly he heard a great huzzaing in the street; he looked out of the window, and saw that all the houses in the street were illuminated. His landlady came bustling into his apartment, followed by waiters with candles. His spirits instantly rose, though he did not clearly know the cause of the rejoicings. “I give you joy, ma’am. What are you all illuminating for?” said he to his landlady.

“Thank you, sir, with all my heart. I am not sure. It is either for a great victory or the peace. Bob—waiter—step out and inquire for the gentleman.”

The gentleman preferred stepping out to inquire for himself. The illuminations were in honour of the peace. He totally forgot his bet, his silence, and his prudence, in his sympathy with the general joy. He walked rapidly from street to street, admiring the various elegant devices. A crowd was standing before the windows of a house that was illuminated with extraordinary splendour. He inquired whose it was, and was informed that it belonged to a contractor, who had made an immense fortune by the war.

“Then I’m sure these illuminations of his for the peace are none of the most sincere,” said O’Mooney. The mob were of his opinion; and Phelim, who was now, alas! worked up to the proper pitch for blundering, added, by way of pleasing his audience still more—“If this contractor had illuminated in character, it should have been with dark lanterns.”

“Should it? by Jasus! that would be an Irish illumination,” cried some one. “Arrah, honey! you’re an Irishman, whoever you are, and have spoke your mind in character.”

Sir John Bull was vexed that the piece of wit which he had aimed at the contractor had recoiled upon himself. “It is always, as my countryman observed, by having too much wit that I blunder. The deuce take me if I sport a single bon mot more this night. This is only my seventh detection, I have an eighth blunder still to the good; and if I can but keep my wit to myself till I am out of purgatory, then I shall be in heaven, and may sing Io Triumphe in spite of my brother.”

Fortunately, Phelim had not made it any part of his bet that he should not speak to himself an Irish idiom, or that he should not think a bull. Resolved to be as obstinately silent as a monk of La Trappe, he once more shut himself up in his cell, and fell fast asleep—dreamed that fat bulls of Basan encompassed him round about—that he ran down a steep bill to escape them—that his foot slipped—he rolled to the bottom—felt the bull’s horns in his side—heard the bull bellowing in his—ears—wakened—and found Terence M’Dermod bellowing at his room door.

“Sir John Bull! Sir John Bull! murder! murder! my dear master, Sir John Bull! murder, robbery, and reward! let me in! for the love of the Holy Virgin! they are all after you!”

“Who? are you drunk, Terence?” said Sir John, opening the door.

“No, but they are mad—all mad.”

“Who?”

“The constable. They are all mad entirely, and the lord mayor, all along with your honour’s making me swear I would not tell your name. Sure they are all coming armed in a body to put you in jail for a forgery, unless I run back and tell them the truth—will I?”

“First tell me the truth, blunderer!”

“I’ll make my affidavit I never blundered, plase your honour, but just went to the merchant’s, as you ordered, with the draft, signed with the name I swore not to utter till past twelve. I presents the draft, and waits to be paid. ‘Are you Mr. O’Mooney’s servant?’ says one of the clerks after a while. ‘No, sir, not at all, sir,’ said I; ‘I’m Sir John Bull’s, at your sarvice.’ He puzzles and puzzles, and asks me did I bring the draft, and was that your writing at the bottom of it? I still said it was my master’s writing, Sir John Bull’s, and no other. They whispered from one up to t’other, and then said it was a forgery, as I overheard, and I must go before the mayor. With that, while the master, who was called down to be examined as to his opinion, was putting on his glasses to spell it out, I gives them, one and all, the slip, and whips out of the street door and home to give your honour notice, and have been breaking my heart at the door this half hour to make you hear—and now you have it all.”

“I am in a worse dilemma now than when between the horns of the bull,” thought Sir John: “I must now either tell my real name, avow myself an Irishman, and so lose my bet, or else go to jail.”

He preferred going to jail. He resolved to pretend to be dumb, and he charged Terence not to betray him. The officers of justice came to take him up: Sir John resigned himself to them, making signs that he could not speak. He was carried before a magistrate. The merchant had never seen Mr. Phelim O’Mooney, but could swear to his handwriting and signature, having many of his letters and drafts. The draft in question was produced. Sir John Bull would neither acknowledge nor deny the signature, but in dumb show made signs of innocence. No art or persuasion could make him speak; he kept his fingers on his lips. One of the bailiffs offered to open Sir John’s mouth. Sir John clenched his hand, in token that if they used violence he knew his remedy. To the magistrate he was all bows and respect: but the law, in spite of civility, must take its course.

Terence McDermod beat his breast, and called upon all the saints in the Irish calendar when he saw the committal actually made out, and his dear master given over to the constables. Nothing but his own oath and his master’s commanding eye, which was fixed upon him at this instant, could have made him forbear to utter, what he had never in his life been before so strongly tempted to tell—the truth.

Determined to win his wager, our hero suffered himself to be carried to a lock-up house, and persisted in keeping silence till the clock struck twelve! Then the charm was broken, and he spoke. He began talking to himself, and singing as loud as he possibly could. The next morning Terence, who was no longer bound by his oath to conceal Phelim’s name, hastened to his master’s correspondent in town, told the whole story, and O’Mooney was liberated. Having won his bet by his wit and steadiness, he had now the prudence to give up these adventuring schemes, to which he had so nearly become a dupe; he returned immediately to Ireland to his brother, and determined to settle quietly to business. His good brother paid him the hundred guineas most joyfully, declaring that he had never spent a hundred guineas better in his life than in recovering a brother. Phelim had now conquered his foolish dislike to trade: his brother took him into partnership, and Phelim O’Mooney never relapsed into Sir John Bull.