Sergeant Murphy, Pat Costello, Thackeray, Dan O'Connell.

Chapter XI

The power of the people - Sergeant Murphy; his London manners - Pat Costello’s humour - I meet Thackeray - Paddy Blake’s echo - Dan O’Connell’s imagination - Sir James O’Connell’s anecdotes - He is prayed for by his herd.

At one of Dan O’Connell’s elections, during the Repeal agitation, where the speaking was pretty stormy, one of the speakers, a Mr. MacSheehey, exclaimed in stentorian tones, “We’ll hurl the British lion from his pedestal!” A voice from the crowd was heard to cry, “Mr. MacSheehey! Mr. MacSheehey! if I was you I’d let that baste alone, or maybe you’ll find his claws in your tail some fine morning.”

This reminds me of a friend of mine, who at one time thought of contesting the borough of Tralee, his native town. In his maiden speech he used the words, “The power of the people, once roused, can hurl the mightiest potentate from his throne!” Next morning, in reading the report of his speech in the *Tralee Chronicle, *he found to his horror he was made to say, “The power of the people, once roused, can hurl the mightiest Hottentot from his throne.” Whether it was owing to the fun that was made of him about his speech or from some other cause I cannot say, but he never spoke in public again.

A misprint of something of the same kind occurred in the report of a speech of O’Connell’s, in which he was made to say that “He would always stand up for religious liberty and for the right of every man to horsewhip his God after the dictates of his conscience.” The report had changed “worship” into “horsewhip.” Strange to say, this misprint appeared in the paper which, at the time, was the strongest supporter of O’Connell.

Another Irishman well known in London then was Sergeant Murphy, generally known as “Frank Murphy.” He was member of Parliament for Cork, his native city, and distinguished at the Bar and in the House of Commons. Pleasant and witty he was, considerably bumptious too. When he visited Cork during vacation, his great delight was to astonish the natives by his London ways and manners. At a large dinner-party at the house of an old gentleman, a relative and namesake of his, where many Murphys were assembled, immediately after dinner he lit a cigar and began to smoke, a custom unheard of in Ireland then. There was much astonishment amongst the guests. His old host, however, was equal to the occasion, and at once said, “Indeed, then, it is kind for you, Frank, for your old grandmother always took a shaugh of the pipe after the pratees.”

In Murphy’s time, Spooner and Newdegate were the two ultra-Protestant Tories in the House of Commons. Of these he said, “The degrees of comparison of the word ‘spoon’ are ‘Spoon,’ ‘Spooner,’ ‘Newdegate.’”

He was a friend of Warren, author of “Ten Thousand a Year,” a most conceited man. When this book was coming out in numbers in, I think, *Frazer’s Magazine, *the two met at a large dinner-party in London, and, though the story was coming out anonymously, Murphy and most of the other guests knew perfectly well it was Warren’s. After dinner, when the conversation was general, Warren, who was always fishing for compliments, said to Murphy across the table

“Have you read that thing that is coming out in Frazer?”

“What thing?” said Murphy.

“‘Ten Thousand a Year,”’ said Warren.

“Yes, I have read it,” he answered.

“What do you think of it?” asked Warren.

“Hardly fair to ask me,” said Murphy, “for 1 wrote it.”

I have heard a story told of Murphy, but which really happened to quite another man, a resident in Kerry, who dearly loved a lord, and lost no opportunity of talking of his great acquaintances. At a dinner-party where there were several Roman Catholics, during a conversation on the subject of fasting, this gentleman said, “It is very strange how little Catholics in the higher ranks mind the fast days. I was dining at the Duke of Norfolk’s on a fast day, three weeks’ ago, and there wasn’t a bit of fish at dinner.” “I suppose,” said Pat Costello, “they had eaten it all in the dining-room?”

This Pat Costello had been on very intimate terms with a fellow barrister, O’Loughlin, afterwards Sir Michael O’Loughlin and Master of the Rolls in Ireland. As “Pat” and “Michael” they were wont to address each other. Soon after the latter was appointed Master of the Rolls, he met Pat and said to him, “How do you do, Mr. Costello.” “Mr. Costello!” said Pat. “Bedad, you’d think it was I that was Master of the Rolls.”

A friend who met him unexpectedly said, “Are you here, Pat? I heard you had gone up the Rhine with Billy Stephens.” “Up the Rhine with Billy Stephens!” said Pat. “I wouldn’t go up the Dodder with him.” The Dodder is a little stream passing through the suburbs of Dublin into the Liffey.

It is told of him that, on a Friday, at a mail-coach dinner, when there was only a small piece of salmon, all of which the only other Roman Catholic passenger was taking to himself, Pat interposed, and insisted on having half of it, saying, “Do you think, sir, no one has a soul to be saved but yourself?”

He was not of the same mind as the Roman Catholic gentleman who, when asked why he ate meat on Friday, said that fish always disagreed with him and gave him dyspepsia, and that though he had a Catholic heart, he greatly feared he had a Protestant stomach.

On one of my visits to London, I found that my old friend Johnny Jones, a most amusing fellow, formerly one of Sir J. MacNeill’s assistants, had be come famous as a sculptor. My first acquaintance with Thackeray was through him, and came about on this wise. Jones came one night into my hotel and told me he had just come up from Greenwich, where he, Thackeray, and two or three others had been dining together.

“By-the-by,” said he, “don’t you know Thackeray?”

“I am sorry to say I do not” said I.

“Then,” said he, “come and dine with me tomorrow and you’ll meet him.”

“Where do you dine?” I asked.

“At my friend Bevan’s in Coleman Street.”

“But,” I answered, “I do not know Mr. Bevan. I never even heard of him.”

“That doesn’t make the slightest difference,” said Johnny. “He’s the best fellow in the world - sings like a nightingale - and will be glad to see you.”

“But,” I objected, “how could I go to dine at the house of a man when I don’t know him?”

Johnny replied, “If I ask you, it’s exactly the same as if he asked you. He has given me a *carte blanche *to ask any one I choose; and I often bring a friend to dine with him. If you don’t come we’ll be only five to-morrow, and six would be pleasanter, and he would like it better. I’ll tell you what sort of a man Bevan is. About three months ago he asked me to stay with him for a few days. I am with him still; and he is such a good fellow and such a pleasant fellow, I do not think I’ll ever leave him.”

So I accepted the invitation, and on my arrival at Coleman Street next day, found Mr. Bevan all that Johnny had described him. A pleasant little party we were; Bevan and Johnny at head and foot of the table, Hobhouse and Mozley at one side, Thackeray and I at the other, and with songs and stories we kept it up well into the small hours.

Thackeray was always pleasant when I afterwards met him; but so pleasant and in such spirits as he was that night I never saw him. I happened to mention an amusing dissertation which I had heard that morning between Lord Redesdale, Chairman of Committees of the Lords, and Venables, then one of the leading parliamentary agents. I asked Thackeray whether he knew Venables. “I ought to know him,” said he; “it was he who broke my nose.”

In telling an Irish story, few could equal Jones. He sang well, too; but in Irish songs, gay or plaintive, another Johnny far surpassed him. His was one of the sweetest and most touching voices I have ever heard. He was Johnny, eldest son of the late, and brother of the present Sir Thomas Deane, the distinguished architect. Several years after the time I have been speaking of these two were the life and soul of a large party who spent a few days at Killarney when Lord Carlisle, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, came down to open the railway there, of which I was engineer. Some of the party, amongst whom were Judge Haliburton (Sam Slick), Shirley Brooks, Johnny Jones, and myself, had been through the Gap of Dunloe and came down the lakes. It was a very windy day, so windy that though Spillane, our bugler, played his best at the Eagle’s Nest and other points, no echo could we get. Again he tried at Glena; but all in vain. No answer came to the bugle sound; so we determined to try whether we could awake an echo by shouting all together at the top of our voices. We sang out, “Ho, ho, Johnny Jones!” A soft and gentle echo from the mountain answered, “Ho, ho, Johnny Deane!” Surely, thought we, we must have misheard. We called again, “Ho, to, Johnny Jones!” More clearly than before the echo said, “Ho, ho, Johnny Deane!” Again and again we tried, but got no other response. “Begorra,” said one of our boatmen, “often as I heard tell of Paddy Blake’s echo, I never believed in it till now.”

Paddy Blake’s echo is well known at Killarney. When you call out, “flow are you, Paddy Blake?” Echo answers, “Well, I thank you, sir.?’ In the evening the mystery was solved. Johnny Deane himself was the echo. He and some others of our friends had climbed Glena and heard and answered our shouting from its wooded side.

When Lord Carlisle made a speech on the opening of the railway, there stood near me a reporter of one of the Kerry papers, who asked me the names of the people by whom his Excellency was attended. Amongst them was Walter Creyke, then in deacon’s orders and chaplain to Lord Carlisle. “Who is the handsome young man with the dark beard?” said my neighbour. “Mr. Creyke,” said I, “the Lord Lieutenant’s chaplain.” “Do you know his Christian name?” he said. “Corn,” said I. In the morning’s paper he duly appeared as “the Rev. Corn Creyke.”

It was then I first met James O’Connell, afterwards Sir James, father of Sir Maurice the present baronet, and brother of the famous Dan O’Connell; a most agreeable man, full of interesting information and memories. Many a story he told me of his famous brother Dan; amongst them the following, which shows how unscrupulous O’Connell could be when he thought occasion required it. He had brought his brother either to the Bar of the House or behind the woolsack - I forget which - to hear a debate on Irish affairs in the House of Lords. A discussion arose on some petition which had been presented to the peers, in the course of which a Tory peer had said, “What are we to think, my lords, of such a petition as this, the first signature to which is that of Hamilton Rowan, an attainted traitor?”

Lord Brougham, seeing O’Connell, came down to him and said, “What am I to say to this?”

“You may say,” said Dan, “that Mr. Hamilton Rowan never was an attainted traitor. It is true that in ‘98 he left Ireland for a little time; but on his return no charge was brought against him. He now holds a high position, is a magistrate of his county, and has twice served the office of high sheriff.”

James was astounded, and as Brougham retired, caught his brother by the arm, saying, “Ah, Dan, Dan, I do “not think he is a magistrate, or ever was high sheriff.”

“Hold your tongue, you bosthoon!” said Dan. “What does it matter whether he was or not? If he wasn’t, it will take three days to contradict it, and the whole business will be forgotten before that.” There were no railways or telegraphs in those days.

Sir James also told me of a Mr. Tomkins Brew, a well-known and very popular magistrate in the county of Clare, who, when giving evidence before a committee of the House of Lords on crime in Ireland, was asked whether he knew much about the Roman Catholic priesthood. He replied, “I do not think, my lords, there is a man in Ireland that knows more about them than I do.”

“I think I know a great deal about them, Mr. Brew,” said Lord Roden.

“Ah! my lord,” said Brew, “did you ever sleep between a parish priest and his coadjutor?”

Another of his stories was of a very conceited upstart young fellow, who, just after he had got a commission in the Cork Militia, was strutting about as proud as a peacock in his new uniform. He met a simple country lad, known as “Tom the fool.” “I hardly think you know me, Tom,” said he. “Bedad, I do know you,” said Tom. “I’d know your skin on a bush; but I hardly think you know yourself, Masther Bob.”

The same youth had, one morning, ordered his men to fall in for parade; one fellow lagged behind, and was very slowly coming up when all the others were in position. “What are you dawdling there for, Sullivan,” said he; “fall in at once.” “Begorra,” answered Sullivan, “Masther Bob, you’re in such a hurry you’d think the French was coming.”

He told me also of the characteristic way in which an officer of the Ayrshire Fencibles, at one time quartered in the south, gave the order, “Right about face” to some recruits, whose left legs were marked with chalk, as was the custom then, to distinguish them from the right. He gave the word thus, “Ayrshire Fencibles, your back to the north, your face to the south, chalked leg foremost - MARCH!”

Sir James O’Connell was, what was rare in Ireland then, but far from uncommon now, a Conservative Roman Cathdic. The last time I had the pleasure of meeting him was as we travelled together on the “Rakes of Mallow,” a coach which plied daily between Cork and Mallow; he was going, he said, to consult his solicitor, as to whether he could bring an action against a priest who had, on the previous Sunday, denounced him in chapel about some land business; the chapel was on an outlying property of his, so he sent for one of his herds, who lived there, and asked, “Were you at Mass last *

Herd. *“I was, yer honour.”

*Sir J. *“Did Father S--- say anything about me?”

*Herd. *“Well, he did mention your honour.”

*Sir J. *“What did he say?”

*Herd. *“Well now, your honour, I’m afeared you might be offinded if I tould you.”

*Sir *J. “Not a bit. You must tell me at once, as exactly as you can, what he said.”

*Herd. *“Well now, he told us all to go down on our knees, and pray to God to change the heart of that cruel, tyrannical, old robber, James O’Connell.”

Sir J. “What did you do?”

*Herd. *“Why then, indeed, I went down on my knees and prayed strong for your honour.”

On this same “Rakes of Mallow” coach I sometimes travelled with John Dillon Croker, of Qarterstown, a clever and useful county gentleman, but, without exception, the greatest talker I ever met; it was impossible “to get a word in edgeways.” So great was his volubility that his own children could not sometimes help laughing at him, and the country people wondered “how he got wind for it all.” One very wet morning he travelled inside the coach, while his son Harry and I, well wrapped up, were outside. When we stopped at Ballinamona to change horses, to our surprise out of the coach he came, and got up outside with us. “Why on earth, father,” said Harry, “do you come out in this downpour?” “Indeed,” said he, “there was an old lady in the coach who talked so much that I could stand it no longer.” “Oh, father,” said his son, “are you beaten at last?”

On another journey he said that a lady who was in the coach with him was the most agreeable fellow-passenger he had ever travelled with. The lady was deaf and dumb; he had not perceived it.

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