Chapter IV - Milord Always

 When our adventurer judged that the accident of the ball dress (as related in the last chapter) had’ sufficiently faded from the recollection of his mistress, he took an opportunity of requesting leave of absence, in order to put in force a certain project he had long entertained, and which had for its object the providing for his brother Patrick. He remembered the injunctions of his father on this head; and though Barney might justly be styled a lad of “easy principles,” yet he certainly had at heart the fancied “honour of the family. “He had heard that a place in the Excise was in the gift of Lord Cork. Of course to be had for the asking. Those who are acquainted with the awe in which an Irish peasant holds an exciseman, will understand the extent of Barney’s ambition, when he determined to apply for the place in question’ Requesting an Audience of Mrs. Stapleton, he began - {58}
 “If you plase, ma’am, I’d be glad I could be spared an hour or two dis morning if you plase?”
 “What do you want to do, Barney?”
 “’Tis to go see Lord Cork, ma’am, I’m wantin’.”
 “To see Lord Cork, Barney? What can you possibly have to do with Lord Cork? Do you know his lordship?”
 “I do nat, ma’am; but he’s a townsman o’ mine, an’ its in regard of a small fever I tought to ask, for a strip of a b’y, a brother o’ me own, an’ its in his power to do it; so, in coorse, its askin’ nothin’ out o’ de way, at all at all.”
 “Rather a hasty conclusion that, Barney. However, go, if you consider your claims on his lordship’s time give you a chance of being admitted,” said Mrs. Stapleton.
 “Oh! no fear in life. Wonst I get to de spache of him; an’ why wouldn’t I, bein’ his townsman an’ all?”
 Away went Barney Mahoney, nothing daunted, on a mission that, to an English lad of his standing, would have appeared an undertaking replete with difficulties. And back he returned, with a smiling countenance. {59}
 “Well, Barney!” said his mistress, “how have you succeeded? Did you find the house?”
 “Oh, I did, ma’am; an iligant house it is, shoorely, all out; an’ I raps at de doore, single, as you bid me when I’m be meself; an’ a great big man, wid a red face an’ a green baizy apron on him, opens it, wid a broom in his hand, for ’twas sweepin’ out de hall he was; an’ thinks I to meself, yees makes an iligant housemaid, anyway; but they’ve sthrange ways here in England, thinks I. So I ses nothin’, bud scraped me shoes at de iron strap like, be de doore, an’, ’ Is Lord Corkwidin?’ ses I.
 “’Widdin,’ ses he, (mimickin’, de way de English does, bud its nat’ral to ’em I s’pose.) ’You don’t suppose, Misther Free an’ asy,’ ses he, ‘that a nobleman ’ud be wulouti at this time o’ de mornin’,’ he ses.
 “‘’Tis all right, thin,’ ses I, ‘for I wants to see his lordship’
 “‘You do?’ ses he, an’ he puts down his broom, an’ goes an’ sits himself down in a leather closet like, fixed in de middle of de hall, an’ ‘Pray, me fine fella,’ ses he, ’ how long may you have bin cot? I mane, how long have you been in Hingland?’ . “‘Not long enough to wear out me manners,’ {58}  ses I ; ‘so, if its anyway consarnin’ you to knows its five months since I left de bewtiful city of Cork.’”
 “‘And what may have brought you to London?’ ses he.
 “‘Me bis’ness,’ ses I.
 “‘Then yer bis’ness may take you back there,’ ses he, mockin’ again; ‘ for its nayther yer Hirish brogue,’ he ses, ’nor yer impudence, œ11 carry you through to me lord.’ His lord! de vagabone, sweepin’ blagguard! takin’ de bread out o’ some poor girl of a housemaid’s mout’, that’s wantin’ it may be. So just thin there comes trow de hall, a woman I knoed very well in Cork, by rason her mother’s cousin’s sisther was a kind of relation to me uncle at Cove’s first wife, an’ its cook in de family she is; an’ ‘ Barney Mahoney!’ ses she, ‘is that you at all at all?’
 “‘Shoore, ’tis meself, an’ none else,’ ses I; ‘why wouldn’t it? an’ I’ve bis’ness wid Lord Cork, an’ this housemaid in breeches,’ I ses, ‘won’t let me to de spache of him, so he won’t’
 “’ Come wid me,’ she ses. ’ I don’t wish to bring nobody into trouble, Mr. Porter,’ she ses to him in de green apron, ’ so I’ll take me counthreeman down de airy steps, for I’d soonder {61} get meself disgrace, nor see a townsman turned from de doore.’
 “‘Take him where you like,Ӟ grumbled de porter, ‘but through my premises he don’t pass; a himpident, Hirish jackanapes! I can’t think why me lord don’t have Hinglish servants about him, not I.’
 “Well! down some steps we went, an’ trou’ long dark passages, an’ at last we stopped at a doore, an’ Mrs. Garatty (that’s me mother’s cousin’s sisther’s relation) she tapped at de doore, an’ ‘Come in,’ ses a voice; an’ we went into a nice parlour, all carpetted over, an’ a lady (‘seemin’ly’) sittin’ at a table full of crocks of jams an’ jellies, an’ she a paperin’ ’em up; an’ ‘Mrs, Uniacke,’ ses Mrs, Garatty, ‘here’s a counthreeman o’ yours an’ mine, wantin’ to see me lord; if you’d help him to a retinue,’ or some word like that, she sed, ‘we’d both feel obleeged.’ So wi’ that I up an’ tould ’em what it was I was seekin’; an’ afther waitin’ sum time, Mrs. Uniacke consitherin’, she tould me, if I’d behave genteel, an’ say ‘My Lord Always,’ she’d take me up her ownself to his lordship.
 “Its a quare name, (ses I to meself,) but prap’s ’tis his Christian name it is. So when {62}  she’d finished de sweetmates she tuk off her apron, an’ ‘Now,&146;; ses she, ‘come along wi’ me.’
 “Well, we went up a many flights of stone steps, an’ trow’ a little doore, an’ out upon sich a grand staircase! Oh, my! it bate all I ever see; an’’, ses I, ‘Dublin itself can’t aqual this.’ But I’d no time to look amost, till Mrs. Uniacke pointed to a doore. ‘That’s me lord’s dressin’ room,’ ses she, ‘do you stay here while I spake to de valet.’
 “Then de valet cum out, an’, as luck would, he was a county Limerick man, an’ afther a little parlyin’, ‘Come here, young man,’ he ses, ‘I’ll shew you de way.’
 “At last I got into de room, an’ there was Lord Cork clanin’ himself, an’ -”
 “Dressing, you mean, Barney.”
 “No, indeed, ma’am, ’tis his teeth he was brushin’; an’ ‘Well,’ ses he, ‘who are you?’ So I tould him me name was Barney Mahoney, a county Cork man, an’ how I’d got a sarvice in London, an’ how a brother o’ mine, (that’s Pathrick, you know, ma’am,) not come over yet, was in want of promotion, in regard of a place he’d be getting as I hard he might be a sthroke o’ de pen from his lordship, in de Excise. {63}  “‘An’,’ ses he, ‘who sent you? an’ how came you to ixpect I’d do it?’ - spittin’ betune whiles in de basin.
 “‘An’/ ses I, ‘nobody sent me but meself, me Lord Always’ ses I; ‘an’ thinkin’ its agreeable to yerself it ud be, to sarve a friend, me Lord Always’ (for I remembered me of what Mrs. Uniacke had tould me in respect of mentionin’ his name, ma’am).
 “‘But what are his claims? me good lad,’ ses he.
 “‘Shoore an’ is n’t wantin’ it claim enuff?’ ses I, for I tuk heart, sein’ he spoke so gentle.
 “Be this time his mout’ was finished, an’ de valet began curlin’ his hair, givin’ us de manes to discoorse moore comfortable.”
 “‘I must hear a little more about you,’ ses his lordship, ‘before I give you an answer.’
 “‘Be all manner o’ manes, me Lord Always,’ ses I; ‘shoore that’s bud fair anyway. I cum o’ dacent pepel,’ I ses, ‘for me modher’s gran’ father was a Callaghan, an’ own blood relation to Lord Lismore himself.’ ‘Very good,’ ses me lord. ’An’ me fadher was foster-brother to sportin’ Squire Barry, of Rathcormick, that kept de hounds, an’ he went abroad to forrin parts to see de world, an’ got a place in de army, an’ {64} wud’ a’ riz’ there’s little doubt; bud ’twas de smell o’ de pipe-day for clanin’ the ’coutrements he niver cud abide, it disagreed wid his stummick intirely: an’ his kernel sed it wasn’t convanient to keep him in de regiment, so he ped his passage home to Cork, gintale; bud he seen a deal o’ de world anyway, for he went trow’ London, an’ to the king’s pallis, an’ -’
 “‘Well, well! that’s enuff about him,’ ses me lord. ‘He settled in Cork, I suppose, and, like other poor Irishmen, raised a family about him he had no means of supporting, and now wishes to dispose of half a score of b’ys.’
 ‘That’s just it, to a hair,’ ses I.
 “‘An’ what are the qualifications of this brother of yours, supposin’ I’d get him de place?’ ses me lord.
 ‘Faix den ’tis he’s qualified for that or anything else, intirely. Weren’t we all brought up gintale, an’ used to go to Justin Delany’s, de one-eyed schoolmaster, in Blackpool, an’ got redin’ an’ ritin’ for a fi’penny a week; an’ whin we’d take a coorse o’ manners two-pence a week more, for a half-quarter or so, when we’d be in most want of de polish; an’ niver let do nothin’ dirty, so we wasn’t, in de way o’ work, more than may be mixin’ a hod a’ mortar, or carryin’ {65} a load o’ bricks for de masons, whin me fadher ’ud have no lanin’ to his profession of a Monday mornin’ sometimes.’
 “‘Then you earned nothing yourselves?’
 “‘Oh! we did, of an odd time. We weren’t above goin’ an errand, or holdin’ a jintleman’s horse, or such a thing. ’Twas few things indeed Pathrick an’ meself couldn’t turn our hands to, in de way of airnin’ an honest an’ gintale fi’penny.’
 “‘Cork is a fine city? eh!’
 “‘’Tis you an’ I may say that,’ ses I; not bud I’owmin’ London’s a fine place too, oney I don’t see a street to plase me like de Grand Parade, wid King George a hossback at one end of it. An’ where is de likes of an iligant walk of a summer’s evenin’ to Sunday’s well, or out be de Watercourse, or -’
 “‘Sandy’s what?’ ses me lord.
 “‘Sund’y’s Well, shoore, plase yer honor, me Lord Always; yees knoes Sund’y’s Well an’ de way up to it be Wise’s distillery an’ de North Mall; or be de Dyke with two bewtiful rows of trees, an’ de iron gates on ache side of it, an’ across the ferry to the tay house?’
 “‘I can’t say I ever hard the names before,’ {56} ses me lord; ‘an’ one rason may be, I never was in Cork in me life.’
 “Never was in Cork, ma’am! oney hearken to that. Bud there! its the blissed fruits o’ de Union they tell me; - I’ve hard dem as understood it, say, We’ve been a neglected an’ divided counthree since ever de union. More’s de pity! However, he’s an iligant jintleman all out, so he is, if he nivir did see his native place; which it might be no fault of his afther all, if he happened to be born in a forrin land. A man can’t always be born where he likes.”
 “Very true, Barney. But how ended your interview!”
 “Ah! that’s de word, shoore enuff, an’ not ‘retinue,’ as I sed awhile agone. Why, ma’am, we had a deal more discoorse, an’ he axed me a power o’ questions, an’ I told him how I was tuk from home be Mr. Stapleton, to be made into a vally de sham, an’ was risin’ fast, I sed, an’ cud go of errands all one as if ’twas in Cork I was; an’ at long an’ last he tould me to write over an’ bid me brother cum at wonst, an’ he’d see an’ settle him whin he’d consider what he’d be fit for. An’ I think I gave his lordship’s honor intire satisfaction, for I hard him laughin’ mighty {67} hearty all de way I cum down stairs; so I look upon it Pathrick’s bis’ness is as good as dun.’’
 The brilliant success of our hero on this occasion gave him increased confidence in his own peculiar skill and address,although the next proof of their exercise was less applauded than he thought it deserved to be.
 It chanced that, through some commercial connexions of her father, a young man, named Layton, had obtained an introduction, to Fanny; and, whether influenced by the attraction of her personal charms, or those more powerful ones contained in the strong box of her parent, Mr. Layton found it convenient and agreeable to cultivate, to its fullest extent, the slight acquaintance thus accidentally gained.
 Now Mr. Layton did not happen to be, in any one respect, the “sort of person,” as ladies say, that Fanny believed she could like; and as increased intimacy opened her eyes to his hopes and views, it also placed before them, in still stronger light, the incontrovertible fact, that Mr. Layton was by no means “cut out for her.” So obtuse were his perceptions on the chances of non-approval, that he pertinaciously carried his unwelcome attentions to a degree of annoyance, that at last rendered him quite hateful to {68} the object of them. Nor did she feel her forbearance improved towards him by the stupidity (as she thought) of Barney, who, whenever he happened to be holding office as porter, invariably ushered in the forward youth with, “Mr. Layton, Miss!” thus making still more offensively the object of his visit
 Fanny’s ears had been so often offended in this way, that she could no longer refrain from lecturing Barney on his peculiar mode of announcing this gentleman; and to this measure she was particularly urged by its having recently taken place when one or two of her first-rate danglers were present, causing them to break off in the midst of an agreeable conversation, and to take an abrupt leave.
 “Shoore ’tis you he asks for. Miss! iver an always, so he does,” replied Barney, in answer to her remonstrance. “An’ ’tis meself tout’ he had his rasons for it. An’ who d’ blame him for that same,” he added to himself.
 Instructions were given on this point, and amendment followed. The odious Layton, however, still persevered in his attentions; but feeling insecure, or rather ill-placed, in Fanny’s affections, feared to hazard his direct proposals on no better ground than he at present held; he {69} contented himself with the flattering favour of performing shadow to Miss Stapleton, whenever possibility allowed him to distinguish her in that way. By some means or other, he always contrived to penetrate into her engagements; and if these were of a public nature, he had, or made, frequent opportunities of joining her.
 In addition to these persecutions, he was continually bringing splendidly-bound books, on which he craved her opinion, &c. &c., still further teazing her, by leaving the same behind him. And on her requesting he would desist from this practice, and send for his property, which she declared was far too fine to use but in fear and trembling, the rash man insinuated a hope that their removal was unnecessary, since “soon, he trusted, they would become their joint possession.”
 So headlong a plunge brought matters to a climax. Fanny was now roused to demand his meaning. Layton explained; and her unequivocal refusal met the astounded ears of her lover. His own opinion of himself and fortune being considerably above par, he, for some time, felt utterly incapable of believing that Miss Stapleton could be serious in declining to accept his {70} hand. He even attempted remonstrance on the occasion, endeavouring to point out how fully justified he considered himself in “the election (he was pleased to say) he had made. That it resulted from a long cherished conviction of her being the very person of all others he most admired.” Fanny here interrupted him to state that, as the impression was unfortunately not mutual, nor ever could be, she would spare him the humiliation of a lengthened interview. Still did the pertinadous suitor continue to urge his reasons for a more favourable reception of his vows. He protested he could be satisfied without her love at present. It would come after marriage. He did not admire those sentimental young ladies who fancied it incumbent on them to be in love with their betrothed husband.
 Here the impatient damsel once more interrupted him, saying, “Every word I have said to you, Mr. Layton, is precisely what I think, feel, and never intend even attempting to alter. Since you disregard my wish that you should take your departure, I am under the necessity of wishing you good morning.”
 Here she left the room, and the amazed lover {71} to his meditations, who had no resource but to take his hat and walk out of the house.
 “We must send the man’s books home, my dear,” said Mrs. Stapleton, on hearing lier daughter’s account of the interview: ,“I am excessively glad you have given him his dismissal. Pack them up, and Barney, I think, shall take them. It will be better than sending James, who might be asking a thousand questions of Mr. Laytoh’s servant.”
 “Come hither, Barney!” accordingly said his young mistress. “You know where Mr. Layton lives?”
 “Oh! I do, miss; that is, I do nat, in iviry respect know de name o’ de street, an’ number o’ de house, an’ all that; bud alls one. Shure I’ll find it, if ’twas a back o’ Macgillycuddy’s reeks it was, an’ me havin’ a tongue to de fore.”
 “Well! I have directed the parcel, you see. You know your way to Islington, and when there, anyone will direct you to Mr. Layton’s. Be sure you ascertain you have found the right house, and leave this, with my compliments. No other message. Mind, that there is no answer. You need not wait a moment, - remember that.” {12}
 “Is it me wait! an’ bid not? Well, that flogs all! that whin I’m sent of a errind cums back an’ all before a’most I’m gone.”
 In an inconceivably short time Barney did return, breathless, from the haste he had made to oblige his young mistress, and to bring her the intelligence, that in the superabundance of his sagacity, he judged had formed the real purport of his mission.
 “You are sure you left the parcel properly? Did you see Mr. Layton’s servant?” inquired Fanny.
 “I did. Miss, his own man; an’ give him de books, an’ sed your complements, an’ ’ud be glad to know how he did to-day.”
 “How very stupid! Did I not tell you not to wait at all?”
 “Nomore I didn’t wait. Miss, an’ run ivery bit o’ the way home I did; an’ sed I couldn’t be no manes cum in, tho’ he was mighty perlite, I will say, an’ wanted me go down de while he’d see had his master any message back; but I told him I had pertickler orders to cum back immadiately, wid de answer - an’ wouldn’t, nor didn’t, go in; oney sed I was sorry to hear de gentleman was sick.”
 “How very provoking!” exclaimed the irritated {73} Fanny. “Just as if I had sent to inquire how he bore his disappointment!”
 “anything more is there I can do. Miss?” inquired the boy. “An’ somehow, be de powers, I b’lieve I haven’t dun right ayther this time.”
 “No matter! you cannot undo it now. You may go.”
 “Stupid booby!” was the irrepressible ejaculation which escaped the lips of Fanny Stapleton, as the door closed on the offender. {74}

Chapter V - The Lady of Quality

 The ease with which Barney had gained access to Lord Cork, and his astonishment at the splendour he beheld in the mansion of that nobleman, engendered a thousand vague and floating ideas in his speculative brain. He began to think it would be a fine thing to get a service in some noble family. He paid two or three subsequent visits to his fnend and relation, Mrs. Garatty, every one of which had tended to lower his estimation for “city people,” and increase that sensation (inherent with him) of extreme awe towards all those “of rale blood,” as he expressed it.
 Besides, his request touching Patrick’s place in the Excise, had been received and complied with so smoothly, that his brother conceived, if he were actually resident in some family of distinction, he should not have the slightest difficulty in establishing his whole tribe of brothers and sisters in “less than no time.” {75}
 He had sounded Mrs. Garatty on this subject; for with all his ambition, the youth had no wish precisely to lose hold of his present situation,until secure of a better.
 “What a fine thing it ’ud be now, Mrs. Garatty - if supposein’ I’d any friend to help me to id - to git a place in some rale ould family, of de ould stock all out. I’m thinking sometimes, its bud a daler I’m livin’ wid’, afther all, an’ niver had bud marchant’s blood in his veins, an’ niver can. Not bud he’s de good masther, I can’t gainsay that, anyhow, an’ niver puts upon me, so he doesn’t, an’ why would he? an’ me modher a Callaghan. Bud be what I can make on id, he’s bin a risin’ man iver an’ always, an’ his fadher afore him; an’ I hard de cook say, her modher rimimbered of his gran’fadher keepin’ a shop in Cheapside. So in coorse he’s nothin’ at all at all in de way o’ descent an’ that; an’ as for Misthress Stapleton, wedder she’d iver a fadher or modher, though its like she’d both, de niver a hear I ever hard ’em mintioned, up stairs or down; inside or out; seed, breed, or generation; nor hasn’t a banshee belongin’ to ’em. An’ ’tisn’t de bad misthress she is for all.”
 “Ethen, Barney! Barney hould yer whisht. Is it a good bed an’ boord ye’d be givin’ up, man {76} alive? Consither what yees is about, yer sowl! an’ doant be brakin’ de hearts o’ them as rared ye, an’ flingin’ yer praty to de pig, so don’t.”
 “Eych! Misthress Garatty, its no thought I have to lave me prisint sitewation widout I’d be gettin’ one more to me mind, doant you see. Bud its up intirely, the city, so it is; an’ all de mont’s I bin in Finsbury Square, de niver a lord, nor even so much as a duke, I seen rap at our doore; an’ meddent, maybe, if I’d stay as many years. So there! what use, why!”
 “Remimber the home yees lift behint yees, Barney, avick! an’ doant be temptin’ Providence, so doant.”
 “I was just thinking Mrs. Garatty, if in case anything ’ud fall in yer way in de thrifle o’ gettin’ me a futman’s place, or that -”
 “The Lord presarve me an’ mine! A futman’s place! ye upstart rapparee; its little yees noes o’ futmen’s places, or how they’re cum by, I’m judgin’. Go yer ways home, Barney, aboughal! an’ doant be afther cuttin’ yer own blessid trote, so doant, ’till yees knoes where yees’ll get it mended.”
 Notwithstanding this pungent remonstrance, her visitor remained doggedly confirmed in his determination to “better himself’ on the first {77} convenient opportunity. The rebuff he had received from the “relation of his mother’s cousin’s sister,” had the effect of souring his temper in some degree; and, on retiring to rest, he discovered that the strip of carpeting by his bed side, and which had been removed to undergo the weekly process of shaking, had remained two nights absent without leave. To a premeditated slight on the part of Betty be attributed this piece of neglect; and it dwelt so painfully on his mind, as to reduce the alacrity of his movements, and thereby attract the attention of his kind-hearted master, to look attentively in his cloudy countenance.
 “What is the matter, Barney? What makes you look so downcast this morning? You are not ill, I hope?”
 “A cowld it is, yer honor, very bad, I got, all over me.”
 “Ah, indeed! how came that to pass, my lad? we must give you a little medicine, perhaps.”
 “Physick wouldn’t do me no good, yer honor, so it wouldn’t,” returned the youth, gloomily.
 “Is there anything else you suppose would prove more efficacious?” asked the indulgent Mr. Stapleton.
 “Its de carpet out o’ me room, an’ Betty’s {78} tuk it away intirely, so she has; an’ its killed wid de could I am, all out, puttin’ my futteneens on de bare boords of a mornin’.”
 “Ha, ha! Well, this is something good, I must say. Ha, ha, ha! Barney, my good lad, I cannot help being amused at the tenderness that has “fallen upon you” in so short a time. Have you quite forgotten, silly boy! that you never even saw a carpet, or a boarded floor either, until you came into this house? Go along! to your business, and let me see no more of such folly.”
 Housemaids have golden opportunities. They are for ever dusting and scrubbing in the vicinity of any conversation that happens to be private; and, if they manage their ears and their duster with any dexterity, its hard but they glean all they care to listen to. If we open a door suddenly, and discover Betty on her knees, and with her head suspiciously close to the key-hole, we also find her vehemently rubbing away at the mouldings of the same; and we all know, that exertion in this position calls an unusual colour into the face - so that blushes go for nothing.
 If Betty, on this occasion, chanced to be sweeping down the stairs, how could she help hearing what passed between her master and {79} Barney? except, indeed, the functions of the broom had suffered no interruption in their cleansing operations.
 On sitting down to breakfast, she resolved to take her revenge for having been “reported,” although without any fear of disgrace ensuing from her unimportant oversight; and addressing the cook, said -
 “You’ll have to make a possett for Mr. Mahoney here to-night, I expect Mistress has sent for the doctor, and its likely he’ll put hun to bed and well physick him.”
 “What ails him, then? he seems to take to his breakfiust well enough, at any rate.”
 “Aye, that’s the fever. I was that way myself once, and could eat anything that came before me; and, for all that, I all but died. ’twas a false appetite, the doctors said. I don’t know what they call a real one.”
 Fever is a startling sound in the ears of the poorer class in Ireland. Barney paused in his attack, his cheeks for a moment blanched; but Betty lost her powers of countenance, and bursting into a coarse laugh, continued -
 “There’s a pretty fellor for you, that never had but a hearthen floor to stand on, ’till he left his own beggarly country, and goes complaining {80} to master I’d took his bed-side carpet away. Pretty creature! and he got his death of cold putting his tender little feet on the boards. No wonder! and he never saw’r a carpet or boards either, I heard master say, not till sich times as he comed here.”’
 “Didn’t I, thin?” retorted the boy. “Yeh! thin, if its me modher hadn’t de iligant house, an’ best o’ furniture, so she had’”
 “Now don’t talk nonsense, my lad,” interposed the coachman, “we have some notions of what a Hirish ovel his, afore to-day. ’Ow many rooms had your mother in er ouse?”
 “She’d two, thin! besides de drawin’-room up stairs, shoore.”
 “And how many flights of stairs might you go up to find this drawrin-room?”
 Now Barney knew that a ladder, as before described, formed the means of communication between the general room, and that cavity or loft in the roof he had dignified by so fine a name; but, as it was neither convenient nor agreeable to acknowledge this fact, he applied himself with redoubled vigour, and some show of sulkiness, to the disposal of his breakfast. The banter to which he had exposed himself, rendering still stronger his ardent wish for a {81} change of abode, and he once more ventured to canvass Mrs. Garatty on the subject; at the same time obliging her with a dismal and exaggerated history of his sufferings in the family of Mr. Stapleton.
 “Its a sconce ye are, Barney, an’ that’s God’s thruth.”
 “A ‘sconce!’ May be it isn’t me modher’s son ye’d be callin’ that same, an’ she to de fore!”
 “Ogh! Barney a lanna! ’tis yer mother’s de dacent woman; an’ only for her I uddent be listenin’ to your words, so I uddent; an’ kind to me an’ mine she was that time in the sickness, - yees doant mind the time, an’ was a sthrip of a b’y thin, so you was. Sorro’ taste of ingratitude iver was found in Judy Garatty, I’ll say that, if its meself owns to the name. So now listen to me, Barney, avick! an’ if its bent an’ bowed on a change ye are, may be it issent meself couldn’t help yees to a nate little gintale sarvice, with may be a lady o’ rale quality.”
 “Eych! You couldn’t! Ah, thin, Misthress Garatty, dear, ’tis yees’ll be de rale friend o’ Barney Mahoney; an’, be all de crosses in a yard o’ check, if -”
 “Hould your whisht, agin, an’ barken to me at wonst now. ’tis a lady o’ rale quality I’m {82} tellin’ yees she is, bud not the ould Irish, that’s the thrue Milesian stock, seein’ she’s a born Scotch’oman, an’ niver as much as seen the land o’ the sod sin’ the daylight fell upon her; bud no mather for that - she’s a lady by right an’ by title, anyway; an’ if she’s Scotch, that’s not spakin’ agin her characther. They meddunt all be the devil’s darlints for scrimpin’ an’ squeezin’, so they meddunt; an’ besides, its boord wages yees’ll be put upon, an’ in coorse yees’ll make a purty penny out o’ that same, if supposin’ yees are the lad o’ sinse an’ discration I tuk ye for. Its niver on boord wages meself, I wasn’t; but in coorse, wi’ broken vittals an’ that, its plenty there must be cum down from me lady’s table, an’ no call to spind a hap’orth yerself, so yees needn’t.”
 “Agra! my sowl! bud its a made man I’ll be now, anyway,” cried her auditor, as the pleasant perspective of perpetual saving cheered his greedy heart.
 “An’ ye’ll mind, now, above all, yer manners, an’ doant disgrace yer counthree an’ me, but discoorse ’em in yer best English; an’ its quite aqual to the place yees are, say, an’ can have the best o’ characthers, which its no doubt yees’ll get that same out o’ Misther Stapleton.” {83}
 “An’ where is id at all, I’m to go? an’ what’s me new misthress’ name that is to be? an’ what ‘sort’ of a place is itself, too, Misthress Garatty?”
 “‘Be dhu husth! [Hold your tongue]’’ wait, won’t yees, an’ larn one thing at a time, so do, an’ not be askin’ as many questins in a breath as ’ud bother a priest. An’ it issent a misthress at all at all I’m puttin’ yees to, but a born lady o’ title all out, an’ belongs to some grand family abroad in her own counthree, that’s in Scotland, an’ her name’s Lady Teodozy Livincoort; a colleen, so she is, not been married, ye see, Barney. At number 4, or 9, I’m not rightly sartin which it is, yees’ll find her in. Curse ’em Street, May Fair. Two maids an’ a man it is she keeps, an’ you’re to be the man, Barney, - that’s if yees gets it; an’ to clane plate, an’ knives, an’ shoes, an’ windy’s, an’ run errants, an’ wait table, an’ go out wid de carriage, an’ -”
 “Tunder an’ age! bud that’s a sample o’ work, Misthress Garatty.”
 “Is it work ye calls it, ye spalpeen, ye! Shoore its nothin’ at all in life, an“ll take yees no time, scarcely; an’ its mendin’ yer cloes, an’ {84} purshooin’ yer larnin’, yees ought to be of evenin’s an’ odd times, if yees ’ud find ayther industhree or since widin side o’ ye, ma boughal.’’
 “In coorse I’ll undhertake it, Misthress Garatty, dear! an’ its yerself I’ll be blessin’ iviry night I live on my bended knees, won’t I? to de day o’ me death an’ longer. It’ll be a grate thing, shoorely, to be own man to a rale lady; an’ if there’s a dale o’ work, why de won pair o’ hands o’ me can bud be kept doin’, an’ gracious knoes, its that I am now, so I am, an’ no credit out on it, so I haven’t; for its Barney here, and Barney there - an’ de doore’s to be swept immadiately, an’ knives to be claned immadiately, an’ Misther Charles wants his shoes immadiately, an’ I must run for butther for de cook immadiately, an’ if I’d twinty pair o’ hands, an’ thirty pair o’ feet, I couldn’t be quick enuff, so I cudn’t, wid all their immadiately’s; an’ its put upon I am be ivery sarvent, high an’ low, an’ its a blessin’ it’ll be to have but one mout’ to be ordtherin’ an’ callin’ me about, for its fairly sick o’ hearin’ my own name I am, an’ that’s gospel thruth. An’ ‘whisper’ Misthress Garatty, whin I’d be ill, divil a thing ’ud I git but dosed we’ calumny pills; an’ I ax yees if {85} that same’s usage for a Christhian, let alone a Callaghan?”
 “Ogh, thin! be the piper that piped afore Moses, bud the blud’s in yees, a’ boughal; an’ ’tis yees’ll be fit to go alone, I’m judgin’, woncet yees’ll get a thrifle o’ exparience to the fore.”
 “Eh, then! Wait ’till a while ago, an’ if it issent meself’ll turn out somethin’ beyant common on yer hands, say me name’s not Barney Mahoney, so do.”
 After sundry vain inquiries for the Curse ’em Street of Mrs. Garatty, Barney at length made out, in Curzon Street, the residence of the Right Honourable Lady Theodosia Livincourt, eldest and only suryiying daughter, as the peerage testified, of his Grace the Duke of Heatherland, from whose estates that nobleman derived his name; and which were situated on the northern border of Scotland; ample in extent, and although but partially cultivated, bearing an appearance considerably more fruitful than that of the Shetland Isles, or Nova Zembla. Being a somewhat sequestered territory, by reason of certain difficulties of approach, it was a region seldom visited by strangers; and the noble scions of the house of Heatherland might, with impunity {86} talk in unmeasured terms of their “estates in the north;” and which, barren though they were, afforded them the means of existing, by strict economy, in the more genial south.
 A house, of dimensions so narrow, that it gave the idea of having been forced in as a kind of wedge, after the street was built, owned for its proprietor the Lady Theodosia Livincourt. Its appearance, even outwardly, startled Barney; and when his single rap had gained him admittance, he was still more horrified by the air of meanness that pervaded the entrance, so opposite to that he had been accustomed to, “even in the city.” His calculations, indeed, on the merits of the court end of the town, had led him completely astray. Firmly believing it to be in every respect superior, he was bewildered on entering the shabby abode of the “rale lady;” more particularly when, on being ushered into her very presence, he found the general appearance of herself, her house, and its worn out furniture, totally different from what he had figured in his mind’s eye, as it was the antipodes of the comforts and luxuries so abundant in Finsbury Square.
 A very diminutive figure, of indescribable age, and attired in a dressing-gown, the original colour {87} of which might have been sky-blue, or pea-green, but which, by dint of long service, and the influence of London smoke, now shrouded its pretensions under a tint well expressed in that name. A pair of tipless gloves, whose native whiteness could not long resist, though long it had borne, the attacks of the same enemy, gave to view ten crescents of a sombre hue, terminating the honourable fingers they but partially concealed. No cap adorned the head of this lady; but a frizzly mass of some filthy substance, distantly resembling hair, and of that mixture of iron grey of which Barney’s “best suit” had formerly been composed, was suffered to do duty in the early part of the day, to be displaced towards two o’clock by the flaxen wig and ringlets considered due to the reception of company. On a sofa, which, had it possessed a tongue, might have said with the poet, -

 “Harder than flinty rock,” &c.

reposed? - no! such a thing was impossible; reclined? - no! her ladyship never descended from the perpendicular; sat? -it “might” be; although, to judge from appearance, one would have pronounced, “hung upon,” to be the correct expression for the right painful position {88} of the right honourable spinster. Before the said personage, and an equally small, dirty, and dismal fire, stood a little round table, whose dingy damask bore on its emblazoned surface, one blue-and-white cup and saucer, one black tea-pot, of the comfortless size called “single lady,” one red patterned plate, one green handled knife, one remains of a half-quartern loaf of most untempting aspect, one ditto dab of shapeless butter, one - oh, horror of horrors! one blue glass sugar-basin; and operations for the appropriation of these accurately described utensils had commenced, in the consignment of one tea-spoonful of stick-like hyson to the aforesaid one single lady tea-pot.
 “Young man!” began the Lady Theodosia, in a tone, the united tremulousness and faintness of which was only like, (with the trifling reservation that none of us ever yet heard such a thing; but we have imaginations, gentle reader, have we not?) you and I then will agree, - it was like Pasta performing a shake upon a penny whistle. There was a sharpness in the sound, giving promise of shrilly scolding upon occasion, had strength of body or of lungs allowed it to be so exercised. At present, it was, however, by no means a frightful voice; and, as it proceeded in {89} apparent gentleness and placidity, Barney summoned up all his attention to gather the meaning of its half uttered expression.
 “You are come to seek service with me, I understand?”, continued the lady. “Now you will just listen until I have done speaking, before you open your lips, if you please. I am about to state to you the duties I should require from you, and you shall then tell me if you feel equal to the place. You seem strong and healthy. I fear you have a large appetite. Not that it will be of any importance to me, since my servants are on board wages, but it will be a sad drain upon your own pocket. You must not expect to get anything that may go from my table. I am very particular; and if a morsel of bread were to be cut off “my” loaf, or a single potato purloined, I should inevitably discover the same.”
 “The Lord presarve us!” thought Barney, but he said nothing.
 “You will have to wait upon me entirely, for I never permit a woman servant to be seen about me. Of course, you go all the errands; and, in short, do everything but cook and make the beds. You must have no visitors of any description whatever, and I shall allow you to go out when I can spare you, which may possibly {90} be once in two or three months. Do you consider yourself capable of undertaking the place?’’
 “Plase yer honor’s ladyship -”
 “Oh! what, you are an Irishman, are you? Well, then, we may come to terms. Of course you can live on potatoes?’’
 “ I have done that same, my lady, tho’ I’m no ways pettickler to it in de shape of a diet, barrin’ I couldn’t get no betther.”
 “Certainly! that’s natural enough. Well, then, I see you will do very well, I have no doubt; at any rate, you may come on a month’s trial,” interrupted Lady Theodosia, anxious to prevent her victim from declining the offer, and also to dismiss him without entering on the disagreeable and plebeian subject of wages.
 “You will leave your address below, and I will see about your character. I have no doubt it will answer. You may go,” she continued, ringing the bell; and Barney, whatever his skill might be in parrying an attack, or fighting shy, had neither talents for, nor practice in this sort of single handed encounter, where, as he said, “all de tongue was o’ one side.”
 Crest fallen and dejectedly did he seek his friend, Mrs. Garatty.
 “Wey, thin! if that’s a lady I bin to, I niver {91} seen one afore, an’ may I sup sorro’ to me dyin’ day, bud I niver wish to see another. Worrah! worrah! what’ll I do at all at all, an’ she takin’ no denial, nor so much as de licence o’ spache allowed me’ Ah, thin! Misthress Garatty, dear, bud its what I wish yees had a bin wid me. Be dis, an’ be dat, bud yees niver seen such a double dyed neger in all your born days; an’ skin a flint I’ll go bail she would, an’ make tay wid de parin’s. Oh, Misthress Garatty, what I’ll do at all at all now?”
 “An’ that worse may niver happen ye, Barney, now! Ye graceless imp of ingratitude, that would take me throuble, an’ recommendashon, an’ not so much as ‘thank ye, hunks, for the loan o’ yer shivility.’ Bud I’ve dun wid ye. I wash my hands clane an’ clever o’ yees, from this time out to the day o’ judgment an’ beyant; for a born nat’ral ye are, an’ niver’ll cum to luck nor grace’ Milliah murthers! is it wantin’ yer bread butthered o’ both sides yees are? The Lord forgive yer ungodly maw, that ixpicts to be crammed like an unfeathered poult, ye gomeril. Bud I’ll tell yees what it is, my fat lad. Yees’ll jist go an’ thry is it so bad as ye’re lettin’ on, all out, for I’m as good as sed yees should; an’ if there’s a Garatty ses one thing, an’ manes {91} another, its not her they call Judy, anyhow. Afther all, sarvice is no inheritance. Why! oncet yees get yer futtin’ at the West end, shoore, its yees that’ll have the pick o’ places, from this to Bally cally dash me lynch.”
 The latter part of the argument had weight with the youth, and their amity was renewed, on his promising to be guided in this affair “Misthress” Garatty. {93}

CHAPTER VI - The Removal

 Although possessed of remarkable callosity of conscience, yet Barney could not entirely stifle the monitor. It whispered in his ear that he was about to act an ungrateful part towards the benefactor who had fed, clothed, and instructed him. The nature of his philosophy, nevertheless, enabled him to assure and re-assure himself that his own personal advantage was a consideration of decidedly the first importance; which reflection, backed by the weight of his Milesian blood, and Mr. Stapleton’s heresy, determined him to let no qualms of the said troublesome monitor swerve him from his purpose. The benefits and assistance he was to shower upon every member of his family, was, in Barney’s eyes, the ornamental part of his plan; he placed it in the fore-ground of his own picture, and certainly it was the only feature in it claiming any pretensions to redeem the atrocity of its component parts. {93} It may seem a very easy matter for a person to get “out of” a good place and “into” a bad one; but there are instances where such a proceeding has its difficulties, and this was one of them. Of all the plans for discharging himself, that in rotation entered Barney’s head, not one of them seemed satisfactory or feasible. He had not even the shadow of complaint to utter, unless it might be that he was by far better off than he deserved to be. To say he was homesick, and must return to “de groves of de pool,” could never be credited. Equally vain would be the profession of illness; and as certainly it would bring upon him the doctor and his abhorred “calumny pills.”
 “Well, de devil a know do I know what I’ll say to de masther at all at all,” muttered the perplexed youth, as he turned from side to side on a bed that, six months before, he would have hesitated to take the liberty of lying down upon.
 “I’d tell him de thruth, wid all de pleasure in life, iv there ’d be any use in id. But what good is openin’ yer sowl to a heretic? Faix! a bowld sthroke ’s all that’s for it. Shoore I’ll tell him at wonst its me intention to see de world. An’ let him make what he can out o’ {95} that, anyway. Its what many’s de b’y’s dun afore me; an’ no trason, so it issent.”
 The opportunity of putting this scheme in practice soon occurred; and the audacious lad requested “lave to quit de premises as soon as it ’ud be convanient.”
 “I do not quite understand what you mean, Barney. What premises are you talking about?”
 “Yer honor’s house, just! nathin’ more nor less.”
 “Do you mean to say, you wish to leave my service?” asked the astonished Mr. Stapleton.
 “Its what I some time med up my mind to, yer honor.”
 “But what reason can you possibly have for it, Barney? Are you not happy and comfortable in my family?”
 “Eh, thin, it issent altogether in regard of de want o’ comforts an’ that; bud -”
 “Have you experienced ill-treatment at the hands of any person in my house, high or low? Do not fear telling me. I insist on an unequivocal answer.”
 “Oh, I have nat, yer honor; bud its sixteen I’lll be next St. Barnabus day; an’ its seein’ somethin’ o’ de world, so I ought to be, widout de smallest taste in life of faut to find of all {96} here. Me blessin’ be over ’em. Its niver de betther place may be I’ll get in a mont’ o’ Sund’ys, bud a b’y must folly what he’s born to; an’ we can’t put over what’s given out for us, so we can’t.”
 “So you think destiny has favored you with a roving commission, do you?” said his petrified master. “But, my poor boy,” he added, in a commiserating tone, “reflect on what you are about to do. I can scarcely yet believe you serious in the whim you have taken up. Let me advise you to be contented with the station allotted you here, and which you must be very sensible is one far beyond what your friends or yourself were justified in expecting for you. In fact, I took you from them, and do not feel justified in parting with you, at all events until they are consulted, and give you their advice. There, go down stairs, and think no more of such folly. I will endeavour to forget it; although I must add, that I am sorry and disappointed to find no more grateful return for all the kindness you force me to remind you, I have shewn towards you.”
 “’Tis no use to consult me friends, an’ advice niver did no good to Barney, bud quite de conthrarie; its me modher ’ud tell ye that same, yer {97} honor, an’ always was harder to dhrive than Driscol’s pig, an’ that banged Bannaher for conthrariness all out.’ An’ whin its to Cork they’d want to take him, de crather, there was no manes in life; bud shew him in a purtence de road to Mallow, an’ shoore he’d pad de hoof to Cork at wonst thin. So its all one that same wid me; an’ de more yer honor ses ‘Stay an’ be asy,’ de more I won’t be able do one nor de oder for de bare life.”
 “You are a strange, and, I fear, a good-for-nothing creature, Barney. However, I shall make it my business to inquire how you dispose of yourself; and if it be in a way I consider unfit for you, I shall most certainly send you over to Cork, to your parents, ill as they can afford to have you returned upon their hands.”
 In pursuance of this determination, Mr. Stapleton called upon Lady Theodosia Livincourt, whose toilet having been more carefully adjusted than on the morning of Barney’s interview, he saw nothing positively to disgust, though much to commiserate, in the apparent poverty of everything surrounding her ladyship.
 On reflection, he considered that the imprudent boy might here receive a lesson powerful enough to be useful to him through life; and {98} the benevolent man entertained even some floating idea of receiving the ‘penitent’ Barney, at no distant period, again into his family; for he foresaw that the style of housekeeping to be expected in Curzon Street was as widely different from that in Finsbury Square, as he knew it would be distressing to a growing lad of immeasurable appetite.
 In consequence of this impression, and intention of future forgiveness, he gave positive instructions that no reproaches should be levelled against the youth, but that he should be allowed immediately to depart to his new place. “He will soon ‘feel,’ though at present he cannot ‘see,’ his error,” said Mr, Stapleton; “and he will feel it more usefully, and probably more deeply, if coming in the painful shape of reality, than in the equally true, and perhaps deserved form of reproach. I have satisfied myself that he is now steeled against that sometimes useful engine, and I am also fully persuaded of the delicacy it requires in its application to be of real use; I therefore request that the boy may remain unmolested on the subject.”
 The only mark of displeasure this good man would allow himself to shew towards his ungrateful protegée, was, in an order sent to him {99} by James, that he should make no attempt to take leave of anyone in the house; and a desire that, should misfortune or disappointment assail him, he would apply to Mr. Stapleton.
 Thus dismissed, spite of his hard-heartedness, Barney could not help feeling that he had, and justly, incurred a degree of disgrace. The prospect before him, too, was not sufficiently invigorating to lighten the weight upon his spirits; and he entered upon his month’s probation in Curzon Street without any very brilliant ideas of amended fortune.
 On reaching his new home, he found that he had arrived just in time, as the cook informed him, to carry up “my Lady’s dinner,” an office which had lately devolved on herself; “the last man,” as she farther explained, having left at a moment’s notice. Indeed, had she chosen to confess the fact, she could have told the new footman that it was the customary formula of departure from the service of Lady Theodosia Livincourt, who contrived always to engage her servants on a month’s trial; long experience having proved to her ladyship that four-and-twenty hours generally were sufficient for the purpose, it was her only chance of keeping one a month. By this system, too, she almost invariably {lOO} secured their services gratis; since, if the fortress were utterly untenable for the time specified, she was exempted from any claim of wages they might otherwise have brought against her.
 Barney having deposited his wardrobe within a small, dark pantry, pointed out to him under the high sounding name of “Butler’s room;” and which, nearly twelve feet square, contained the china, plate, and glass, of his honourable mistress, besides a small truckle bedstead destined for the reception of the principal part of himself during the night; of dimensions so narrow, that to turn over in it was not to be thought of; and so short, that either the feet or the head (at the option of the occupant) were fain to put up with the temporary accommodation of a chair placed at either end. The only light admitted into this apartment, was what is called a “borrowed” one, consisting of three panes of glass placed in the wall of the adjoining kitchen, and so near the ceiling thereof, as to be out of all reach of duster, or even broom. A long accumulation of smoke and dirt had left little more than the frame-work visible; and Barney trembled for his shins, as he groped about, in seeking his way out of this miserable chamber. It was no {101} time, however, for gloomy reflections: an important office awaited him. He had never been entrusted to do more than assist in waiting at Mr. Stapleton’s table; but here, the whole weight of the business fell upon his shoulders, and he felt that some exertion was requisite, to acquit himself satisfactorily, more especially as he was somewhat tired from his long walk.
 Considering that “dinner” is a meal universally professed and looked upon as the principal one of the day, it is quite marvellous to behold the endless variety of shapes under which it meets our eye. Our inexperienced “butler” had witnessed but two examples of the species; namely, a bowl of smoking and “smiling” potatoes, and the bountiful repast of Finsbury Square. His astonishment, therefore, was great, nay, more, it was painful, when summoned again by the cook, with the intelligence that “dinner was dished.” On two small coverless dishes, he beheld two flounders, and three potatoes: a boat, (not a jolly boat,) with some darkish looking melted butter, completed the contents of his tray. He was told, that my lady kept her own loaf in the “chiffy-near;” and he looked round with a disappointed air, in hopes of discovering a second course in progress: all he saw was the {102} cook preparing her own tea-things; and he set forward with a heavy heart and a light load.
 “Oh, you are come? that’s well,” was Lady Theodosia’s reception of our hero. And being a sentence not exactly requiring an answer, received none, for Barney felt a considerable diminution of his usual loquacity; a sensation that was not relieved on witnessing her ladyship, as indeed might naturally be expected, and with tolerably keen relish, clear the entire contents of her two dishes.
 Barney’s appetite was not of that kind which ebbs and flows with the spirits; on the contrary, it was a constant, never-failing guest; indeed, his father had more than once remarked upon it - “Faix, then, I’ve hard of a b’y’s appetite that comes an’ goes, bud be de hoky, I b’live Barney’s there cums an’ stays.”
 ’ Barney descended with his emptied tray, and, as a last hope, inquired “What was to follow?”
 “The carriage will be here for you to follow, by the time you’ve cleared away,” returned the cook. “If you meant anything in the shape of second course, ’tis seldom my lady will trouble you in that way; except when she has a couple of eggs, (and that’s a dinner she’s mighty fond of,) I send them up at twice, ’cause she prefers {103} hot and hot like. She has but a small appetite, and never eats more than goes up. Sometimes not that: the shells come down again mostly. But don’t stand staring there, for she’s going to I don’t know how many fine parties to’ night; so you’d better make haste and get your tea. I suppose you brought some with you, and a loaf?”
 Barney had brought neither, and for very sufficient reasons - he did not possess a sixpence in the world, but he declared his hopes of obtaining a loan from Mrs. Garatty the following day; on consideration of which, he was allowed to partake of the scanty fare before him.
 The carriage soon rattled up to the door, and bore the Lady Theodosia from one fine house to another, for the space of five good hours. Her ladyship, indeed, had no lack of invitations to the mansions of the great and the wealthy. Her rank was a letter of mark with both classes, and, although the smallness of her house and circumstances were well known to preclude any return of these civilities, yet the “name was no disgrace in any party; and her equipage, it must be confessed, was unexceptionable.”
 Twelve o’clock approached. Barney had penetrated the interior of two or three very {104} handsome halls, filled with equally fine powdered lackeys; but no symptoms of “feeding” had met his craving eyes, nor had there appeared the smallest intention on the part of his lounging companions to explore the lower regions for supper. Hungry he went out, and hungry he returned. Both hungry and cold he retired to his wretched pallet, and there he fairly blubbered himself to sleep.
 The following morning, and before “my lady” was likely to require his attendance, he sought once more the Earl of Cork’s residence, and gained access to Mrs. Garatty. To her he explained and expatiated on the miserable state of things to which her reckless will had consigned him; concluding the melancholy narrative with a request, that she would advance him a small sum for present exigencies, and promising duly to repay the same when his month’s wages should become due.
 “In coorse its what I couldn’t be refusin’ the son of her that stood me friend when I’d no other,” returned the kind-hearted Irish woman; “though its little I tout’ yees ’ud be wantin’ for anything, oncet ye’d get the place, Barney, my heart; bud there’s no knoein’, so there issent, what’s inside of a house ’till yees are {105} fairly there; an’ I’d be sorry to see one o’ de name o’Mahoney in want, an’ me able to help: so Barney, my b’y, here’s a thrifle; an’ He knoes, (casting her eyes upwards,) its not much de likes o’ me has to spare; jist to git yees a pinch o’ tay an’ a dust o’ sugar, be way o’ dacency afore the cook, an’ she an Englisher; but doant be usin’ it now, be no manes, but come in here, its but a step, whin yees wants a male, an’ its hard but Judy Garatty’ll find enuff for the likes o’ ye, an’ niver wrong nobody ayther, - we’ve none o’ yer boord-wage scrimpagin ways here. The Lord be praised for all things!”
 During this speech, her auditor’s attention had been entirely devoted to the disposal of some cold viands she had placed before him; and, when every scrap of the same had vanished from mortal view, he gained leisure to reply.
 “De holy St. Pathrick, an’ all his saints, now an’ for iver reward yees, Misthress Garatty, dear; an’ its yees have saved me from dyin’ in a land o’ plinty; so it is. Oh, Misthress Garatty, had yees a seen what I seen! no longer ago than yestherday: me misthress - that’s me Lady - a pickin’ de bones of thim two mites o’ floundthers, an’ me standin’ behind {106} wondtherin’ ’ud she lave skin or fin o’ de two o’ them; an’ de praties one ather de other follying, as why shoiddn’t they; it uddint a’ bin manners on ’em to lave them two poor dabs o’ fishes willy wallyin’ about upon an empty stummick, so it uddent: an’ whin I’d taken down de praty palins an’ run’d up to try ’ud I git de chance of a hunch o’ breads there it was locked up in de chickynear, an’ no chance o’ bite or sup at all at all for Barney. Den, I hard we was a goin’ to me Lord this, an’ me Lady tother’s, an’, thinks I, we’ll be offered something be de way o’ refireshment, in coorse; an’ de Lord a’ mercy upon de first mahogany I gets me two feet undher, for its supper, an’ breakfast, an’ dinner I’ll make o’ de one male, wonst I cum across it! ses I. Bud I needn’t a’ counted me chickens, for de hen was n’t hatched to lay de eggs on ’em; an’ devil a bit o’ supper I seen, high or low, an’ we out de whole night, so we was. An’ now its what it bothers me, so it does, Misthress Garatty, to think what use, or is it right in her head me Lady is, to deny herself vittals an’ that, an’ keep a pair o’ coach’ horses; she’d git a good male o’ mate out on, an’ she to sell ’em, doant ye see?”
 “It issent for such as ye, Barney, to think to {107} undherstand the ways o’ the quality; an’ many on ’ems to be pitied more than ourselves, for I’e hard say that they’re obliged to keep up an appearance - that’s what they calls it; its somethin’ I believe falls to ’em wid the title, an’ they ’ud lose all their fortin, I judge, otherways, so its nat’ral they’d wish to keep that, ye see, Barney; an’ that’s what makes ’em dhrive about all night an’ day, like mad, in de streets, an’ hungry many a time, its little doubt but they is.”
 “There’s one thing just I wish’t, Mrs, Garatty.”
 “An’ what’s that same, Barney, now?”
 “I wish’t I was married, an’ at home wid me mother-in-law.”
 “Go your ways at oncest now, an’ doant be puttin’ me beyant all patience, an’ makin’ yerself out a born idiot, so don’t. Shoore issent life before yees; an’ if this place don’t shute, is that a rason why another meddent? An’ when things is bad, issent it a sign they’ll mend? I ask you that. You’ve no more heart nor a pullett, so you haven’t, to be hangin’ yer jaw as if yees had a mont’s pinnance led upon ye, because ye can’t be crammin’ mornin’, noon, an’ night!”
 “What less than a pinnance is it, then. Misthress {108} Garatty, an’ I’ll throuble yees, to be nothin’ but runnin’ up stairs an’ down stairs, out an’ in, here an’ there, wid nothin’ bud a dhried ’natomy of a lady to look at above stairs, an’ a blackavized Jew of a smoke-dhried cook below; wid a dark hole to put me head in, an’ a bed that cant hold bud de three o’ me four quarthers, an’ not so much as bread an’ wather to go to. Its betther off I’d be in a jail, so it is.”
 “I tell yees, its worse off may be yees’ll be afoore ye die, Barney.”
 “Badhershin I [may it be so] ’ an’ I’ve hard a man must ate a peck a dirt afoore he dies; bud is that a rason he would ate it all at a male, Misthress Garatty? Bud I must go back, an’ see afther settin’ me Lady’s breakfast things. Oh! be de powers, bud its an iligant set it is, anyway. I’d like to see what any o’ de sarvants in Finsbury Square ’ud say, if supposin’ they’d see it, even in de kitchin.” {109}

[End chap.]