'But hang it, there 'th no uthe in doing things by halves. Melpomene's the most jealous of the Muses. I tell you if you stand well in her gratheth, by Jove, Thir, you mutht give yourthelf up to her body and thoul. How the deuthe can a fellow that's out at drill at hicth in the morning, and all day with his head filled with tacticth and gunnery, and – and – '
'And 'farced pigeons' and lovely women,' said Devereux.
'And such dry professional matterth,' continued he, without noticing, perhaps hearing the interpolation, 'How can he pothibly have a chance againth geniuses, no doubt – vathly thuperior by nature' – (Puddock, the rogue, believed no such thing) – 'but who devote themthelveth to the thtudy of the art incethantly, exclusively, and – and – '
'Impossible,' said O'Flaherty. 'There now, was Tommy Shycock, of Ballybaisly, that larned himself to balance a fiddle-stick on his chin; and the young leedies, and especially Miss Kitty Mahony, used to be all around him in the ball-room at Thralee, lookin', wondhrin', and laughin'; and I that had twiste his brains, could not come round it, though I got up every morning for a month at four o'clock, and was obleeged to give over be rason of a soart iv a squint I was gettin' be looking continually at the fiddle-stick. I began with a double bass, the way he did – it's it that was the powerful fateaguin' exercise, I can tell you. Two blessed hours a-day, regular practice, besides an odd half-hour, now and agin, for three mortial years, it took him to larn it, and dhrilled a dimple in his chin you could put a marrow-fat pay in.'
'Practice,' resumed Puddock, I need not spell his lisp, 'study – time to devote – industry in great things as in small – there's the secret. Nature, to be sure – '
'Ay, Nature, to be sure – we must sustain Nature, dear Puddock, so pass the bottle,' said Devereux, who liked his glass.
'Be the powers, Mr. Puddock, if I had half your janius for play-acting,' persisted O'Flaherty, 'nothing i'd keep me from the boards iv Smock-alley play-house – incog., I mean, of course. There's that wonderful little Mr. Garrick – why he's the talk of the three kingdoms as long as I can remember – an' making his thousand pounds a week – coining, be gannies – an' he can't be much taller than you, for he's contimptably small.'
'I'm the taller man of the two,' said little Puddock, haughtily, who had made enquiries, and claimed half an inch over Rocius, honestly, let us hope. 'But this is building castles in the air; joking apart, however, I do confess I should dearly love – just for a maggot – to play two parts – Richard the Third and Tamerlane.'
'Was not that the part you spoke that sympathetic speech out of for me before dinner?'
'No, that was Justice Greedy,' said Devereux.
'Ay, so it was – was it? – that smothered his wife.'
'With a pudding clout,' persisted Devereux.
'No. With a – pooh! – a – you know – and stabbed himself,' continued O'Flaherty.
'With a larding-pin – 'tis written in good Italian.'
'Augh, not at all – it isn't Italian, but English, I'm thinking of – a pilla, Puddock, you know – the black rascal.'
'Well, English or Italian – tragedy or comedy,' said Devereux, who liked Puddock, and would not annoy him, and saw he was hurt by Othello's borrowing his properties from the kitchen; 'I venture to say you were well entertained: and for my part, Sir, there are some characters' – (in farce Puddock was really highly diverting) – 'in which I prefer Puddock to any player I every saw.'
'Oh – ho – ho!' laughed poor little Puddock, with a most gratified derisiveness, for he cherished in secret a great admiration for Devereux.
And so they talked stage-talk. Puddock lithping away, grand and garrulous; O'Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy word now and again.
'I shall never forget Mrs. Cibber's countenance in that last scene – you know – in the “Orphan” – Monimia you know, Devereux.' And the table being by this time in high chat, and the chairs a little irregular, Puddock slipped off his, and addressing himself to Devereux and O'Flaherty – just to give them a notion of Mrs. Cibber – began, with a countenance the most wobegone, and in a piping falsetto —
'When I am laid low, i' the grave, and quite forgotten.'
Monimia dies at the end of the speech – as the reader may not be aware; but when Puddock came to the line —
'When I am dead, as presently I shall be,'
all Mrs. Cibber's best points being still to come, the little lieutenant's heel caught in the edge of the carpet, as he sailed with an imaginary hoop on grandly backward, and in spite of a surprising flick-flack cut in the attempt to recover his equipoise, down came the 'orphan,' together with a table-load of spoons and plates, with a crash that stopt all conversation.
Lord Castlemallard waked up, with a snort and a 'hollo, gentlemen!'
'It's only poor dear Monimia, general,' said Devereux with a melancholy bow, in reply to a fiery and startled stare darted to the point by that gallant officer.
'Hey – eh?' said his lordship, brightening up, and gazing glassily round with a wan smile; and I fancy he thought a lady had somehow introduced herself during his nap, and was pleased, for he admired the sex.
'If there's any recitation going on, I think it had better be for the benefit of the company,' said the general, a little surly, and looking full upon the plump Monimia, who was arranging his frill and hair, and getting a little awkwardly into his place.
'And I think 'twould be no harm, Lieutenant Puddock, my dear,' says Father Roach, testily, for he had been himself frightened by the crash, 'if you'd die a little aisier the next time.'
Puddock began to apologise.
'Never mind,' said the general, recovering, 'let's fill our glasses – my Lord Castlemallard, they tell me this claret is a pretty wine.'
'A very pretty wine,' said my lord.
'And suppose, my lord, we ask these gentlemen to give us a song? I say, gentlemen, there are fine voices among you. Will some gentleman oblige the company with a song?'
'Mr. Loftus sings a very fine song, I'm told,' said Captain Cluffe, with a wink at Father Roach.
'Ay,' cried Roach, backing up the joke (a good old one, and not yet quite off the hooks), 'Mr. Loftus sings, I'll take my davy – I've heard him!'
Loftus was shy, simple, and grotesque, and looked like a man who could not sing a note. So when he opened his eyes, looked round, and blushed, there was a general knocking of glasses, and a very flattering clamour for Mr. Loftus's song.
But when silence came, to the surprise of the company he submitted, though with manifest trepidation, and told them that he would sing as the company desired. It was a song from a good old writer upon fasting in Lent, and was, in fact, a reproof to all hypocrisy. Hereupon there was a great ringing of glasses and a jolly round of laughter rose up in the cheer that welcomed the announcement. Father Roach looked queer and disconcerted, and shot a look of suspicion at Devereux, for poor Dan Loftus had, in truth, hit that divine strait in a very tender spot.
The fact is, Father Roach was, as Irish priests were sometimes then, a bit of a sportsman. He and Toole used occasionally to make mysterious excursions to the Dublin mountains. He