The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'TooleMaxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
General
The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole
Maxwell, W. H. (William Hamilton)
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
The buxom widow was a fair specimen of an Irish hostess; and had her
eyes not been as dark as a blackberry and her complexion a gipsy brown,
the old alliteration, “fat, fair, and forty,” would have described
her to a hair. Her comely countenance was rich with archness and
_espieglerie_--and in Jack Falstaff’s vein a lover might have safely
wooed her--You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha--then there’s more sympathy!
“In vino veritas.” Hang that musty proverb! What’s wine to whisky
punch? That is, indeed, the opener of the human heart. Love may be
eschewed--but who is proof against _poteeine_? A hot tumbler would undo
the caution of a Jesuit, and make a Trappist speak out like a man. Mrs.
O’Leary felt the genial influence of _mountain dew_ agreeably diluted;
and in the brief colloquy that ensued, there were but few circumstances
connected with the Cock and Punchbowl which remained a secret to the
fosterer and his wandering friend.
“Mr. O’Toole--there’s an O before your name, I b’lieve--you’re kindly
welcome. Here’s ye’r health--and bad luck to ye if I wish it. As I told
ye, Mr. O’Leary--Lord rest his sowl!--was an ailin’ man, and might have
been my father. Well, after the cold Christmas he went like snow off a
ditch. The Lord sees he had the best of tratement in his last days, wid
a grand wake and a ginteel funeral. I’m a lone woman three years come
Patrick mass--and och! I have had my trouble. A woman’s helpless, Mr.
O’Toole, and that ye know. Well--blessed be God! I’m well to do--owe
nobody a rap--and my carakter’s at the defiance of the parish. But
och! I’m lonely after all; and a pushin’ woman like me requires a man’s
assistance. Not that I’m over anxious to get married; but if a young
man, discreat and well-behaved, would--”
Here a furious knocking of pewter pots upon the tables underneath
interrupted Mrs. O’Leary’s narration, and she made a hasty exit to
attend those turbulent customers, with an intimation however that
she would return anon, and make a clean breast touching her hymeneal
intentions, should “a young man, discreat and well-behaved,” present
himself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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