Hudy XIXa

Chapter XIXa - The Horse-Jockey
[this story was abruptly cut short in the 1841 booklet]

Who e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair,
An Irishman all in his glory was there,
With his sprig of shillela and shamrock so green.

Shortly before this period, chance had frequently thrown him into the society of a young man from the South of Ireland, whose bold port and active habits had endeared him much to the unsophisticated Clift. These were the qualities our hero admired; but others discovered in him, beside a powerful and context frame, an intellectual countenance - a broad expansive forehead - an eye to fascinate, to threaten, or command - a smile to win the hearts of all beholders, and a brow whose frown ensured submission. He was ostensibly a pupil at a very extensive and justly celebrated classical seminary, conducted by a Mr Murphy - a name, as a linguist, familiar in every locality in Ireland. The habits of the young man were as singular as his appearance was striking. Reserved, or rather dignified, in his demeanour to those who might be considered his equals, he was easy of access to all his inferiors; but, with a word, could check anything approaching to rude or vulgar familiarity. He was studious beyond the usual custom of young men; yet would he frequently relinquish his Greek and Latin for active exercises, and mix, with the freedom of good nature and good breeding, in all the sports of the peasantry. It was remarked, however, that on these occasions the Clift was his chief associate.

He was soon distinguished in all the surrounding districts as superior to any of his mates ("barrin' Hudy") at leaping, wrestling, fencing, and throwing the stone; and him even he excelled at football, the favorite pastime of his own County Cork. Possessing such qualifications, his attachment to Hudy was a matter of surprise; yet such was the influence of his mild manners on the minds of his intimates that his strange and marked preference created no pain - originated no jealous or unworthy feeling. He was certainly deemed proud; yet his singularly modest and affable deportment not only disarmed envy, but procured him the love and esteem of all with whom, in his reserved intercourse, he condescended to hold communion. Need it be repeated that thus he had gained a mastery over the minds of all his companions; or that he had become the object almost of the Clift's adoration?

The world knew him by the name of Richard Keating; but in our hero's phraseology he was distinguished by the more familiar and endearing title of "Dick darlin'". As time rolled on, the friendship of the parties increased. A closer intimacy served only to develop new excellencies in each other's character. Keating loved the Clift for his wild diablerie; his pungent replies; his cool biting sarcasm; and sought to attach him for motives that may hereafter unfold themselves. The Clift loved Keating - he really could not tell why; though we are inclined to opine that it was because he had found a master spirit that could draw him out and mould him to its purposes, and to which, without taking the trouble of inquiring wherefore, he unwittingly did homage. Thus, he loved him because that he loved him; and though he had a kindness for many, yet his affection, strong, deep, concetrated affection like woman's first love - which Sheridan Knowles not unaptly dignifies with the name of adoration - was reserved for one alone, and that one the young Corkonian.

It were useless to enter into an analysis of our hero's heart, or descant upon those sensations which, for being pent up, were not only the fiercer, but the truer and more enduring; particularly as he is not to be blamed if his philanthropic feelings were not so expansive as those of Jeremy Bentham - whew! that name has just "popp'd in" like Paul Pry, to disturb the current of our reflections. Well, be it so: we can afford a passing tribute to departed worth. Yes, Bentham - sincerely do we venerate thy memory: for does not the ameliorating spirit of thy philosophy command our love, our admiration, yea almost our very adoration. There is something so benevolent in all thy thoughts; there is such a racy and simple grace in thy style; there is something, nay everything, so philanthropic, so expansive, so all-grasping, in thy views - so fascinating and humanizing in thy principles, that we cannot and would not, if we could, avoid according thee the most honored niche in the temple dedicated to "all the philosophers".

Yet, let lunatics rave at will, our affairs, notwithstanding all their foam, are still sublunary, and he whose superior intellect can soften the ills which afflict humanity is a public benefactor; and, entertaining this opinion, we add: let cynics snarl as they may at systems which their jealousy, prejudice or pride may please to condemn, utility is after all the great end and aim of our earthly undertakings, and he who is insensible to the extensive influence of this one great spring of action should, with Dogberry in the play, "be written down an ass" - or, if it please Blackwood better, a goose. What a glorious occupation is it for a human being, with the love of his kind glowing in his breast, to be ever contemplating and contriving the means of procuring "the greatest possible good for the greatest possible number, at the smallest possible expense"! and this, it will not be denied, is the proud and praiseworthy object of the Utilitarian philosophy. Who would not be the originator of such a system? but alas! for the unhealthy constitution of society. Alas! that the state of the world is what it is, and not what it ought to be. Alas! that Bentham's views do not more generally prevail - and alas! alas! that there should be less plain matter of fact in them than the paintings of a fervid fancy.

"The greatest quantity of good for the greatest possible number" &c.! How far from the way of the world! Pooh! the very reverse is the governing principle - that is, the greatest possible good for the fewest possible number, and that is number one! Do you dispute our position? - then, as a solitary fact is better than a thousand homilies, we pray you to answer one fair question: "Were you ever at Moneymore fair?" - for that is the ground on which our practical views of life, if not our abstract systems of philosophy, are triumphantly borne out, and where Bentham's imaginings, if not contemptuously sneered at, are treated with the chilling coldness of neglect. Oh yes! that is the ground where the old principle "every man for himself" is brought into full play; which principle, being interpreted, meaneth in the vernacular tongue neither more nor less than simple selfishness.

But were you ever at Moneymore fair? because if you were not, Hudy McGuigan was, a hundred and a hundred times, and that serves as well for the establishing of our position; and we make no doubt that thousands will agree with us in the belief that his presence contributed quite as much to the fun and frolic, the wild hilarity, and the glorious splores concomitant with such scenes, as any, even the most mirth-loving, of our readers and his admirers. Yes to-be-sure, and why not? Hudy McGuigan constantly attended Moneymore fair, and need it be said that he was beyond question the best known, most admired, and most generally courted character in the gathering, composed though it was of "keen hooks" and "odd fishes" of English, Scotch and Irish extraction. Not a drover ever came into the green but knew all the ins and outs about him; nor ever did horse-jockey, whether of foreign or domestic growth, visit this celebrated mart twice, without becoming familiarly acquainted with his striking personal appearance, his athletic frame, his wild pranks, and above all his extraordinary equestrian exploits - but naboclish.

It happened one fine summer morning (and of all days in the year it was on the 21st of July) as Hudy was riding leisurely to the fair, chaunting a ditty, carelessly twirling Black Bess, and bringing his darling little mare Shela gently into wind, that he overtook his old friend Keating within some three miles of the town. Delighted with the chance, he sung out -

"Arrah Dick, ye divil's darlin', is that you?"

"Don't ye see it is, ye omadhon," was the courteous reply, given in a deep mellow Munster accent.

"And where are ye bound for ma bouchal?"

"For the fair, to-be-sure, to see what kind of metal you Northerns are made of."

"Augh shure we'll be proud to plaise ye then; but by the powers Mr Murphy'll pay ye for yer thraike, ma bouchal bawn; the divil a lave he gave ye. Faix I know him in the ould! Murdher! but the wig'll suffer when he misses ye."

"Well to tell the thruth, the divil a lave I asked, Mr Bladderchaps; but if there should come a reckonin' hereafther, we'll have a spree in the manetime."

"Och by dad ye're the mark for my money. Whew, yer sowl! if ye stick into my skirts this day, we'll kick up a dacent stramash anyhow! Bad luck to the two in the fair we couldn't bate at any exercise, do ye mind."

"Well divil-skin, I see you're set upon mischief; but if you could keep within any kind of dacent bounds, and not get into one of your mad vagaries, I might be coaxed to lend ye a hand."

"Whew, yer sowl! here goes then. Maybe I won't tie some fellow's hair nate before sunset, do ye mind."

With such improving conversation the two friends beguiled the tedium of the road; and as they had started betimes, they arrived at Moneymore at an early hour. No public business had as yet commenced; and, both dreading the paralyzing inflictions of ennui, half an hour found them at the outskirts of the town, mixing with a group of kindred spirits: hurling the bar, heaving the shoulder-stone, leaping, wrestling - and invariably bearing away the laurels. Hudy's powers in all these exercises were too well known for any rival to attempt a trial of strength with him - the weight of the work was consequently left to Keating. He had been hitherto victorious in all the games, but a celebrated hand at the drawing-stone now challenged him to the contest.

"I say Dick darlin', mind yerself; by my sowl he's an able hook - he has a shoulder-blade like a horse, and throws clane an' well, by the powers!"

"Never mind, Hudy - I stand on pretty sure ground - this happens to be the very exercise at which I most excel."

"Sthrip to it then, ma bouchal, for by my sowl ye'll have more to do nor a dish to wash - mind, I tell ye."

Keating was triumphant; his cast exceeded that of the challenger's by a yard. Delighted by the success of his friend, our hero gave a bound and a wild shout that made the welkin ring. The sports had naturally attracted some stragglers; and among the rest a "bonny Scot", dressed jockey-wise, who, with folded arms and much gravity of mien, stood like a sullen statue gazing upon the proceedings. The peculiar features of his countrymen were well and strongly defined in the countenance of this Solomon. In addition, his mouth was remarkably coarse, his cheek bones unusually high - and his nose less resembled the beak of an owl than the snout of an English bull-dog. 'Twas an aspiring nose, and in conjunction with a supercilious upward glance of the eye told of a haughty soul. Supplemental to these ungainly traits, a strong curl on his lip rendered him the very impersonation of scorn.

Hudy had marked the bearing of this genius. Like William Penn with the creditor, he "saw him, but verily he did not like him"; yet he could not refrain from accosting him. He was just either a fine subject for a quarrel, or a butt for a few cutting sarcasms. With an arch leer in his eye our hero approached, and drily invited him to try his sleight in the game.

"Na," was the snappish reply.

The Clift eyed him with delight; he saw he was his victim, and laughing most ludicrously and insultingly in his face, he replied,

"Do ye know the raison why? Becase ye nivir got the grub to touch at that throw."

Sawney perfectly shoved off his centre of gravity - angrily exclaimed -

"I'll lay ye twunty shillin's that I beat ony man in the crowd!"

"Done, by my sowl!" and off flew the great-coat and shoes.

"Dick darlin' have ye any money?"

"Divil a cross but one solitary hog."

"Augh blood-an-oundhers, what will I do?"

And the Clift's countenance became as blank as a clean sheet of paper.

The wily Scot perceived at a glance the hopeless state of his opponent's monetary affairs, and called out boldly -

"Down wi' yur siller if ye be a man!"

But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. A woebegone look was the only reply; and with all the tact of his nation, "just in the nick of time" he marched off in triumph, sneering bitterly, and leaving Hudy quite crest-fallen.

Those of our readers who have perused Banim's historical novel entitled "The Boyne Water" will no doubt bear in recollection the character of the Munster whisperer, and the feats attributed to him in taming the wildest horse by merely whispering something in his ear. Now with every respect to the author, we consider the whole account in relation to that extraordinary genius as pure fag - a word, by the way, quite as expressive, and at the same time as difficult of translation as the French have found Goldsmith's "Fudge". Yet notwithstanding our scepticism on this point, we know that such powers have been supposed to exist in many parts of the world. Every person who has read natural history is familiar with the habits of the Laplander, who is said to direct his reindeer by whispering his instructions in its ear. The faculty [HERE abruptly ends the 1841 booklet] has never been recorded by the natural historians of Ireland; and becase why? We refer the reader once again to our repeated refrain: "But were you ever at Moneymore fair?".

Resuming his coat and shoes, the baffled Quarterclift moved off with young Keating towards the fair-hill, which was now beginning to exhibit goodly signs of a great show of cattle. When wounded in spirit, as in the present case, or when planning revenge, as he just then was, it was Hudy's custom to remain silent, or merely give vent to his cogitations through incoherent murmurings - and under the present gloom an intelligible word couldn't be heard out of his lips for some minutes; but a change soon came over the spirit of his dream, evidenced by a joyous spring, and a "Whew, yer sowls! the sun's not set yet!"

"Bad luck to you for an omadhon, sure we all know that," said his free-and-easy companion.

"Bido hocht, Dick jewel. Naboclish! By my sowl he's in for it. I'll sell Shela before an hour, and to that same chap too - so here goes!" and off he darted without deigning any further explanation.

In a few minutes after, he appeared, mounted, with a halter (the signal for sale) round Shela's neck; and up and down the fair-hill he rattled the little mare in prime style. His eye was upon Sawney who, attracted and delighted by the superior gaits of the fine little animal, was determined to take a bid at her. With much sagacity the Quarterclift marked the proper time, and began carelessly patting his "little beauty". The jockey, with all the cunning of his craft and the superadded subtlety of his country, approached, examined the mare's mouth, then the different points so well known to horse dealers; and, arching his brow and curling his lip, he inquired in rather a slighting tone,

"Wha sells the wee powny?"

Hudy threw a knowing glance to Dick, and replied, "In thrath then it's myself."

Never dreaming that he was proprietor, and therefore rather astonished at the reply, the Scot could not repress the bile, but with added contempt further asked,

"And wha larnt ye to sell pownies?"

"That's a civil question, and desarves a civil answer - it was the man I bought them from."

"Varra weel - I suppose that's what ye ca' Irish wit."

"In thrath I don't know; but I could tell you what I understand by Scotch impudence."

The laugh was against Sawney; but he silenced it by coolly asking the price of the mare.

"Will I be at a word?"

"Aye, to be sure; there's nae use in losing time."

"Then sixteen guineas, and divil a toss less."

"Hech mon! ye ken brawly how to ax a price - will ye warrant her sound o' wun an' limb?"

"Aye, by the powers! as sound as a throut."

"Will ye tak ten for the bit thing?"

"Bah! you're not my man." And with a hand on her wither he sprung on Shela's back, gave a peculiar little whistle, and "the little beauty" darted off with a bound that fairly surprised the Scot.

"Preserve's, the callant's gaen wud! - but it's a braw bit powny, na'theless."

It wasn't long till Hudy crossed him again.

"I say lad, will ye tak my bid?"

"Botheration! Bad luck to the bit of her ye want."

"Aye, but I tell ye I do. I'll gie ye twal' pun for the shilty."

"The divil a cross less than sixteen guineas."

"Hand your hand," and he struck the Clift's palm with half-a-guinea: "there's fourteen pun for her."

"The divil pun ye that day! bad luck to the hair in her tail's not worth more money."

"Weel then, do ye engage her sound?"

"Aye, as sound as a throut seven days out of the wather."

"Oh but I tell you that won't do."

"Ah blood-an-oundhers man, stand out of the way! have ye the use of your eyes?" and he headed the mare to the pound-wall. "Now for it, Shela." A dash of the spurs, a wild cheer, and over she went.

"Preserve's," said the Scot, "a gallant wee thing;" and before he could change the direction of his eye, Shela and her rider were at his side again.

"Is she sound of wind now, do you think? Could unsound limbs carry her and me over that five-feet wall, do you think?"

The Scot was fascinated; and what's more, with all his self-sufficiency, completely outwitted by an Irish Quarterclift.

"Hand your hand," said he eagerly; "I'll gie ye yer ain axin, only I'll expec' a decent luckpenny;" and he deposited half-a-guinea in the sly one's hand.

Dick Keating was present at the bargain; and, boiling with rage, he whispered in Hudy's ear, "Bad luck to you for an omadhon! what tempted you to part with the little mare?"

"Bido hocht, Dick darlin'! she's not far away yet; she'll nivir snuff Scotch air;" and with what is generally called a significant wink he turned to his customer, and left his old friend in the dark.

"And now," said the Caledonian, in high spirits, "ye can just deliver the bit thing to me, and I'll pay you down the cash."

"In thrath and that I will;" and in due form he caught Shela by the ear, but in the act whispered something that no person heard, and probably none could understand. Sawney received her by the same organ; but as if with instinctive horror she shrunk from his touch; her whole frame seemed to shudder; she staggered - fell to the earth, and stretched her late active limbs as if in death.

Completely taken aback, the jockey exclaimed, "Preserve's sir, ye hae killed the creature."

Hudy affected a blank look. The mare kicked as if in great agony.

Dick stood perfectly petrified; but the Clift, with powers of face inimitable, enjoyed the scene. At last he exclaimed, with a visage that would do honour to the rich humour of a Power -

"Och blood-an-oundhers Dick darlin' what can ail her? - What has come over her?"

"Give me back my half-guinea sir," said the Scot.

"No, by the powers, it's too little for poor Shela. - Bad luck to ye for a Scotch warlock! you have an evil eye in your head - you have blinked my beauty - what a pity I hadn't got all the money in time. Thonomondeoul! I'll summon you before the justice."

The Scot perceived that our hero was taking the whip-hand of him; and not wishing to be beaten at his own game, exclaimed in wrath -

"Give me back my half-guinea, sir, this moment, or I'll trounce you upon the spot."

"Will you, by my sowl?" Off flew the great-coat - "Hould that, Dick;" and throwing himself into pugilistic position à la Belcher, there he stood, as fine a specimen of Irish muscle and sinew as ever peeled in "the fives court" or on his own darling green sod, not excepting either Jack Langan or a better man, and that was "Sir Dan Donnelly, knight and baron-knight".

Sawney saw he had caught a Tartar, and he stood in dogged gloom; but it was not to end there, for Hudy, with one of his most gleesome springs, called out to him, "Come on now, 'ten-toes', and the first fall for half-a-guinea - sure I have money to make a bet wid ye now," and he laughed in the fellow's pale face; "come on, I say, and bad luck to me if I don't make you fall faster than fifty would lift you!"

The Scot quailed; but wrapping himself up in the mantle of his national philosophy, and that's what Shakespeare calls "the better part of valour", he stalked off - content, under existing circumstances, to lose his half-guinea, and muttering for his further consolation the well-known valuable adage -

O' twa evils choose the less.

Hudy saw the movement of his customer with some feeling of regret, and called out to him, "Come back man, let us have one round, and bad scran to me but I'll give you the half-guinea;" but it wouldn't do. "Then start to your bathers, my beauty," and, to the delight and astonishment of Dick Keating, up sprung Shela, in perfect health, sound of wind and limb.

"Well bad luck to you for an omadhon, but that thrick bates Banagher," exclaimed Dick; "by the powers you're more knave than fool after all!"

"Didn't I do him nate, Dick darlin'? - and isn't Shela the jewel of a baste? Come, by my sowl, we'll have a spree at the bauchon's expense;" and away they went with some other friends, to ring the changes in an alehouse.

This page was last updated 7 Nov 2018