Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

“She’s in a sweet temper, this evening,” whispered another, as we passed. “The Polis was here a while ago, and took up ‘Danny White,’ and threatened to break up the whole establishment.”

“The devil a thing at all they’ll lave us of our institushuns,” said a bow-legged little blackguard, with the ‘Evening Freeman’ written round his hat; for he was an attaché of that journal.

“Ould Betty was crying all the evening,” said the former speaker; by this time we had gained the side of the fireplace, where the old lady sat.

“Mother! mother, I say!” cried my guide, touching her elbow gently; then, stooping to her ear, he added, “Mother Betty!”

“Eh! Who’s callin’ me?” said the hag, with her hand aloft. “I’m here, my Lord, neither ashamed nor afeard to say my name.”

“She’s wanderin’,” cried another; “she thinks she’s in Coort.”

“Betty Cobbe! I say. It’s me!” said my introducer, once more.

The old woman turned fiercely round, and her dimmed and glassy eyes, bloodshot from excess and passion, seemed to flare up into an angry gleam as she said, “You dirty thief! Is it you that’s turnin’ informer agin me, – you that I took up – out of yer mother’s arms, in Green Street, when she fainted at the cutting down of yer father? Your father,” added she, “that murdered old Meredith!”

The boy, a hardened and bold-featured fellow, became lividly pale, but never spoke.

“Yes, my Lord,” continued she, still following the theme of her own wild fancies, “it’s James Butterley’s boy! Butterley that was hanged!” and she shook and rocked with a fiendish exultation at the exposure.

“Many of us does n’t know what bekem of our fathers!” said a sly-looking, old-fashioned creature, whose height scarcely exceeded two feet, although evidently near manhood in point of age.

“Who was yours, Mickey?” cried another.

“Father Glynn, of Luke Street,” growled out the imp, with a leer.

“And yours?” said another, dragging me forward, directly in front of Betty.

“Con Cregan, of Kilbeggan,” said I, boldly.

“Success to ye, ma bouchal!” said the old hag; “and so you ‘re a son of Con the informer.” She looked sternly at me for a few seconds, and then, in a slower and more deliberate tone, added, “I ‘m forty years, last Lady Day, living this way, and keepin’ company with all sorts of thieves, and rogues, and blaguards, and worse, – ay, far worse besides; but may I never see Glory if an informer, or his brat, was under the roof afore!”

The steadfast decision of look and voice as she spoke seemed to impress the bystanders, who fell back and gazed at me with that kind of shrinking terror which honest people sometimes exhibit at the contact of a criminal.

During the pause of some seconds, while this endured, my sense of abject debasement was at the very lowest. To be the Pariah of such a society was indeed a most distinctive infamy.

“Are ye ashamed of yer father? Tell me that!” cried the hag, shaking me roughly by one shoulder.

“It is not here, and before the like of these,” said I, looking round at the ragged, unwashed assemblage, “that I should feel shame! or if I did, it is to find myself among them!”

“That’s my boy! that’s my own spirited boy!” cried the old woman, dragging me towards her. “Faix, I seen the time we ‘d have made somethin’ out of you. Howld yer tongues, ye vagabonds! the child’s right, – yer a dirty mean crew! Them!” said she, pointing to me, “them was the kind of chaps I used to have, long ago; that was n’t afeard of all the Beresfords, and Major Sirr, and the rest of them. Singing every night on Carlisle Bridge, ‘The Wearin’ of the Green,’ or ‘Tra-lal-la, the French is coming;’ and when they wor big and grown men, ready and willing to turn out for ould Ireland. Can you read, avick?”

“Yes, and write,” answered I, proudly.

“To be sure ye can,” muttered she, half to herself; “is it an informer’s child, – not know the first rules of his trade!”

“Tear and ages, mother!” cried out the decrepit imp called Mickey, “we ‘re starvin’ for the meat!”

“Sarve it up!” shouted the hag, with a voice of command; and she gave three knocks with her crutch on the corner of the table.

Never was command more promptly obeyed. A savory mess of that smoking compound called “Irish stew” was ladled out on the trenchers, and speedily disposed around the table, which at once was surrounded by the guests, – a place being made for myself by an admonitory stroke of Betty’s crutch on the red head of a very hungry juvenile who had jostled me in his anxiety to get near the table.

Our meal had scarcely drawn to its close when the plates were removed, and preparations made for a new party; nor had I time to ask the reason, when a noisy buzz of voices without announced the coming of a numerous throng. In an instant they entered; a number of girls, of every age, from mere child to womanhood, – a ragged, tattered, reckless-looking set of creatures, whose wild, high spirits not even direst poverty could subdue. While some exchanged greetings with their friends of the other sex, others advanced to talk to Betty, or stood to warm themselves around the fire, until their supper, a similar one to our own, was got ready. My curiosity as to whence they came in such a body was satisfied by learning that they were employed at the “Mendicity Institution” during the day, and set free at nightfall to follow the bent of their own, not over well-regulated, tastes. These creatures were the ballad-singers of the city; and, sometimes alone, sometimes in company with one of the boys, they were wont to take their stand in some public thoroughfare, not only the character of the singer, but the poetry itself, taking the tone of the street; so that while some daring bit of town scandal caught the ears of College Green, a “bloody murder” or a “dying speech” formed the attraction of Thomas Street and the “Poddle.”

Many years afterwards, in the checkered page of my existence, when I have sat at lordly tables and listened to the sharpened wit and polished raillery of the high-born and the gifted, my mind has often reverted to that beggar horde, and thought how readily the cutting jest was answered, how soon repartee followed attack – what quaint fancies, what droll conceits, passed through those brains, where one would have deemed there was no room for aught save brooding guilt and sad repining.

As night closed in, the assembly broke up; some issued forth to their stations as ballad-singers; some, in pure vagabond spirit, to stroll about the streets; while others, of whom I was one, lay down upon the straw to sleep, without a dream, till daylight.

CHAPTER VI. VIEWS OF LIFE

When I woke the next morning, it was a few minutes before I could thoroughly remember where I was and how I came there; my next thought was the grateful one, that if the calling was not a very exaltued one, I had at least secured a mode of living, and that my natural acuteness, and, better still, my fixed resolve within me “to get forward in the world,” would not permit me to pass my days in the ignoble craft of a “horse-boy.” I found that the “walk,” like every other career, had certain guiding rules and principles by which it was regulated. Not only were certain parts of the town interdicted to certain gangs, but it was a recognized rule that when a particular boy was singled out habitually by any gentleman that no other should endeavor to supplant him. This was the less difficult as a perfect community of property was the rule of the order; and all moneys were each night committed to the charge of “old Betty,” with a scrupulous fidelity that would have shamed many a “joint-stock company.”

The regular etiquette required that each youth should begin his career in the north side of the city, where the class of horsemen was of a less distinguished order, and the fees proportionably lower. Thence he was promoted to the Four Courts; from which, as the highest stage, he arrived at Merrion Square and its neighborhood. Here the visitors were either the young officers of the garrison, the Castle officials, or a wealthy class of country gentlemen, all of whom gave sixpences; while in the cold quarter of northern Dublin, penny-pieces were the only currency. If the public differed in these three places, so did the claims of the aspirant: a grave, quiet, almost sombre look being the grand qualification in the one, while an air of daring effrontery was the best recommendation in the other. For while the master in chancery or the “six clerk” would only commit his bobtailed pony to a discreet-faced varlet of grave exterior, the dashing aide-de-camp on his thoroughbred singled out the wild imp with roguish eye and flowing hair, that kept up with him from the barrack in a sharp canter, and actually dived under a carriage-pole and upset an apple-stall to be “up” in time to wait on him; and while yet breathless and blown, was ready with voluble tongue to give him the current news of the neighborhood, – who was in the Square, or out dining; who had arrived, or why they were absent. To do this task with dexterity and tact was the crowning feature of the craft, and in such hasty journalism some attained a high proficiency; seasoning their scandal with sly bits of drollery or quaint allusions to the current topics of the day. To succeed in this, it was necessary to know the leading characters of the town and the circumstances of their private history; and these I set myself to learn with the assiduity of a study. Never did a Bath Master of the Ceremonies devote himself more ardently to the investigation of the faults and foibles of his company; never did young lady, before coming out, more patiently pore over Debrett, than did I pursue my researches into Dublin life and manners; until at last, what between oral evidence and shrewd observation, I had a key to the secret mysteries of nearly every well-known house in the city.

None like me to explain why the father of the dashing family in Stephen’s Green only appeared of a Sunday; how the blinds of No. 18 were always drawn down at three o’clock; and what meant the hackney-coach at the canal bridge every Thursday afternoon. From the gentleman that always wore a geranium leaf in his coat, to the lady who dropped her glove in the Square, I knew them all. Nor was it merely that I possessed the knowledge, but I made it to be felt. I did not hoard my wealth like a miser, but I came forth like a great capitalist to stimulate enterprise and encourage credit. Had I been a malicious spirit, there is no saying what amount of mischief I might have worked, what discoveries anticipated, what awkward meetings effected. I was, however, what the French call a “bon diable,” and most generously took the side of the poor sinner against the strong spirit of right. How many a poor subaltern had been put in arrest for wearing “mufti,” had I not been there to apprise him the town-major White was coming. How often have I saved a poor college-man from a heavy fine, who, with his name on the sick-list, was flirting in the “Square.” How have I hastened, at the risk of my neck, between crashing carriages and prancing horses, to announce to a fair lady lounging in her britzska that the “Counsellor,” her husband, was unexpectedly returning from court an hour earlier than his wont. I have rescued sons from fathers, daughters from mothers; the pupil from his guardian, the debtor from his creditor, – in a word, was a kind of ragged guardian angel, who watched over the peccadilloes of the capital. My “amour propre” – if such an expression of such a quality may be conceded to one like me – was interested in the cause of all who did wrong. I was the Quixote of all deceivers.

With “Con on the look-out,” none feared surprise; and while my shrewdness was known to be first-rate, my honesty was alike unimpeachable. It may readily be believed how, with acquirements and talents like these, I no longer pursued the humble walk of “horse-holder;” indeed, I rarely touched a bridle, or, if I did so, it was only to account for my presence in such localities as I might need an excuse to loiter in. I was at the head of my profession; and the ordinary salutation of the cavaliers, “Con, get me a fellow to hold this mare,” showed that none presumed to expect the ignoble service at my own hands.

To some two or three of my early patrons, men who had noticed me in my obscurity, I would still condescend to yield this attention, – a degree of grateful acknowledgment on my part which they always rewarded most handsomely. Among these was the young officer whose pony I had held on the first night of my arrival. He was an Honorable Captain De Courcy, very well-looking, well-mannered, and very poor, – member of the Commander-in-Chief’s staff, who eked out his life by the aid of his noble birth and his wits together.

At the time I speak of, his visits to Merrion Square were devoted to the cause of a certain Mrs. Mansergh, the young and beautiful wife of an old red-faced, foul-mouthed Queen’s Counsel, at least forty years her senior. The scandal was, that her origin had been of the very humblest, and that, seen by accident on circuit, she had caught the fancy of the old lawyer, a well-known connoisseur in female beauty. However that might be, she was now about two years married, and already recognized as the reigning beauty of the viceregal court and the capital.

The circumstances of her history, – her low origin, her beauty, and the bold game she played, – all invested her with a great interest in my eyes. I used to flatter myself that there was a kind of similarity in at least our early fortunes; and I enlisted myself in her cause with an ardor that I could not explain to myself. How often, as she passed in her splendid barouche, – the best-appointed and handsomest equipage of the capital, – have I watched her as, wrapped in her Cashmere, she reclined in all the voluptuous indolence of her queenly state; glorying to think that she, – she, whose proud glance scarce noticed the obsequious throng that bowed with uncovered heads around her, – that she was perhaps not better nurtured than myself. Far from envious jealousy at her better fortune, I exulted in it; she was a kind of beacon set on a hill to guide and cheer me. I remember well, it was an actual triumph to me one day, as the Viceroy, a gay and dashing nobleman, not overscrupulous where the claim of beauty was present, stopped, with all his glittering staff, beside her carriage, and in playful raillery began to chide her for being absent from the last drawing-room. “We missed you sadly, Mrs. Mansergh,” said he, smiling his most seductive smile. “Pray tell my friend Mansergh that he shows himself a most lukewarm supporter of the Government who denies us the fairest smiles of the capital.”

“In truth, my Lord, he would not give me a new train, and I refused to wear the old one,” said she, laughing.

“Downright disloyalty, upon my honor,” said the Viceroy, with well got-up gravity.

“Don’t you think so, my Lord?” rejoined she; “so I even told him that I ‘d represent the case to your Excellency, who, I ‘m sure, would not refuse a velvet robe to the wife, while you gave a silk gown to the husband.”

“It will be the very proudest of my poor prerogatives,” said he, bowing, while a flash of crimson lit up his pleased features. “Your favorite color is – ”

“I should like to wear your Lordship’s,” said she, with a look the most finished coquette might envy, so admirably blended were trust and timid bashfulness.

What he replied I could not catch. There was a flattering courtesy, however, in his smile, and in the familiar motion of the hand with which he bade “good-bye,” that were enough to show me that he, the haughty mirror of his sovereign, did not think it beneath him to bandy compliments and exchange soft looks with the once humble beauty. From that time out, my whole thoughts day and night were centred in her; and I have passed hours long, fancying all the possible fortunes for which destiny might intend her. It seemed to me as though she was piloting out the course for me in life, and that her success was the earnest of my own. Often, when a ball or a great reception was given by her, have I sat, cold, shivering, and hungry, opposite the house, watching with thrilling interest all the equipages as they came, and hearing the high and titled names called aloud by the servants, and thinking to myself, “Such are her associates now. These great and haughty personages are here to do honor to her, their lovely hostess; and she, but a few years back, if report spoke truly, was scarcely better off than I was – I – myself.”

Only they who have a sanguine, hopeful temperament will be able to understand how the poor houseless, friendless boy – the very outcast of the world, the convict’s child – could ever dare to indulge in such day-dreams of future greatness. But I had set the goal before my eyes; the intermediate steps to it I left to fortune. The noble bearing and polished graces of the high and wealthy, which to my humble associates seemed the actual birthright of the great, I perceived could all be acquired. There was no prescriptive claim in any class to the manners of high breeding; and why should not I, if fortune favored, be as good a gentleman as the best? In other particulars, all that I had observed showed me no wondrous dissimilarity of true feeling in the two classes. The gentleman, to be sure, did not swear like the common fellow; but on the racecourse or the betting-ground I had seen, to the full, as much deceit as ever I witnessed in my “own order.” There was faithlessness beneath Valenciennes lace and velvet as well as beneath brown stuff and check; and a spirit of backbiting, that we ragged folk knew nothing of, seemed a current pastime in better circles.

What, then, should debar me from that class? Not the manners, which I could feign, nor the vices, which I could feel. To be like them, was only to be of them, – such, at least, was then my conviction and my theory.

Any one who will take the pains to reflect on and analyze the mode of thinking I have here mentioned, will see how necessarily it tends rather to depress those above than to elevate those beneath. I did not purpose to myself any education in high and noble sentiments, but simply the performance of a part which I deemed easy to assume. The result soon began to tell. I felt a degree of contemptuous hatred for the very persons I had once revered as almost demigods. I no longer looked up to the “gentleman” as such by right divine, but by accident; and I fostered the feeling by the writings of every radical newspaper I could come at. All the levelling doctrines of socialism, all the plausibilities of equality, became as great truths to me; and I found a most ready aptitude in my mind to square the fruits of my personal observation to these pleasant theories. The one question recurred every morning as I arose, and remained unanswered each night as I lay down, “Why should I hold a horse, and why should another man ride one?” I suppose the difficulty has puzzled wiser heads; indeed, since I mooted it to myself, it has caused some trouble in the world; nor, writing now as I do in the year of grace ‘48, do I suppose the question is yet answered.

I have dwelt perhaps too long on this exposition of my feelings; but as my subsequent life was one of far more action than reflection, the indulgent reader will pardon the prosiness, not simply as explaining the history which follows, but also as affording a small breathing-space in a career where there were few “halts.”

I have said that I began to conceive a great grudge against all who were well off in life, and against none did I indulge this aversion more strongly than “the captain,” my first patron, – almost my only one. Though he had always employed me, – and none ever approached him save myself, – he had never condescended to the slightest act of recognition beyond the tap on my head with his gold-mounted whip, and a significant nod where to lead his pony. No sign of his, no look, no gesture, ever confessed to the fact that I was a creature of his own species, that I had had a share in the great firm which, under the name of Adam and Co., has traded so long and industriously.

If I were sick, or cold, or hungry, it mattered not; my cheek might be sunk with want or care, my rags might drip with rain, or freeze with sleet, – he never noticed them; yet if the wind played too roughly with his Arab’s mane, or the silky tasselled tail, he saw it at once. If her coat stirred with the chill breeze, he would pat and pet her. It was evident enough which had the better existence.

If these thoughts chafed and angered me at first, at least they served to animate and rouse my spirit. He who wants to rise in life must feel the sharp spur of a wrong, – there is nothing like it to give vigor and energy to his motions. When I came to this conclusion, I did not wait long to put the feeling into action; and it was thus – But a new chapter of my life deserves a new chapter of my history.