LETTER IV.

Loss of a Waiter.-Precocious talent.-The Mad Major and the Mendicants of Mullingar. -Cursing an Adjutant.— Death of Denis O'Farrell.

IT was noon when I arose the inmates of the Mitre were still in exquisite confusion. Breakfast, after much delay, was provided by the agency of the housemaid. She apologized for the nonattendance of the waiter, at present a patient in the Infirmary; he having in the course of the entertainment, been ejected from the window by a pleasant gentleman of Loughrea.

Anxious to be off as soon as possible, I ordered the horses to; an unforeseen difficulty, however, occurred in removing my luggage to the carriage-the door was blocked up four deep by a gang of beggars. With relation to the sizes of the respective places, the lazaroni of Naples are far outnumbered by the mendicants of Tuam. A trace broke at starting, and

enabled me to form a pretty correct idea of this multitude. I reckoned to fifty-seven, and then became confused. Although beset on every side, I was proof against importunity, and refused parting with a sixpence. Cursing was next tried, and to the curious in that accomplishment, I would suggest a week's residence at the Mitre. One boy, a cripple in a dish, excelled the united talent of the remainder. English and Irish epithets were with him common as household words." He used both languages with surpassing fluency, and there was an originality of conception in his style of execration, which was, what the cockneys call, most refreshing.

This precocious prodigy could not be much above fifteen; and, if he lives, will in this peculiar department of national eloquence be without a parallel. I have "erst while" passed through Billingsgate, when the fair inhabitants betrayed symptoms of irritation-I have heard hackney-coachmen cursing at a crowded opera over a fractured pannel or broken pole—I have listened to a score of watermen squabbling for a fare at Westminster-bridge-I have been on board a transport in a gale of wind, with an irreligious commander; but, Tuam for ever! there cursing is perfection.

Mine, George, is but a rambling narrative.

My details, however interesting, lay no claim to the lucidus ordo; and I reserve full liberty from the start, to bolt into digressions when I please.

Of the many anecdotes that I have heard my father narrate of his friend the Mad Major, one was particularly characteristic.

When the gallant 50th were removed to Mullingar, it was supposed that this town produced a greater number of beggars than any in the King's dominions—a swarm of paupers rendered the streets almost impassable, and ingress or egress to or from a shop was occasionally impracticable. Now beggars were to the Mad Major an abomination; and for two days he ensconced himself in his lodgings, rather than encounter the mendicants of Mullingar. Confinement will increase bile, and bile may induce gout; and at last, wearied of captivity, he sallied forth, and to every application for relief he specified an early day, requesting the numerous supplicants to be punctual to the appointed time. His wish was faithfully attended to, and on the expected morning, the street where he resided was literally blocked up. The Major, under a volley of blessings, appeared at the hall-door. "Are you all here ?" he enquired in accents of the tenderest compassion. All, your honour,-all, young and owld!" responded a big beggar-man. "We're

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all here, Colonel, avorneen!" exclaimed a red virago, "but my own poor man, Brieney Bokkogh;* and he, the crater, fell into the fire a Sunday night, and him hearty, and sorrow stir he can make good nor bad." "Ah, then," said the humane Commander, "why should poor Brien be left out? Arrah! run yourself, and bring the cripple to us!" In a twinkling, off went the red virago, and after a short absence, issued from a neighbouring lane, with Brieney on her shoulders. "Are ye all here now?" enquired the tender-hearted chieftain. "Every single sowl of us;" said an old woman in reply. Ogh! that the light of heaven may shine on his honour's dying hour, but it's he that's tender to the poor."

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Amen, sweet Jasus!" responded a hundred voices. "Silence!" said

the Mad Major, as he produced a small book

neatly bound in red morocco.

Whisht, your "Are ye lis

sowls!" cried the big beggar-man.

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tening?" "Sha, sha! yes, yes:" was responded in English and Irish. Then, by the contents of this blessed book, and it's the Bible; a rap I wont give one of ye, you infernal vagabonds, if I remained a twelvemonth in Mullingar!" A yell of execrations followed; the Major bore the cursing like a philosopher, and kept his promise like a monk. To the surprise of all, Bryan the Cripple.

VOL. I.

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D

the beggars left the way when he walked out, and absconded from the shop he entered. They crossed themselves devoutly if they encountered him, unexpectedly, at a corner, adjuring the Lord to "stand between them, the Mad Major, and the Devil!"

Apropos to cursing;-the late Sir Charles Asgill told a story of this eccentric personage. During the time the 50th remained in Ireland, the Colonel was mostly absent from ill health, and the command of course devolved upon the Major. By one of the military abuses at that time too common, a little Scotch Doctor, who had somehow been appointed Adjutant to a Fencible regiment, was transferred from it to the 50th. Incompetent from professional inability, he was farther afflicted by a constitutional nervousness, that made him badly calculated to come in contact with such a personage as the Mad Major.

Shortly after the little Scotsman joined, the half-yearly inspection took place. Major O'Farrell, in the course of his evolutions, found it requisite to deploy into line, and called to his field-assistant "to take an object." "Have you got one?" cried the Commander, in a voice of thunder. 66 Yes, Sir," replied the alarmed Adjutant, in a feeble squeak. The word was given, and the right wing kept moving, until