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CASTLE RICHMOND

door of which was always open, and the passage strewed with damp, dirty straw. On the left-hand side as you entered was a sitting-room, or coffee-room as it was announced to be by an appellation painted on the door. There was but one window to the room, which looked into the street, and was always clouded by a dingy-red curtain. The floor was uncarpeted, nearly black with dirt, and usually half covered with fragments of damp straw brought into it by the feet of customers. A strong smell of hot whisky and water always prevailed, and the straggling mahogany table in the centre of the room, whose rickety legs gave way and came off whenever an attempt was made to move it, was covered by small greasy circles, the impressions of the bottoms of tumblers which had been made by the overflowing tipple. Over the chimney there was a round mirror, the framework of which was bedizened with all manner of would-be gilt ornaments, which had been cracked, and twisted, and mended till it was impossible to know what they had been intended to represent; and the whole affair had become a huge receptacle of dust, which fell in flakes upon the chimney-piece when it was invaded. There was a second table opposite the window, more rickety than that in the centre; and against the wall opposite to the fireplace there was an old sideboard, in the drawers of which Tom, the one-eyed waiter, kept knives and forks, and candle-ends, and bits of bread, and dusters. There was a sour smell, as of old rancid butter, about the place, to which the guests sometimes objected, little inclined as they generally were to be fastidious. But this was a tender subject, and not often alluded to by those who wished to stand well in the good graces of Tom. Many things

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much annoyed Tom; but nothing annoyed him so fearfully as any assertion that the air of the Kanturk Hotel was not perfectly sweet and wholesome.

Behind the coffee-room was the bar, from which Fanny O’Dwyer dispensed dandies of punch and goes of brandy to her father’s customers from Kanturk. For at this, as at other similar public-houses in Irish towns, the greater part of the custom on which the publican depends came to him from the inhabitants of one particular country district. A large four-wheeled vehicle, called a long car, which was drawn by three horses, and travelled over a mountain road at the rate of four Irish miles an hour, came daily from Kanturk to Cork, and daily returned. This public conveyance stopped in Cork at the Kanturk Hotel, and was owned by the owner of that house, in partnership with a brother in the same trade located in Kanturk. It was Mr. O’Dwyer’s business to look after this concern, to see to the passengers and the booking, the oats, and hay, and stabling, while his well-known daughter, the charming Fanny O’Dwyer, took care of the house, and dispensed brandy and whisky to the customers from Kanturk.

To tell the truth, the bar was a much more alluring place than the coffee-room, and Fanny O’Dwyer a more alluring personage than Tom, the one-eyed waiter. This Elysium, however, was not open to all comers — not even to all comers from Kanturk. Those who had the right of entry well knew their privilege; and so also did they who had not. This sanctum was screened off from the passage by a window, which opened upwards conveniently, as is customary with bar-windows; but the window was blinded inside by a red curtain, so that Fan-

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ny’s stool near the counter, her father’s wooden arm-chair, and the old horsehair sofa on which favoured guests were wont to sit, were not visible to the public at large.

Of the up-stair portion of this establishment it is not necessary to say much. It professed to be an hotel, and accommodation for sleeping was to be obtained there; but the well-be- ing of the house depended but little on custom of this class.

Nor need I say much of the kitchen, a graphic description of which would not be pleasing. Here lived a cook, who, together with Tom the waiter, did all that servants had to do at the Kanturk Hotel. From this kitchen lumps of beef, mutton chops, and potatoes did occasionally emanate, all perfumed with plenteous onions; as also did fried eggs, with bacon an inch thick, and other culinary messes too horrible to be thought of. But drinking rather than eating was the staple of this establishment. Such was the Kanturk Hotel in South Main Street, Cork.

It was on a disagreeable, cold, sloppy, raw, winter evening — an evening drizzling sometimes with rain, and sometimes with sleet — that an elderly man was driven up to the door of the hotel on a one-horse car — or jingle, as such conveniences were then called in the south of Ireland. He seemed to know the house, for with his outside coat all dripping as it was he went direct to the bar-window, and as Fanny O’Dwyer opened the door he walked into that warm precinct. There he encountered a gentleman, dressed one would say rather beyond the merits of the establishment, who was taking his ease at full length on Fanny’s sofa, and drinking some hot compound which was to be seen in a tumbler on the chimney-shelf just

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above his head. It was now six o’clock in the evening, and the gentleman no doubt had dined.

‘‘Well, Aby; here I am, as large as life, but as cold as death. Ugh; what an affair that coach is! Fanny, my best of darlings, give me a drop of something that’s best for warming the cockles of an old man’s heart.’’

‘‘A young wife then is the best thing in life to do that, Mr. Mollett,’’ said Fanny, sharply, preparing, however, at the same time some mixture which might be taken more instantaneously.

‘‘The governor’s had enough of that receipt already,’’ said the man on the sofa; or rather the man now off the sofa, for he had slowly arisen to shake hands with the new comer.

This latter person proceeded to divest himself of his dripping greatcoat. ‘‘Here, Tom,’’ said he, ‘‘bring your old Cyclops eye to bear this way, will you. Go and hang that up in the kitchen; not too near the fire now; and get me something to eat: none of your mutton chops; but a beefsteak if there is such a thing in this benighted place. Well, Aby, how goes on the war?’’

It was clear that the elderly gentleman was quite at home in his present quarters; for Tom, far from resenting such impertinence, as he would immediately have done had it proceeded from an ordinary Kanturk customer, declared ‘‘that he would do his honour’s bidding av there was such a thing as a beefsteak to be had anywhere’s in the city of Cork.’’

And indeed the elderly gentleman was a person of whom one might premise, judging by his voice and appearance, that he would probably make himself at home anywhere. He was a hale hearty man, of perhaps sixty years of age, who had cer-

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tainly been handsome, and was even now not the reverse. Or rather, one may say, that he would have been so were it not that there was a low, restless, cunning legible in his mouth and eyes, which robbed his countenance of all manliness. He was a hale man, and well preserved for his time of life; but nevertheless, the extra rubicundity of his face, and certain incipient pimply excrescences about his nose, gave tokens that he lived too freely. He had lived freely; and were it not that his constitution had been more than ordinarily strong, and that constant exercise and exposure to air had much befriended him, those pimply excrescences would have shown themselves in a more advanced stage. Such was Mr. Mollett senior — Mr. Matthew Mollett, with whom it will be soon our fate to be better acquainted.

The gentleman who had slowly risen from the sofa was his son, Mr. Mollett junior — Mr. Abraham Mollett, with whom also we shall become better acquainted. The father has been represented as not being exactly prepossessing; but the son, according to my ideas, was much less so. He also would be considered handsome by some persons — by women chiefly of the Fanny O’Dwyer class, whose eyes are capable of recognizing what is good in shape and form, but cannot recognize what is good in tone and character. Mr. Abraham Mollett was perhaps some thirty years of age, or rather more. He was a very smart man, with a profusion of dark, much-oiled hair, with dark, copious mustachoes — and mustachoes being then not common as they are now, added to his otherwise rakish, vulgar appearance — with various rings on his not wellwashed hands, with a frilled front to his not lately washed

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shirt, with a velvet collar to his coat, and patent-leather boots upon his feet.

Free living had told more upon him, young as he was, than upon his father. His face was not yet pimply, but it was red and bloated; his eyes were bloodshot and protruding; his hand on a morning was unsteady; and his passion for brandy was stronger than that for beefsteaks; whereas his father’s appetite for solid food had never flagged. Those who were intimate with the family, and were observant of men, were wont to remark that the son would never fill the father’s shoes. These family friends, I may perhaps add, were generally markers at billiardtables, head grooms at race-courses, or other men of that sharp, discerning class. Seeing that I introduce these gentlemen to my readers at the Kanturk Hotel, in South Main Street, Cork, it may be perhaps as well to add that they were both Englishmen; so that mistakes on that matter may be avoided.

The father, as soon as he had rid himself of his upper coat, his dripping hat, and his goloshes, stood up with his back to the bar-room fire, with his hands in his trousers-pockets, and the tails of his coat stuck inside his arms.

‘‘I tell you, Aby, it was cold enough outside that infernal coach. I’m blessed if I’ve a morsel of feeling in my toes yet. Why the G don’t they continue the railway on to Cork? It’s as much as a man’s life is worth to travel in that sort of way at this time of the year.’’

‘‘You’ll have more of it then if you intend going out of town to-morrow,’’ said the son.

‘‘Well; I don’t know that I shall. I shall take a day to consider of it I think.’’

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‘‘Consideration be bothered,’’ said Mollett junior; ‘‘strike when the iron’s hot; that’s my motto.’’

The father here turned half round to his son and winked at him, nodding his head slightly towards the girl, thereby giving token that, according to his ideas, the conversation could not be discreetly carried on before a third person.

‘‘All right,’’ said the son, lifting his joram of brandy and water to his mouth; an action in which he was immediately imitated by his father, who had now received the means of doing so from the hands of the fair Fanny.

‘‘And how about a bed, my dear?’’ said Mollett senior; ‘‘that’s a matter of importance too; or will be when we are getting on to the little hours.’’

‘‘Oh, we won’t turn you out, Mr. Mollett,’’ said Fanny; ‘‘we’ll find a bed for you, never fear.’’

‘‘That’s all right then, my little Venus. And now if I had some dinner I’d sit down and make myself comfortable for the evening.’’

As he said this, Fanny slipped out of the room, and ran down into the kitchen to see what Tom and the cook were doing. The Molletts, father and son, were rather more than ordinary good customers at the Kanturk Hotel, and it was politic therefore to treat them well. Mr. Mollett junior, moreover, was almost more than a customer; and for the sake of the son Fanny was anxious that the father should be well treated.

‘‘Well, governor, and what have you done?’’ said the younger man in a low voice, jumping up from his seat as soon as the girl had left them alone.

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‘‘Well, I’ve got the usual remittance from the man in Bucklersbury. That was all as right as a trivet.’’

‘‘And no more than that? Then I tell you what it is; we must be down on him at once.’’

‘‘But you forget that I got as much more last month, out of the usual course. Come, Aby, don’t you be unreasonable.’’

‘‘Bother — I tell you, governor, if he don’t — ‘‘ And then Miss O’Dwyer returned to her sanctum, and the rest of the conversation was necessarily postponed.

‘‘He’s managed to get you a lovely steak, Mr. Mollett,’’ said Fanny, pronouncing the word as though it were written ‘‘steek.’’ ‘‘And we’ve beautiful pickled walnuts; haven’t we, Mr. Aby? and there’ll be kidneys biled’’ (meaning potatoes) ‘‘by the time the ‹steek’s’ ready. You like it with the gravy in, don’t you, Mr. Mollett?’’ And as she spoke she drew a quartern of whisky for two of Beamish and Crawford’s draymen, who stood outside in the passage and drank it at the bar.

The lovely ‘‘steek’’ with the gravy in it — that is to say, nearly raw — was now ready, and father and son adjourned to the next room. ‘‘Well, Tom, my lad of wax; and how’s the world using you?’’ said Mr. Mollett senior.

‘‘There ain’t much difference then,’’ said Tom; ‘‘I ain’t no younger, nor yet no richer than when yer honour left us — and what is’t to be, sir? — a pint of stout, sir?’’

As soon as Mr. Mollett senior had finished his dinner, and Tom had brought the father and son materials for making whisky-punch, they both got their knees together over the fire, and commenced the confidential conversation which Miss O’Dwyer had interrupted on her return to the bar-room.

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