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_ ACT I - SCENE III
The Kitchen of the Inn.
Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER and CHRISTY GALLAGHER.
Boys and Men belonging to the Band, in the back Scene.
Christy.
(to the band)
The girl's coming as fast as possible to get yees your dinners, jantlemen,
and sorrow better dinner than she'll give you: you'll get all instantly
--(To Miss GALLAGHER)
And am not I telling you, Florry, that the drum-major did not come
in yet at all, but went out through the town, to see and get a billet
and bed for the sick man they've got.
[Enter BIDDY, stops and listens.]
Miss G.
I wonder the major didn't have the manners to step in,
and spake to the lady first--was he an Irishman, he would.
Biddy.
Then it's my wonder he wouldn't step in to take his dinner first--was he an Englishman, he would. But it's lucky for me and for him he didn't, becaase he couldn't, for it won't be ready this three-quarters of an hour--only the Scotch broth, which boiled over.
[BIDDY retires, and goes on cooking.
--CHRISTY fills out a glass of spirits to each of the band.]
Miss G.
Since the major's not in it, I'll not be staying here--for here's only riff-raff triangle and gridiron boys, and a black-a-moor, and that I never could stand; so I'll back into the room. Show the major up, do you mind, father, as soon as ever he'd come.
Christy.
Jantlemen all! here's the king's health, and confusion worse confounded to his enemies, for yees; or if ye like it better, here's the plaid tartan and fillibeg for yees, and that's a comprehensive toast--will give ye an appetite for your dinners.
[They drink in silence.]
Miss G.
Did ye hear me, father?
Christy.
Ay, ay.--Off with ye!
[Exit Miss GALLAGHER, tossing back her head.
--CHRISTY pours out a glass of whiskey for himself,
and with appropriate graces of the elbow and little finger,
swallows it, making faces of delight.]
Christy.
Biddy! Biddy, girl, ye!
--See the pig putting in his nose--keep him out--can't ye?
Biddy.
Hurrush! hurrush!
(Shaking her apron.)
Then that pig's as sinsible as any Christian,
for he'd run away the minute he'd see me.
Christy.
That's manners o' the pig.--Put down a power more turf, Biddy:--see the jantlemen's gathering round the fire, and has a right to be could in their knees this St. Patrick's day in the morning--for it's March, that comes in like a lion.
[The band during this speech appear to be speaking to BIDDY.
--She comes forward to CHRISTY.]
Christy.
What is it they are whispering and conjuring, Biddy?
Biddy.
'Twas only axing me, they were, could they all get beds the night in it.
Christy.
Beds! ay can yees, and for a dozen more--only the room above is tinder in the joists, and I would not choose to put more on the floor than two beds, and one shake-down, which will answer for five; for it's a folly to talk,--I'll tell you the truth, and not a word of lie. Wouldn't it be idle to put more of yees in the room than it could hold, and to have the floor be coming through the parlour ceiling, and so spoil two good rooms for one night's bad rest, jantlemen?--Well, Biddy, what is it they're saying?
Biddy.
They say they don't understand--can they have beds or not?
Christy.
Why, body and bones! No, then, since nothing else will they comprehend,
--no,--only five, say,--five can sleep in it.
[The band divide into two parties,
--Five remain, and the others walk off in silence.]
Biddy.
And it's into the room you'd best walk up,
had not yees, five jantlemen, that sleep?
[The five walk into the parlour--CHRISTY preparing to follow, carrying whiskey bottle and, jug--turns back, and says to BIDDY,]
Is it dumb they are all? or innocents?
Biddy.
Not at all innocents, no more than myself nor yourself. Nor dumb neither, only that the Scotch tongue can't spake English as we do.
Christy.
Oh! if that's all,
after dinner the whiskey punch will make 'em spake, I'll engage.
[Exit CHRISTY.]
Biddy.
'Tis I that am glad they've taken themselves away, for there's no cooking with all the men in the fire.
[Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE, Drum-major.]
Mr. H.
A gude day to you, my gude lassy.
Biddy.
The same to you, sir, and kindly. I beg your pardon for not knowing--would it be the drum-major, sir?
Mr. H.
No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major. I met some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they could not have beds here.
Biddy.
No, sir, plase your honour, only five that's in the room yonder: if you'd be plased to walk up, and you'll get your dinner immediately, your honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour.
Mr. H.
No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the
beds for my poor fellows, that has had a sair march.
Biddy.
Why then, if your honour would take a fool's advice, you'd not be looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner--since, good or bad, all the looking at 'em in the wide world won't mend 'em one feather, sure.
Mr. H.
My gude girl, that's true. Still I'd like ever to face the worst.
Biddy.
Then it's up that ladder you'll go.
Mr. H.
No stairs?
Biddy.
Oh, there are stairs--but they are burnt and coming down,
and you'll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the
little holes in the floor, if you plase, your honour.
[Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks,
and goes into the bedchamber above.]
BIDDY, sola.
Well, I'm ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner's
reviewing our house, though I'm only the girl in it, and no ways answerable.
It frets me for my country forenent them Scotch and English.
(Mr. HOPE descends the ladder.)
Then I'm sorry it's not better for your honour's self, and men. But there's a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this town; and if you return this way, I hope things will be more agreeable and proper. But you'll have no bad dinner, your honour, any way;--there's Scotch broth, and Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon, and a turkey, and a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and pratees the best, and well boiled; and I hope, your honour, that's enough for a soldier's dinner, that's not nice.
Mr. H.
Enough for a soldier's dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and more than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me, have you no one to help you here, to dress all this?
Biddy.
Sorrow one, to do a hand's turn for me but myself, plase your honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to any thing in life: but she's in the room there within, beyond, if you would like to see her--a fine lady she is!
Mr. H.
A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to see her,--and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved as my life; and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road to the north, and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he charged me, puir lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me in Bannow, to inquire for his gude friends at the inn, and to return them his thanks; and so I'm fain to do, and will not sleep till I've done so.--But tell me first, my kind lassy,--for I see you are a kind lassy,--tell me, has not this house had a change of fortune, and fallen to decay of late? for the inn at Bannow was pictured to me as a bra' neat place.
Biddy.
Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it?
Mr. H. The Larkens!--that was the very name: it warms my heart to hear the sound of it.
Biddy. Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk, in their time,--and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these Gallaghers.
Mr. H. And what has become of the Larkens, I pray?
Biddy.
They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a snug little place of a cabin--that is, the Widow Kelly.
Mr. H.
Kelly!--but I am looking for Larken.
Biddy.
Oh, Larken! that's Kelly: 'tis all one--she was a Kelly before she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden's name throughout.
Mr. H.
The same in our country--often.
Biddy.
Indeed! and her daughter's name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an ould song of Mabel Kelly--Planxty Kelly. Then the present Mabel is as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was--but I must mind the pratees. (She goes to lift a pot off the fire.)
Mr. H.
Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong haund.
Biddy.
I thank your honour,--it's too much trouble entirely for a jantleman like you; but it's always the best jantleman has the laste pride.--Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love 'em, root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there's Owen the son, and as good a son he is--no better! He got an edication in the beginning, till the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the child, for it's bare fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and prospects, the cratur! to come home and slave for his mother.
Mr. H.
Ah, that's weel--that's weel!
I luve the lad that makes a gude son.--And is the father deed?
Biddy.
Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just upon that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that is now at the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died, see!--Then there was new times and new takes, and the widow was turned out of the inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and to rack; for Mrs. Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave unknownst, for it was by herself in private she took it; and Christy Gallagher, the present man, is doing the same, only publicly, and running through all, and the house is tumbling over our ears: but he hopes to get the new inn; and if he does, why, he'll be lucky--and that's all I know, for the dinner is done now, and I'm going in with it--and won't your honour walk up to the room now?
Mr. H.
(going to the ladder)
Up here?
Biddy.
Oh, it's not up at all, your honour, sure! but down here
--through this ways.
Mr. H.
One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all dined, and you shall have ta'en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you, if you be not then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of Bannow, whereat this Widow Larken's cottage is.
Biddy.
With all the pleasure in life, if I had not a fut to stand upon.
[Exit Mr. HOPE.--BIDDY follows with a dish smoking hot.]
Biddy.
And I hope you'll find it an iligant Scotch hash, and there's innions plinty--sure the best I had I'd give you; for I'm confident now he's the true thing--and tho' he is Scotch, he desarves to be Irish, every inch of him.
[Exit BIDDY DOYLE.] _
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