Modern chivalry :: :: University of Virginia Library

THADY O`Connor found a cousin here, Tom Snilloch;
a cousin by the mother's side, a half breed. He
appeared a good deal bloated; which besposke high feeding
and intemperance in drink. The history of this man
was singular. He had been an oastler; or, as it is spelled,
ostler, and pronounced hostler, to a counsellor Otterborn
a man of great eminence in his profession. The
counsellor having to go to attend the courts for some
time, and taking his horse with him, Snilloch, who was
left behind, had no currying to do. But not willing to
be idle, he took possession of the office, and the counsellor's
books. The clients calling, he passed for a partner
and gave advice and took fees. The counsellor returning,
he set up for himself, and said he had studied at
the temple, and practised in the four courts of Dublin.
Business fell into his hands without seeking it, and every
one that had a suit in court were anxious to engage lawyer
Snilloch. He took care not to write out opinions;
for it was not a clear case, that he could write. But he
was what you call an off-hand lawyer; and though his
oratory was not very intelligible, yet it had much pathos,
and was said to be accompanied with the action of Curran.
It was not astonishing, that he ran away with the
whole business from the old counsellor, whom he affected
to undervalue and despise, as one who could speak
nothing but common sense, while what he said was real
law, and had nothing to do with sense. By de holy fader,
he would say, every man can talk sense, but de law
is de ting.

So it was that his reputation grew; and though what
he said, was as unintelligible as a Delphic oracle, yet the
response was as much respected. He purchased lands,
though I cannot say he paid for them: he bought a
house; married a wife; set up a carriage; and had the
judges to dine with him when they came to the circuit,
and sometimes to sup. Who but the great counsellor
Snilloch! He might alter, or withdraw records; make
affidavits for his own use; no question being asked in
the case of a man of such high standing in society.

150

All that the poor counsellor, Otterborn, who was left
starving, could do, was to turn poet. This he did, and
consoled himself with writing a ballad upon Tom. As a
specimen of the border minstrelsey of this time, we give
it here.

A BALLAD, TO THE TUNE OF
“I sing a song of six-pence,
A pocket full of pins.”
TOM RASCAL, OR RASCAL TOM—A BALLAD.
I sing a song of rascal Tom;
Tom rascal, do ye see;
And when you meet a rascal man,
Just sing the song with me.
This Teague not many years ago,
Came with his broguery,
From Dublin city, where he had been,
Before he cross'd the sea.
What had he done, or what had not,
No matter, for he's here;
He said he was a lawyer bred,
Which look'd a little queer.
But no one ever doubted much,
He had been at the bar;
Though what his standing there had been,
They did not know, nor care.
But if he was a lawyer bred,
He had not read the books;
And scarce could make himself a pair,
Of hangers and pot-hooks.
No matter what his learning was,
Nor what his share of sense;

151

He had what did to set him up,
A stock of impudence.
Nor did he let his talent sleep,
Or in a napkin hide;
But put it out to usury,
With fortune on his side.
No more he'll trot by Allen bog;
Bog-trotter there awhile;
He has a better trotting place,
The Alleghany soil.
Some say he has a tract or two,
He now can call his own;
No more beholding for a place,
To shake his brogue upon.
Not as it was in Dublin town,
And many such are there;
Where, had he stay'd, he might have gone,
To shake a brogue on air.
Was it by pleading, that the 'squire,
Made out to make his jack?
As well you might expect a cow,
To give you latin back.
The ways are more than one, you know,
The mower whets his scythe;
But how to whet it, there is none
Can tell until he try'th.
No matter how you money make,
Provided that you make:
The less you have of character,
The less you have at stake.

152

I only dread that those may hear,
The luck, and cross with speed,
From Dublin or from Drogheda,
To overstock the breed.
So have I seen a vermin hous'd
Soon followed by a score;
And what will be, we best can tell,
From what has been before.
Lavater had a happy knack,
Of telling to keep clear,
Of such as might impose themselves,
Like Monsieur Braganeer;
Cou'd read the faces, and take a hint
From brow, or lurid eye,
And made a book, and called it, of
The physiognomy.
He seem'd just like a famished bird
In snow time, when he came;
The people gave him oats to peck,
And many were to blame.
We thought he had a partridge track,
But he turn'd out a crow,
Or harpy, in old times the bird
That plagued the people so.
I wish I had an Ovid here,
To change him to a bat,
Provided that he had no wings,
To keep him from the cat.
For some have been transmogrified,
And are not what they were;

153

If he was made a whip-poor will,
The change would make him stare.
When Don Quevedo was in hell,
He saw two devils busy,
In carrying in a rogue or so,
And here and there a huzzy.
But saw two others fast asleep,
And had been so full long,
With cobwebs overgrown their mouths,
The rubbish there among.
They had been lawyer-carriers once,
No use now for the elves,
The lawyers of the later date,
Come fast enough themselves.
I wish these devils were awake,
And had a mind to come;
I'd give them more than they would ask,
To carry off our Tom.
A gally-nipper could be spar'd
From the musqueto race,
And the extinction of a fly
Would make the evil less.
But nature has her lurking views,
In breeding many things,
The use of which we do not see,
Or why she gives them wings.
The very sky itself has got
A scorpion and a crab;
As you yourself may ascertain,
By help of Astrolabe.

154

But why allude to similies,
Or metamorphoses,
Or caricatura that we hate,
Of his immortal phiz.
When circuit judges come to town
They'll surely taste his wine,
And were he even Cerberus,
Would not refuse to dine.
But such the world in which we live,
And such the state of things,
Republican the government,
Or under mighty kings,
The worthless will have countenance,
The worthy be depressed;
Which having said, enough is said,
So let the matter rest.
But Tom has eat and drank so much,
And guzzled so much wine,
That em bon point, as Frenchmen say,
It makes his visage shine.
His dewlap it hangs down like clout,
Or wallet under chin,
Would do to make an apron of
To put his luggage in.
His goitre is not from the air,
Or water we have here;
And guttling that gives him a throat,
And dewlap looks so queer.
The case has ever been the fact,
Since Brutus did exclaim,

155

Virtue I have followed thee,
But found an empty name.
Nay, long before, it was the case
Since Lumeck was a lad,
For all you got by being good,
You might as well be bad.
I grant you may not go so far
As matter that will hang,
But any thing just short of this,
May take within your fang.

The judges supping with the great lawyer Snilloc,
who had made an immense fortune at the bar, had this
ballad recited to them; Tom himself producing it, as the
effusion of that contemptible mortal, counsellor Otterborn.
The judges laughed immoderately, and shook
their sides; because, when a person is at the table of
another, it behooves him to laugh at what is thought ridiculous.
Snilloc anticipating the judges, who might
hear of the ballad, thought it advisable to bring it forward
himself as a good joke.

But these things did not last always. Tom had recovered
money that he could not pay over; he had contracted
debts that he could not discharge; and in his dealings
was found to be a rogue. People began to suspect
that it was not for building churches that he had left Ireland,
especially as he had not discovered much inclination
to build any here. He became insolvent; and the
alternative was to go to jail, or, as the phrase is, to cut
and run. He chose the latter; and was now with his
cousin in these woods.