The Pretty Quakeress by Edmund Leamy
I was just about twenty years of age. I had entered
Trinity three years before, and had fallen in with a
Roystering set. In those days the fights between
the college lads and the townsfolk were more
frequent and furious than they have been of recent
years, and I took my share of the cuts and bruises
that were almost always the portion of the combatants
on either side. On one occasion when we had
a pretty stiff battle with the butcher boys from
around St. Patrick’s, I was felled by a blow. In the
crush I was unable to rise, and would have been in
a fair way of being trampled out of existence but for
the gallant exertions of one of my companions, Jack
Langrishe. He fought like a devil, and, knocking
over his nearest foes, cleared a space which enabled
me to get up.
Jack, in trying to save me, got an ugly cut on his
left arm, which cost him some trouble. The
butchers were put to flight, and Jack carried off as
a trophy a villainous looking knife which he had
captured from one of his assailants. Intimate as we
had been before, the service which he had rendered
to me made us just sworn friends for life, and I felt
bound to do him any service it was in my power to
It was not long, however, until Jack’s outrageous
conduct brought him into collision with the college
authorities. Having gone near blowing up one of
the college porters, by slipping in the most playful
manner, a small bag of powder into his coat pocket,
Jack was sent down to the country, and I missed
his companionship for several months; but, indeed,
I had pretty well forgotten him when just about the
1st of December, 1759, I received a letter from him,
saying that he was running up to town for a few
days, and that he would put up at the “Robin
Hood” in Dame-street, and would be glad if I could
call on him there on the evening of the 1st of
December, and dine and make a night of
it. He told me to be sure to ask for Mr. Sugrue.
Jack gave me no hint as to why he had adopted
another’s name; but this did not surprise me very
much. I suspected he was up to one of his old
When the evening of the 1st of December arrived
I left my rooms in college and walked leisurely
across Dame Street, stopping for a few minutes at
King William’s Statue to watch a match of fisticuffs
between a chairman and a driver of a hackney coach,
in which the chairy got the best of it.
I reached the “Robin Hood” just in time to
witness the arrival of the coach from Kilkenny,
which should have brought Jack. I saw the passengers
descend from the coach; but although I
scanned their faces as closely as the light of the
lanterns and that coming from the windows and
open door of the tavern allowed, I could see no trace
of Jack. “He must have missed the coach,” said I
to myself, and I went on up towards the top of the
street. Then it occurred to me that as he was
coming under an assumed name he might have
taken some other mode of conveyance, as he would
be well known to the guard and the driver of the
coach, so I retraced my steps, and entering the
tavern inquired for Mr. Sugrue.
“He’s just come, sir,” said the waiter.
“How did he come?” I asked carelessly.
“By the Kilkenny coach.”
“Curious I did not notice him,” thought I.
“Yes, sir; he’s in No. 4 Room, sir, first floor to
your right, and will be happy to see you, if you’re
the gentleman that was to call for him, sir.”
I knocked at the door of No. 4.
“Come in,” said a gruff voice, very unlike Jack’s.
I pushed open the door and entered, and found
myself in the presence of an old man wearing spectacles,
and having a curious resemblance to one of
the Deans of Trinity.
“What the devil is up with you, Langrishe?”
“Sugrue, Tom, if you love me,” said Jack in his
“And what is it all about, Jack?”
“My dear fellow, I’m as ravenous as a hawk, and
mind, there’s not to be a word about business till
we’re in the middle of the third bottle. The port
here is first rate. But my mind is never equal to
business until I have fairly moistened my palate.”
Jack had secured a private room, and it was
evident that he had ordered the dinner beforehand,
for it left nothing to be desired.
I felt there was no use in pressing him for any
explanation until the time arrived when he would
be willing to give it, but I could not help looking
curiously now and then at his remarkable get up.
“I knew ’twould surprise you, Tom,” said Jack,
“It has, I must confess,” said I.
Jack gave me little opportunity of questioning
him, as he insisted on my giving him full information
of all that had happened in college during his
enforced absence. Of course, I was nothing loth to
tell him, having a lad’s delight in narrating the
various pranks and scrapes in which I had taken
part, and I rather think we had got well into the
fifth bottle when he said unexpectedly;
“Tom, my boy, I’m ready now.”
“Who is she, Jack?”
“You are out, Tom,” said Jack, severely.
“So is that medallion portrait, Jack, which has
just escaped from your clerical coat.”
Jack caught up the medallion, and looking at it
fondly, rose to his not over steady feet.
“Tom,” he said, “fill!”
“Here’s to the flower of all maidens for beauty;
the incomparable! the divine! Dorothy Jacob.
Dorothy of my soul and heart.”
“She’s a Quaker, then,” said I.
“She’s a goddess, sir.”
And when we had drunk her health as often as
there were letters in her name, which proceeding
was the result of what Jack called “a sweet suggestion
of his own,” I gathered from him, not without
some effort, the following particulars regarding the
lady and how he became acquainted with her. I
do not, of course, attempt to give them in Jack’s
own words, for he was frequently breaking out into
exclamations about her beauty, and as frequently
insisting on my once more drinking her health.
Dorothy’s father was a merchant of Kilkenny.
She was his only child. Her mother had died
young, and she was left in the care of a maiden
aunt, who had died a few years previous to Jack’s
first meeting with the young lady.
The father was a very wealthy merchant, whose
riches were partly inherited and partly acquired.
He was desperately fond of his money, but still
fonder of his daughter. He knew that he was
growing old and always dreaded the day when she
might leave him for another. He had kept her
very much to himself and allowed her to see very
She was very beautiful, so beautiful, as I afterwards
discovered, as to fully justify Jack’s panegyric.
And many an amorous eye was cast upon her as she
passed with her father through the streets on her
way to church or market, for he seldom allowed her
to go out alone. But the maiden never returned
a glance, and did not seem to know how many
hearts she was setting on fire.
Jack Langrishe lived with his uncle a few miles
outside the town of Kilkenny, and was a frequent
visitor to the town, and to the club which was the
resort of all the young bloods and bucks of the day.
He had heard from them of the pretty Quakeress,
had seen her several times, and since he had been sent
down from college had fallen over head and ears
in love with her.
Over and over he had heard the bucks suggesting
that she should be carried off. But Jack always
indignantly denounced any suggestion of the kind,
and with such heat that he had in consequence to
cross swords with one or two of his club associates,
and with such effect that he came to be regarded
as too formidable an antagonist to be trifled with.
Abductions were common enough then, to be
sure, although the Government made strong efforts
to put them down, and for that reason, there was, in
the opinion of most of the young bloods, an added
argument in favour of them. But Jack Langrishe
had an argument of his own. It was, “That a
woman that was worth winning could be won, and
that the man who could not win her was
unworthy of her,” and he used to add, “that any
yokel with sufficient force at his back might effect
an abduction, but that a gentleman unaided should
be able to capture a woman’s heart.”
Whereupon his companions concluded that Jack
Langrishe was very much in love with the pretty
Quakeress, and was a fool for his pains.
Jack knew he was in love, and was not quite sure
that he was not a fool, for he had watched the
comings and goings of the lady, and although he
threw himself in the way as much as possible he
had never obtained the slightest glance of recognition.
But fortune, which always favours the brave,
sometimes favours the faithful.
On a certain fair day in Kilkenny old Jacob and
his daughter were coming down the street towards
their house, and Jack Langrishe by a fortunate
accident, was coming in the opposite direction,
when suddenly, up through a by-street almost in
line with the place at which father and daughter
had arrived, a spirited young horse, which had
broken away from its groom, came galloping madly
and was almost down on the old man when Jack
threw himself between. The old man staggered
back into the arms of his daughter and Jack fell
under the horse’s hoofs.
Some onlookers rushed to his assistance and
picked up Jack, apparently helpless, and he uttered
a groan which would stir a heart of iron. The
rascal all the time was no more hurt than you or I,
but he caught a glimpse of the pale, questioning
face of the maiden, and he thought he had discovered
a way to her heart.
The old man, having recovered from his fright,
could not refuse to thank his deliverer, although he
was eager to get away from the crowd that was
pressing around him and his fair charge.
“Oh, he’s murdered, sir—he’s murdered, Mr.
Jacob,” said one of the crowd.
“Don’t you think we ought to bring him home,
father?” whispered Dorothy in the old man’s ear.
The whispered suggestion brought the old man
to himself as if a cold shower bath had unexpectedly
fallen upon him.
“No, child; prithee, heed me. The young man
must have friends. See, they know who he is.”
The last remark was justified by an observation
from one of the persons who were lifting up Jack,
and who said:
“He’s young Mr. Langrishe, of the Grange.”
“Let’s take him to the club.”
“We better take him to the doctor’s,” said
another; and to the doctor’s—which, fortunately,
was close at hand, otherwise Jack, as the rogue
afterwards confessed to me, would not have been
able to stand it any longer—he was brought.
His kind, but somewhat rough, aiders and sympathisers
came very much nearer by their excited
efforts to carry him through the crowd, which was
pressing on them with all kinds of inquiries, doing
him a greater harm than they imagined the runaway
colt had done him. The doctor, who was the
apothecary of the town, felt all Jack’s limbs, while
that gentleman groaned as if every bone in his body
was broken. But the astute disciple of ∆sculapius
having shaken his head, solemnly declared that he
was very badly bruised, and that there might be
possibly some internal complications.
He gave Jack a restorative which worked
wonders. It caused him not only to regain his full
consciousness, but had almost the effect of making
him use some very vigorous language, but as he felt
this would have been out of character, he discreetly
He was taken to the hotel, the Ormond Arms,
where he spent that night and the next day and
night, and then allowed himself to be taken home
to his uncle’s at the Grange.
Old William Jacob called several times at the
hotel, and was profuse in his thanks to the preserver
of his life, and also conveyed the thanks of his
daughter. Mistress Dorothy. Jack had lingered,
hoping that the old gentleman would bring the
damsel to see him, but finding his hopes were vain,
he became well enough to be removed.
After lying up at home for a week or more, Jack
returned into the town, and by well contrived
“accident” he met the pretty Quakeress as she
was walking alone. As he approached he affected
not to see her, and wore the woe-begone expression
of an invalid. He kept looking up towards the sky
in an apparently aimless sort of a way, until he
came within a few feet of her. Then he suddenly
dropped his eyes, and found, as he expected, that
she was looking at his face.
She flushed all over as she saw that she was
detected. Jack endeavoured to pretend that he
was quite surprised at seeing her, and walking as if
he would pass on, when he was just in front of her
he lifted his hat, and was about to address her when
her father appeared unexpectedly beside her, but
fortunately Jack was able to convert the salute
which he intended for the lady into a courteous
recognition of the old gentleman, while with a
covert glance he was able to convey to her that she
was included in it.
“How dost thou do, friend?” said the old gentleman,
“I am very pleased to see thee able to be
“Thank you, sir, you are very kind,” said Jack,
“I was about to call on you to inquire if you had
completely recovered from the shock.”
They had moved along as they were talking, and
the merchant’s warehouse was close at hand. He
felt that he couldn’t well refuse to ask Jack to come
in with him, but if he could he would have avoided
He had a hearty dread of the young bloods and
bucks of the time, and he would not, if possible,
have allowed his precious Dorothy to make the
acquaintance of any of them.
But then, this was an exceptional case, he said to
himself. The young man had saved his life, and,
in doing so, had met with a serious injury. And
it would not have been gracious if, meeting him
accidentally so close to his own house, he had not
asked him in.
Jack, quite innocent of the old gentleman’s
thoughts, and learning them only after from the
little Quakeress, gladly accepted the invitation.
He spent an hour with them that evening, and
had the satisfaction of persuading himself that he
was not quite unacceptable to the maiden. He did
not fail to perceive that the old gentleman found
his company somewhat irksome, but his motto
always was, “Make hay while the sun shines,” and
he saw it shining out of the maiden’s eyes.
When he had at last to leave, he did so, assuring
the old gentleman that it would give him the
greatest pleasure to call again, and spoke quite like
one who was yielding to an invitation.
But the old gentleman had given no invitation,
and when Jack was gone he warned his daughter
of the danger of having any connection with gentlemen
of Jack’s stamp.
It is not necessary to go over the conversation
between father and daughter, which she subsequently
retailed to Jack, and which he repeated to
me. Enough to say, that Jack resolved on calling,
and that the old gentleman finally received him
with such coldness, and always alone, that Jack,
except for the glance of the young girl’s eye
through the partially drawn curtain of the glass
door that separated the living-room from the shop
and counting house, might as well have met him in
the street. He saw there was little use of continuing
visits of this kind.
Whenever Jack entered the shop, he found the
fair Dorothy, acting under her father’s orders,
escaping from it. He continued, nevertheless, to
correspond with her through the aid of an old
domestic, who quickly discovered the character of
the relation between Jack and her young mistress,
and whose almost withered heart had a green spot
in it, in which bloomed the flower of sympathy
with the passion of youthful lovers.
But this did not satisfy Jack. He longed for a
sight of his lady love, who was kept a close prisoner
in the house by her father, who suspected Jack’s
intentions, and saw in him a possible robber of his
At length, after a good deal of cogitation, he hit
upon the expedient of adopting the disguise in
which I saw him. It was so perfect that his most
intimate friends could not penetrate it, and as he
was a first rate mimic, he never allowed his voice to
betray him, and in order to prevent any possibility
of suspicion, he had in his own proper character set
out for Dublin, and when a few days after, he
returned disguised to Kilkenny, it was as an
antiquarian who had come down to spend some
weeks there, in studying its ruins. He secured lodgings
in the house of an old lady not far from the
Quaker’s place of business, which he found it necessary
to visit every day to make some trivial
purchase, such as gloves, hat bands, kerchiefs, etc.
The old Quaker, suspecting nothing, saw him
come in day after day, and never thought it
necessary to ask Dorothy to retire. On the contrary,
he often quitted the shop, leaving Dorothy talking
to the clerical looking old gentleman, and she and
Jack continued to have some very agreeable talk
Jack had urged his suit with considerable success,
but he could not induce the lady to take the only
step by which his hopes could be realised—namely,
to run away with him; for it was quite certain the
old man would never consent to his marriage with
Jack had almost begun to despair when he
learned that the old gentleman was about to visit
Dublin, accompanied by Dorothy, for the purpose of
attending a private, but very important, meeting of
the Society of Friends in reference to the harsh
treatment to which some members of that body had
been subjected by the authorities.
Jack also learned that they intended to put up at
the “Robin Hood,” at which the coach from Kilkenny
used to set down, and he took care to inform
the old man that his business in Kilkenny was at
an end, and that he intended to set out for Dublin
on the day which the Quaker had fixed for his
journey. The old man, still wholly unsuspicious,
expressed himself delighted that he and his
daughter should have him as a companion on the
journey to Dublin, and so it came to pass that they
But Jack, although of course, well satisfied with
the opportunity of spending a few hours in the
society of Dorothy, had not been able to hope for
anything definite coming from it, and it was chiefly
for the purpose of talking over the matter and
getting my advice that he had asked me to dinner
I suggested carrying the girl off, and as she liked
Jack I did not hesitate to offer my services. But
Jack was adverse to this, as he was unwilling to do
violence to the young lady’s feelings. At length,
after talking over all kinds of expedients, Jack,
tired after his journey and somewhat somnolent
from his potations, retired to his room, and I made
the best of my way back to college, and awoke next
morning to find myself lying in my clothes on the
hearthrug, while my cap and boots and cane were
placed in the nicest order on the quilt of my undisturbed
It was four of the clock in the afternoon of the
next day when I called again on Jack. He was in
pretty good spirits. The old man had gone out to
attend the meeting, and Jack contrived to have an
interview with the maiden, who was nothing loth.
But, all the same, he was unable to get her consent
to elope with him, although the opportunity was
most favourable. Still she showed some signs
of relenting. Anyway, she no longer resented the
suggestion as something wholly unnatural.
“The old man has just returned,” said Jack to
me. “His business here is concluded, and he
intends to start for home to-morrow, and if she does
not give way before then I am afraid I’ll either have
to give her up or carry her off.”
Jack could get no other opportunity of speaking
to the lady that evening, and so after dinner he altered
his appearance so as to make himself look less clerical,
and we went off to Smock Alley Theatre together.
The coach was to set out for Kilkenny at two
o’clock the next afternoon, and I had promised to
call on Jack about noon. I had slept almost up to
that hour, when, having hurriedly dressed myself, I
rushed off to keep my appointment, I found the
college gate closed and a number of the students
clamouring to get out; but the Dean was standing
with his back to it, flanked at either side by the
“What’s up?” said I to one of the nearest students.
“There’s an insurrection in the streets. The
Ormond and the Liberty Boys and the butchers are
up, and the Viceroy is frightened out of his wits;
and the Lord Mayor won’t act and there’s general
ructions all over the city.”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I rushed back
to my room. The window was two stories high, but
it looked on the street.
To tie the bedclothes together was the work of a
minute. I fastened one end of the “rope” to the
leg of the bed, which was close to the window, and
dropped the other over the window sill. It did not
come within several feet of the ground, and under
other circumstances I would have hesitated to
descend it; but a yelling excited crowd was rushing
along the street, and I could hear the hoarse
murmur of multitudinous voices from the direction
of the Green and the quays, and, spurred by the
excitement, I slid down the rope, and was caught
in the arms of a stalwart Ormond Boy.
There was, of course, no love lost between the
Ormond Boys and the students; but my rescuer
having deposited me on the ground, pushed ahead,
and I heard him joining in the cry that was rising
from a thousand throats: “To the Parliament
House! To the Parliament! To hell with Rigby!
Down with the English!”
I was almost carried off my feet by the rush of the
crowd into College Green. Here all further progress
was arrested. The Green was packed, and the crowd
surged up the steps against the doors of the Houses
of Parliament. Hackney coaches and chairs were overturned
in all directions; but right in front of the entrance
to the House of Commons was the Kilkenny
Coach, by which Jack Langrishe’s friends were to
I pushed my way by the most strenuous efforts up
towards this, and just got beside it to find Jack
minus his wig and clerical coat which had been torn
into ribbons, handing out Mistress Dorothy Jacob
and her trembling father.
“A chair! a chair for the lady!” cried out half
a dozen of the crowd; but the cry was in vain.
The chairs were, as I have said, all overturned, and
even if this had not been so, a new excitement had
arisen which had diverted the attention of the crowd
from the lady and turned it on her father. The
old gentleman had the misfortune to bear a striking
resemblance to the then member for Maryborough,
who was a thick and thin supporter of the Government,
and was believed to be in favour of merging
the Irish in the English Parliament.
Rigby, who was the Viceroy’s secretary, had given
notice of a motion in favour of empowering the Lord
Lieutenant to call Parliament together in certain
emergencies without the usual notice, and the
people got it into their heads that this was a clever
attempt to pass an Act of Union without giving
them an opportunity of expressing an opinion on the
It was this fear that had brought them into the
streets. They swarmed from every lane and alley
of the Liberties, and they held possession not only
of the Green, but also of all the approaches to it,
and some one amongst them suggested that while
they should make way for the members of Parliament
who desired to enter the House that they should
administer an oath to every one of them that
he would vote against every attempt to take away
The proposition was received with acclamation.
The first M.P. who put in an appearance after it was
adopted was Rowley. When called on to take the
oath he at first refused.
“Pull the wig off of him!”
“Bring him to the Liffey. Let’s wash the English
taste off of him!”
“To hell with Rigby! Down with Bedford!”
(Bedford was the Lord Lieutenant). “Swear him!
Finding expostulation useless, Rowley took the
oath amid deafening cheers, and was allowed to
It was shortly after this incident that the Quaker
and his daughter were taken out of the coach.
The coach should have gone down Parliament
Street, but the crowd which had been up at the
Castle all the morning, turned back to the Green
on the news that the M.P.s were assembling,
and literally bore it on with them.
When the likeness between the Quaker and the
member for Maryborough was discovered by one of
the crowd, and when his supposed name was called
“Swear him! Swear the old thief. Swear him!”
was heard on all sides.
The poor old Quaker, frightened out of his life
and trembling in every limb, could not make head
or tail of what was going on. But when at last one
of the crowd produced a Testament, and, thrusting
it into the old man’s face, said: “Swear, an’ be
damned to ye,” he answered in a quavering voice:
“Friend, I do not swear!”
“But you’ll have to swear,” answered a dozen
“But he won’t have to swear,” cried out Jack
Langrishe, who was supporting the lovely Dorothy,
and at the same time endeavouring to afford some
protection to her father.
“And who the devil are you?” shouted out a
score of voices.
“I’m an Irishman, boys, that’s going to stand by
a young lady and an old man if all Dublin stood
“The divel doubt but ye have an Irish heart in
“He has then.”
“And now,” said Jack, encouraged by these
remarks, “now listen to me. Ye are all mistaken.
This honest gentleman isn’t the man ye take him
for at all.”
“Will you swear that?”
“Ay, will I.”
“And will you say. ‘To hell with Rigby and the
“With all my heart,” said Jack. For Jack, like
most of us young fellows in those days, thought an
Irish Parliament was worth fighting and worth
“You are a True-blue and no mistake. Let the
old gentleman go,” came in chorus from the crowd.
I had got up close to Jack and his fair charge.
With a knowing look to me and a word of explanation
to her, he asked me to take care of her, and
then he put his arm inside that of the old man, who
still seemed half dazed with fright. We endeavoured
to make our way towards the railing, and hoped to
be able to slip back to the “Robin Hood.”
But the crowd kept surging round us, and it grew
more excited every minute.
“Who’s in the carriage? Out with him—out
The cry was occasioned by a carriage that was
endeavouring to force its way towards the entrance
of the House.
In the press, Jack, myself, and our charges were
borne towards it.
An old gentleman, with a periwig tied with red
ribbon, put his head out through the window.
“Damn you, who are you? Why do you hesitate?”
yelled the angry crowd.
The gentleman made an effort to speak.
“Oh, he stutters; give him time, boys.”
“Come now, old stutterin’ Bob, who are you?”
“I—I’m Lord In—Inchiquin, b-b-boys! O’B—Brien’s
“A cheer for him, boys, he’s all right. Pass in,
your lordship, an’ good luck to ye.”
And as Lord Inchiquin passed in we endeavoured
to follow in his wake.
But another shout arose and the crowd was
swaying like a tumultuous sea.
“He’s the Lord Chancellor!—the bloody English
Chancellor, ould Bowes! Swear him, boys, swear
him! Out with ye, and take the oath.”
The disgusted Chancellor had no option but to
comply, and having done so, was passing on towards
“Don’t let him go,” cried out one who appeared
to possess some authority with the crowd; “hold on
to him. Here’s the Chief Justice, and we’ll make
ould Bowes take oath before him.”
This proposition delighted the crowd, and they
hauled “ould” Bowes back and confronted him with
the Chief Justice.
“Swear before the Chief Justice, ye ould English
naygur, that you won’t take our Parliament over to
England,” and again the luckless Chancellor was
compelled to swear.
“Here’s ould Anthiny Malone, boys. Oh! ould
Tony, are you there? Tony the great “Patriot”
that was agin the Government till they stopped
your mouth with a pension. Oh, ye’re there, Tony!
Swear him, boys; swear him!”
“Hould on till I shake hands with ye, Tony,”
cried out another of the ringleaders, as he dipped
his hand in the kennel and then thrust it into that
of the “Patriot.”
“Ye might call it dirty, Tony, I suppose, but it’s
not half as dirty as yer own since ye handled the
This sally was received with shouts of delight.
“Be the holy! who’s that? It’s ould Prendergast!”
The exclamation was caused by the appearance
of a face out of the House of Lords. It was that of
Sir Thomas Prendergast, who was very obnoxious to
the people. He only peeped out to see what was going
on, but before he could pull back he was caught by
the nose and led out to the kennel, and was rolled
and rolled again until he was all mud from head to
“Let’s go inside, boys. What do we want stoppin’
here?” was then blurted out by one of the ringleaders,
but the crowd which had rushed up to the
House of Lords when Prendergast showed himself
had already begun to make its way in, and soon
the whole of it began to set in that direction. The
only thing for Jack and myself was to allow
ourselves to be carried along with it. Dorothy
clung to my arm with feverish anxiety. As for the
old man he seemed as if he were scared out of his
Rough as the crowd was it endeavoured to avoid
the lady. Still she must have suffered considerably
as we squeezed through the doorway. We arrived
to find the seats of the House of Lords in possession
of the mob, and the Peers crowding up behind the
Lord Farnham was in the act of taking the oath,
in succession to his father, who had recently died,
when the crowd broke in and interrupted the
“You must take the oath from us!—you must
take the oath from us!”
The rush of the crowd and the angry cries completely
nonplussed the new lord. He looked
helplessly at the Chancellor and at his brother
Peers, and hardly knowing what he did, he followed
the words of the oath as administered to him by one
of the ringleaders of the mob.
This performance provoked loud plaudits. Then
for want of something else to do, the crowd began
to stand on the seats and tables, and force themselves
up towards the chair. The Chancellor and
the other peers and some ladies had retreated
behind the throne.
“Oh! there’s Biddy Simpson—there’s Biddy,
“Arrah, where else wud I be, thin?” replied
Biddy, who was an old lady well known for the
sharpness of her tongue in the Ormond Market.
“Put Biddy in the chair, boys! Put Biddy in
the chair!” and amidst ringing cheers Miss Biddy
Simpson was placed in the chair.
“Pipes and tobacco, pipes and tobacco, for Biddy
The pipes were got, and Biddy stuck one in her
mouth and lit it amid frantic yells, and the crowd
began to indulge in all kinds of antics. Snatches
of songs and speeches, interlarded with oaths, were
only half heard in the din. It was a motley crowd.
Peers, members of the House of Commons, University
students, and half the men and women from the
Liberties, and some ladies who had come down to
see Lord Farnham take the oath, were all mixed up
in the wildest disorder.
How long this was likely to go on no one could
surmise, when suddenly one of the ringleaders cried
“Let’s burn the records! Let’s burn the records!
To the House of Commons!—To the House of
The cry was taken up and the crowd began to
force its way out and make for the House of
“Are ye goin’ to desert me, ye thieves, afther ye
made a lord o’ me?” shouted Biddy, but the crowd
had found a new purpose, and emptied out of the
House of Lords as quickly as it had poured into it.
But for nearly an hour after, Jack and I and old
Jacob and Dorothy remained where we were, and
then, when the military, acting on the orders of the
Lord Lieutenant, had partially cleared the streets—for
the Lord Mayor had refused to interfere with
the people—we made our way, not without some
difficulty, to the “Robin Hood.”
Dorothy, for all her mild manners, was a brave
little woman, and appeared little the worse of the
ordeal through which she had passed.
Not so with her father. He was almost prostrated
from fright and excitement. Jack persuaded him
to take some brandy, and this restored him a little.
When he was able to collect himself sufficiently
to speak, he caught Jack’s hand, and he said in the
“Friend, this is the second time I owe thee my
life, and now I also owe thee my daughter’s.”
I thought it would be just as well if I came away,
and so it proved, for on that very night when I was
sitting down at the fire in my room thinking over
the events of the day, the door was suddenly flung
open, and in rushed Jack Langrishe.
“Old fellow, I’m the luckiest dog in the world!”
And I think he was, for the old man had at last
given his consent, and Jack Langrishe found in
Dorothy Jacob one of the sweetest and best little
wives in the whole of Ireland.