Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

Mr. Elias Howie was one of a peculiar class, which this age, so fertile in inventions, has engendered, a publishers’ man-of-all-work, ready for everything, from statistics to satire, and equally prepared to expound prophecy, or write squibs for “Punch.”

Not that lodgings were not inhabited in Grub Street before our day, but that it remained for the glory of this century to see that numerous horde of tourist authors held in leash by fashionable booksellers, and every now and then let slip over some country, to which plague, pestilence, or famine, had given a newer and more terrible interest In this novel walk of literature Mr. Howie was one of the chief proficients; he was the creator of that new school of travel which, writing expressly for London readers, refers everything to the standard of “town;” and whether it be a trait of Icelandic life, or some remnant of old-world existence in the far East, all must be brought for trial to the bar of “Seven Dials,” or stand to plead in the dock of Pall Mall or Piccadilly. Whatever errors or misconceptions he might fall into respecting his subjects, he made none regarding his readers. He knew them by heart, – their leanings, their weakness, and their prejudices; and how pleasantly could he flatter their town-bred self-sufficiency, – how slyly insinuate their vast superiority over all other citizens, insidiously assuring them that the Thames at Richmond was infinitely finer than the Rhine or the Danube, and that a trip to Margate was richer in repayal than a visit to the Bosphorus! Ireland was, just at the time we speak of, a splendid field for his peculiar talents. The misery-mongers had had their day. The world was somewhat weary of Landlordism, Pauperism, and Protestantism, and all the other “isms” of that unhappy country.

There was nothing that had not been said over the overgrown Church establishment, the devouring Middleman, Cottier misery, and Celtic barbarism; people grew weary of hearing about a nation so endowed with capabilities, and which yet did nothing, and rather than puzzle their heads any further, they voted Ireland a “bore.” It was just then that “this inspired Cockney” determined to try a new phase of the subject, and this was not to counsel nor console, not to lament over nor bewail our varied mass of errors and misfortunes, but to laugh at us. To hunt out as many incongruities – many real enough, some fictitious – as he could find; to unveil all that he could discover of social anomaly; and, without any reference to, or any knowledge of, the people, to bring them up for judgment before his less volatile and more happily circumstanced countrymen, certain of the verdict he sought for – a hearty laugh. His mission was to make “Punch” out of Ireland, and none more capable than he for the office.

A word of Mr. Howie in the flesh, and we have done. He was large and heavily built, but neither muscular nor athletic; his frame and all his gestures indicated weakness and uncertainty. His head was capacious, but not remarkable for what phrenologists call moral development; while the sinister expression of his eyes – half submissive, half satirical – suggested doubts of his sincerity. There was nothing honest about him but his mouth; this was large, full, thick-lipped, and sensual, – the mouth of one who loved to dine well, and yet felt that his agreeability was an ample receipt in full for the best entertainment that ever graced Black wall or the “Frères.”

It is a heavy infliction that we story-tellers are compelled to lay upon our readers and ourselves, thus to interrupt our narrative by a lengthened description of a character not essentially belonging to our story; we had rather, far rather, been enabled to imitate Mrs. White, as she advanced into the circle in the drawing-room, saying, “Mr. Cashel, allow me to present to your favorable notice my distinguished friend, Mr. Howie. Lady Janet MacFarline, Mr. Howie, – ” sotto, – “the author of ‘Snooks in the Holy Land,’ the wittiest thing of the day; Sir Andrew will be delighted with him – has been all over the scenes of the Peninsular war. Mrs. Kennyfeck, Mr. Howie.”

Mr. Howie made his round of salutations, and although by his awkwardness tacitly acknowledging that they were palpably more habituated to the world’s ways than himself, yet inwardly consoled by remarking certain little traits of manner and accent sufficiently provincial to be treasured up, and become very droll in print or a copper etching.

“It’s a vara new pleasure ye are able to confer upon your friends, Mr. Cashel,” said Sir Andrew, “to show them so fine a collection o’ pictures in Ireland, whar, methinks, the arts ha’ no enjoyed too mickle encouragement.”

“I confess,” said Cashel, modestly, “I am but ill qualified to extend the kind of patronage that would be serviceable, had I even the means; I have not the slightest pretension to knowledge or judgment. The few I have purchased have been as articles of furniture, pleasant to look at, without any pretension to high excellence.”

“Just as Admiral Dalrymple paid ten pounds for a dunghill when he turned farmer,” whispered Mr. Howie in Mrs. White’s ear, “and then said, ‘he had only bought it because some one said it was a good thing; but that, now, he ‘d give any man “twenty” to tell him what to do with it,’”

Mrs. White burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming:

“Oh, how clever, how good! Pray, Mr. Howie, tell Lady Janet – tell Mr. Cashel that.”

“Oh, madam!” cried the terrified tourist, who had not discovered before the very shallow discrimination of his gifted acquaintance.

“If it is so vara good,” said Sir Andrew, “we maun insist on hearin’ it.”

“No, no! nothing of the kind,” interposed Howie; “besides, the observation was only intended for Mrs. White’s ear.”

“Very true,” said that lady, affecting a look of consciousness.

“The odious woman,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her sister; “see how delighted she looks to be compromised.”

“If we had Linton,” said Cashel, politely offering his arm to Lady Janet, as he led her into the so-called gallery, “he could explain everything for us. We have, however, a kind of catalogue here. This large landscape is said to be by Both.”

“If she be a coo,” said Sir Andrew, “I maun say it’s the first time I ever seen ane wi’ the head ower the tail.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Janet; “don’t ye perceive that the animal is fore-shortened, and is represented looking backwards?”

“I ken nothing aboot that; she may be shortened in the fore-parts, an’ ye say, and that may be some peculiar breed, but what brings her head ower her rump?”

Sir Andrew was left to finish his criticism alone, the company moving on to a portrait assigned to Vandyck, as Diedrich von Aevenghem, Burgomaster of Antwerp.

“A fine head!” exclaimed Mrs. White, authoritatively; “don’t you think so, Mr. Howie?”

“A very choice specimen of the great master, for which, doubtless, you gave a large sum.”

“Four hundred, if I remember aright,” said Cashel.

“I think he maught hae a clean face for that money,” broke in Sir Andrew.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Miss Kennyfeck, insidiously, and delighted at the misery Lady Janet endured from his remarks.

“Don’t ye mind the smut he has on ane cheek?”

“It’s the shadow of his nose, Sir Andrew,” broke in Lady Janet, with a sharpness of rebuke there was no misunderstanding.

“Eh, my leddy, so it may, but ye need na bite mine off, for a’ that!” And so saying, the discomfited veteran fell back in high dudgeon.

The party now broke into the twos and threes invariable on such occasions, and While Mrs. Kennyfeck and her elder daughter paid their most devoted attentions to Lady Janet, Mrs. White and the author paired off, leaving Olivia Kennyfeck to the guidance of Cashel.

“So you ‘ll positively not tell me what it is that preys on your mind this morning?” said she, in the most insinuating of soft accents.

Cashel shook his head mournfully, and said, —

“Why should I tell you of what it is impossible you could give me any counsel in, while your sympathy would only cause uneasiness to yourself?”

“But you forget our compact,” said she, archly; “there was to be perfect confidence on both sides, was there not?”

“Certainly. Now, when shall we begin?”

“Have you not begun already?”

“I fancy not. Do you remember two evenings ago, when I came suddenly into the drawing-room and found you pencil in hand, and you, instead of at once showing me what you had been sketching, shut the portfolio, and carried it off, despite all my entreaties – nay, all my just demands?”

“Oh, but,” said she, smiling, “confidence is one thing – confession is another.”

“Too subtle distinctions for me,” cried Cashel. “I foolishly supposed that there was to be an unreserved – ”

“Speak lower, for mercy sake! – don’t you perceive Lady Janet trying to hear everything you say?” This was said in a soft whisper, while she added aloud, “I think you said it was a Correggio, Mr. Cashel,” as they stood before a very lightly-clad Magdalen, who seemed endeavoring to make up for the deficiency of her costume by draping across her bosom the voluptuous masses of her golden hair.

“I think a Correggio,” said Cashel, confused at the sudden artifice; “but who has the catalogue? – oh, Sir Andrew; tell us about number fifty-eight.”

“Fefty-eight, fefty-eight?” mumbled Sir Andrew a number of times to himself, and then, having found the number, he approached the picture and surveyed it attentively.

“Well, sir, what is it called?” said Olivia.

“It’s vara singular,” said Sir Andrew, still gazing at the canvas, “but doubtless Correggio knew weel what he was aboot. This,” said he, “is a picture of Sain John the Baaptist in a raiment of caamel’s hair.”

No sense of propriety was proof against this announcement; a laugh, loud and general, burst forth, during which Lady Janet, snatching the book indignantly from his hands, cried, —

“You were looking at sixty-eight, Sir Andrew, not fifty-eight; and you have made yourself perfectly ridiculous.”

“By my saul, I believe so,” muttered the old gentleman, in deep anger. “I ‘ve been looking at ‘saxty-eight’ ower long already!”

Fortunately, this sarcasm was not heard by her against whom it was directed, and they who did hear it were fain to suppress their laughter as well as they were able. The party was now increased by the arrival of the Dean and his “ancient,” Mr. Softly, to the manifest delight of Mrs. Kennyfeck, who at once exclaimed, —

“Ah, we shall now hear something really instructive.”

The erudite churchman, after a very abrupt notice of the company, started at speed without losing a moment.

His attention being caught by some curious tableaux of the interior of the great Pyramid, he immediately commenced an explanation of the various figures, the costumes and weapons, which he said were all masonic, showing that Pharaoh wore an apron exactly like the Duke of Sussex, and that every emblem of the “arch” was to be found among the great of Ancient Egypt.

While thus employed, Mr. Howie, seated in a corner, was busily sketching the whole party for an illustration to his new book on Ireland, and once more Cashel and his companion found themselves, of course by the merest accident, standing opposite the same picture in a little boudoir off the large gallery. The subject was a scene from Faust, where Marguerite, leaning on her lover’s arm, is walking in a garden by moonlight, and seeking by a mode of divination common in Germany to ascertain his truth, which is by plucking one by one the petals of a flower, saying alternately, “He loves me, he loves me not;” and then, by the result of the last-plucked leaf, deciding which fate is accomplished. Cashel first explained the meaning of the trial, and then taking a rose from one of the flower vases, he said, —

“Let me see if you can understand my teaching; you have only to say, ‘Er liebt mich,’ and, ‘Er liebt mich nicht.’”

“But how can I?” said she, with a look of beaming innocence, “if there be none who – ”

“No matter,” said Cashel; “besides, is it not possible you could be loved, and yet never know it? Now for the ordeal.”

“Er liebt mich nicht,” said Olivia, with a low, silvery voice, as she plucked the first petal off, and threw it on the floor.

“You begin inauspiciously, and, I must say, unfairly, too,” said Cashel. “The first augury is in favor of love.”

“Er liebt mich,” said she, tremulously, and the leaf broke in her fingers. “Ha!” sighed she, “what does that imply? Is it, that he only loves by half his heart?”

“That cannot be,” said Cashel; “it is rather that you treated his affection harshly.”

“Should it not bear a little? – ought it to give way at once?”

“Nor will it,” said he, more earnestly, “if you deal but fairly. Come, I will teach you a still more simple, and yet unerring test.”

A heavy sigh from behind the Chinese screen made both the speakers start; and while Olivia, pale with terror, sank into a chair, Cashel hastened to see what had caused the alarm.

“Linton, upon my life!” exclaimed he, in a low whisper, as, on tiptoe, he returned to the place beside her.

“Oh, Mr. Cashel; oh dear, Mr. Cashel – ”

“Dearest Olivia – ”

“Heigho!” broke in Linton; and Roland and his companion slipped noiselessly from the room, and, unperceived, mixed with the general company, who sat in rapt attention while the Dean explained that painting was nothing more nor less than an optical delusion, – a theory which seemed to delight Mrs. Kennyfeck in the same proportion that it puzzled her. Fortunately, the announcement that luncheon was on the table cut short the dissertation, and the party descended, all more or less content to make material enjoyments succeed to intellectual ones.

“Well,” whispered Miss Kennyfeck to her sister, as they descended the stairs, “did he?”

An almost inaudible “No” was the reply.

“Your eyes are very red for nothing, my dear,” rejoined the elder.

“I dinna ken, sir,” said Sir Andrew to Softly, as he made use of his arm for support, – “I dinna ken how ye understand your theory aboot optical delusions, but I maun say, it seems to me a vara strange way for men o’ your cloth to pass the mornin’ starin’ at naked weemen, – creatures, too, that if they ever leeved at all, must ha’ led the maist abondoned lives. I take it that Diana herself was ne better than a cuttie; do ye mark hoo she does no scruple to show a bra pair of legs – ”

“With respect to the Heathen Mythology,” broke in Softly, in a voice he hoped might subdue the discussion.

“Don’t tell me aboot the hay thins, sir; flesh and bluid is a’ the same, whatever Kirk it follows.”

Before they were seated at table, Linton had joined them, explaining, in the most natural way in the world, that, having sat down to write in the boudoir, he had fallen fast asleep, and was only awakened by Mr. Phillis having accidentally discovered him. A look of quick intelligence passed between Cashel and Olivia at this narrative; the young lady soon appeared to have recovered from her former embarrassment, and the luncheon proceeded pleasantly to all parties. Mr. Howie enjoyed himself to the utmost, not only by the reflection that a hearty luncheon at two would save an hotel dinner at six, but that the Dean and Sir Andrew were two originals, worth five pound apiece even for “Punch.” As to Cashel, a glance at the author’s note-book would show how he impressed that gifted personage: “R. C.: a snob – rich – and gullible; his pictures, all the household gods at Christie’s, the Vandyck, late a sign of the Marquis of Granby, at Windsor. Mem.: not over safe to quiz him.” “But we ‘ll see later on.” “Visit him at his country-seat, ‘if poss.’”

“Who is our spectacled friend?” said Linton, as they drove away from the door.

“Some distinguished author, whose name I have forgotten.”

“Shrewd looking fellow, – think I have seen him at Ascot. What brings him over here?”

“To write a book, I fancy.”

“What a bore. This is the age of detectives, with a vengeance. Well, don’t let him in again, that’s all. By Jove! it’s easier, now-a-days, to escape the Queen’s Bench than the ‘Illustrated News.’”

“A note from Mr. Kennyfeck, sir,” said Mr. Phillis, “and the man waits for an answer.”

Linton, taking up a book, affected to read, but in reality placed himself so as to watch Cashel’s features as he perused the letter, whose size and shape pronounced to be something unusual. Hurriedly mumbling over a rather tedious exordium on the various views the writer had taken of a subject, Cashel’s eyes suddenly flashed as he drew forth a small printed paragraph, cut from the column of a newspaper, and which went thus: —

“It will be, doubtless, in our readers’ recollection how a short time back an armed slaver, sailing under the flag of Columbia, was taken, after a most severe and sanguinary engagement, by H.M. brig ‘Hornet.’ The commander, a young Spaniard of singularly handsome exterior, and with all the bearing and appearance of a rank very different from his mode of life, was carried off and confined in St. Kitts’ till such time as he could be brought to trial.

Representations from the Government of the Republic were, however, made, and a claim preferred for indemnity, not only for the loss of the vessel and property, but for the loss of life and other injury incurred on the capture. While this singular demand was under investigation, the young Spaniard alluded to contrived to break his bonds and escape: the only mode of doing which was by a leap into the sea from the parapet of the fortress, a height, we are informed, of nigh one hundred feet. They who are acquainted with the locality assert that if he even survived the desperate leap, he must inevitably have fallen a victim to the sharks who frequent the bay to catch the bodies of all who die in the prison, and who, it would appear, are thus unceremoniously disposed of. This supposition would seem, however, in some respect, contradicted by the circumstance that a Venezuelan cruiser, which hung about the shore for the two preceding days, sailed on the very night of his escape, and, in all probability, with him on board.”

“I could swear he is safe!” cried Cashel, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm; “he’s a glorious fellow.”

“Who is that?” said Linton, looking up; “any one I know?”

“No, indeed!” said Cashel. Then suddenly checking himself in a speech whose opening accents were far from flattering, he added, “One you never even heard of.”

He once more addressed himself to the letter, which, however, merely contained some not very brilliant commentaries of Mr. Kennyfeck over the preceding extract, and which, after enumerating a great many modes of investigating the event, concluded with the only thing like common sense in the whole, by recommending a strict silence and secrecy about it all.

Cashel was closing the epistle, when he caught on the turn-down the following lines; —

“Mr. Linton has written to me about something like a legal transfer of the cottage and lands of Tubberbeg, which he mentions your having presented to him. What reply am I to return to this? I stated that you had already assured Mr. Corrigan, the present tenant, of an undisturbed possession of the tenure, but Mr. L. interrupted my explanation by saying that he only desired an assignment of the property, such as would give a parliamentary qualification, and that all pledges made to Mr. C. he would regard as equally binding on himself.”

Cashel’s first impulse, when he had read thus far, was to show Linton the paragraph, and frankly ask him what he wished to be done; indeed, he had already advanced towards him with that object, when he checked himself. “It might seem ungracious to ask any explanation. There had been already a moment of awkwardness about that same cottage, and Linton had behaved so well; and, of course, only asking him for the possession as a means of qualifying, Corrigan need never hear of it Besides, he could make Linton a present of much greater real value as soon as the circumstances of the estate became better known.” Such and such-like reasonings passed hastily through his brain; and as all his resolves were quickly formed, and as quickly acted on, he sat down and wrote:

Dear Mr. Kennyfeck, – Many thanks for the information of your note, which has served to allay all my anxiety for a valued friend. As to Linton, you will have the goodness to satisfy him in every particular, and make all and every legal title he desires to the cottage and grounds of Tubberbeg. Although he is now at my side while I write, I have not alluded to the subject, feeling the awkwardness of touching on a theme so delicate. Say, however, for me, that Corrigan is not to be disturbed, nor any pledge I have made towards him – no matter how liberally construed by him – to be, in any respect, infringed. – Yours, in great haste,

“Why you are quite a man of business to-day, Cashel, with your correspondence and letter-writing; and I ‘m sorry for it, for I wanted to have a bit of serious talk with you, – that is, if it do not bore you.”

“Not in the least. I was, I own it, nervous and uneasy this morning; now, however, my mind is at ease, and I am quite ready for anything.”

“Well, then, without preamble, are you still of the same mind about Parliament, because the time is hastening on when you ought to come to some decision on the matter?”

“I have never bestowed a thought on the matter since,” said Cashel. “The truth is, when I hear people talk politics in society, I am only astonished at their seeming bigotry and one-sidedness; and when I read newspapers of opposite opinions, I am equally confounded at the excellent arguments they display for diametrically contradictory lines of action, so that my political education makes but little progress.”

“What you say is perfectly just,” said Linton, appearing to reflect profoundly. “A man of real independence – not the mere independence of fortune, but the far higher independence of personal character – has much to endure in our tangled and complex system of legislation. As for yourself, for instance, who can afford to despise patronage, who have neither sons to advance in the Navy, nor nephews in the Foreign Office, who neither want the Bath nor a baronetcy, who would be as sick of the flatteries as you would be disgusted with the servility of party – why you should submit to the dust and heat, the turmoil and fatigue of a session, I can’t think. And how you would be bored, – bored by the ceaseless reiterations night after night, the same arguments growing gradually weaker as the echo grew fainter; bored by the bits of ‘Horace’ got off by heart to wind up with; bored by the bad jests of witty members; bored by Peel’s candor, and Palmerston’s petulance; by Cobden’s unblushing effrontery, and Hume’s tiresome placidity. You ‘d never know a happy day nor a joyous hour till you accepted the Chiltern Hundreds, and cut them all. No; the better course for you would be, choose a nominee for your borough; select a man in whom you have confidence. Think of some one over whom your influence would be complete, who would have no other aim than in following out your suggestions; some one, in fact, who unites sufficient ability with personal friendship. What d’ ye think of Kennyfeck?”

“Poor Kennyfeck,” said Cashel, laughing, “he’d never think of such a thing.”

“I don’t know,” said Linton, musing; “it might not suit him, but his wife would like it prodigiously.”

“Shall I propose it, then?” said Cashel.

“Better not, perhaps,” said Linton, appearing to reflect; “his income, which is a right good one, is professional. This, of course, he ‘d forfeit by accepting a seat in the House. Besides, really, the poor man would make no way. No, we must think of some one else. Do you like White?”

“Leicester White? I detest the man, and the wife too.”

“Well, there’s Frobisher, a fellow of good name and family. I ‘d not go bail for his preferring your interests to his own, but as times go, you might chance upon worse. Will you have Frobisher?”

“I have no objection,” said Cashel, carelessly; “would he like it himself?”

“Would he like anything that might help him to a step in the regiment, or place him in a position to sell himself, you, and the borough constituency, to the highest bidder?” said Linton, irritated at Cashel’s half assent.

“Well, if these be his principles,” cried Cashel, laughing, “I think we ‘d better put him aside.”

“You ‘re right; he ‘d never do,” said Linton, recovering all his self-possession; “what you want is a man sufficiently unconnected with ties of family or party, to see in you his patron and his object, and who, with cleverness enough to enunciate the views you desire to see prevail, has also the strong bond of personal regard to make him always even more the friend than the follower.”