Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

‘Banagher, yer honour? Loughrea, sir? Bowl ye over in an hour and a half. Is it Portumna, sir?’

‘No, my good friend,’ replied I, ‘I stop at the hotel.’

Had I proposed to take a sail down the Shannon on my portmanteau, I don’t think the astonishment could have been greater. The bystanders, and they were numerous enough by this time, looked from one to the other with expressions of mingled surprise and dread; and indeed had I, like some sturdy knight-errant of old, announced my determination to pass the night in a haunted chamber, more unequivocal evidences of their admiration and fear could not have been evoked.

‘In the hotel!’ said one.

‘He is going to stop at the hotel!’ cried another.

‘Blessed hour!’ said a third, ‘wonders will never cease!’

Short as had been my residence in Ireland, it had at least taught me one lesson – never to be surprised at anything I met with. So many views of life peculiar to the land met me at every turn, so many strange prejudices, so many singular notions, that were I to apply my previous knowledge of the world, such as it was, to my guidance here, I should be like a man endeavouring to sound the depths of the sea with an instrument intended to ascertain the distance of a star. Leaving, therefore, to time the explanation of the mysterious astonishment around me, I gathered together my baggage, and left the boat.

The first impressions of a traveller are not uncommonly his best. The finer and more distinctive features of a land require deep study and long acquaintance, but the broader traits of nationality are caught in an instant, or not caught at all Familiarity destroys them, and it is only at first blush that we learn to appreciate them with force. Who that has landed at Calais, at Rotterdam, or at Leghorn, has not felt this? The Flemish peasant, with her long-eared cap and heavy sabots – the dark Italian, basking his swarthy features in the sun, are striking objects when we first look on them; but days and weeks roll on, the wider characteristics of human nature swallow up the smaller and more narrow features of nationality, and in a short time we forget that the things which have surprised us at first are not what we have been used to from our infancy.

Gifted with but slender powers of observation, such as they were, this was to me always a moment of their exercise. How often in the rural districts of my own country had the air of cheery comfort and healthy contentment spoken to my heart; how frequently, in the manufacturing ones, had the din of hammers, the black smoke, or the lurid flame of furnaces, turned my thoughts to those great sources of our national wealth, and made me look on every dark and swarthy face that passed as on one who ministered to his country’s weal! But now I was to view a new and very different scene. Scarcely had I put foot on shore when the whole population of the village thronged around me. What are these, thought I? What art do they practise? what trade do they profess? Alas! their wan looks, their tattered garments, their outstretched hands, and imploring voices, gave the answer – they were all beggars! It was not as if the old, the decrepit, the sickly, or the feeble, had fallen on the charity of their fellow-men in their hour of need; but here were all – all – the old man and the infant, the husband and the wife, the aged grandfather and the tottering grandchild, the white locks of youth, the whiter hairs of age – pale, pallid, and sickly – trembling between starvation and suspense, watching with the hectic eye of fever every gesture of him on whom their momentary hope was fixed; canvassing, in muttered tones, every step of his proceeding, and hazarding a doubt upon its bearing oh their own fate.

‘Oh, the heavens be your bed, noble gentleman! look at me! The Lord reward you for the little sixpence that you have in your fingers there! I ‘m the mother of ten of them.’

‘Billy Cronin, yer honour; I’m dark since I was nine years old.’

‘I’m the ouldest man in the town-land,’ said an old fellow with a white beard, and a blanket strapped round him.

While bursting through the crowd came a strange, odd-looking figure, in a huntsman’s coat and cap, but both so patched and tattered, it was difficult to detect their colour. ‘Here’s Joe, your honour,’ cried he, putting his hand to his mouth at the same moment. ‘Tally-ho! ye ho! ye yo!’ he shouted, with a mellow cadence I never heard surpassed. ‘Yow! yow! yow!’ he cried, imitating the barking of dogs, and then uttering a long, low wail, like the bay of a hound, he shouted out, ‘Hark away t hark away!’ and at the same moment pranced into the thickest of the crowd, upsetting men, women, and children as he went – the curses of some, the cries of others, and the laughter of nearly all ringing through the motley mass, making their misery look still more frightful.

Throwing what silver I had about me amongst them, I made my way towards the hotel – not alone, however, but heading a procession of my ragged friends, who, with loud praises of my liberality, testified their gratitude by bearing me company. Arrived at the porch, I took my luggage from the carrier, and entered the house. Unlike any other hotel I had ever seen, there was neither stir nor bustle, no burly landlord, no buxom landlady, no dapper waiter with napkin on his arm, no pert-looking chambermaid with a bedroom candlestick. A large hall, dirty and unfurnished, led into a kind of bar, upon whose unpainted shelves a few straggling bottles were ranged together, with some pewter measures and tobacco-pipes; while the walls were covered with placards, setting forth the regulations for the Grand Canal Hotel, with a list, copious and abundant, of all the good things to be found therein, with the prices annexed; and a pressing entreaty to the traveller, should he not feel satisfied with his reception, to mention it in a ‘book kept for that purpose by the landlord.’ I cast my eye along the bill of fare so ostentatiously put forth – I read of rump-steaks and roast-fowls, of red rounds and sirloins, and I turned from the spot resolved to explore farther. The room opposite was large and spacious, and probably destined for the coffee-room, but it also was empty; it had neither chair nor table, and save a pictorial representation of a canal-boat, drawn by some native artist with a burnt stick upon the wall, it had no decoration. Having amused myself with the Lady Caher– such was the vessel called – I again set forth on my voyage of discovery, and bent my steps towards the kitchen. Alas! my success was no better there. The goodly grate, before which should have stood some of that luscious fare of which I had been reading, was cold and deserted; in one corner, it was true, three sods of earth, scarce lighted, supported an antiquated kettle, whose twisted spout was turned up with a misanthropic curl at the misery of its existence. I ascended the stairs, my footsteps echoed along the silent corridor, but still no trace of human habitant could I see, and I began to believe that even the landlord had departed with the larder.

At this moment the low murmur of voices caught my ear. I listened, and could distinctly catch the sound of persons talking together at the end of the corridor. Following along this, I came to a door, at which, having knocked twice with my knuckles, I waited for the invitation to enter. Either indisposed to admit me, or not having heard my summons, they did not reply; so turning the handle gently, I opened the door, and entered the room unobserved. For some minutes I profited but little by this step; the apartment, a small one, was literally full of smoke, and it was only when I had wiped the tears from my eyes three times that I at length began to recognise the objects before me.

Seated upon two low stools, beside a miserable fire of green wood, that smoked, not blazed, upon the hearth, were a man and a woman. Between them a small and rickety table supported a tea equipage of the humblest description, and a plate of fish whose odour pronounced them red herrings. Of the man I could see but little, as his back was turned toward me; but had it been otherwise, I could scarcely have withdrawn my looks from the figure of his companion. Never had my eyes fallen on an object so strange and so unearthly. She was an old woman, so old, indeed, as to have numbered nearly a hundred years; her head, uncovered by cap, or quoif, displayed a mass of white hair that hung down her back and shoulders, and even partly across her face, not sufficiently, however, to conceal two dark orbits, within which her dimmed eyes faintly glimmered; her nose was thin and pointed, and projecting to the very mouth, which, drawn backwards at the angles by the tense muscles, wore an expression of hideous laughter. Over her coarse dress of some country stuff she wore, for warmth, the cast-off coat of a soldier, giving to her uncouth figure the semblance of an aged baboon at a village-show. Her voice, broken with coughing, was a low, feeble treble, that seemed to issue from passages where lingering life had left scarce a trace of vitality; and yet she talked on, without ceasing, and moved her skinny fingers among the tea-cups and knives upon the table, with a fidgety restlessness, as though in search of something.

‘There, acushla, don’t smoke; don’t now! Sure it is the ruin of your complexion. I never see boys take to tobacco this way when I was young.’

‘Whisht, mother, and don’t be bothering me,’ was the cranky reply, given in a voice which, strange to say, was not quite unknown to me.

‘Ay, ay,’ said the old crone; ‘always the same, never mindin’ a word I say; and maybe in a few years I won’t be to the fore to look after you and watch you.’

Here the painful thought of leaving a world, so full of its seductions and sweets, seemed too much for her feelings, and she began to cry. Her companion, however, appeared but little affected, but puffed away his pipe at his ease, waiting with patience till the paroxysm was past.

‘There, now,’ said the old lady, brightening up, ‘take away the tay-things, and you may go and take a run on the common; but mind you don’t be pelting Jack Moore’s goose; and take care of Bryan’s sow, she is as wicked as the devil now that she has boneens after her. D’ye hear me, darlin’, or is it sick you are? Och, wirra! wirra! What’s the matter with you, Corny mabouchal?’

‘Corny!’ exclaimed I, forgetful of my incognito.

‘Ay, Corny, nayther more nor less than Corny himself,’ said that redoubted personage, as, rising to his legs, he deposited his pipe upon the table, thrust his hands into his pockets, and seemed prepared to give battle.

‘Oh, Corney,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to find you here. Perhaps you can assist me. I thought this was an hotel.’

‘And why wouldn’t you think it an hotel? hasn’t it a bar and a coffee-room? Isn’t the regulations of the house printed, and stuck up on all the walls? Ay, that’s what the directors did – put the price on everything, as if one was going to cheat the people. And signs on it, look at the place now! Ugh! the Haythins! the Turks!’

‘Yes, indeed, Corny, look at the place now,’ glad to have an opportunity to chime in with my friend’s opinions.

‘Well, and look at it,’ replied he, bristling up; ‘and what have you to say agin it? Isn’t it the Grand Canal Hotel?’

‘Yes; but,’ said I conciliatingly, ‘an hotel ought at least to have a landlord, or a landlady.’

‘And what do you call my mother there?’ said he, with indignant energy.

‘Don’t bate Corny, sir! don’t strike the child!’ screamed the old woman, in an accent of heart-rending terror. ‘Sure he doesn’t know what he is saying.’

‘He is telling me it isn’t the Grand Canal Hotel, mother,’ shouted Corny in the old lady’s ears, while at the same moment he burst into a fit of the most discordant laughter. By some strange sympathy the old woman joined in, and I myself, unable to resist the ludicrous effect of a scene which still had touched my feelings, gave way also, and thus we all three laughed on for several minutes.

Suddenly recovering himself in the midst of his cachin-nations, Corny turned briskly round, fixed his fiery eyes upon me, and said —

‘And did you come all the way from town to laugh at my mother and me?’

I hastened to exonerate myself from such a charge, and in a few words informed him of the object of my journey, whither I was going, and under what painful delusion I laboured, in supposing the internal arrangements of the Grand Canal Hotel bore any relation to its imposing exterior.

‘I thought I could have dined here?’

‘No, you can’t,’ was the reply, ‘av ye’re not fond of herrins.’

‘And had a bed too?’

‘Nor that either, av ye don’t like straw.’

‘And has your mother nothing better than that?’ said I, pointing to the miserable plate of fish.

‘Whisht, I tell you, and don’t be putting the like in her head: sometimes she hears as well as you or me.’ Here he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Herrins is so cheap that we always make her believe it’s Lent – this is nine years now she’s fasting.’ Here a fit of laughing at the success of this innocent ruse again broke from Corny, in which, as before, his mother joined.

‘Then what am I to do,’ asked I, ‘if I can get nothing to eat here? Is there no other house in the village?’

‘No, devil a one.’

‘How far is it to Loughrea?’

‘Fourteen miles and a bit.’

‘I can get a car, I suppose?’

‘Ay, if Mary Doolan’s boy is not gone back.’

The old woman, whose eyes were impatiently fixed upon me during this colloquy, but who heard not a word of what was going forward, now broke in —

‘Why doesn’t he pay the bill and go away? Devil a farthing I’ll take off it. Sure, av ye were a raal gentleman ye’d be givin’ a fippenny-bit to the gossoon there, that sarved you. Never mind, Corny dear, I’ll buy a bag of marbles for you at Banagher.’

Fearful of once more giving way to unseasonable mirth I rushed from the room and hurried downstairs; the crowd that had so lately accompanied me was now scattered, each to his several home. The only one who lingered near the door was the poor idiot (for such he was) that wore the huntsman’s dress.

‘Is the Loughrea car gone, Joe?’ said I, for I remembered his name.

‘She is, yer honour, she’s away.’

‘Is there any means of getting over to-night?’

‘Barrin’ walkin’, there’s none.’

‘Ay; but,’ said I, ‘were I even disposed for that, I have got my luggage.’

‘Is it heavy?’ said Joe.

‘This portmanteau and the carpet-bag you see there.’

‘I’ll carry them,’ was the brief reply.

‘You ‘ll not be able, my poor fellow,’ said I.

‘Ay, and you on the top of them.’

‘You don’t know how heavy I am,’ said I laughingly.

‘Begorra, I wish you was heavier.’

‘And why so, Joe?’

‘Because one that was so good to the poor is worth his weight in goold any day.’

I do not pretend to say whether it was the flattery, or the promise these words gave me of an agreeable companion en route; but, certain it is, I at once closed with his proposal, and, with a ceremonious bow to the Grand Canal Hotel, took my departure, and set out for Loughrea.

CHAPTER XXI. LOUGHREA

With the innate courtesy of his country, my humble companion endeavoured to lighten the road by song and story. There was not a blackened gable, not a ruined tower, not even a well we passed, without its legend. The very mountains themselves, that reared their mighty peaks towards the clouds, had their tale of superstitious horror; and, though these stories were simple in themselves, there was something in the association of the scene, something in the warm fervour of his enthusiasm that touched and thrilled my heart.

Like a lamp, whose fitful glare flickers through the gloomy vault of some rocky cavern, too feeble to illumine it, but yet calling up wild and goblin shapes on every side, and peopling space with flickering spectres, so did the small modicum of intellect this poor fellow possessed enable him to look at life with strange, distorted views. Accustomed to pass his days in the open air – the fields, the flowers, the streams, his companions – he had a sympathy in the eddying current that flowed on beneath – in the white cloud that rolled above him. Happy – for he had no care – he journeyed about from one county to another. In the hunting season he would be seen lounging about a kennel, making or renewing his intimacy with the dogs, who knew and loved him; then he was always ready to carry a drag, to stop an earth, or do a hundred other of those minor services that are ever wanted. Many who lived far from a post-town knew the comfort of falling in with poor ‘Tipperary Joe.’ for such was he called. Not more fleet of foot than honest in heart, oftentimes was a letter intrusted to his keeping that with any other messenger would have excited feelings of anxiety. His was an April-day temperament – ever varying, ever changing. One moment would he tell, with quivering lip and broken voice, some story of wild and thrilling interest; the next, breaking suddenly off, he would burst out into some joyous rant, generally ending in a loud ‘tally-ho,’ in which all his enthusiasm would shine forth, and in his glistening eye and flushed cheek one could mark the pleasure that stirred his heart He knew every one, not only in this, but in the surrounding counties; and they stood severally classed in his estimation by their benevolence to the poor, and their prowess in the hunting-field. These, with him, were the two great qualities of mankind. The kind man, and the bold rider, made his beau-ideal of all that was excellent, and it was strange to watch with what ingenuity he could support his theory.

‘There’s Burton Pearse – that’s the darling of a man!

It’s he that’s good to the poor, and takes his walls flying. It isn’t a lock of bacon or a bag of meal he cares for – be-gorra, it’s not that, nor a double ditch would ever stop him. Hurroo! I think I’m looking at him throwing up his whip-hand this way, going over a gate and calling out to the servant, “Make Joe go in for his dinner, and give him half-a-crown” – devil a less! And then there’s Mr. Power of Kilfane – maybe your honour knows him? Down in Kilkenny, there. He’s another of them – one of the right sort. I wish you see him facing a leap – a little up in his stirrups, just to look over and see the ground, and then – hoo! he’s across and away. A beautiful place he has of it, and an elegant pack of dogs, fourteen hunters in the stable, and as pleasant a kitchen as ever I broke my fast in. The cook’s a mighty nice woman – a trifle fat, or so; but a good sowl, and a raal warrant for an Irish stew.’ ‘And Mr. Ulick Burke, Joe, do you know him?’ ‘Is it blazing Burke? Faix, I do know him! I was as near him as I am to you when he shot Matt Callanan at the mills. “There, now,” says he, when he put a ball in his hip, and lamed him for life, “you were always fond of your trade, and I’ll make you a hopper.” And sure enough, this is the way he goes ever since.’

‘He is a good horseman, they tell me, Joe?’ ‘The best in Ireland; for following the dogs, flat race, or steeplechase, show me his equal. Och! it’s himself has the seat in a saddle. Mighty short he rides with his knees up, this way, and his toes out. Not so purty to look at, till you are used to it; but watch him fingering his baste – feeling his mouth with the snaffle – never tormenting, but just letting him know who is on his back. It ‘s raal pleasure to look at him; and then to see him taking a little canter before he sets off, with his hand low, and just tickling the flanks with his spurs, to larn the temper of the horse. May I never! if it isn’t a heavenly sight!’ ‘You like Mr. Burke, then, I see, Joe?’ ‘Like him! Who wouldn’t like him a-horseback? Isn’t he the moral of a rider, that knows his baste better than I know my Hail Mary? But see him afoot, he’s the greatest divil from here to Croaghpatrick – nothing civiller in his mouth than a curse and a “bloody end” to ye! Och! it’s himself hates the poor, and they hate him; the beggars run away from him as if he was the police; and the blind man that sits on Banagher Bridge takes up his bags, and runs for the bare life the minit he hears the trot of his horse. Isn’t it a wonder how he rides so bowld with all the curses over him? Faix, myself wouldn’t cross that little stream there, if I was like him. Well, well, he’ll have a hard reckoning at last. He’s killed five men already, and wounded a great many more; but they say he won’t be able to go on much further, for when he kills another the divil’s to come for him. The Lord be about us! by rason he never let’s any one kill more nor six.’

Thus chatting away, the road passed over; and as the sun was setting we came in sight of the town, now not above a mile distant.

‘That’s Loughrea you see there – it’s a mighty fine place,’ said Joe. ‘There’s slate houses, and a market and a barrack; but you ‘ll stop a few days in the town?’

‘Oh, certainly; I wish to see this race.’

‘That will be the fine race. It is a great country entirely – every kind of fence, gates, ditches, and stone walls, as thick as they can lie. I’ll show you all the course, for I know it well, and tell you the names of all the gentlemen, and the names of their horses, and their servants; and I’ll bring you where you ‘ll see the whole race, from beginning to end, without stirring an inch. Are you going to bet any money?’

‘I believe not, Joe; but I’m greatly interested for a friend.’

‘And who is he?’

‘Captain O’Grady.’

‘Master Phil! Tare-an’-ages! are you a friend of Master Phil’s? Arrah, why didn’t you tell me that before? Why didn’t you mintion his name to me? Och! isn’t myself proud this evening to be with a friend of the Captain’s. See now, what’s your name?’

‘Hinton,’ said I.

‘Ay, but your Christian name?’

‘They who know me best call me Jack Hinton.’

‘Musha! but I’d like to call you Jack Hinton just for this once. Now, will you do one thing for me?’

‘To be sure, Joe; what is it?’

‘Make them give me a half-pint to drink your health and the Captain’s; for, faix, you must be the right sort, or he wouldn’t keep company with you. It’s just like yesterday to me the day I met him, down at Bishop’s Loch. The hounds came to a check, and a hailstorm came on, and all the gentlemen went into a little shebeen house for shelter. I was standing outside, as it may be here, when Master Phil saw me. “Come in, Joe,” says he; “you ‘re the best company, and the pleasantest fellow over a mug of egg-nip.” And may I never! if he didn’t make me sit down fornint him at a little table, and drink two quarts of as beautiful flip as ever I tasted. And Master Phil has a horse here, ye tell me – what’s his name?’

‘That, Joe, I am afraid I can’t pronounce for you; it’s rather beyond my English tongue; but I know that his colour’s grey, and that he has one cropped ear.’

‘That’s Moddiridderoo!’ shouted Joe, as throwing my portmanteau to the ground, he seated himself leisurely on it, and seemed lost in meditation.

‘Begorra,’ said he at length, ‘he chose a good-tempered one, when he was about it! there never was such a horse foaled in them parts. Ye heard what he did to Mr. Shea, the man that bred him? He threw him over a wall, and then jumped after him; and if it wasn’t that his guardian-angel made his leather breeches so strong, he’d have ate him up entirely! Sure, there’s no one can ride him barrin’ the man I was talkin’ of.’

‘Well, Joe, I believe Mr. Burke is to ride him.’

‘Musha! but I am sorry for it!’

‘And why so? You seem to think highly of his horsemanship.’

‘There’s no mistaken that, ay it was fair; but then, you see, he has as many tricks in him as the devil. Sometimes he ‘ll break his stirrup leather, or he ‘ll come in a pound too heavy, or he’ll slip the snaffle out of the mouth; for he doesn’t care for his neck. Once I see him stake his baste, and bring him in dead lame.’

Here ended our conversation; for by this time we entered the town, and proceeded to Mrs. Doolan’s. The house was full, or the apartments bespoke; and I was turning away in disappointment, when I accidentally overheard the landlady mention the two rooms ordered by Captain O’Grady. A little explanation ensued, and I discovered, to my delight, that these were destined for me by my friend, who had written sometime before to secure them. A few minutes more saw me comfortably installed in the little inn, whose unpretending exterior and cheerful comfort within doors were the direct antithesis to the solemn humbug I had left at Shannon Harbour.