The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“And did you hear what the ould gentleman said then?” asked Jim.

“No, I didn’t – I wasn’t mindin’ him,” rejoined Joe; endeavouring with all his might to repress the indiscreet loquacity of the other.

“What was it, Jim?” said the young man, with a forced smile.

“Faix, he begun a laughing, yer honour, and says he, ‘We must pay our respects at Coort,’ says he; ‘and I’m sure we’ll be well received, for we know his Royal Highness already – that’s what he called yer honour.”

The youth sprang to his feet, with a gesture so violent and sudden, as to startle the whole party.

“What,” he exclaimed, “and are we sunk so low, as to be a scoff and a jibe to a London money-changer? If I but heard him speak the words – ”

“Arrah, he never said it at all,” said Joe, with a look that made his counterpart tremble all over. “That bosthoon there, would make you believe he was in the coach, convarsing the whole way with him. Sure wasn’t I riding the wheeler, and never heerd a word of it. Whisht, I tell ye, and don’t provoke me.”

“Ay, stop your mouth with some of this,” interposed Mary, as she helped the smoking and savoury mess around the table.

Jim looked down abashed and ashamed; his testimony was discredited; and without knowing why or wherefore, he yet had an indistinct glimmering that any effort to vindicate his character would be ill-received; he therefore said nothing more: his silence was contagious, and the meal which a few moments before promised so pleasantly, passed off with gloom and restraint.

All Mary M’Kelly’s blandishments, assisted by a smoking cup of mulled claret – a beverage which not a Chateau on the Rhone could rival in racy flavour – failed to recall the young man’s good-humour: he sat in gloomy silence, only broken at intervals by sounds of some low muttering to himself. Mary at length having arranged the little room for his reception, bade him good night, and retired to rest. The postillions sought their dens over the stable, and the youth, apparently lost in his own thoughts, sat alone by the embers of the turf fire, and at last sunk to sleep where he was, by the chimney-corner.

CHAPTER III. THE “COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE.”

Of Sir Marmaduke Travers, there is little to tell the reader beyond what the few hints thrown out already may have conveyed to him. He was a London banker, whose wealth was reputed to be enormous. Originally a younger son, he succeeded somewhat late in life to the baronetcy and large estates of his family. The habits, however, of an active city life – the pursuits which a long career had made a second nature to him – rendered him both unfit to eater upon the less exciting duties of a country gentleman’s existence, and made him regard such as devoid of interest or amusement. He continued therefore to reside in London for many years after he became the baronet; and it was only at the death of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, that these habits became distasteful; he found that he could no longer continue a course which companionship and mutual feeling had rendered agreeable, and he resolved at once to remove to some one of his estates, where a new sphere of occupation might alleviate the sorrows of his loss. To this no obstacle of any kind existed. His only son was already launched into life as an officer in the guards; and, except his daughter, so lately before the reader, he had no other children. The effort to attain forgetfulness was not more successful here, than it is usually found to be. The old man sought, but found not in a country life the solace he expected; neither his tastes nor his habits suited those of his neighbours; he was little of a sportsman, still less of a farmer. The intercourse of country social life was a poor recompense for the unceasing flow of London society. He grew wearied very soon of his experiment, and longed once more to return to his old haunts and habits. One more chance, however, remained for him, and he was unwilling to reject without trying it. This was, to visit Ireland, where he possessed a large estate, which he had never seen. The property, originally mortgaged to his father, was represented as singularly picturesque and romantic, possessing great mineral wealth, and other resources, never examined into, nor made available. His agent, Captain Hemsworth, a gentleman who resided on the estate, at his annual visit to the proprietor, used to dilate upon the manifold advantages and capabilities of the property, and never ceased to implore him to pay a visit, if even for a week or two, sincerely trusting the while that such an intention might never occur to him. These entreaties, made from year to year, were the regular accompaniment of every settlement of account, and as readily replied to by a half promise, which the maker was certainly not more sincere in pledging.

Three years of country life had now, however, disposed Sir Marmaduke to reflect on this long unperformed journey; and, regardless of the fact that his agent was then grouse-shooting in Scotland, he set out at a moment’s notice, and without a word to apprise the household at the lodge of his intended arrival, reached the house in the evening of an autumn day, by the road we have already been describing.

It is but justice to Sir Marmaduke to add, that he was prompted to this step by other than mere selfish considerations. The state of Ireland had latterly become a topic of the press in both countries. The poverty of the people – interpreted in various ways, and ascribed to very opposite causes – was a constant theme of discussion and conversation. The strange phenomenon of a land teeming with abundance, yet overrun by a starving population, had just then begun to attract notice; and theories were rife in accounting for that singular and anomalous social condition, which unhappily the experience of an additional half century has not succeeded in solving.

Sir Marmaduke was well versed in these popular writings; he had the “Whole State of Ireland” by heart; and so firmly was he persuaded that his knowledge of the subject was perfect, that he became actually impatient until he had reached the country, and commenced the great scheme of regeneration and civilization, by which Ireland and her people were to be placed among the most favoured nations. He had heard much of Irish indolence and superstition – Irish bigotry and intolerance – the indifference to comfort – the indisposition to exertion – the recklessness of the present – the improvidence of the future; he had been told that saint-days and holydays mulcted labour of more than half its due – that ignorance made the other half almost valueless; he had read, that, the easy contentment with poverty, had made all industry distasteful, and all exertion, save what was actually indispensable, a thing to be avoided.

“Why should these things be, when they were not so in Norfolk, nor in Yorkshire?” was the question he ever asked, and to which his knowledge furnished no reply. There, superstitions, if they existed – and he knew not if they did – came not in the way of daily labour. Saints never unharnessed the team, nor laid the plough inactive – comfort was a stimulant to industry that none disregarded; habits of order and decorum made the possessor respected – poverty almost argued misconduct, and certainly was deemed a reproach. Why then not propagate the system of these happy districts in Ireland? To do this was the great end and object of his visit.

Philanthropy would often seem unhappily to have a dislike to the practical – the generous emotions appear shorn of their freedom, when trammelled with the fruit of experience or reflection. So, certainly it was, in the case before us. Sir Marmaduke had the very best intentions – the weakest notions of their realization; the most unbounded desire for good – the very narrowest conceptions of how to effect it. Like most theorists, no speculative difficulty was great enough to deter – no practical obstacle was so small as not to affright him. It never apparently occurred to him that men are not every where alike, and this trifling omission was the source of difficulties, which he persisted in ascribing to causes outside of himself. Generous, kind-hearted, and benevolent, he easily forgave an injury, never willingly inflicted one; he was also, however, hot-tempered and passionate; he could not brook opposition to his will, where its object seemed laudable to himself, and was utterly unable to make allowance for prejudices and leanings in others, simply because he had never experienced them in his own breast.

Such was, in a few words, the present occupant of “the Lodge” – as the residence of the agent was styled. Originally a hunting box, it had been enlarged and ornamented by Captain Hemsworth, and converted into a cottage of singular beauty, without, and no mean pretension to comfort, within doors. It occupied an indenture of the glen of Keim-an-eigh, and stood on the borders of a small mountain-lake, the surface of which was dotted with wooded islands. Behind the cottage, and favoured by the shelter of the ravine, the native oaks grew to a great size, and contrasted by the rich foliage waving in the breeze, with the dark sides of the cliff opposite, rugged, barren and immutable.

In all the luxuriance of this mild climate, shrubs attained the height of trees; and flowers, rare enough elsewhere to demand the most watchful care, grew here, unattended and unregarded. The very grass had a depth of green, softer and more pleasing to the eye than in other places. It seemed as if nature had, in compensation for the solitude around, shed her fairest gifts over this lonely spot, one bright gem in the dreary sky of winter.

About a mile further down the glen, and seated on a lofty pinnacle of rock, immediately above the road, stood the once proud castle of the O’Donoghue. Two square and massive towers still remained to mark its ancient strength, and the ruins of various outworks and bastions could be traced, extending for a considerable distance on every side. Between these square towers, and occupying the space where originally a curtain wall stood, a long low building now extended, whose high-pitched roof and narrow windows vouched for an antiquity of little more than a hundred years. It was a strange incongruous pile, in which fortress and farm-house seemed welded together – the whole no bad type of its past and its present owners. The approach was by a narrow causeway, cut in the rock, and protected by a square keep, through whose deep arch the road penetrated – flanked on either hand by a low battlemented wall; along these, two rows of lime trees grew, stately and beautiful in the midst of all the ruin about them. They spread their waving foliage around, and threw a mellow, solemn shadow along the walk. Except these, not a tree, nor even a shrub, was to be seen – the vast woods of nature’s own planting had disappeared – the casualties of war – the chances of times of trouble, or the more ruinous course of poverty, had laid them low, and the barren mountain now stood revealed, where once were waving forests and shady groves, the home of summer birds, the lair of the wild deer.

Cows and farm-horses were stabled in what once had been the outworks of the castle. Implements of husbandry lay carelessly on all sides, neglect and decay marked every thing, the garden-wall was broken down in many places, and cattle strayed at will among the torn fruit-trees and dilapidated terraces, while, as if to add to the dreary aspect of the scene, the ground for a considerable distance around had been tilled, but never subsequently restored to grass land, and now along its ridged surface noisome weeds and thistles grew rankly, tainting the air with their odour, and sending up heavy exhalations from the moist and spongy earth. If, without, all looked sad and sorrow-struck, the appearances within, were not much better. A large flagged-hall, opened upon two long ill-lighted corridors, from which a number of small sitting-rooms led off. Many of these were perfectly devoid of furniture; in the others, what remained seemed to owe its preservation to its want of value rather than any other quality. Cracked looking-glasses – broken chairs, rudely mended by some country hand – ragged and patched carpets, were the only things to be found, with here and there some dirt-disfigured piece of framed canvas, which, whether tapestry or painting, no eye could now discover. These apartments bore little or no trace of habitation; indeed, for many years they were rarely entered by any one. A large square room in one of the towers, of some forty feet in dimensions, was the ordinary resort of the family, serving the purposes of drawing and dining-room. This was somewhat better in appearance: whatever articles of furniture had any pretension to comfort or convenience were here assembled; and here, were met, old-fashioned sofas, deep arm-chairs, quaint misshapen tables like millipedes, and fat old footstools, the pious work of long-forgotten grandmothers. A huge screen, covered with a motley array of prints and caricatures, cut off the group around the ample fire-place from the remainder of the apartment, and it is within this charmed circle we would now conduct our reader.

In the great arm-chair, to the right of the ample fire-place, sat a powerfully built old man, whose hair was white as snow, and fell in long waving masses at either side of his head. His forehead, massive and expanded, surmounted two dark, penetrating eyes, which even extreme old age had not deprived of their lustre. The other features of his face were rather marked by a careless, easy sensuality, than by any other character, except that in the mouth the expression of firmness was strongly displayed. His dress was a strange mixture of the costume of gentleman and peasant. His coat, worn and threadbare, bore traces of better days, in its cut and fashion; his vest also showed the fragment of tarnished embroidery along the margin of the flapped pockets; but the coarse knee breeches of corduroy, and the thick grey lambswool stockings, wrinkled along the legs, were no better than those worn by the poorer farmers of the neighbourhood.

This was the O’Donoghue himself. Opposite to him sat one as unlike him in every respect as it was possible to conceive. He was a tall, spare, raw-boned figure, whose grey eyes and high cheek-bones bore traces of a different race from that of the aged chieftain. An expression of intense acuteness pervaded every feature of his face, and seemed concentrated about the angles of the mouth, where a series of deep wrinkles were seen to cross and intermix with each other, omens of a sarcastic spirit, indulged without the least restraint on the part of its possessor. His wiry grey hair was brushed rigidly back from his bony temples, and fastened into a short queue behind, thus giving greater apparent length to his naturally long and narrow face. His dress was that of a gentleman of the time: a full-skirted coat of a dark brown, with a long vest descending below the hips; breeches somewhat a deeper shade of the same colour, and silk stockings, with silver-buckled shoes, completed an attire which, if plain, was yet scrupulously neat and respectable. As he sat, almost bolt upright, in his chair, there was a look of vigilance and alertness about him very opposite to the careless, nearly drooping air of the O’Donoghue. Such was Sir Archibald M’Nab, the brother of the O’Donoghue’s late wife, for the old man had been a widower for several years. Certain circumstances of a doubtful and mysterious nature had made him leave his native country of Scotland many years before, and since that, he had taken up his abode with his brother-in-law, whose retired habits and solitary residence afforded the surest guarantee against his ever being traced. His age must have been almost as great as the O’Donoghue’s; but the energy of his character, the lightness of his frame, and the habits of his life, all contributed to make him seem much younger.

Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reckless, lavish, and improvident; the other, cautious, saving, and full of forethought. O’Donoghue was frank and open – his opinions easily known – his resolutions hastily formed. M’Nab was close and secret, carefully weighing every thing before he made up his mind, and not much given to imparting his notions, when he had done so.

In one point alone was there any similarity between them – pride of ancestry and birth they both possessed in common; but this trait, so far from serving to reconcile the other discrepancies of their naturess, kept them even wider apart, and added to the passive estrangement of ill-matched associates, an additional element of active discord.

There was a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat beside the fire on a low stool, busily engaged in deciphering, by the fitful light of the bog-wood, the pages of an old volume, in which he seemed deeply interested. The blazing pine, as it threw its red gleam over the room, showed the handsome forehead of the youth, and the ample locks of a rich auburn, which hung in clusters over it; while his face was strikingly like the old man’s, the mildness of its expression – partly the result of youth, partly the character imparted by his present occupation – was unlike that of either his father or brother; for Herbert O’Donoghue was the younger son of the house, and was said, both in temper and appearance, to resemble his mother.

At a distance from the fire, and with a certain air of half assurance, half constraint, sat a man of some five-and-thirty years of age, whose dress of green coat, short breeches, and top boots, suggested at once the jockey, to which the mingled look of confidence and cunning bore ample corroboration. This was a well-known character in the south of Ireland at that time. His name was Lanty Lawler. The sporting habits of the gentry – their easiness on the score of intimacy – the advantages of a ready-money purchaser, whenever they wished “to weed their stables,” admitted the horse-dealer pretty freely among a class, to which neither his habits nor station could have warranted him in presenting himself. But, in addition to these qualities, Lanty was rather a prize in remote and unvisited tracts, such as the one we have been describing, his information being both great and varied in every thing going forward. He had the latest news of the capital – the fashions of hair and toilet – the colours worn by the ladies in vogue, and the newest rumours of any intended change – he knew well the gossip of politics and party – upon the probable turn of events in and out of parliament he could hazard a guess, with a fair prospect of accuracy. With the prices of stock and the changes in the world of agriculture he was thoroughly familiar, and had besides a world of stories and small-talk on every possible subject, which he brought forth with the greatest tact as regarded the tastes and character of his company, one-half of his acquaintances being totally ignorant of the gifts and graces, by which he obtained fame and character with the other.

A roving vagabond life gave him a certain free-and-easy air, which, among the majority of his associates, was a great source of his popularity; but he well knew when to lay this aside, and assume the exact shade of deference and respect his company might require. If then with O’Donoghue himself, he would have felt perfectly at ease, the presence of Sir Archy, and his taciturn solemnity, was a sad check upon him, and mingled the freedom he felt with a degree of reserve far from comfortable. However, he had come for a purpose, and, if successful, the result would amply remunerate him for any passing inconvenience he might incur; and with this thought he armed himself, as he entered the room some ten minutes before.

“So you are looking for Mark,” said the O’Donoghue to Lanty. “You can’t help hankering after that grey mare of his.”

“Sure enough, sir, there’s no denying it. I’ll have to give him the forty pounds for her, though, as sure as I’m here, she’s not worth the money; but when I’ve a fancy for a beast, or take a conceit out of her – it’s no use, I must buy her – that’s it!”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll give her to you now, Lanty; he has got her so quiet – so gentle – that I doubt he’ll part with her.”

“It’s little a quiet one suits him; faix, he’d soon tire of her if she wasn’t rearing or plunging like mad! He’s an elegant rider, God bless him. I’ve a black horse now that would mount him well; he’s out of ‘Divil-may-care,’ Mooney’s horse, and can take six foot of a wall flying, with fourteen stone on his back; and barring the least taste of a capped hock, you could not see speck nor spot about him wrong.”

“He’s in no great humour for buying just now,” interposed the O’Donoghue, with a voice to which some suddenly awakened recollection imparted a tone of considerable depression.

“Sure we might make a swop with the mare,” rejoined Lanty, determined not to be foiled so easily; and then, as no answer was forthcoming, after a long pause, he added, “and havn’t I the elegant pony for Master Herbert there; a crame colour – clean bred – with white mane and tail. If he was the Prince of Wales he might ride her. She has racing speed – they tell me, for I only have her a few days; and, faix, ye’d win all the county stakes with her.”

The youth looked up from his book, and listened with glistening eyes and animated features to the description, which, to one reared as he was, possessed no common attraction.

“Sure I’ll send over for her to-morrow, and you can try her,” said Lanty, as if replying to the gaze with which the boy regarded him.

“Ye mauna do nae sich a thing,” broke in M’Nab. “Keep your rogueries and rascalities for the auld generation ye hae assisted to ruin; but leave the young anes alane to mind ither matters than dicing and horse-racing.”

Either the O’Donoghue conceived the allusion one that bore hardly on himself, or he felt vexed that the authority of a father over his son should have been usurped by another, or both causes were in operation together, but he turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and said —

“And why shouldn’t the boy ride? was there ever one of his name or family that didn’t know how to cross a country? I don’t intend him for a highland pedlar.”

“He might be waur,” retorted M’Nab, solemnly, “he might be an Irish beggar.”

“By my soul, sir,” broke in O’Donoghue; but fortunately an interruption saved the speech from being concluded, for at the same moment the door opened, and Mark O’Donoghue, travel-stained and weary-looking, entered the room.

“Well, Mark,” said the old man, as his eyes glistened at the appearance of his favourite son – “what sport, boy?”

“Poor enough, sir; five brace in two days is nothing to boast of, besides two hares. Ah, Lanty – you here; how goes it?”

“Purty well, as times go, Mr. Mark,” said the horse-dealer, affecting a degree of deference he would not have deemed necessary had they been alone. “I’m glad to see you back again.”

“Why – what old broken-down devils have you now got on hand to pass off upon us? It’s fellows like you destroy the sport of the country. You carry away every good horse to be found, and cover the country with spavined, wind-galled brutes, not fit for the kennel.”

“That’s it, Mark – give him a canter, lad,” cried the old man, joyfully.

“I know what you are at well enough,” resumed the youth, encouraged by these tokens of approval; “you want that grey mare of mine. You have some fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and fifty, or, may be, two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring her over to England.”

“May I never —

“That’s the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us – nothing too good for them.”

“See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never – ”

“Well, Lanty, one word for all; I’d rather send a bullet through her skull this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English patrons.”

“Won’t you let me speak a word at all,” interposed the horse-dealer, in an accent half imploring, half deprecating. “If I buy the mare – and it isn’t for want of a sporting offer if I don’t – she’ll never go to England – no – devil a step. She’s for one in the country here beside you; but I won’t say more, and there now.” At these words he drew a soiled black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of string – “There now – there’s sixty pounds in that bundle there – at least I hope so, for I never counted it since I got it – take it for her or leave it – just as you like; and may I never have luck with a beast, but there’s not a gentleman in the county would give the same money for her.” Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Sure the speedy cut is ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.”