Whatever the merits or demerits of the great question, the legislative
union between England and Ireland,--and assuredly we have neither the
temptation of duty nor inclination to discuss such here,--the means
employed by Ministers to carry the measure through Parliament were in
the last degree disgraceful. Never was bribery practised with more
open effrontery, never did corruption display itself with more daring
indifference to public opinion; the Treasury office was an open mart,
where votes were purchased, and men sold their country, delighted, as a
candid member of the party confessed,--delighted “to have a country to
sell.”
The ardor of a political career, like the passion for the chase, would
seem in its high excitement to still many compunctious murmurings
of conscience which in calmer moments could not fail to be heard and
acknowledged: the desire to succeed, that ever-present impulse to
win, steels the heart against impressions which, under less pressing
excitements, had been most painful to endure; and, in this way,
honorable and high-minded men have often stooped to acts which,
with calmer judgment to guide them, they would have rejected with
indignation.
Such was Dick Forester's position at the moment. An aide-de-camp on the
staff of the Viceroy, a near relative of the Secretary, he was intrusted
with many secret and delicate negotiations, affairs in which, had he
been a third party, he would have as scrupulously condemned the tempter
as the tempted; the active zeal of agency allayed, however, all such
qualms of conscience, and every momentary pang of remorse was swallowed
up in the ardor for success.
Few men will deny in the abstract the cruelty of many field-sports they
persist in following; fewer still abandon them on such scruples; and
while Forester felt half ashamed to himself of the functions committed
to him, he would have been sorely disappointed if he had been passed
over in the selection of his relative's political adherents.
Of this nature were some of Dick Forester's reflections as he posted
along towards the West; nor was the scene through which he journeyed
suggestive of pleasanter thoughts. If any of our readers should
perchance be acquainted with that dreary line of country which lies
along the great western road of Ireland, they will not feel surprised
if the traveller's impressions of the land were not of the brightest or
fairest. The least reflective of mortals cannot pass through a dreary
and poverty-stricken district without imbibing some of the melancholy
which broods over the place. Forester was by no means such, and felt
deeply and sincerely for the misery he witnessed on every hand, and was
in the very crisis of some most patriotic scheme of benevolence, when
his carriage arrived in front of the little inn of Kilbeggan. Resisting,
without much violence to his inclinations, the civil request of the
landlord to alight, he leaned back to resume the broken thread of his
lucubrations, while fresh horses were put to. How long he thus waited,
or what progress his benign devices accomplished in the mean while, this
true history is unable to record; enough if we say that when he next
became aware of the incidents then actually happening around him, he
discovered that his carriage was standing fast in the same place as at
the moment of his arrival, and the rain falling in torrents, as before.
To let down the glass and call out to the postilions was a very natural
act; to do so with the addition of certain expletives not commonly used
in good society, was not an extraordinary one. Forester did both; but he
might have spared his eloquence and his indignation, for the postilions
were both in the stable, and his servant agreeably occupied in the bar
over the comforts of a smoking tumbler of punch. The merciful schemes so
late the uppermost object of his thoughts were routed in a moment, and,
vowing intentions of a very different purport to the whole household,
he opened the door and sprang out. Dark as the night was, he could see
that there were no horses to the carriage, and, with redoubled anger at
the delay, he strode into the inn.
“Holloa, I say--house here! Linwood! Where the devil is the fellow?”
“Here, sir,” cried a smart-looking London servant, as he sprang from
the bar with his eyes bolting out of his head from the heat of the last
mouthful, swallowed in a second. “I've been a trying for horses, sir;
but they've never got 'em, though they 've been promising to let us have
a pair this half-hour.”
“No horses! Do you mean that they've not got a pair of posters in a town
like this?”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” interposed a dirty waiter in a nankeen jacket;
for the landlord was too indignant at the rejection of his proposal to
appear again, “we've four pair, besides a mare in foal; but there's a
deal of business on the line this week past, and there's a gentleman in
the parlor now has taken four of them.”
“Taken four! Has he more than one carriage?”
“No, sir, a light chariot it is; but he likes to go fast.”
“And so do I--when I can,” muttered Forester, the last words being an
addition almost independent of him. “Could n't you tell him that there's
a gentleman here very much pressed to push on, and would take it as a
great favor if he'd divide the team?”
“To be sure, sir, I'll go and speak to him,” said the waiter, as he
hurried away on the errand.
“I see how it is, sir,” said Linwood, who, with true servant dexterity,
thought to turn his master's anger into any other channel than towards
himself, “they wants to get you to stop the night here.”
“Confound this trickery! I'll pay what they please for the horses, only
let us have them.--Well, waiter, what does he say?”
“He says, sir,” said the waiter, endeavoring to suppress a laugh, “if
you 'll come in and join him at supper, you shall have whatever you
like.”
“Join him at supper! No, no; I'm hurried, I'm anxious to get forward,
and not the least hungry besides.”
“Hadn't you better speak a word to him, anyhow?” said the waiter,
half opening the parlor door. And Forester, accepting the suggestion,
entered.
[Illustration: 041]
In the little low-ceilinged apartment of the small inn, at a table
very amply and as temptingly covered, sat a large and, for his age,
singularly handsome man. A forehead both high and broad surmounted
two clear blue eyes, whose brilliancy seemed to defy the wear of time;
regular and handsome teeth; and a complexion the very type of
health appeared to vouch for a strength of constitution rare at his
advanced age. His dress was the green coat so commonly worn by country
gentlemen, with leather breeches and boots, nor, though the season was
winter, did he appear to have any great-coat, or other defence against
the weather. He was heaping some turf upon the fire as Forester entered,
and, laughingly interrupting the operation, he stood up and bowed
courteously.
“I have taken a great liberty, sir, first, to suppose that any man at
this hour of the night is not the worse for something to eat and drink;
and, secondly, that he might have no objection to partake of either in
my company.” Forester was not exactly prepared for a manner so palpably
that of the best society, and, at once repressing every sign of his
former impatience, replied by apologizing for a request which might
inconvenience the granter. “Let me help you to this grouse-pie, and
fill yourself a glass of sherry; and by the time you have taken some
refreshment, the horses will be put to. I am most happy to offer you a
seat.”
“I am afraid there is a mistake somewhere,” said Forester, half timidly.
“I heard you had engaged the only four horses here, and as my carriage
is without, my request was to obtain two if you--”
“But why not come with me? I 'm pressed, and must be up, if possible,
before morning. Remember, we are forty-eight miles from Dublin.”
“Dublin! But I'm going the very opposite road. I'm for Westport.”
“Oh, by Jove! that is different. What a stupid fellow the waiter is!
Never mind; sit down. Let us have a glass of wine together. You shall
have two of the horses. Old Wilkins must only make his spurs supply the
place of the leaders.”
There was a hearty good-nature in every accent of the old man's voice,
and Forester drew his chair to the table, by no means sorry to spend
some time longer in his company.
There is a kind of conversation sacred to the occupations of the
table,--a mixture of the culinary and the social, the gustatory with
the agreeable. And the stranger led the way to this, with the art of
an accomplished proficient, and while recommending the good things to
Forester's attention, contrived to season their enjoyment by a tone at
once pleasing and cordial.
“I could have sworn you were hungry,” said he, laughing, as Forester
helped himself for the second time to the grouse-pie. “I know you did
not expect so appetizing a supper in such a place; but Rickards has
always something in the larder for an old acquaintance, and I have been
travelling this road close upon sixty years now.”
“And a dreary way it is,” said Forester, “except for this most agreeable
incident. I never came so many miles before with so little to interest
me.”
“Very true; it is a flat, monotonous-looking country, and poor besides;
but nothing like what I remember it as a boy.”
“You surely do not mean that the people were ever worse off than they
seem now to be?”
“Ay, a hundred times worse off. They may be rack-rented and over-taxed
in some instances now,--not as many as you would suppose, after
all,--but then, they were held in actual slavery, nearly famished,
and all but naked; no roads, no markets; subject to the caprice of the
landowners on every occasion in life, and the faction fights--those
barbarous vestiges of a rude time--kept up and encouraged by those who
should have set the better example of mutual charity and good feeling.
These unhappy practices have not disappeared, but they are far less
frequent than formerly; and however the confession may seem to you a sad
one, to me there is a pride in saying, Ireland is improving.”
“It is hard to conceive a people more miserably off than these,” said
Forester, with a sigh.
“So they seem to your eyes; but let me remark that there is a transition
state between rude barbarism and civilization which always appears
more miserable than either; habits of life which suggest wants that
can rarely, if ever, be supplied. The struggle between poverty and
the desire for better, is a bitter conflict, and such is the actual
condition of this people. You are young enough to witness the fruits
of the reformation; I am too old ever to hope to see them, but I feel
assured that the day is coming.”
“I like your theory well; it has Hope for its ally,” said Forester, as
he gazed on the benevolent features of the old squire.
“It has even better, sir, it has truth; and hence it is that the
peasantry, as they approach nearer to the capital,--the seat of
civilization,--have fewest of those traits that please or attract
strangers; they are in the transition state I speak of; while down in
_my_ wild country, you can see them in their native freshness, reckless
and improvident, but light-hearted and happy.”
“Where may the country be you speak of, sir?” said Forester.
“The Far West, beside the Atlantic. You have heard of Mayo?”
“Oh, that is my destination at this moment; I am going beyond Westport,
to visit one of the chieftains there. I have not the honor to know him,
but I conclude that his style of living and habits will not be a bad
specimen of the gentry customs generally.”
“I know that neighborhood tolerably well. May I ask the name of your
future host?”
“The Knight of Gwynne is his title--Mr. Darcy--”
“Oh! an old acquaintance,--I may almost say an old friend of mine,” said
the other, smiling. “And so you are going to pass some time at Gywnne?”
“A week or so; I scarcely think I can spare more.”
“They 'll call that a very inhospitable visit at Gwynne, sir; the
Knight's guests rarely stay less than a month. I have just left it,
and there were some there who had been since the beginning of the
partridge-shooting, and not the least welcome of the party.”
“I am sorry I had not the good fortune to meet you there,” said
Forester.
“Make your visit a fortnight, and I 'll join you, then,” said the
old man, gayly. “I 'm going up to town to settle a wager,--a foolish
excursion, you 'll say, at my time of life; but it's too late to mend.”
“The horses is put to, sir,” said the waiter, announcing the fact for
something like the fourth time, without being attended to.
“Well, then, it is time to start. Am I to take it as a pledge that I
shall find you at Gwynne this day fortnight?”
“I cannot answer for my host,” said Forester, laughing.
“Oh! old Darcy is sure to ask you to stay. By the way, would you permit
me to trouble you with five lines to a friend who is now stopping
there?”
“Of course; I shall be but too happy to be of any service to you.”
The old gentleman sat down, and, tearing a leaf from a capacious
pocket-book, wrote a few hurried lines, which, having folded and sealed,
he addressed, “Bagenal Daly, Esquire, Gwynne Abbey.”
“There, that's my commission; pray add my service to the Knight himself,
when you see him.”
“Permit me to ask, how shall I designate his friend?”
“Oh! I forgot, you don't know me,” said he, laughing. “I have half a
mind to leave the identification with your own descriptive powers.”
“I'd wager five guineas I could make the portrait a resemblance.”
“Done, then; I take the bet,” said the other; “and I promise you, on the
word of a gentleman, I am known to every visitor in the house.”
Each laughed heartily at the drollery of such a wager, and, with many a
profession of the pleasure a future meeting would afford to both, they
parted, less like casual acquaintances than as old and intimate friends.