There are few persons so unreflective as not to give way to a little
self-examination on waking for the first time in a strange place. The
very objects about are so many appeals to your ingenuity or to your
memory, that you cannot fail asking yourself how you became acquainted
with them: the present is thus made the herald of the past, and it is
difficult, when unravelling the tangled web of doubt that assails you,
not to think over the path by which you have been travelling.
As for me, scarcely were my eyes opened to the light, I had barely
thrown one glance around my cold and comfortless chamber, when thoughts
of home came rushing to my mind. The warm earnestness of my father, the
timid dreads of my poor mother, rose up before me, as I felt myself, for
the first time, alone in the world. The elevating sense of heroism, that
more or less blends with every young man's dreams of life, gilds our
first journey from our father's roof. There is a feeling of freedom in
being the arbiter of one's actions, to go where you will and when you
will. Till that moment the world has been a comparative blank; the
trammels of school or the ties of tutorship have bound and
restrained you. You have been living, as it were, within the rules
of court--certain petty privileges permitted, certain small liberties
allowed; but now you come forth disenchanted, disenthralled,
emancipated, free to come as to go--a man in all the plenitude of his
volition; and, better still, a man without the heavy, depressing weight
of responsibility that makes manhood less a blessing than a burden. The
first burst of life is indeed a glorious thing; youth, health, hope, and
confidence have each a force and vigour they lose in after years:
life is then a splendid river, and we are swimming with the stream--no
adverse waves to weary, no billows to buffet us, we hold on our course
rejoicing.
The sun was peering between the curtains of my window, and playing
in fitful flashes on the old oak floor, as I lay thus ruminating and
dreaming over the fature. How many a resolve did I then make for my
guidance--how many an intention did I form--how many a groundwork of
principle did I lay down, with all the confidence of youth! I fashioned
to myself a world after my own notions; in which I conjured up certain
imaginary difficulties, all of which were surmounted by my admirable
tact and consummate cleverness. I remembered how, at both Eton and
Sandhurst, the Irish boy was generally made the subject of some jest
or quiz, at one time for his accent, at another for his blunders. As
a Guardsman, short as had been my experience of the service, I could
plainly see that a certain indefinable tone of superiority was ever
asserted towards our friends across the sea. A wide-sweeping prejudice,
whose limits were neither founded in reason, justice, or common sense,
had thrown a certain air of undervaluing import over every one and
every thing from that country. Not only were its faults and its follies
heavily visited, but those accidental and trifling blemishes--those
slight and scarce perceptible deviations from the arbitrary standard
of fashion--were deemed the strong characteristics of the nation, and
condemned accordingly; while the slightest use of any exaggeration in
speech--the commonest employment of a figure or a metaphor--the casual
introduction of an anecdote or a repartee, were all heavily censured,
and pronounced “so very Irish!” Let some fortune-hunter carry off an
heiress--let a lady trip over her train at the drawing-room--let a
minister blunder in his mission--let a powder-magazine explode and blow
up one-half of the surrounding population, there was but one expression
to qualify all--“How Irish! how very Irish!” The adjective had become
one of depreciation; and an Irish lord, an Irish member, an Irish
estate, and an Irish diamond, were held pretty much in the same
estimation.
Reared in the very hot-bed, the forcing-house, of such exaggerated
prejudice, while imbibing a very sufficient contempt for everything in
that country, I obtained proportionably absurd notions of all that
was Irish. Our principles may come from our fathers; our prejudices
certainly descend from the female branch. Now, my mother,
notwithstanding the example of the Prince Regent himself, whose chosen
associates were Irish, was most thoroughly exclusive on this point. She
would admit that a native of that country could be invited to an evening
party under extreme and urgent circumstances--that some brilliant
orator, whose eloquence was at once the dread and the delight of the
House--that some gifted poet, whose verses came home to the heart
alike of prince and peasant--that the painter, whose canvas might
stand unblushingly amid the greatest triumphs of art--could be asked to
lionise for those cold and callous votaries of fashion, across the lake
of whose stagnant nature no breath of feeling stirred, esteeming it the
while, that in her card of invitation he was reaping the proudest proof
of his success; but that such could be made acquaintances or companions,
could be regarded in the light of equals or intimates, the thing
never entered into her imagination, and she would as soon have made a
confidant of the King of Kongo as a gentleman from Connaught.
Less for the purposes of dwelling upon my lady-mother's “Hibernian
horrors,” than of showing the school in which I was trained, I have made
this somewhat lengthened _exposé_. It may, however, convey to my reader
some faint impression of the feelings which animated me at the outset of
my career in Ireland.
I have already mentioned the delight I experienced with the society
at the Viceroy's table. So much brilliancy, so much wit, so much of
conversational power, until that moment I had no conception of. Now,
however, while reflecting on it, I was actually astonished to find how
far the whole scene contributed to the support of my ancient prejudices.
I well knew that a party of the highest functionaries--bishops and
law-officers of the crown--would not have conducted themselves in the
same manner in England. I stopped not to inquire whether it was more the
wit or the will that was wanting; I did not dwell upon the fact that
the meeting was a purely convivial one, to which I was admitted by the
kindness and condescension of the Duke; but, so easily will a warped
and bigoted impression find food for its indulgence, I only saw in
the meeting an additional evidence of my early convictions. How far my
theorising on this point might have led me--whether eventually I should
have come to the conclusion that the Irish nation were lying in the
darkest blindness of barbarism, while, by a special intervention
of Providence, I, was about to be erected into a species of double
revolving light--it is difficult to say, when a tap at the door suddenly
aroused me from my musings.
“Are ye awake, yet?” said a harsh, husky voice, like a bear in
bronchitis, which I had no difficulty in pronouncing to be Corny's.
“Yes, come in,” cried I; “what hour is it?”
“Somewhere after ten,” replied he, sulkily; “you're the first I ever
heerd ask the clock, in the eight years I have lived here. Are ye ready
for your morning?”
“My what?” said I, with some surprise.
“Didn't I say it, plain enough? Is it the brogue that bothers you?”
As he said this with a most sarcastic grin he poured, from a large jug
he held in one hand, a brimming goblet full of some white compound,
and handed it over to me. Preferring at once to explore, rather than to
question the intractable Corny, I put it to my lips, and found it to be
capital milk punch, concocted with great skill, and seasoned with what
O'Grady afterwards called “a notion of nutmeg.”
“Oh! devil fear you, that he'll like it. Sorrow one of you ever left as
much in the jug as 'ud make a foot-bath for a flea.”
“They don't treat you over well, then, Corny,” said I, purposely opening
the sorest wound of his nature.
“Trate me well! faix, them that 'ud come here for good tratement, would
go to the devil for divarsion. There's Master Phil himself, that I used
to bate, when he was a child, many's the time, when his father, rest his
sowl, was up at the coorts--ay, strapped him, till he hadn't a spot that
wasn't sore an him--and look at him now; oh, wirra! you'd think I never
took a ha'porth of pains with him. Ugh!--the haythins!--the Turks!”
“This is all very bad, Corny; hand me those boots.”
“And thim's boots!” said he, with a contemptuous expression on his face
that would have struck horror to the heart of Hoby. “Well, well.” Here
he looked up as though the profligacy and degeneracy of the age were
transgressing all bounds. “When you're ready, come over to the master's,
for he's waiting breakfast for you. A beautiful hour for breakfast, it
is! Many's the day his father sintenced a whole dockful before the same
time!”
With the comforting reflection that the world went better in his youth,
Corny drained the few remaining drops of the jug, and, muttering the
while something that did not sound exactly like a blessing, waddled out
of the room with a gait of the most imposing gravity.
I had very little difficulty in finding my friend's quarters; for, as
his door lay open, and as he himself was carolling away, at the very top
of his lungs, some popular melody of the day, I speedily found myself
beyond the threshold.
“Ah! Hinton, my hearty, how goes it? your headpiece nothing the worse,
I hope, for either the car or the claret? By-the-by, capital claret that
is! you've nothing like it in England.”
I could scarce help a smile at the remark, as he proceeded,
“But come, my boy, sit down; help yourself to a cutlet, and make
yourself quite at home in Mount O'Grady.”
“Mount O'Grady!” repeated I. “Ha! in allusion, I suppose, to these
confounded two flights one has to climb up to you.”
“Nothing of the kind; the name has a very different origin. Tea or
coffee? there's the tap! Now, my boy, the fact is, we O'Gradys were once
upon a time very great folk in our way; lived in an uncouth old barrack,
with battlements and a keep, upon the Shannon, where we ravaged the
country for miles round, and did as much mischief, and committed as much
pillage upon the peaceable inhabitants, as any respectable old family
in the province. Time, however, wagged on; luck changed; your countrymen
came pouring in upon us with new-fangled notions of reading, writing,
and road-making; police and petty sessions, and a thousand other
vexatious contrivances followed, to worry and puzzle the heads of simple
country gentlemen; so that, at last, instead of taking to the hill-side
for our mutton, we were reduced to keep a market-cart, and employ a
thieving rogue in Dublin to supply us with poor claret, instead of
making a trip over to Galway, where a smuggling craft brought us our
liquor, with a bouquet fresh from Bordeaux. But the worst wasn't come;
for you see, a litigious spirit grew up in the country, and a kind
of vindictive habit of pursuing you for your debts. Now, we always
contrived, somehow or other, to have rather a confused way of managing
our exchequer. No tenant on the property ever precisely knew what he
owed; and, as we possessed no record of what he paid, our income was
rather obtained after the maimer of levying a tribute, than receiving a
legal debt. Meanwhile, we pushed our credit like a new colony: whenever
a loan was to be, obtained, it was little we cared for ten, twelve, or
even fifteen per cent.; and as we kept a jolly house, a good cook, good
claret, and had the best pack of beagles in the country, he'd have been
a hardy creditor who'd have ventured to push us to extremities. Even
sheep, however, they say, get courage when they flock together, and so
this contemptible herd of tailors, tithe-proctors, butchers, barristers,
and bootmakers, took heart of grace, and laid siege to us in all form.
My grandfather, Phil,--for I was called after him,--who always spent his
money like a gentleman, had no notion of figuring in the Four Courts;
but he sent Tom Darcy, his cousin, up to town, to call out as many of
the plaintiffs as would fight, and to threaten the remainder that, if
they did not withdraw their suits, they'd have more need of the surgeon
than the attorney-general; for they shouldn't have a whole bone in their
body by Michaelmas-day. Another cutlet, Hinton? But I am tiring you with
all these family matters.”
“Not at all; go on, I beg of you. I want to hear how your grandfather
got out of his difficulties.”
“Faith, I wish you could! it would be equally pleasant news to myself;
but, unfortunately, his beautiful plan only made bad worse, for they
began fresh actions. Some, for provocation to fight a duel; others,
for threats of assault and battery; and the short of it was, as my
grandfather wouldn't enter a defence, they obtained their verdicts, and
got judgment, with all the costs.”
“The devil they did! That must have pushed him hard.”
“So it did; indeed it got the better of his temper, and he that was
one of the heartiest, pleasantest fellows in the province, became, in
a manner, morose and silent; and, instead of surrendering possession,
peaceably and quietly, he went down to the gate, and took a sitting shot
at the sub-sheriff, who was there in a tax-cart.”
“Bless my soul! Did he kill him?”
“No; he only ruffled his feathers, and broke his thigh; but it was bad
enough, for he had to go over to France till it blew over. Well, it was
either vexation or the climate, or, maybe, the weak wines, or, perhaps,
all three, undermined his constitution, but he died at eighty-four--the
only one of the family ever cut off early, except such as were shot, or
the like.”
“Well, but your father--”
“I am coming to him. My grandfather sent for him from school when he
was dying, and he made him swear he would be a lawyer. 'Morris will be a
thorn in their flesh, yet,' said he; 'and look to it, my boy,' he cried,
'I leave you a Chancery suit that has nearly broke eight families and
the hearts of two chancellors;--see that you keep it goings--sell
every stick on the estate--put all the beggars in the barony on the
property--beg, borrow, and steal them--plough up all the grazing-land;
and I'll tell you a better trick than all----' Here a fit of coughing
interrupted the pious old gentleman, and, when it was over, so was he!”
“Dead!” said I.
“As a door-nail! Well, my father was dutiful; he kept the suit moving
till he got called to the Bar! Once there, he gave it all his spare
moments; and when there was nothing doing in the Common Pleas or King's
Bench, he was sure to come down with a new bill, or a declaration,
before the Master, or a writ of error, or a point of law for a jury,
till at last, when no case was ready to come on, the sitting judge would
call out, 'Let us hear O'Grady/ in appeal, or in error, or whatever it
was. But, to make my story short, my father became a first-rate lawyer,
by the practice of his own suit--rose to a silk-gown--was made solicitor
and attorney-general--afterwards, chief-justice----”
“And the suit?”
“Oh! the suit survived him, and became my property; but, somehow, I
didn't succeed in the management quite as well as my father; and I found
that my estate cost me somewhere about fifteen hundred a year--not to
mention more oaths than fifty years of purgatory could pay off. This was
a high premium to pay for figuring every term on the list of trials, so
I raised a thousand pounds on my commission, gave it to Nick M'Namara,
to take the property off my hands, and as my father's last injunction
was, 'Never rest till you sleep in Mount O'Grady,'--why, I just baptised
my present abode by that name, and here I live with the easy conscience
of a dutiful and affectionate child that took the shortest and speediest
way of fulfilling his father's testament.”
“By Jove! a most singular narrative. I shouldn't like to have parted
with the old place, however.”
“Faith, I don't know! I never was much there. It was a rackety,
tumble-down old concern, with rattling windows, rooks, and rats, pretty
much like this; and, what between my duns and Corny Delany, I very often
think I am back there again. There wasn't as good a room as this in the
whole house, not to speak of the pictures. Isn't that likeness of Darcy
capital? You saw him last night. He sat next Curran. Come, I've no
curaçoa to offer you, but try this usquebaugh.”
“By-the-by, that Corny is a strange character. I rather think, if I were
you, I should have let him go with the property.”
“Let him go! Egad, that's not so easy as you think. Nothing but death
will ever part us.”
“I really cannot comprehend how you endure him; he'd drive me mad.”
“Well, he very often pushes me a little hard or so; and, if it wasn't
that, by deep study and minute attention, I have at length got some
insight into the weak parts of his nature, I frankly confess I couldn't
endure it much longer.”
“And, pray, what may these amiable traits be?”
“You will scarcely guess”
“Love of money, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Attachment to your family, then?”
“Not that either.”
“I give it up.”
“Well, the truth is, Corny is a most pious Catholic. The Church has
unbounded influence and control over all his actions. Secondly, he is a
devout believer in ghosts, particularly my grandfather's, which, I must
confess, I have personated two or three times myself, when his temper
had nearly tortured me into a brain fever; so that between purgatory and
apparitions, fears here and hereafter, I keep him pretty busy. There's a
friend of mine, a priest, one Father Tom Loftus----”
“I've heard that name before, somewhere.”
“Scarcely, I think; I'm not aware that he was ever in England; but he's
a glorious fellow; I'll make you known to him, one of these days; and
when you have seen a little more of Ireland, I am certain you'll like
him. But I'm forgetting; it must be late; we have a field-day, you know,
in the Park.”
“What am I to do for a mount? I've brought no horses with me.”
“Oh, I've arranged all that. See, there are the nags already. That dark
chesnut I destine for you; and, come along, we have no time to lose;
there go the carriages, and here comes our worthy colleague and fellow
aide-de-camp. Do you know him?”
“Who is it, pray?”
“Lord Dudley de Vere, the most confounded puppy, and the emptiest ass--
But here he is.”
“De Vere, my friend Mr. Hinton--one of ours.”
His Lordship raised his delicate-looking eyebrows as high as he was
able, letting fall his glass at the same moment from the corner of his
eye; and while he adjusted his stock at the glass, lisped out,
“Ah--yes--very happy. In the Guards, I think. Know Douglas, don't you?”
“Yes, very slightly.”
“When did you come--to-day?”
“No; last night.”
“Must have got a buffeting; blew very fresh. You don't happen to know
the odds on the Oaks?”
“Hecate, they say, is falling. I rather heard a good account of the
mare.”
“Indeed,” said he, while his cold, inanimate features brightened up with
a momentary flush of excitement. “Take you five to two, or give you the
odds, you don't name the winner on the double event.”
A look from O'Grady decided me at once on declining the proffered
wager; and his Lordship once more returned to the mirror and his
self-admiration.
“I say, O'Grady, do come here for a minute. What the deuce can that be?”
[Illustration: 2-0074]
Here an immoderate fit of laughter from his Lordship brought us both to
the window. The figure to which his attention was directed was certainly
not a little remarkable. Mounted upon an animal of the smallest possible
dimensions, sat, or rather stood, the figure of a tall, gaunt, raw-boned
looking man, in a livery of the gaudiest blue and yellow, his hat
garnished with silver lace, while long tags of the same material were
festooned gracefully from his shoulder to his breast; his feet
nearly touched the ground, and gave him rather the appearance of one
progressing with a pony between his legs, than of a figure on horseback;
he carried under one arm a leather pocket, like a despatch bag; and, as
he sauntered slowly about, with his eyes directed hither and thither,
seemed like some one in search of an unknown locality.
The roar of laughter which issued from our window drew his attention
to that quarter, and he immediately touched his hat, while a look of
pleased recognition played across his countenance. “Holloa, Tim!” cried
O'Grady, “what's in the wind now?”
Tim's answer was inaudible, but inserting his hand into the leathern
con-veniency already mentioned, he drew forth a card of most portentous
dimensions. By this time Corny's voice could be heard joining the
conversation.
“Arrah, give it here, and don't be making a baste of yourself. Isn't
the very battle-axe Guards laughing at you? I'm sure I wonder how a
Christian would make a merry-andrew of himself by wearing such clothes;
you're more like a play-actor nor a respectable servant.”
With these words he snatched rather than accepted the proffered card;
and Tim, with another flourish of his hat, and a singularly droll grin,
meant to convey his appreciation of Cross Corny, plunged the spurs till
his legs met under the belly of the little animal, and cantered out of
the court-yard amid the laughter of the bystanders, in which even the
sentinels on duty could not refrain from participating.
“What the devil can it be?” cried Lord Dudley; “he evidently knows you,
O'Grady.”
“And you, too, my Lord; his master has helped you to a cool hundred or
two more than once before now.”
“Eh--what--you don't say so! Not our worthy friend Paul--eh? Why,
confound it, I never should have known Timothy in that dress.”
“No,” said O'Grady, slyly; “I acknowledge it is not exactly his costume
when he serves a latitat.”
“Ha, ha!” cried the other, trying to laugh at the joke, which he felt
too deeply; “I thought I knew the pony, though. Old three-and-fourpence;
his infernal canter always sounds in my ears like the jargon of a bill
of costs.”
“Here comes Corny,” said O'Grady. “What have you got there?”
“There, 'tis for you,” replied he, throwing, with an air of the most
profound disdain, a large card upon the table; while, as he left the
room, he muttered some very sagacious reflections about the horrors
of low company--his father the Jidge--the best in the land--riotous,
disorderly life; the whole concluding with an imprecation upon heathens
and Turks, with which he managed to accomplish his exit.
“Capital, by Jove!” said Lord Dudley, as he surveyed the card with his
glass.
“'Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rooney presents'--the devil they does--'presents
their compliments, and requests the honour of Captain O'Grady's company
at dinner on Friday, the 8th, at half-past seven o'clock.'”
“How good! glorious, by Jove! eh, O'Grady? You are a sure ticket
there--_l'ami de la maison!_”
O'Grady's cheek became red at these words; and a flashing expression in
his eyes told how deeply he felt them. He turned sharply round, his lip
quivering with passion; then, checking himself suddenly, he burst into
an affected laugh,
“You'll go too, wont you?”
“I? No, faith, they caught me once; but then the fact was, a protest and
an invitation were both served on me together. I couldn't accept one, so
I did the other.”
“Well, I must confess,” said O'Grady, in a firm, resolute tone, “there
may be many more fashionable people than our friends; but I, for one,
scruple not to say I have received many kindnesses from them, and am
deeply, sincerely grateful.”
“As far as doing a bit of paper now and then, when one is hard up,” said
Lord Dudley, “why, perhaps, I'm somewhat of your mind; but if one must
take the discount out in dinners, it's an infernal bore.”
“And yet,” said O'Grady, maliciously, “I've seen your Lordship tax your
powers to play the agreeable at these same dinners; and I think your
memory betrays you in supposing you have only been there once. I myself
have met you at least four times.”
“Only shows how devilish hard up I must have been,” was the cool reply;
“but now, as the governor begins to behave better, I think I'll cut
Paul.”
“I'm certain you will,” said O'Grady, with an emphasis that could not be
mistaken. “But come, Hinton, we had better be moving; there's some stir
at the portico yonder, I suppose they're coming.”
At this moment the tramp of cavalry announced the arrival of the guard
of honour; the drums beat, the troops stood to arms, and we had barely
time to mount our horses, when the viceregal party took their places in
the carriages, and we all set out for the Phoenix.
“Confess, Hinton, it is worth while being a soldier to be in Ireland.”
This was O'Grady's observation as we rode down Parliament-street, beside
the carriage of the Viceroy. It was the first occasion of a field-day
since the arrival of his Excellency, and all Dublin was on the tiptoe of
expectation at the prospect. Handkerchiefs were waved from the windows;
streamers and banners floated from the house-tops; patriotic devices and
allegoric representations of Erin sitting at a plentiful board, opposite
an elderly gentleman with a ducal coronet, met us at every turn of the
way. The streets were literally crammed with people. The band played
Patrick's-day; the mob shouted, his Grace bowed; and down to Phil
O'Grady himself, who winked at the pretty girls as he passed, there did
not seem an unoccupied man in the whole procession. On we went,
following the line of the quays, threading our way through a
bare-legged, ragged population, bawling themselves hoarse with energetic
desires for prosperity to Ireland. “Yes,” thought I, as I looked upon
the worn, dilapidated houses, the faded and bygone equipages, the
tarnished finery of better days--“yes, my father was right, these people
are very different from their neighbours; their very prosperity has an
air quite peculiar to itself.” Everything attested a state of poverty, a
lack of trade, a want of comfort and of cleanliness; but still there was
but one expression prevalent in the mass--that of unbounded good humour
and gaiety. With a philosophy quite his own, poor Paddy seemed to feel a
reflected pleasure from the supposed happiness of those around him, the
fine clothes, the gorgeous equipages, the prancing chargers, the flowing
plumes--all, in fact, that forms the appliances of wealth--constituting
in his mind a kind of paradise on earth. He thought their possessors at
least ought to be happy, and, like a good-hearted fellow, he was glad of
it for their sakes.
There had been in the early part of the day an abortive effort at a
procession. The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs, in their state liveries,
had gone forth with a proud following of their fellow-citizens; but a
manouvre, which hitherto has been supposed exclusively the province
of the navy, was here employed with unbounded success; and the hackney
coachmen, by “cutting the line” in several places, had completely
disorganised the procession, which now presented the singular spectacle
of an aldermanic functionary with emblazoned panels and bedizened
horses, followed by a string of rackety jaunting-cars, or a noddy with
its fourteen insides. Horsemen there were, too, in abundance. Were I to
judge from the spectacle before me, I should say that the Irish were
the most equestrian people of the globe; and at what a pace they went!
Caring little or nothing for the foot-passengers, they only drew rein
when their blown steeds were unable to go further, and then dashed
onwards like a charge, amid a shower of oaths, curses, and imprecations,
half drowned in the laughter that burst on every side. Deputations there
were also from various branches of trade, entreating their Graces to
wear and to patronise the manufacture of the country, and to conform
in many respects to its habits and customs: by all of which, in my then
ignorance, I could only understand the vehement desire of the population
that the viceregal court should go about in a state of nature, and limit
their diet to poteen and potatoes.
“Fine sight this, Hinton! Isn't it cheering?” said O'Grady, as his eye
beamed with pleasure and delight.
“Why, yes,” said I, hesitatingly; “but don't you think if they wore
shoes----”
“Shoes!” repeated he, contemptuously, “they'd never suffer such
restrictions on their liberties. Look at them! they are the fellows to
make soldiers of! The only fear of half-rations with them would be the
risk of indigestion.”
On we went, a strange and motley mass, the only grave faces being a few
of those who sat in gilded coaches, with embroidered hammercloths, while
every half-naked figure that flitted past had a countenance of reckless
jollity and fun. But the same discrepancy that pervaded the people and
the procession was visible even in their dwellings, and the meanest
hovels stood side by side with the public and private edifices of
elegance and beauty.
“This, certainly,” thought I, “is a strange land.” A reflection I had
reason to recur to more than once in my after experience of Ireland.