CONCLUSION.
* * * * *
The sun had set about half an hour. Already were the dusky shadows blending
with the faint twilight, as on a lovely July evening we entered the little
village of Portumna,--we, I say; for Lucy was beside me. For the last few
miles of the way I had spoken little; thoughts of the many times I had
travelled that same road, in how many moods, occupied my mind; and
although, as we flew rapidly along, some well-known face would every now
and then present itself, I had but time for the recognition ere we were
past. Arousing myself from my revery, I was pointing out to Lucy certain
well-known spots in the landscape, and directing her attention to places
with the names of which she had been for some time familiar, when suddenly
a loud shout rent the air, and the next moment the carriage was surrounded
by hundreds of country people, some of whom brandished blazing pine
torches; others carried rude banners in their hands,--but all testified
the most fervent joy as they bade us welcome. The horses were speedily
unharnessed, and their places occupied by a crowd of every age and sex,
who hurried us along through the straggling street of the village, now a
perfect blaze of bonfires.
Mounds of turf, bog-fir, and tar-barrels sent up their ruddy blaze, while
hundreds of wild, but happy faces, flitted around and through them,--now
dancing merrily in chorus; now plunging madly into the midst of the fire,
and scattering the red embers on every side. Pipers were there too, mounted
upon cars or turf-kishes; even the very roof-tops rang out their merry
notes; the ensigns of the little fishing-craft waved in the breeze, and
seemed to feel the general joy around them; while over the door of the
village inn stood a brilliantly lighted transparency, representing the head
of the O’Malleys holding a very scantily-robed young lady by the tips of
the fingers; but whether this damsel was intended to represent the genius
of the west, or my wife, I did not venture to inquire.
If the welcome were rude, assuredly it was a hearty one. Kind wishes and
blessings poured in on every side, and even our own happiness took a
brighter coloring from the beaming looks around us. The scene was wild;
the lurid glare of the red torchlight, the frantic gestures, the maddening
shouts, the forked flames rising amidst the dark shadows of the little
hamlet, had something strange and almost unearthly in their effect; but
Lucy showed no touch of fear. It is true she grasped my hand a little
closer, but her fair cheek glowed with pleasure, and her eye brightened as
she looked; and as the rich light fell upon her beauteous features, how
many a blessing, heart-felt and deep, how many a word of fervent praise was
spoken.
“Ah, then, the Lord be good to you; it’s yourself has the darling blue
eyes! Look at them, Mary; ain’t they like the blossoms on a peacock’s tail?
Musha, may sorrow never put a crease in that beautiful cheek! The saints
watch over you, for your mouth is like a moss-rose! Be good to her, yer
honor, for she’s a raal gem: devil fear you, Mr. Charles, but you’d have a
beauty!”
We wended our way slowly, the crowd ever thickening around us, until we
reached the market-place. Here the procession came to a stand, and I could
perceive, by certain efforts around me, that some endeavor was making to
enforce silence.
“Whisht, there! Hould your prate! Be still, Paddy! Tear an’ ages, Molly
Blake, don’t be holding me that way; let us hear his reverence. Put him up
on the barrel. Haven’t you got a chair for the priest? Run, and bring a
table out of Mat Haley’s. Here, Father--here, your reverence; take care,
will you,--you’ll have the holy man in the blaze!”
By this time I could perceive that my worthy old friend Father Rush was in
the midst of the mob with what appeared to be a written oration, as long as
the tail of a kite, between his hands.
“Be aisy, there, ye savages! Who’s tearing the back of my neck? Howld me up
straight! Steady, now--hem!”
“Take the laste taste in life to wet your lips, your riverence,” said a
kind voice, while at the same moment a smoking tumbler of what seemed to be
punch appeared on the heads of the crowd.
“Thank ye, Judy,” said the father, as he drained the cup. “Howld the light
up higher; I can’t read my speech. There now, be quiet, will ye! Here goes.
Peter, stand to me now and give me the word.”
This admonition was addressed to a figure on a barrel behind the priest,
who, as well as the imperfect light would permit me to descry, was the
coadjutor of the parish, Peter Nolan. Silence being perfectly established,
Father Rush began:--
“When Mars, the god of war, on high,
Of battles first did think,
He girt his sword upon his thigh,
And--
and--what is’t, Peter?”
“And mixed a drop of drink.”
“And mixed a drop of drink,” quoth Father Rush, with great emphasis; when
scarcely were the spoken words than a loud shout of laughter showed him his
mistake, and he overturned upon the luckless curate the full vial of his
wrath.
“What is it you mean, Father Peter? I’m ashamed of ye; faith, it’s may be
yourself, not Mars, you are speaking of.”
The roar of merriment around prevented me hearing what passed; but I could
see by Peter’s gestures--for it was too dark to see his face--that he was
expressing deep sorrow for the mistake. After a little time, order was
again established, and Father Rush resumed:--
“But love drove battles from his head,
And sick of wounds and scars,
To Venus bright he knelt, and said--
and said--and said; what the blazes did he say?”
“I’ll make you Mrs. Mars,”
shouted Peter, loud enough to be heard.
“Bad luck to you, Peter Nolan, it’s yourself’s the ruin of me this blessed
night! Here have I come four miles with my speech in my pocket, _per imbres
et ignes_.” Here the crowd crossed themselves devoutly. “Ay, just so; and
he spoiled it for me entirely.” At the earnest entreaty, however, of the
crowd, Father Rush, with renewed caution to his unhappy prompter, again
returned to the charge:
“Thus love compelled the god to yield
And seek for purer joys;
He laid aside his helm and shield,
And took--took--took--”
“And took to corduroys,”
cried Father Nolan.
This time, however, the good priest’s patience could endure no more, and he
levelled a blow at his luckless colleague, which, missing his aim, lost him
his own balance, and brought him down from his eminence upon the heads of
the mob.
Scarcely had I recovered the perfect convulsion of laughter into which this
scene had thrown me, when the broad brim of Father Nolan’s hat appeared at
the window of the carriage. Before I had time to address him, he took it
reverently from his head, disclosing in the act the ever-memorable features
of Master Frank Webber!
“What! Eh! Can it be?” said I.
“It is surely not--” said Lucy, hesitating at the name.
“Your aunt, Miss Judy Macan, no more than the Rev. Peter Nolan, I assure
you; though, I confess, it has cost me much more to personate the latter
character than the former, and the reward by no means so tempting.”
Here poor Lucy blushed deeply at the remembrance of the scene alluded to;
and anxious to turn the conversation, I asked by what stratagem he had
succeeded to the functions of the worthy Peter.
“At the cost of twelve tumblers of the strongest punch ever brewed at the
O’Malley Arms. The good father gave in only ten minutes before the oration
began, and I had barely time to change my dress and mount the barrel,
without a moment’s preparation.”
The procession once more resumed its march; and hurried along through the
town, we soon reached the avenue. Here fresh preparations for welcoming us
had also been made; but regardless of blazing tar-barrels and burning logs,
the reckless crowd pressed madly on, their wild cheers waking the echoes as
they went. We soon reached the house; but with a courtesy which even
the humblest and poorest native of this country is never devoid of, the
preparations of noise and festivity had not extended to the precincts of
the dwelling. With a tact which those of higher birth and older blood might
be proud of, they limited the excesses of their reckless and careless
merriment to their own village; so that as we approached the terrace, all
was peaceful, still, and quiet.
I lifted Lucy from the carriage, and passing my arm around her, was
assisting her to mount the steps, when a bright gleam of moonlight burst
forth and lit up the whole scene. It was, indeed, an impressive one. Among
the assembled hundreds there who stood bare-headed, beneath the cold
moonlight, not a word was now spoken, not a whisper heard. I turned from
the lawn, where the tall beech-trees were throwing their gigantic shadows,
to where the river, peering at intervals through the foliage, was flowing
on its silvery track, plashing amidst the tall flaggers that lined its
banks,--all were familiar, all were dear to me from childhood. How doubly
were they so now! I lifted up my eyes towards the door, and what was my
surprise at the object before them! Seated in a large chair was an old man,
whose white hair, flowing in straggling masses upon his neck and shoulders,
stirred with the night air; his hands rested upon his knees, and his eyes,
turned slightly upward, seemed to seek for some one he found it difficult
to recognize. Changed as he was by time, heavily as years had done their
work upon him, the stern features were not to be mistaken; but as I looked,
he called out in a voice whose unshaken firmness seemed to defy the touch
of time,--
“Charley O’Malley, come here, my boy! Bring her to me, till I bless you
both. Come here, Lucy,--I may call you so. Come here, my children. I have
tried to live on to see this day, when the head of an old house comes back
with honor, with fame, and with fortune, to dwell amidst his own people in
the old home of his fathers.”
The old man bent above us, his white hair falling upon the fair locks of
her who knelt beside him, and pressed his cold and quivering hand within
her own.
“Yes, Lucy,” said I, as I led her within the house, “this is home.”
Here now ends my story. The patient reader who has followed me so far
deserves at my hands that I should not trespass upon his kindness one
moment beyond the necessity; if, however, any lurking interest may remain
for some of those who have accompanied me through this my history, it
may be as well that I should say a few words farther, ere they disappear
forever.
Power went to India immediately after his marriage, distinguished himself
repeatedly in the Burmese war, and finally rose to a high command that he
this moment holds, with honor to himself and advantage to his country.
O’Shaughnessy, on half-pay, wanders about the Continent, passing his
summers on the Rhine, his winters at Florence or Geneva. Known to and by
everybody, his interest in the service keeps him _au courant_ to every
change and regulation, rendering him an invaluable companion to all to whom
an army list is inaccessible. He is the same good fellow he ever was, and
adds to his many excellent qualities the additional one of being the only
man who can make a bull in French!
Monsoon, the major, when last I saw him, was standing on the pier at
Calais, endeavoring, with a cheap telescope, to make out the Dover cliffs,
from a nearer prospect of which certain little family circumstances might
possibly debar him. He recognized me in a moment, and held out his hand,
while his eye twinkled with its ancient drollery.
“Charley, my son, how goes it? Delighted to see you. What a pity I did not
meet you yesterday! Had a little dinner at Crillon’s. Harding, Vivian, and
a few others. They all wished for you; ‘pon my life they did.”
“Civil, certainly,” thought I, “as I have not the honor of being known to
them.”
“You are at Meurice’s,” resumed he; “a very good house, but give you bad
wine, if they don’t know you. They know me,” added he, in a whisper; “never
try any tricks upon me. I’ll just drop in upon you at six.”
“It is most unfortunate, Major; I can’t have the pleasure you speak of; we
start in half an hour.”
“Never mind, Charley, never mind; another time. By-the-bye, now I think of
it, don’t you remember something of a ten-pound note you owe me?”
“As well as I remember, Major, the circumstance was reversed. You are the
debtor.”
“Upon my life, you are right; how droll. No matter; let me have the ten,
and I’ll give you a check for the whole.”
The major thrust his tongue into his cheek as he spoke, gave another leer,
pocketed the note, and sauntered down the pier, muttering something to
himself about King David and greenhorns; but how they were connected I
could not precisely overhear.
Baby Blake, or Mrs. Sparks,--to call her by her more fitting
appellation,--is as handsome as ever, and not less good-humored and
light-hearted, her severest trials being her ineffectual efforts to convert
Sparks into something like a man for Galway.
Last of all, Mickey Free. Mike remains attached to our fortune firmly, as
at first he opened his career; the same gay, rollicksome Irishman, making
songs, making love, and occasionally making punch, he spends his days and
his nights pretty much as he was wont to do some thirty years ago. He
obtains an occasional leave of absence for a week or so, but for what
precise purpose, or with what exact object, I have never been completely
able to ascertain. I have heard, it as true, that a very fascinating
companion and a most agreeable gentleman frequents a certain oyster-house
in Dublin called Burton Bindon’s. I have also been told of a distinguished
foreigner, whose black mustache and broken English were the admiration of
Cheltenham for the last two winters. I greatly fear from the high tone of
the conversation in the former, and for the taste in continental characters
in the latter resort, that I could fix upon the individual whose convivial
and social gifts have won so much of their esteem and admiration; but were
I to run on thus, I should recur to every character of my story, with each
and all of whom you have, doubtless, grown well wearied. So here for the
last time, and with every kind wish, I say, adieu!
L’ENVOI.
Kind friends,--It is somewhat unfortunate that the record of the happiest
portion of my friend’s life should prove the saddest part of my duty as
his editor, and for this reason, that it brings me to that spot where my
acquaintance with you must close, and sounds the hour when I must say,
good-bye.
They, who have never felt the mysterious link that binds the solitary
scribe in his lonely study, to the circle of his readers, can form no
adequate estimate of what his feelings are when that chain is about to be
broken; they know not how often, in the fictitious garb of his narrative,
he has clothed the inmost workings of his heart; they know not how
frequently he has spoken aloud his secret thoughts, revealing, as though to
a dearest friend, the springs of his action, the causes of his sorrow, the
sources of his hope; they cannot believe by what a sympathy he is bound to
those who bow their heads above his pages; they do not think how the ideal
creations of his brain are like mutual friends between him and the world,
through whom he is known and felt and thought of, and by whom he reaps in
his own heart the rich harvest of flattery and kindness that are rarely
refused to any effort to please, however poor, however humble. They know
not this, nor can they feel the hopes, the fears, that stir within him, to
earn some passing word of praise; nor think they, when won, what brightness
around his humble hearth it may be shedding. These are the rewards for
nights of toil and days of thought; these are the recompenses which pay the
haggard cheek, the sunken eye, the racked and tired head. These are the
stakes for which one plays his health, his leisure, and his life, yet not
regrets the game.
Nearly three years have now elapsed since I first made my bow before you.
How many events have crowded into that brief space! How many things of
vast moment have occurred! Only think that in the last few months you’ve
frightened the French; terrified M. Thiers; worried the Chinese; and are,
at this very moment, putting the Yankees into a “_most uncommon fix_;” not
to mention the minor occupations of ousting the Whigs; reinstating the
Tories, and making O’Connell Lord Mayor,--and yet, with all these and a
thousand other minor cares, you have not forgotten your poor friend, the
Irish Dragoon. Now this was really kind of you, and in my heart I thank you
for it.
Do not, I entreat you, construe my gratitude into any sense of future
favors,--no such thing; for whatever may be my success with you hereafter,
I am truly deeply grateful for the past. Circumstances, into which I
need not enter, have made me for some years past a resident in a foreign
country, and as my lot has thrown me into a land where the reputation of
writing a book is pretty much on a par with that of picking a pocket, it
may readily be conceived with what warm thankfulness I have caught at any
little testimonies of your approval which chance may have thrown in my way.
Like the reduced gentlewoman who, compelled by poverty to cry fresh eggs
through the streets, added after every call, “I hope nobody hears me;” so
I, finding it convenient, for a not very dissimilar reason, to write books,
keep my authorship as quietly to myself as need be, and comfort me with the
assurance that nobody knows me.
A word now to my critics. Never had any man more reason to be satisfied
with that class than myself. As if you knew and cared for the temperament
of the man you were reviewing; as if you were aware of the fact that it was
at any moment in your power, by a single article of severe censure, to have
extinguished in him forever all effort, all ambition for success,--you have
mercifully extended to him the mildest treatment, and meted out even your
disparagement, with a careful measure.
While I have studied your advice with attention, and read your criticisms
with care, I confess I have trembled more than once before your more
palpable praise; for I thought you might be hoaxing me.
Now and then, to be sure, I have been accused of impressing real
individuals, and compelling them to serve in my book; that this reproach
was unjust, they who know me can best vouch for, while I myself can
honestly aver, that I never took a portrait without the consent of the
sitter.
Others again have fallen foul of me, for treating of things, places, and
people with which I had no opportunity of becoming personally acquainted.
Thus one of my critics has showed that I could not have been a Trinity
College man; and another has denied my military matriculation. Now,
although both my Latin and my learning are on the peace establishment, and
if examined in the movements for cavalry, it is perfectly possible I should
be cautioned, yet as I have both a degree and a commission I might have
been spared this reproach.
“Of coorse,” says Father Malachi Brennan, who leans over my shoulder while
I write,--“of coorse you ought to know all about these things as well as
the Duke of Wellington or Marshal Soult himself. UNDE DERYVATUR MILES.
Ain’t you in the Derry militia?” I hope the Latin and the translation will
satisfy every objection.
While, then, I have nothing but thankfulness in my heart respecting the
entire press of my own country, I have a small grudge with my friends of
the far west; and as this is a season of complaint against the Yankees,
“Why shouldn’t I roll my tub also?” A certain New York paper, called the
“Sunday Times,” has thought fit for some time past to fill its columns with
a story of the Peninsular war, announcing it as “by the author of Charles
O’Malley.” Heaven knows that injured individual has sins enough of his own
to answer for, without fathering a whole foundling hospital of American
balderdash; but this kidnapping spirit of brother Jonathan would seem to be
the fashion of the day! Not content with capturing Macleod, who unhappily
ventured within his frontier, he must come over to Ireland and lay hands
on Harry Lorrequer. Thus difficulties are thickening every day. When they
dispose of the colonel, then comes the boundary question; after that there
is Grogan’s affair, then me. They may liberate Macleod; [3] they may
abandon the State of Maine,--but what recompense can be made to me for this
foul attack on my literary character? It has been suggested to me from the
Foreign Office that the editor might be hanged. I confess I should like
this; but after all it would be poor satisfaction for the injury done me.
Meanwhile, as Macleod has the _pas_ of me, I’ll wait patiently, and think
the matter over.
[Footnote 3: I have just read that Macleod and Grogan have been liberated.
May I indulge a hope that _my_ case will engage the sympathies of the
world during the Christmas holidays. H. L.]
It was my intention, before taking leave of you, to have apologized
separately for many blunders in my book; but the errors of the press are
too palpable to be attributed to me. I have written letters without end,
begged, prayed, and entreated that more care might be bestowed; but
somehow, after all, they have crept in in spite of me. Indeed, latterly I
began to think I had found out the secret of it. My publisher, excellent
man, has a kind of pride about printing in Ireland, and he thinks the
blunders, like the green cover to the volume, give the thing a national
look. I think it was a countryman of mine of whom the story is told, that
he apologized for his spelling by the badness of his pen. This excuse, a
little extended, may explain away anacronisms, and if it won’t I am sorry
for it, for I have no other.
Here then I conclude: I must say, adieu! Yet can I not do so before I
again assure you that if perchance I may have lightened an hour of _your_
solitude, you, my kind friends, have made happy whole weeks and days of
_mine_; and if happily I have called up a passing smile upon _your_ lip,
your favor has spoken joy and gladness to many a heart around _my_ board.
Is it, then, strange that I should be grateful for the past; be sorrowful
for the present?
To one and all, then, a happy Christmas; and if before the new year, you
have not forgotten me, I shall be delighted to have your company at OUR
MESS.
Meanwhile believe me most respectfully and faithfully yours,
HARRY LORREQUER.
BRUSSELS, November, 1841.
THE END.