CHAPTER VI.

THE TRIAL.

Much alarm was created, through the county of Limerick, by the attack

upon Mr. Shelton of Rossmore. The neighbouring gentry argued from it,

and not without cause, that if a gentleman whose advanced years and

bodily ailments had kept him aloof from the actual exercise of his

magisterial functions, were thus singled out, there was little hope for

escape for those who had made themselves marked men, by determined and

acknowledged resistance to and denunciation of the Whiteboys

Accordingly, zeal being now quickened by fear for personal safety, it

was resolved that neither trouble nor expense be spared to discover the

persons implicated in this last affair. Many circumstances tended to

establish a conviction that the leader of the Whiteboys must be some one

greatly superior to those whom he commanded. The brief conversation

which had been held with the officer at Churchtown, and Miss Shelton at

Rossmore, almost proved that one and the same person had commanded on

both occasions,--that he was a man of education and gentle bearing,--and

that it was necessary, above all, if the insurrectionary conspiracy was

to be put down, to strike at him, its life and soul.

Weeks passed by, and though many were suspected, and several taken into

custody by the police, no clue to the discovery of the veritable Captain

Rock was yet discovered. At last, one of the persons apprehended on

suspicion--faint-hearted as a weak woman, and far less faithful--let

fall some words which first excited suspicion against John Cussen. No

notice appeared to be taken of them at the time, but the prisoner, who

was kept in solitary confinement for some time, was gradually worked

upon by promises of large payment in the event of the conviction of the

actual leader of the Whiteboys. He vacillated between cupidity and fear

of his own personal safety. At last, he _stagged_--that is, he gave

some information, on the solemn promise that his having done so should

never transpire, that he should not be required to give any evidence in

public, and that he should immediately be conveyed out of the country

for safety.

At first, the magistrates hesitated to believe that John Cussen could be

concerned in the outrages which had spread alarm far and near, and

directed particular inquiries to be made respecting his habits, way of

living, haunts, occupation, and companions. They ascertained, from this

scrutiny and espial, the fact of his frequent absences from home at

night; they obtained proof of his having been seen, within the

prohibited hours, in remote places where outrages had been committed;

and the conviction came upon their minds that Cussen, and none other,

was the much-dreaded and long-concealed Captain Rock.

Orders were given to arrest him, and also to search his house. Among his

papers were found some documents which could scarcely have been in

possession of any but a leader of the disaffected. They were

insufficient of themselves, however, to fix him as such.

The police and the military, charged with the warrant to arrest Cussen,

received strict injunctions to avoid unnecessary violence. It was

anticipated, from his determined character and great personal strength,

that he would resist any attempt to make him a prisoner. Contrary to

expectation, he surrendered himself without struggle or hesitation. He

was found sitting tête-à-tête with old Frank Drew, at Drew's Court,--the

same to whom he had spoken so freely about the particulars of the attack

on Churchtown Barracks,--and when he heard the measured tread of the

military, as they came up the avenue, he paused in his conversation, and

exclaimed, "They have come for me."

In custody his deportment, equally devoid of effrontery and fear, was

apparently that of an innocent man, and impressed very many with the

idea that he was unjustly suspected. The magistrates, who knew better,

but were compelled to conceal the source of their information, even

incurred some blame, from public opinion, for having apprehended and

detained him.

The difficulty was--how to prove that John Cussen was identical with

Captain Rock. In accordance with his compact with the authorities, the

craven who had given the clue had been quietly shipped off to England.

The most liberal offers were secretly made, on the part of the

Government, to induce some of the other prisoners to turn king's

evidence, but without avail. They knew, one and all, what share Cussen's

had been in the Whiteboy movements; but they were fully aware, also,

that to appear in evidence against him would, in effect, be equivalent

to the signing of their own death-warrant. They continued faithful to

him--and from higher motives, perhaps, than that of personal fear. For

he was a man who possessed the power of winning hearts, and there were

many--very many of his followers, who had become so warmly attached to

him that they would have laid down their own lives to protect his from

harm.

It was believed that Miss Shelton, if she was so minded, could have

recognized his figure, his features, and the very tone of his voice. She

was strongly urged to do so, in order "to promote the ends of justice;"

but, grateful for the service which he had rendered to her brother, and

remembering his personal courtesy to herself, she invariably declined

doing so, and, to avoid all compulsion or persuasion in the matter, was

secretly preparing to pay a visit to her elder sister, who had married

an English gentleman, and resided at Bath. On her repeated refusal to

assist the Crown, it was determined that, by means of a stratagem, she

should be trepanned into identifying him.

Accordingly, Major Eeles, Captain Johnstone, and another officer of the

Rifle Brigade, made a morning-call at Rossmore, and, as if by accident,

asked Miss Shelton and her sister whether they would not like to see the

barrack at Ballingarry, which they had repeatedly promised to visit. A

party of six or seven was made up on the instant. The horses were

ordered out, and very soon the party reached the barrack, in which

Cussen was detained until his final removal to the county-prison of

Limerick. That such a person was there, was unknown to all the visitors.

Accompanied by some of the officers' wives, whom they knew, the ladies

from Rossmore entered the room occupied by Cussen, heavily ironed and

closely guarded. As they were passing through it, Cussen was purposely

provoked, by one of his guards, to speak loudly--angrily, indeed--to

some taunting remark. Alicia Shelton, recognizing the peculiar and

unforgotten tone, seized her sister's arm, with a sudden impulse, and

exclaimed--"It is the very man!" and would have fallen, but for support

immediately rendered.

Cussen started at her exclamation, looked at her, "more in sorrow than

in anger," rose from his chair, raised his hat, and courteously saluted

the party. Miss Shelton, who avoided a second glance at him, restrained

her feelings, and did not again open her lips; but what she had

involuntarily said, slight as it was, sealed his fate--and he knew it.

So did the officers who had planned the trick.

Government had directed that Cussen's trial should immediately take

place. This was before Alicia Shelton had been betrayed into a

recognition of the prisoner. She considered herself bound in honour not

to give evidence to the detriment of one who had conferred a signal

favour on herself. But, on the night of the attack, Cussen had also been

seen and heard by her younger sister, whose bed-room window overlooked

the back-yard, and who had witnessed the occurrence between them. Not

considering herself bound by any personal ties of gratitude, and

somewhat selfishly recollecting her own alarm rather than her brother's

secured safety, Susanna Shelton declared that, for her part, she had no

scruples in performing what she believed to be an act of justice to

society. In addition, two of Cussen's followers, to save their own necks

from the halter, promised, almost at the last moment, to turn king's

evidence--but as there was no certainty of their remaining in the same

mind, when put into the witness-box (or, rather, as it actually was,

upon the table in the Court), not much reliance was placed upon _them_.

* * * * *

The Assizes being several months distant, it was resolved not to wait,

and a special Commission was sent down for the immediate trial of all

persons in custody under the Insurrection Act. At the same time, a

messenger from the Castle of Dublin arrived at Rossmore with a _subp[oe]na_

to enforce the attendance of Miss Shelton and her sister, as witnesses

on Cussen's trial, and they were taken away to Limerick, in a

post-chaise, escorted by a troop of dragoons. Apartments and all

suitable accommodation had been provided for them at Swinburne's--then

the principal hotel in "the fair city of the Violated Treaty."

The trial is not forgotten by those who were present. The court-house of

Limerick was crowded to the very roof. I am proud to say, as an

Irishman, that among that large audience, there was not even one female.

Irish propriety, by a conventional arrangement rather understood than

expressed, very properly prohibits the appearance of any of the fair sex

in a Court of Justice, except where necessarily present as a party, or

called upon as a witness. I write of what was the rule some thirty years

ago--matters may have changed since. On arraignment, Cussen pleaded "Not

Guilty." After a long, fatiguing, and nearly inaudible speech--from Mr.

Sergeant Goold--who had been eloquent, but, in his old age, had become

the greatest proser, for a small man, at the Irish Bar--the evidence was

gone into. The case had been skilfully got up, but, though no moral

doubt could exist as to the prisoner's participation, if not leadership,

in many Whiteboy offences, it may be doubted whether the proofs would

have sufficed for a conviction in ordinary times. The two informers, on

whose evidence much reliance had been placed, told their story volubly

enough, but when the usher's wand was handed to them, that they might

point at the prisoner in identification, each shook his head and

affected never before to have seen him.

Cussen's equanimity was undisturbed throughout the early part of the

trial. When Mr. Sergeant Goold, in stating the case, alluded to the

attack on Churchtown, the prisoner said that, in the copy of the

indictment with which he had been served, there was no charge against

him save for certain transactions alleged to have taken place at

Rossmore, and he desired to know whether it was purposed, or indeed

whether it was legal, to state a case or give evidence out of the

record? There was considerable sensation at this inquiry. The Judge

replied that Counsel ought to confine himself to the charge in the

indictment, and admitted that the prisoner had exercised no more than

his undoubted right in checking the introduction of irrelevant matter.

The Crown Counsel had only to bow and submit to the opinion and reproof

of the Judge. The prisoner appearing disposed to speak again, the Judge

asked whether he had any more to say? "Only this, my lord," said he,

"that if it be my _right_, as prisoner, to check the introduction of

irrelevant topics, having a tendency to prejudice me with the jury, it

surely was _your duty_, as Judge, to have done so--particularly as mine

is a case of life and death."

This was a well-merited reproof, given with a certain degree of dignity,

and (for the Judge was a man of enlarged mind) did no injury to Cussen.

When Miss Shelton appeared on the table, Cussen appeared startled, for

he had been given to understand that she had positively refused to

appear against him--indeed, it had been reported that she had even gone

to England to avoid it. Compelled to give her testimony, she detailed,

in the plain and forcible language of truth, under what circumstances

she had seen Cussen at Rossmore--what peril her brother had been

threatened with--what supplications she had made in his behalf--how

promptly the favour she had solicited had been granted--how kind the

prisoner's words and demeanour to herself had been. She took occasion to

add that her appearance as a witness was against her own desire. She was

then asked to turn round and say whether she then saw the person who had

acted as she had described. Not without great delay and

hesitation--urged, indeed, by an intimation of the personal consequences

of her contumacy--did she obey, but, at last, she did identify the

prisoner, saying, "That is the man who saved my brother's life, at my

entreaty, and stood between myself and outrage worse than death." Cussen

respectfully acknowledged her evident feeling in his favour by making

her a low bow as she went down.

Her sister, who was cast in a coarser mould of mind and body, exhibited

no scruples, but gave her evidence with an undisguised antipathy towards

the accused. The missing links, supplied by her testimony, made up a

strong chain of evidence which, every one felt, it would be difficult

for Cussen to beat down, in any manner. It was expected, almost as a

matter of course, that he would trust to proving, by an _alibi_, the

impossibility of his having been the person who was present on the

occasion referred to by the witness. Every one who saw him in the dock,

where his bearing was equally free from bravado and fear, anticipated

some very ingenious, if not successful defence. He very slightly

cross-examined the witnesses for the prosecution, and then only on

points which bore on his personal conduct. He declined availing himself

of the open assistance of counsel--though he had consulted eminent legal

authorities on various technical points, while in prison. But for the

place in which he stood, fenced in with iron spikes, and surrounded by

the police, one might have thought him merely interested, as a

spectator, in the circumstances evoked by the evidence, rather than one

whose life depended on the issue. Cool, deliberate, and self-possessed,

he entered on his defence.

It was of the briefest;--only a simple negation of the charge--a denial

that, even with all probability of its being true, there was legal

evidence of such a breach of the law as involved conviction and

punishment--a regret that his identity should have been mistaken by the

younger Miss Shelton, who, had he really been the person at Rossmore,

had never, even on her own showing, been so close to him as for her to

distinguish his features--an expression of gratitude to Alicia Shelton

for her evident disinclination to injure one who she believed had

treated her with kindness--a strong disclaimer of imputing wilful error

to _her_, though he considered her sister not free from censure for her

undisguised avidity in seizing upon every circumstance to convict him--a

reckless assertion that, come what might, he had outlived the desire of

existence, and was prepared for any fortune. Such was the substance of

his address, delivered in a manner equally free from bravado and dread.

He concluded by declaring that, already prejudged by public opinion (the

newspapers, from the first, having roundly proclaimed that he, and none

other, was or could be the true Captain Rock), and with the undue weight

given to slight and evidently prejudiced evidence, he felt that his

prospect of acquittal was small.

Mr. Sergeant Goold then arose to speak to the evidence for the Crown,

and was interrupted by Cussen, who asked the Judge whether, when no

evidence was called for the defence, the prisoner was not entitled, by

himself or counsel, to the last word to the jury? Mr. Sergeant Goold

answered that the Crown, in all cases, was entitled to the last speech,

and appealed to the Judge for confirmation of the assertion. Cussen

again addressed the Judge, and said that, in civil suits, the practice

was certainly not to allow the plaintiff the last speech when the

defendant did not call witnesses, for he had himself been a juryman, in

the other court, when such a circumstance had occurred. The Judge's

decision was that, if he pleased to insist upon it, the counsel for the

Crown might desire and exercise the right of speaking to the evidence,

even when, as in the present instance, the accused had called no

witnesses, nor even made a defence. But, his Lordship added, perhaps

under the circumstances, Mr. Sergeant Goold would not exercise the

right. Goold grumbled, and fidgeted, and muttered unintelligible

sentences about his duty, and finally, gathering up his papers, quitted

the Court in a huff, with the air of a person mightily offended.

The Judge then summed up the evidence, and charged the jury very

minutely--dwelling, more than was anticipated, on the remote probability

that the younger Miss Shelton might have been mistaken as to the

identity of the accused. But, said he, even if she were so situated that

recognition of his person were even impossible, there is the evidence of

her sister, given with a reluctance which was creditable to _her_

humanity, gratitude, and womanly feeling, which undoubtedly declared

that the prisoner in the dock, and none but he, was the leader in the

attack upon her father's house on the night named in the indictment.

The jury retired, and after a long deliberation, returned a verdict of

"Guilty." Perhaps, of all persons in the court, the prisoner was

apparently the least moved by this announcement. His cheek did not

blench, his lips quiver, nor his limbs tremble. He was called upon to

declare whether he had anything to say why the sentence of the law

should not be passed?

Cussen, drawing himself up to his full height, declared, in a sonorous

voice, which filled the Court, and in the same collected manner which

had characterized him during the whole trial, that nothing which he

could say was likely to mitigate the sharp sentence of the law. "I have

had a fair trial," said he, "as from the excited state of the country,

and the fears and feelings of the jury, I could reasonably expect. It is

evident, from the time they have spent in deliberating on their verdict,

that some of the jury, at least, had doubts in my favour. But," he

added, "I make no calculation upon that, for I am aware that you, my

lord, even while you comply with the formula of asking me whether I have

anything to say against my sentence, have no alternative but to

pronounce it. For my own part, I have faced death on the battle-field,

too often and too boldly, to dread it in any shape. And for the

ignominy, I hold with the French philosopher, whose writings your

lordship is familiar with, that it is the crime, and not the punishment,

which makes the shame. My lord, I stand, as it were, on the threshold of

another world. My path is already darkened by the fast-advancing

shadows of the grave. Hear me declare, then, that even if I were the

Captain Rock whom your jury declare me to be, my death, nor the death of

hundreds such as I am, cannot and will not put an end to disaffection

arising from laws oppressive in themselves, and rendered even more so by

being harshly and partially administered. The spirit of the people is

all but broken by long-continued and strong oppression. Between

middlemen and proctors they have been driven almost into despair.

Exactions, for rent and tithes, press increasingly upon them. Whatever

little property they may have possessed has gradually melted away. Their

cattle, under distraint for rent, crowd the pounds. Their miserable

cabins are destitute of fuel and food. They feel their wrongs, and have

united with the energy of despair to avenge them. Cease to oppress these

men, and the King will have no better subjects. So much for them. A

concluding word for myself. My lord, I have not called evidence, which I

might have done, to show that my general character is that of a man

indisposed towards bloodshed and cruelty. It may be too late to hear

them now--but for the sake of others I would stand before the world as

one who is not the blood-stained ruffian which the learned counsel for

the Crown has proclaimed me to be. I would tell _him_, were he here,

that whatever else I have done, I have never been publicly branded by

the Legislature as a liar. My lord, I have done."

This bold attack on Mr. Sergeant Goold, who, three years before, had

been publicly reprimanded by the House of Commons for having

prevaricated, when giving evidence before the Limerick Election

Committee, was received with applause.

The Judge intimated that he was ready to hear evidence as to Cussen's

character, on which several gentlemen of high standing in the county

came forward and bore testimony greatly in his favour. The sentence of

death was then pronounced, with the usual formalities.

But Cussen's hour was not at hand. A memorial to the Government, from

Alicia Shelton, strongly setting forth the humanity which the convict

had manifested towards herself, was immediately forwarded. With it went

a petition, signed by several who had been interested with Cussen's

conduct on the trial, and believed that to execute their leader was the

least likely way of conciliating the Whiteboys. In due course, the Judge

who had presided at the trial was called upon to state his opinion. It

was said that, viewing the case as it came out in the evidence, and

without touching on the suspicion or presumption that Cussen had been

guilty of other breaches of the law, the report of the Judge was

strongly in his favour. At all events, the Government complied with the

urgent solicitations in Cussen's behalf, and commuted the sentence of

death into transportation for life.

As Cussen had heard his death-doom without any apparent emotion, his

reception of the mitigation of punishment was wholly devoid of

exultation. He requested that the prison authorities would convey his

thanks to Alicia Shelton and the others who had interested themselves in

his favour.

It was said that an intimation was made to him, on the part of the

Executive, promising him a full pardon if he would give them a clue to

the Whiteboy organization, which they greatly desired to put down. It

was reported, also, that, in his reply, he declared himself incapable of

betraying any confidence which had been reposed in him,--that family

circumstances must prevent his desiring to remain in Ireland, on any

terms,--and he trusted there was a Future for every man who desired to

atone for the Past. This was the nearest approach he ever made to an

admission that he had been involved in the Whiteboy movements. The

"family circumstances" to which he alluded consisted of his having been

privately married to a Miss Fitzgibbon, with whom he lived so unhappily,

that even an enforced residence in New South Wales appeared a lesser

evil than to remain with her in Ireland.[7]

[7] The friend who has given me this information respecting Mrs.

Cussen, says that when she lived in Limerick, not long ago, her

means appeared ample. Her father, who had been a rich

cattle-dealer, grazier and farmer, near ----, had probably left her

in easy circumstances. He was a Mr. Fitzgibbon, and very little

indebted to education. He sent his daughter to a first-rate

boarding-school, and permitted her, when grown to womanhood, to

invite her former preceptor and a few more "genteels" to an evening

party--the first ever given in his house. The young lady was

somewhat affected, and, to show her education, used big words. Her

father, who heard her say to the servant "Biddy, when the company

depart, be sure and extinguish the candles," inquired what was the

meaning of the word "extinguish." It means _to put out a thing_,

said she. In the course of the evening the pigs got upon the lawn,

which was overlooked by the drawing-room window, and made a

terrible noise. Old Fitzgibbon, determined to be genteel among his

daughter's fine guests, went to the head of the stairs, and loudly

called out, "Biddy, go at once and extinguish the pigs from the

front of the house!"

This, however, did not transpire until some time after he had quitted

the country.

He was transmitted to the convict-ship at Cove, on board of which the

narrator of this story, then a lad, had the curiosity to visit him. Of

course, no conversation arose as to the question of his guilt or

innocence. When Cussen learned that his youthful visitor was related to

Miss Shelton, he manifested some interest, inquired after her health,

begged she would accept his thanks for the favourable manner in which

she had given her evidence, and said that she had strongly reminded him

of a lady whom he had formerly known, and whose death had led to the

circumstances which had brought him to his present position.

The impression which remains on my mind, after the lapse of so many

years, is very much in favour both of Cussen's appearance and manners.

He was neatly dressed, and looked very unlike what might have been

anticipated--considering that he was the veritable Captain Rock. His

voice was low--"an excellent thing" in man as well as in woman. There

was no appearance of bravado in his manner. The two turnkeys from

Limerick jail, who were in charge of him, spoke very highly of his

gentle disposition and uniform civility. They declared, such was their

conviction of his truth, that if, at any time, he had desired to leave

them for a week, with a promise to return by a particular day and hour,

they were certain he would not break his parole.

On reaching Spike Island, he was attired in the convict costume,--and

the humiliating livery of crime appeared a great annoyance to him for a

day or two. After that, he showed no feeling upon the matter. The

"authorities" at Spike Island, who were much prejudiced against him, at

first, speedily came to treat him with as much kindness as their rough

nature and scanty opportunities permitted them to show.

Within three weeks of his conviction, John Cussen was _en route_ for

Botany Bay. During the voyage, a dangerous epidemic broke out among the

convicts and the crew. The surgeon of the ship was one of the first

victims. The commander, who had heard the report of the trial at

Limerick, recollected that one of the witnesses had stated how

gallantly Cussen had fought at Waterloo, when an army-surgeon, and asked

his prisoner whether he thought himself capable, in the existing

emergency, of taking medical charge of the ship. Cussen replied in the

affirmative, but positively declined doing anything so long as he wore

the convict-dress. His desire being complied with, he was released from

his irons, intrusted with the care of the sick, and succeeded in

mitigating their sufferings by the remedies he applied. The disease was

checked, so that the mortality was much less than was expected, and this

favourable result was mainly attributable to Cussen's skill. On arriving

in New South Wales, this was so favourably represented to the

authorities, that a ticket of leave was immediately given to him.

Proceeding up the country, he took a small sheepwalk, and was getting

on prosperously, when a party of bush-rangers attacked and devastated

his little place. He immediately devoted himself to a contest with this

predatory band--long the terror of the colony--and did not rest until he

had so completely routed them, that the leaders were apprehended and

executed, while the rest, one by one, came in and delivered themselves

up to justice.

The result was that, for this public service, Cussen received a pardon

(the only condition being that he must not return to Ireland), within

two years after his arrival in the Colony. He practiced for some time,

as a surgeon, at Sydney, and having realized about five thousand pounds,

proceeded to the United States. One of his first acts, after arriving in

New York, was to send to Ireland for the son of John Sheehan (the man

who had been shot on suspicion of Whiteboyism), now doubly orphaned by

his mother's death. He adopted him, in fulfilment of his promise at the

Wake, as related in the first chapter. His own wife and daughter, whom

he had liberally supplied with funds from New South Wales, declined

rejoining him there or in America, and were actually residing in

Limerick a few years ago. Cussen eventually settled in one of the

Western States, where his capital at once enabled him to purchase and

cultivate a large tract of land. He has been heard of, more than once,

by those who knew his identity, as a thriving and influential citizen,

under a slightly changed name.

The fact that Cussen had led the attack upon Churchtown Barracks was not

_positively_ ascertained for several years after his departure from

Ireland. In a death-bed confession, one of the party avowed it. To this

day, however, very many of the people in the County of Limerick, who

were well acquainted with Cussen, will not believe that he ever could

have participated in such a cold-blooded massacre. They appeal, in proof

of the gentleness of his nature, to the kind feelings which he exhibited

during the attack on Rossmore.

It is clear, at all events, that by the conviction of Cussen, the

Whiteboys lost a leader. The confederation was speedily broken up, for

want of its CAPTAIN ROCK. Nor, since that time, have the disaffected in

Ireland been able to obtain the assistance of any one so competent for

command as was JOHN CUSSEN. His successors, from time to time, have been

bold, ignorant men, at the highest not more than one degree above the

peasantry whom they contrived to band together as United Irishmen,

Ribbonmen, or Whiteboys. The peasantry were taught, too, that the

redress of grievances is not likely to be brought about by illegal

confederations--that agitation _within_ the law, may virtually place

them _above_ the law,--and that he who commits a crime gives an

advantage to the antagonist. This was the great principle which

O'Connell always endeavoured to enforce. We have seen the last of the

Whiteboys, and I have told the story of the undoubted CAPTAIN ROCK, the

will-o'-the-wisp of Irish agrarian disturbances.

A NIGHT WITH THE WHITEBOYS.

In connection with the leadership of John Cussen, an incident occurred

which may be related here, as a sort of appendix to his own adventures.

It is only a trifle in its way, but illustrates the manner in which,

even after he had quitted the country, he was regarded by his former

adherents.

About twelve months after the conviction and transportation of Captain

Rock, which eventually led to the breaking up of the Whiteboy

organization--though, here and there, a few branch Ribbon lodges

remained--I was on a visit to my uncle, the self-same owner of Rossmore,

mentioned in the previous story, and father of its heroine. Rossmore

House is situated within a short distance of Castletown Conyers, and, by

taking a short cut across the fields, this distance might be reduced to

a mile. Having spent the day at Castletown, I was returning to Rossmore

by the short cut, late in the evening--too late, indeed, as I had been

warned, from the chance of meeting some of the prowlers who haunted the

by-roads towards the small town. I had no fear, however, and though it

was after twelve o'clock, there was a beautiful full moon, which, as the

old song says, "did shine as bright as day." I had got on a narrow

by-road which ran between two bogs, and was speeding home with as little

delay as possible. All at once, I heard the dull heavy tramp of feet, in

a measured tread, and thought that it probably was the police-patrol

taking its rounds. As some of the police were quartered at my uncle's, I

entertained no apprehension on account of being found out of doors at an

untimely hour, as my person was known to these peace-preservers. I

walked on, therefore, at my ease, loitering a little to allow myself to

be overtaken, in order that I might have an escort home.

The party came up, and when I turned round to recognize and speak to

them, I was considerably alarmed to find that I was in the midst of a

large assemblage of rough-and-ready countrymen, wrapped up in large blue

_coateens_, every man of them with a huge bludgeon in his hand. Knowing

that the best plan was to put as bold a front on it as I could, I

accosted them with the usual "Good evening, boys." They did not

condescend to return the greeting, but gathered together in groups,

conversing in Irish, which I did not understand--the acquisition of that

ancient and sonorous language having been a neglected branch of my

education. From their vehement action, their constant references to

myself by gesture, and the repetition of my name, I perceived that they

knew who I was, and were speaking about me. Under such circumstances, I

thought, with Falstaff, that the better part of valour was discretion,

and I prepared to effect my escape from such unpleasant companionship,

by slipping off as quietly as I could.

The intention, however excellent, was not to be borne out in execution.

Before I had taken fifty steps, I felt two or three large, rough, hairy,

sinewy hands on the collar of my coat, and the cold muzzle of a pistol

under my left ear, with a threat, strengthened by a tremendous oath,

that, if I dared move one inch farther, the contents of the pistol

should be lodged in my brain. I did not move, having a strong idea that

the threat would be carried into execution,--not a remarkably pleasant

anticipation for any one, far less for a lad of fourteen.

After some delay, a man, who appeared to be a kind of leader, asked me

my name, and whether I was not a nephew of "the old fellow at Rossmore."

I said that I was. "Then," said he, "you are the cousin of that fine

young lady whose swearing was the means of our Captain being sent across

the sea?" I answered that he was quite correct, and that I certainly was

the lady's cousin. "Then," said he, "as we cannot lay hands on _her_,

for she cut away to England when the trial was over, for fear of our

just revenge, I think we must have _your_ blood instead." As I had a

very strong objection to suffering, vicariously, even for a woman and a

cousin, I remonstrated against the design, alleging, truly enough, that

it was hard I should answer for any one's sins but my own; that the

lady, as was well known, had given evidence against Captain Rock, under

compulsion; and that, after he was sentenced to death, she never rested

until she had obtained a remission of the sentence of death passed upon

him.

What I said evidently made an impression on my audience--on such, at

least, as knew English. To the rest it was duly interpreted; after

which, still leaving me in charge of the hirsute giant with the great

pistol, the party retired a little way to hold consultation respecting

me. This I knew, because the rough gentleman, who held the pistol to my

ear, grew a little communicative, telling me that they had all been to

the fair of Bruree, where they had indulged pretty freely in strong

liquors, and that he thought it likely, as they had made up their mind

to take my life, that they were then only deliberating in what manner to

carry out their intention. "It is an easy death enough," said this Job's

comforter, "to be strangled by a handkerchief, squeezed round the throat

to a proper tightness; it is as good a way as any other to put a man

into a deep bog-hole like that on the side of the road there; but," he

added, "for doing the thing genteelly, and making sure of quick work and

little pain, I certainly would prefer a pistol like this, with a decent

charge of canister powder, and a brace of bullets or a couple of

slugs at the top to make all right."

The conference by the way-side lasted so long, that I grew heart-sick

with anxiety. I could see, by their unrestrained movements, that some of

the party were disposed to wreak upon my person their revenge against my

cousin, and that some were recommending a milder process. Presently, the

decision appeared to be made--whatever it might be. The same man who had

already spoken to me, came up again, and with him the rest of that

precious conclave. "My lad," said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder,

"Do you know what we have made up our minds to do?" I answered, that I

did not know. "Some of us," said he, "think that, as you have met us to

night, and may know some of us again, the best thing we could do would

be to put you out of the way at once. And some of us thinks that if we

took your word, (though you're only a bit of a boy,) not to mention that

you have seen us, we might do worse than let you go home, though that

home is the nest which _she_ came out of."

I fancied, from his manner, that I had not much cause to apprehend the

more deadly alternative; and, therefore, I answered, as boldly as I

could, that I was quite willing to give my word not to mention that I

had seen any of them, nor, at any time or place, attempt to recognize

them. "While you are deciding," I added, "recollect that this suspense

between life and death is not the most pleasant thing in the world.

And, for God's sake," said I, "rather put this hairy gentleman's brace

of bullets through my head at once, than leave me shivering another half

an hour in the cold." There was a laugh at what I said; those who did

not speak English eagerly required it to be translated for them, and

then the laugh grew louder, for _all_ enjoyed it. "Faith," said the

leader, "You're a bold lad to jest in that way, with the muzzle of a

pistol against your ear. Make your mind easy; we would not hurt a hair

of your head now. Go your way, and keep your promise. No matter when you

meet any of us, don't let on that you have ever seen us before. And if

you should ever fall in with bad company, in a by-way, on a night like

this, just whisper '_Barry More_' into the ear of any of the party, and

you may pass through them as safely as if you were walking in a

drawing-room." This said, I had to shake hands, one by one, with each of

the party; and they further insisted, with a pertinacity which would not

brook denial, that half-a-dozen of them should escort me within a

stone's throw of my uncle's house.

A few weeks after this rencontre, I saw a man at work in one of my

uncle's fields, who seemed not quite a stranger to me. I took care that

the recognition, if any, should come from him. Accordingly, though I

made the usual remark that it was a fine day, and asked some questions

as to the prospects of the crops, I did not seem as if I had ever seen

him before. However, he had less discretion, for he said, "That was a

narrow escape you had, down by the bog, that night, sir." I asked what

he meant? "Oh!" said he, "I do not mind talking to you about it now, for

we have your word not to tell on us, and I know very well--for we have

friends in every house, who tell us what passes--that not even to your

uncle did you say a word about what happened that night. We tried to

frighten you a bit, sir, but you stood up better than we expected. I had

made up my mind, from the first, that not a hair of your head should be

touched; but it was not quite so easy to get the rest of the boys to my

way of thinking. They had not the cause that I had for wishing you

well."

I told him, what was the plain truth, that I had no recollection of any

particular cause why _he_, more than any of the rest, should have

protected me. "Ah, sir," said he, "people who do a kindness forget it,

if the true vein be in them, sooner than those they do the kindness to.

You may remember, sir, that about ten years ago, when you were a child,

the Master here was very angry with me for having neglected my work, by

which the Mistress's garden was quite spoilt, and turned me off, when I

had not the chance of getting work anywhere else, and owed a quarter's

rent for the little cabin and potatoe garden, and was entirely broke,

hand and foot,--aye, and almost heart, too. At that time, sir, you were

to the fore, with the kind word, which you ever had, to turn away the

Master's anger, and you got the Mistress to interfere; and when the

Master took me on to work again, it was yourself, sir, that ran down to

my little cabin and told me the good news, and sat down at the table,

with the children, without any pride, and eat the roasted potato and the

salt, and drank the butter-milk out of the same piggin with them. From

that hour, sir, if laying down the lives of me and mine would prevent

injury to one hair of your head, we would have done it. And that's the

reason why your life was safe the other night, and they all granted it

when I told them the ins and outs of the story."

I saw little more of my champion, for I left that part of the country

soon after, and have not been there since.

BUCK ENGLISH.

Some eighty years ago, there appeared, in that city of Ireland which is

called "the beautiful,"[8] a remarkable character, generally known as

Buck English. This name--to which he answered--had been given him, it

was said, on account of his fashionable appearance, manners and

pursuits, and because his accent clearly indicated that he came from

England. At all events, in the year 1770, Buck English was a principal

in the fashionable society of Cork--its observed of all observers, its

glass of fashion, if not its very mould of form.

[8] "The beautiful city called Cork."--_Irish Song._

Buck English had abundance of money, that great test and framer of

respectability, and spent it freely. No man knew whence it came.

Inquiries had been cautiously ventured upon by inquisitive people, but

the only result arrived at was that rarely, if ever, did any remittance

reach him through a banker. He frequently performed actions which might

be called generous; but the real objects for benevolence, he used to

say, were those who struggled to maintain appearances--who bore the

arrow in their breast, and did not complain--who would rather die than

ask for help; for, as there is no energy like that of despair, there is

no pride like that of poverty. Gratitude sometimes _would_ speak out;

for parties whom his timely, unsought aid had rescued from ruin, meeting

him accidentally in public, could not be restrained from breathing

blessings on the benefactor whose name they knew not; and the occasional

occurrence of such things--which really were _not_ got up for

display--seemed to authorize the conjecture that Buck English was

bountiful in many other instances which were not known. This belief,

generally received, operated so much in his favour, that many who would

have probably disdained intimacy with one whose personal history was

unknown, and who, therefore, might be an adventurer, did not hesitate to

receive him at their houses--a concession which others, of more

unquestioned station and means, vainly endeavoured to obtain. When

stamped "sterling" by the select, no fear of his readily passing into

currency with all the rest.

Hence, the conclusion may be arrived at, that Buck English was what a

facetious friend calls a "populous character." He might have turned the

sharp corner of five-and-thirty, and did not look older, even at his

worst. Now, whatever five-and-thirty may be for a lady,--forcing on her,

I fear, the brevet-rank of "a certain age," with Byron's

interpretation,--it is the very prime of manhood. Thus, in this

respect, Buck English was as fortunate as others. There was a drawback,

it must be confessed--for who can be perfection? This was the

circumstance of his possessing features which, except under particular

excitement, might be pronounced very ordinary. One might have excused

the compressed lips, the sallow cheek, and the sharp face; but the

expression of the eyes was not always favourable. It appeared as if they

were almost always anxiously on the watch. At times, when strongly

excited, while the cheeks remained colourless, and no word breathed from

the lips, the passion which created a heart-quake in the man did not

allow its presence to be seen, except that it made the eyes

flash--conveying the impression that their possessor must be rather

dangerous under the influence of strong and deep emotions. It was not

often that such manifestations were allowed to become apparent, for Buck

English had powerful self-command.

Notwithstanding the absence of what is called "good looks," he had

succeeded in gaining the favourable opinion of Mary Penrose, a young

lady who had recently succeeded to a very considerable property in the

vicinity of Cork. Indeed, it was somewhat more than merely her

favourable opinion. I will even admit--on the understanding, of course,

that it remain an inviolable secret--that Buck English had made a strong

impression on the young lady's mind; so much so, that, at the especial

period at which this narrative introduces her, she was deliberating

whether she should frankly admit to him, or deny for a little time

longer, that he was master of the heart which fluttered--ah, how

anxiously--within the soft citadel of her bosom.

She had met him that evening at a _rout_ (so they called their

fashionable parties in those days), and he had ventured to insinuate,

rather more boldly than on any previous occasion, how much his happiness

depended upon her. On the point of making a very gentle confession,

(have you any idea how admirably blushes can convey what language dare

not breathe?) a movement towards the retired part of the saloon in which

they sat, apart from the dancers, startled the lady, while the

exclamation, "Mary Penrose!--where _can_ she be?" informed her that

inquiries were being made for her. So, withdrawing her hand from that of

her suitor, and making an effort to appear calm and unembarrassed, she

awaited the advent of the lady who had spoken. Presently came up her

_chaperon_, a woman of high birth and scanty means, who _condescended_

to reside with her. This personage--a mixture of black velvet and

bugles, pearl-powder and pretence--gravely regarding Buck English, whom

she did not like (because she thought it probable that he might succeed

with Miss Penrose, and thereby make her own occupation "gone," like

Othello's), said, with a low courtesy, "I am sure, sir, that, had you

known what a pleasure you have been depriving Miss Penrose of, you

would scarcely have detained her here. Mary, my dear, only think who has

arrived!--who but your cousin Frank! He has been in the rooms half an

hour, and has been anxiously looking for you everywhere."

Before a reply was made the cousin made his appearance, and was received

rather formally by Mary. However, Frank Penrose was an Irishman and a

lawyer, and therefore not very likely to be put down or taken aback by a

cold reception. He was introduced to Buck English, but the greeting

between the gentlemen was by no means cordial. Buck English saw a rival;

one, too, whom it was said Mary Penrose's father had been desirous to

have as a husband for his only child; while cousin Frank, to whom the

_chaperon_ had previously communicated the intimacy between the young

lady and the dashing stranger, saw at a glance that it would have been

quite as well, perhaps, if he had not left her so much in the way of

becoming heart-stricken.

"Shall I lead you down to supper?" he said. "You know, Mary, that you

and I have a hundred things to talk about."

"I am sorry, Frank," she answered, "that I cannot take the arm which you

offer me gallantly. I had promised my partner, before you came, to avail

myself of the advantage of his escort. Madame, I have no doubt, will be

happy under your protection, and you can unburthen your mind to her."

Thus it happened that Mary Penrose retained the arm of Buck English,

while Frank was handed over to the dowager.

"Confound the fellow!" said he, _sotto voce_, glancing at his rival. "On

what a very familiar footing he has established himself with Mary. Can

it be that she, who used to be so hard to please, is smitten with such a

face?"

"Very likely," said the _chaperon_. "It was not the countenance, but the

mind of Othello, that the bright Venetian was enamoured of. When the

manners are agreeable and the intellect quick, the accident of a homely

face speedily becomes of no importance. Perhaps it may even help to

throw a woman off her guard."

"It is a pity," continued Frank, "that I have delayed my return so long.

I thought that your letters had exaggerated, if not invented, the

danger. Assist me in deposing this gentleman, and my gratitude shall be

more than a name. I have always made so certain that Mary was to be my

wife, that this over-security had led me to neglect her. At all events,

I can tell you that this Mr. English shall not snatch such a prize from

me without a struggle. I confess I do not like him."

"Naturally enough. He is a rival, and apparently on the way to become a

successful one."

By this time they had reached the supper-table. Frank Penrose behaved

with distant politeness to Buck English, who, as usual, was the centre

of conversation. As the hour advanced, Mary said to her cousin,

"Can you tell me what o'clock it is, Frank? I have been so careless as

to let my watch run down."

Frank, with a smile, answered, "Two months ago I could have done so; but

one of the knights of the road met me in a lonely part of Kilworth

Mountain, when last I was going from Cork to Dublin, and relieved me of

all care of purse or watch."

There was a smile at the cool manner in which the young lawyer related

his loss, and then followed inquiry into the circumstances.

"A very commonplace highway robbery, I do assure you," said Frank. " All

I have to say is, that I was encountered, as I rode on a lonely part of

the road, by a gentleman who, taking me quite unprepared, put a pistol

to my heart, demanding my cash and other portable property. As I had a

foolish desire not to part with it quite so easily, I threw myself off

my horse, and closed with my antagonist. His pistol went off in the

struggle, without doing me any injury, and I drew my sword. My enemy,

who proved himself a better master of that weapon than I was, succeeded

in disarming me; forced me to surrender money, watch, and a few rings;

mounted on my horse, and rode off, but speedily returned, with the

polite assurance that as he never saw a gentleman in distress without

wishing to relieve him, he trusted I would accept a few pieces from

him, as he presumed I did not intend remaining on the bleak mountain all

night, and he knew, from experience, how disagreeable it was to be in a

strange inn without money. He handed me five guineas, kindly adding

that, if I wanted more, _his_ purse--alas! it had been _mine_--was

entirely at my service."

"Would you know the man again?"

"No. His face was partly covered with crape."

Supper ended, Miss Penrose and the rest of the ladies retired, escorted

to their carriages by the gentlemen, who then returned (it was the evil

fashion of the time) to drink their healths in a brimming bumper. One

glass led to another, with the usual result--the libations were not to

the Goddess of Concord. By accident, the name of Mary Penrose was

mentioned, with a congratulatory allusion to the good terms on which

Buck English evidently was with her. Frank Penrose started from his

chair, and angrily declared that his cousin's name should not be bandied

about at a public table, and in conjunction, too, with that of a person

of whom no one knew anything, and who, he could assert, was not

acceptable to her family. He was about speaking further, when he was

pulled down by his friends, who strenuously urged him to keep silent.

Buck English remained so quiet under the intentionally offensive

allusion to himself, that some of the company began to think him

deficient in courage. The Irish way of answering an insult, in

those days, was to throw a glass full of wine in the offender's face,

and follow that up by flinging the decanter at his head. After a pause,

Frank Penrose, whom nobody could restrain, repeated the insult in other

and harsher words. This broke up the party. As they were leaving the

table, Buck English leant across, and said, very quietly, "Mr. Penrose,

for the lady's sake, I would not mix up her name with a midnight brawl

in a tavern, but you are aware that your words must be withdrawn or

atoned for?"

"Take them as you please," said Penrose. "I stand by them."

"Then," answered the other, "I name Captain Cooper as my friend. Whom

shall he meet on your part, and where?"

Pausing for a minute, during which he considered his course of action,

Penrose said that in two days he expected a friend whose services he

could command on such a business, and hoped the delay would not be

inconvenient. His antagonist intimated his assent by a distant bow, and

thus, in far less time than I have been writing about it, was appointed

a meeting for life or death. The outward show of civility was maintained

during the short time that they remained in the room, though feelings of

deadliest enmity rankled beneath that smooth surface.

As they were retiring, Penrose and English again were together, and the

latter took advantage of this contiguity to ask at what time his friend

should call upon Mr. Penrose's second?

"At ten on Thursday morning, at Daly's club-house."

"Very well, and for whom shall he inquire?"

"Let him ask for Mr. D'Arcy Mahon, the barrister."

At that name, English shrunk or swerved as from a blow.

"D'Arcy Mahon!" he repeated.

"Yes," said Penrose. "Have you any objection to the gentleman?"

"None."

On that they separated.

* * * * *

That evening, on returning home, Mary Penrose applied herself, in the

solitude of her chamber--the young heart's confessional--to serious

thought upon that beleaguered and endangered Sebastopol, the state of

her affections. It was evident that her cousin was piqued at the idea of

her having a preference for English, and that his arrival was likely to

bring the affair to an issue. Mary paused for some time in doubt as to

the course she should pursue. She had a regard for her cousin Frank; but

she confessed to herself, with conscious blush and sigh, that she had

other and more cherished feelings for English. It is proverbial how a

woman's deliberations, in an affair of the heart, invariably end; and

so, having made up her mind in favour of Buck English, by far the most

delightful companion--although not quite the handsomest--fate had thrown

in her way, she retired to rest.

As she was unloosing the golden beauty of her luxuriant tresses,

glancing now and then at a flower given to her by _him_, and carefully

put into a watervase on her dressing-room table, Mary Penrose heard a

faint tap at the window. Withdrawing the curtain, she saw, in the pale

moonlight, the face of him who, even then, was occupying her thoughts.

He held up a note in his hand, which he placed upon the window-sill, and

disappeared as suddenly as he had come before her.

Opening the casement, she took the _billet_, and eagerly read it. In the

strongest and most beseeching words, it urged her to speak with the

writer for a few minutes;--hinted that this would be the last time they

would ever meet;--and plainly declared that it related to an affair of

life-and-death emergency. The urgency of this appeal, as well as her

natural desire to see one in whom, now more than ever, she felt a deep

interest, prevailed, and Mary Penrose, throwing a large shawl over her

hastily-adjusted attire, quitted her chamber, silently proceeded down

stairs, and opened the hall-door, at which she found English waiting.

Light of body and active of limb, he had found little difficulty in

ascending to Mary's window, by means of the thick ivy which luxuriantly

covered the front of the house, and his descent had been yet more easily

accomplished.

When alone with Mary in one of the apartments in which she had

frequently received him as a visitor, Buck English appeared overwhelmed

by emotion. Quickly recovering himself, he addressed her in this

manner:--"I have to thank your kindness, Miss Penrose, for thus giving

me the opportunity of taking leave of you. I am a dishonoured man, or

shall be, and most publicly, too, if to-morrow sees me near this place.

After you had retired this evening, your cousin Frank fixed a personal

quarrel upon me, which I endeavoured to avoid by acting and speaking

with the greatest forbearance. I named the friend who would act for me

in a matter so unpleasant, and your cousin asked for a slight delay

until the arrival of the gentleman who would perform the like offices

for him. The person whom he named is D'Arcy Mahon,--one of the few men

in this country, under existing circumstances, who must not see me,

because I have the very strongest motives for avoiding him. Our meeting

was fixed for Thursday, but I have just heard of Mr. Mahon's arrival,

not an hour ago, which is two days earlier than Frank expected him."

"I need not assure you," said Mary, "how very much grieved I am that

there should be any difference between two persons whom I esteem so

much--between yourself and Frank. But I know that Mr. Mahon is a most

honourable man, and more likely to pacify than irritate any parties who

are placed in his hands with hostile feelings to each other."

"There lives not the man," replied English, somewhat haughtily, "who can

say that I have at any time shrunk from giving or seeking the

satisfaction which, in our strangely-constituted state of society,

gentlemen must sometimes require or grant. But it is impossible that I

can meet D'Arcy Mahon--whose high character I appreciate and esteem--on

any terms, or under any circumstances, without his instantly and fatally

recognizing me as one whom he has met before, under a darker and

different aspect of affairs."

"You astonish and alarm me!" said Mary. "Will you not remove the veil

from this mystery?"

"Yes," said he, after some deliberation. "It is a sad confidence, but

_you_ are entitled to it. You have heard of a person who is generally

known as Captain Spranger?"

Mary said that she certainly had heard of the terror of travellers, the

head of a band of highwaymen, who had infested the South of Ireland for

the previous two years.

"The same. That man, outlawed as he is, with a price upon his head, I

have reason to know is the younger son of one of the first commoners in

England. Evil example and youthful impatience of control alienated

him from his friends early in life, and sent him abroad upon the world,

in different countries and among many grades of society, but not always

in companionship with those by whom he could profit, in mind, body, or

estate. At the close of many wanderings he found himself in Ireland, and

accidentally became the companion or guest of a party of smugglers, who

were banded together in the county of Waterford, and who, by their

audacity and success, had challenged the notice of the Executive.

Unfortunately, at the very period when the Englishman's love of wild

adventure had thrown him into the society of these smugglers--as it had

often led him to spend a night in a gipsy encampment--at that very time

treachery had betrayed the band, who were surrounded by a strong

military force before they knew they were in danger. To fight their way

through this armed array, was what the smugglers determined on at the

moment. Unwilling to remain and be captured, the chance-visitor of the

night joined in the sortie, and made a dash for freedom. Some effected

their escape without hurt, a few were wounded, some were captured. The

Englishman was among the prisoners. The Assizes were at hand, and as it

was thought fit to make an example, as it is called, the trial of the

smugglers was hurried on. The evidence against the Englishman was

conclusive. He was found in armed array against the military, and in

company with notorious law-breakers. What could he do? Pride made him

conceal his name, he was indicted under that of Spranger (which he had

never borne), was tried and convicted. When brought up to receive

sentence in the assize court of Clonmel (where, for some reason, the

trial took place), he thought he saw the opportunity for a bold effort.

Light, active and strong, he vaulted out of the dock. The crowd

instantly opened to conceal him, for there is a strong sympathy for

persons accused of such breaches against the revenue law as he was

believed to have committed. Even while he was crouching down in the

midst of the crowd, a great-coat, such as the peasantry wear, was thrown

around him by one; another bestowed upon him a cap made of fox-skin; and

a third whispered him to keep quiet, as, if he did not betray himself,

his disguise was sufficient to defy suspicion and detection.[9]

[9] Such an escape as this was actually made from the dock, during

the Clonmel assizes, by the bold and notorious Buck English, who

afterwards found his way into the first society in Cork city and

county. Indeed, the actual life of this man was parallel in many of

its leading points to that of "Paul Clifford," the hero of Bulwer's

brilliant fiction. The term "Buck" was usually bestowed on any

fashionable bravo, in Ireland, who wore dashing attire, and

indulged in all sorts of extravagances of expenditure and excess.

There was "Buck Sheehy" of Dublin, as well as our own, "Buck

English" of Cork. Indeed, there were sufficient of the _genus_ in

Dublin to form the majority of the "Hell-fire Club," who once set

fire to their club-room, and remained in it until the flames

actually burned the hair from their heads and the clothes from

their bodies. This was done to decide the punishments of a future

state! Most of the "Bucks" were men of family, education, and

wealth. Several peers were members of the community. At one time

(the author of "Ireland sixty years ago," relates) there were three

noblemen, brothers, so notorious for their outrages, that they

acquired singular names, as indicative of their characters. The

first was the terror of every one who met him in public places--the

second was seldom out of prison--the third was lame, yet no whit

disabled from his Buckish achievements. They were universally known

by the names of "Hell-gate," "Newgate," and "Cripplegate." There

were two brothers, one of whom had shot his friend, and the other

stabbed his coachman. They were distinguished as "Kill-Kelly" and

"Kill-coachy." This reminds one of the Irish traveller, who said he

had been to _Kill-many_ and was going to _Kill-more_.

"Incredible as it may appear--but I perceive that you have already heard

something of this affair--Spranger remained in the court-house during

the whole day, while a strict out-of-doors' search was made for him, and

finally walked into the street, unchallenged, with the rest of the

crowd, when the trials ended. He was literally alone, unfriended,

penniless, in a strange country. The men who had supplied him, on the

impulse of the moment, with the means of baffling detection, kept their

eyes upon, and speedily came in his way, giving him the further aid of

shelter and food. What need I more say than that those men, who lived

against the law, succeeded in enrolling their guest among them.

Recklessness and utter want, in the first instance, and the fear of

being given up to the Government in the other, were his motives. Coupled

with this, too, was a strong sense of injury at having been convicted,

without crime, upon appearances. Not then, but many times afterwards,

did he feel convinced that the Executive had brought him to trial only

upon obvious and palpable facts. But, long before he came to take this

view of the question, he had become leader of the band--now avowedly

associated for plunder, smuggling having been broken up, and the name

and the daring of Captain Spranger are sufficiently notorious throughout

the country now.

"When he had completely identified himself with them, so as to obtain

their unquestioning obedience, Spranger availed himself of the privilege

of sometimes leaving them for a short time--continuing, however, to

regulate their movements, and participate in their gains--one of them

always remaining with him to act as his servant, but actually as an

unsuspected channel of communication with the band. Thus this captain of

men beyond the pale of the law, has resided, at different times, in the

principal cities in the South of Ireland. His last resting-place was

here in Cork, where, under a name rather given to him by common consent

than assumed by him, and with ample pecuniary means at his command, he

contrived to be received into the best society. But he had tired, long

since, of the ruffianly association which he headed. One hope

remained--that of offering his sword to one of the foreign States with

whom he had formerly performed military service, and thus resuming the

condition to which he was born. But, while taking measures to do this,

he met, and became deeply enamoured of the loveliest and most engaging

of her sex, and delayed his departure--his exile--from a reluctance to

quit the heaven of her smiles. Perhaps he even presumed to hope--to

trust--that, under better circumstances, he might even have ventured to

hope that his suit would not have failed."

Here he paused, to mark how Mary had borne this relation. Her face was

covered with her hands--but he could hear that she was sobbing. He

continued:--

"You know, Mary, I perceive, that he who relates this story is the same

Spranger whose name has made many a cheek pale, many a bold heart

tremble. D'Arcy Mahon was one of the counsel employed against me at

Clonmel, and he knows every feature of mine so well that he could not

fail to recognize me. He would identify me, also, as Captain Spranger.

If I remain, he meets me to-morrow. Shame, disgrace, perhaps even death

would follow. 'Tis true that circumstances have made me what I am, but

there is a Future, in action, for all who are willing to atone for past

misconduct. I go forth to try and regain the position I have forfeited.

Not in this country, nor yet in my own, can I hope to do this. But there

other lands where Reputation and Fortune may be won, and in one of them

I shall make the effort. To have known _you_--to find this wasted heart

capable, even yet, of appreciating the beauty and purity of your mind,

will console me in my long and distant exile. Farewell!"

He bent on his knee to take and kiss that delicate hand. Did it really

linger in his? He looked upon that face of beauty. Did those violet eyes

smile upon him through the dew which diamonded their long, dark fringes?

He heard a low, earnest whisper. Did it tell him to retrieve the past,

nor doubt, while doing so, of the due reward a loving heart will bestow?

Did it softly say that he, and none but he, should hold that hand in

marriage? Did it entreat him to write often--always hopingly? A long,

long kiss on those ripe lips, on that damasked cheek, on that fair brow,

and Buck English was away, as suddenly as he had come.

* * * * *

How improbable! How unfeminine! How utterly at variance with all the

conventionalities of society! No doubt. But it is _true_.

As for Mary's avowed love for such a person as--even on his own

showing--English was, why seek to put it to the test of every-day

thought?

"Why did she love him! Curious fool, be still;

Is human love the growth of human will?"

* * * * *

The morning after the interview between Mary and her lover, considerable

anxiety was caused in the minds of his acquaintance by the fact of his

disappearance, and the report that he had met with some fatal accident.

His horse had returned home riderless, and a hat and glove, known to

have been worn by him, were found on the banks of the Lee, about two

miles from Cork, a place where he was fond of riding at all hours. It

was believed that he had been drowned. The authorities took possession

of and examined his effects, which were never claimed. There was not one

line of writing among them, giving the slightest clue to his station in

life, family, or identity. In a short time, he passed out of the memory

of most of those who had known him.

It was noticed that Mary Penrose appeared very much unconcerned at the

loss of one for whom she was believed to have felt some partiality. She

was abused, of course, by her own sex, (and the more so, as she was very

handsome,) for being "a heartless coquette." A few months later, when

she had attained her legal majority, and with it full possession of her

property, she unequivocally astonished her cousin Frank, by declining

his proffered hand. Ere the year was ended, her estates were in the

market, and their purchase-money invested in foreign securities. This

done, Mary bade a long farewell to the land of her nativity and the

friends of her youth. Nor did any definite account of her subsequent

life ever reach Ireland.

In the fulness of time, there came rumours (which were credited) that

somebody very like Buck English had obtained rank and reputation in the

German service, and that, eventually retiring to a distant province of

the Empire, he had turned his sword into a ploughshare, and cultivated,

with much success, a large estate which he had purchased there. It was

added that a lady, whose personal description tallied with Mary

Penrose's appearance, was the wife of this person; that they lived very

happily with their numerous children around them; that their retainers

and dependents almost adored them for their constant and considerate

kindness; and that, though they ever condemned crime, they united in

questioning whether he who committed it might not have been led into it

by Circumstance rather than Desire.

ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS

THE BARD O'KELLY.

For many years, an individual, calling himself "The Bard O'Kelly,"

wandered through the South of Ireland, subsisting on the exacted

hospitality and the enforced contributions of such as happened to be so

weak as to dread being put by him into a couplet of satirical doggerel,

and thus held up to public scorn as wanting in liberality. An Irishman,

be it known, will not submit to an imputation upon his generosity;

rather than have _that_ questioned, he will give away his last sixpence,

though the gift leave him without food. O'Kelly was shrewd enough to

know this, and like the ale which Boniface so much praises in Farquhar's

comedy, he "fed purely upon it"--in fact, it was meat, drink, clothing

and lodging to him.

Until he published his "poems," no one knew on what very slight grounds

his Bardship rested. His book--a thin, ill-printed octavo, called "The

Hippocrene,"--appeared, with a dedication, by permission, to "the most

noble and warlike Marquis of Anglesea," and underneath the inscription

is the quatrain,

"_O dulce decus_! thou art mine,

What can I more or less say?

_Presidium_! pillar of the NINE,

Illustrious chief ANGLESEA!!"

In order, also, that the world might know what manner of man his

bardling was, he had put his portrait as a frontispiece, and, with that

characteristic modesty which indicated that _he_ certainly had kissed

the Blarney Stone, had engraved beneath it,--

"Sweet bard! sweet lake! congenial shall your fame

The rays of genius and of beauty claim;

Nor vainly claim: for who can read and view,

And not confess O'KELLY'S pencil true?"

The lake here alluded to, is that of Killarney. In the year 1791,

O'Kelly wrote what he called "a Poem" on the romantic scenery of

Killarney. It was written, but not published--recited by the bard, as

the Iliad and Odyssey are said to have been by "the blind old man of

Scio's rocky isle,"--handed about in manuscript among friends, like much

of the verse of the present day, when (because every third man is an

author) hard-hearted booksellers refuse to purchase valueless

copyrights, or even to publish them, save at the sole expense and risk

of the writers.

So, in 1791, was written, not published, the Bard's "Killarney,"--a

poem which (as _he_ was wont to speak of it) "has all the depth of the

lake it immortalizes, with the clearness, freshness, and sparkling flow

of its waters!" It may be thought a little egotistical for O'Kelly thus

to praise his own writings--but, surely, a man is the best judge of his

own merit, and best acquainted with his own talents. I put it to every

man of sense--that is, to every person who completely coincides with my

opinion,--whether, if a man does not think and speak well of himself, it

can possibly be expected that any one else will? No; O'Kelly's

self-praise was only a flourish to remind people what a genius they had

among them--a Laputan flap to make the Irish world quite aware of the

fact of his immeasurable merit.

There was a rumour--but I hate scandal--that the Bard (being a poet, and

lame to boot, like the Grecian) had an ambition to be the new Tyrtæus of

the Irish Rebels, in 1798. He has been seen to smile, rather

assentingly, at "the soft impeachment," although, no doubt, while the

insurgents were liable to punishment, he had very _capital_ reasons for

denying it. While the Civil War was raging, he went to the north-east of

Ireland, and, his enemies say, with rebellious designs. But his own

assertion,

("And truths divine came mended from _his_ lips,")

was, that the sole object of his tour was to compose a poem on the

sublimities of the Giant's Causeway. Such a composition was written--for

I have read it. But the greatest and best of men--from Socrates down to

O'Kelly--have been subjected to suspicion and persecution, and it

happened that when the Bard showed himslf in the north, he was taken up

by the King's forces, and summarily committed to prison on suspicion

that his visit was occasioned by a desire to discover a snug

landing-place, on the Antrim coast, for the French--who, at that time,

were about invading Ireland.

Bad news travels very quickly. It soon was noised about Kerry, that the

Bard had been taken up. As a story, like a snow-ball, increases as it

travels, it was even added that the Bard had been--_hanged_!

On this, a wretch named Michael M'Carthy--a Macroom man was this

Bathyllus to the Hibernian Maro--constituted himself heir-at-law and

residuary legatee to the Bard's poetical effects, and, not having the

fear of Apollo's vengeance before his eyes, had the barefaced audacity

to publish eight hundred and forty lines of "Killarney," mixed up with

certain versicles of his own, under the imposing name of "Lacus

Delectabilis."

The Bard O'Kelly heard of this audacious appropriation at the very hour

when his trial was coming on, and it took such effect upon his spirits

that, to use his own figurative language, he "did not know at the time,

whether he was standing on his head or his heels."

Brought for trial before a military tribunal, quick in decision and

sharp in execution, there was so much presumptive evidence against him,

that he was convicted without much delay, (his judges were in a hurry to

dine,) and sentenced to be hanged early the next day.

The emergency of the case restrung his shattered energies. Recovering

the use of his tongue, he made a heart-rending appeal to the Court

Martial; narrated the vile plagiarism which had been committed on his

beautiful and beloved Killarney; recited a hundred lines of that

sonorous composition, and concluded a very energetic harangue, by

requesting "leave of absence," for a few weeks, in order that he might

proceed to Kerry, there to punish M'Carthy, for his dire offence against

all the recognized rules of authorship. He even tendered his own bail

for his reappearance to be hanged, as soon as, by performing an act of

signal justice towards the plagiarist, he had vindicated that fame

which, he said, was of more value to him than life.

The manner and matter of this extraordinary address--such as never,

before nor since, was spoken in a Court of Justice--were so

extraordinary that the execution of the sentence was postponed. When

the Civil War was over, the Bard was liberated. "It was a great triumph

for my eloquence," was his usual self-complacent expression, in after

life, when speaking of this hair-breadth escape. To this day, however,

there are some who hint that the Court considered him _non compos

mentis_--too much of a fool to be a traitor and conspirator--and were

merciful accordingly.

When O'Kelly returned home, he did not annihilate M'Carthy in the

body--he did so in spirit: he lampooned him. Finally, the plagiarist

made a public apology; and an armistice was effected by the aid of

copious libations of the "mountain-dew," the favourite Hippocrene of

Irishmen.

The Bard's trip to the Giant's Causeway gave him a wonderful inclination

for travelling. As itinerary rhyme-spinner, he continued to keep body

and soul together ever since, in a manner which nothing but the

brilliant invention of a verse-making Milesian could have dreamed of.

Under the face of the sun no people so keenly appreciate, and so

undeniably dread, satire as the Irish do. Few, it may be added, have

greater powers in that line--and this without being imbued with less

good-nature or more malice than other people. They particularly shrink

from any imputation on their open-handed and open-hearted hospitality.

The Bard O'Kelly knew that this sensitive feeling was the blot which he

was to hit. And on the results of this knowledge, he contrived to

live well--to obtain raiment, money, lodging, food, and drink, during

the vicissitudes of about forty years.

He committed himself to a pilgrimage from place to place, through

Ireland, always fixing his headquarters at the residence of some country

gentleman. Here he would abide for a week--a fortnight--or even a month,

if he liked his quarters, and thought his intrusion would be tolerated

so long. During his stay, his two horses, his son (for, being Irish, he

had got married very soon), and himself, always lived "in clover." His

valedictory acknowledgment, by which he considered that he repaid the

hospitality extended to him, was a laudatory couplet! If there were, or

if there seemed to be, the slightest want of cordiality in his reception

or entertainment, he would immediately depart, giving the delinquent to

immortal infamy in a stinging couplet. When he had written a few score

of these rhymes he used to get them printed (ballad-wise) on octavo

slips of whity-brown paper, and each new page was added to its

predecessor, by being pasted into a sort of scrap-book. This collection

he called his "Poetic Tour," and he had only a single copy of it; and to

this, which he promised to have printed in a regular book, at some

future period, every one who entertained him was expected to subscribe

from a crown to a guinea--_subscriptions payable in advance_. To this

rule he had permitted only one exception. This was early in the present

century, when the Chevalier Ruspini, (a tooth and corn extractor,) who

travelled in Ireland as "Dentist to the Prince of Wales," subscribed, in

the name of his Royal master, for fifty copies of the work; and, on the

strength of this, managed to dine, on three several occasions, with

O'Kelly--being the only instance on record of his Bardship having ever

played the host.

I knew O'Kelly personally, when I was a lad, having met him, for the

first time, at Drewscourt, in the county of Limerick, whither he came,

purposely, to remain one day _en passant_, but did us the honour of

staying for a fortnight. He made his first appearance at dinner-time,

and his knife and fork were wielded as effectively as if he had not used

them during the preceding month. Until I saw O'Kelly feed, I had never

realized the description of Major Dalgetty's laying in "provend" not

only to make good the dinner he should have eaten yesterday, but to

provide for the wants of to-day and to-morrow. In the course of the

evening he exhibited other manifestations of industry and genius. He

complained of labouring under a cold, which he undertook to cure by a

peculiar process. This was no less than by imbibing about a dozen

tumblers of hot and strong whiskey-punch, without moving from his seat.

This, he assured us, was "a famous remedy for all distempers; good,"

added he, "for a cure, and magnificent as a preventive." He

condescended to inform us that, well or sick, this quantity was his

regular allowance after dinner--when he could get it.

He was loquacious in his cups. The subject of the Royal visit to

Ireland, in 1821, having been broached, O'Kelly produced a printed

account of his own interview with the monarch. This, he told us, had

appeared in a newspaper called the Roscommon Gazette, and it was not

difficult to guess at whose instance it had gained publicity. The

account which he read for us was rather an improved edition, he said, as

his friend, the Roscommon editor, had ruthlessly cut out some of the

adjectives and superlatives. What he read was to this effect,

accompanied with his own running commentary of explanation and remark:--

"'THE BARD O'KELLY AND THE KING.'"

"You see, gentlemen, that I put myself first. Genius (he pronounced it

_janius_) before greatness any day!

"When his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth--whom God

and Saint Patrick preserve!--paid his loving subjects a visit in

August, 1821, the most eminent men of Ireland resorted to the

metropolis to do him honour. Among them, was our distinguished and

illustrious countryman, the Bard O'Kelly. Without _his_ presence,

where would have been the crowning rose of the wreath of Erin's

glory? And it is very creditable to His Majesty's taste, that his

very first inquiry, on entering the Vice-regal lodge, in Ph[oe]nix

Park, was after that honour to our country, our renowned Bard, to

whose beautiful productions he had subscribed, for fifty copies,

many years ago.

"Yes, gentlemen, he knew all about me. As he had inquired for _me_, I

thought I could not do less, in course of common civility, than indulge

_him_ with the pleasure of a visit. But you shall hear:--

"When the Bard reached Dublin, and heard of His Majesty's most kind

and friendly inquiries, he sent a most polite autograph note,

written with his own hand, to Sir Benjamin Bloomfield, announcing

his own arrival, wishing His Majesty joy on _his_, and requesting

Sir Benjamin to appoint a day, mutually convenient to the many

important engagements of the Poet and the Monarch, when an

interview between these distinguished personages should take place.

With that true politeness and chivalrous courtesy which adorn and

distinguish the Bard, he notified that, the King being a stranger,

the Bard was willing to waive ceremony, and wait upon him, to

present a copy of his highly poetical poems, for fifty copies of

which the Chevalier Ruspini had subscribed, on behalf of His

Majesty, when Prince of Wales.

"Indeed, they were to have been dedicated to him, but, as yet, I have

not had but the one copy, which I have made up from the slips which have

been separately printed, from time to time. Kind gentlemen, reading

always makes me drouthy;--may-be, one of ye will mix a tumbler for

me?--not too strong of the water;--christen the spirit, but don't drown

it. Ah, that will do! What a flavor it has!

"An answer was immediately sent by three servants in royal livery,

requesting, if perfectly agreeable to O'Kelly, that he would do His

Majesty the favour of a friendly visit, the next day at four

o'clock.

"So I sent word to say that I'd be with him punctual. The next day I

dressed myself very neat, put on my other shirt, gave my coat a brushing

(a thing I don't often do, as it takes the nap off the cloth),

brightened the brass buttons with a bit of chamois leather, went over

the seams with a little vinegar and ink, polished my boots, so that

you'd see your likeness in them like a looking-glass, had myself

elegantly shaved, and to the King I went. But you shall hear:

"To this proposition the Bard politely assented, and went to the

Castle of Dublin, at the appointed hour, the next day. There he

sent his card to the King, with his compliments; and Sir Benjamin

Bloomfield immediately came down the Grand Staircase, and, with a

most gracious message from His Majesty, handed him a fifty-pound

bank-note, as the royal subscription to his admirable poems.

"I won't deny that the sight and touch of the money were mighty

pleasant; but I said nothing. It was a larger sum than ever I had at any

one time before, for _my_ riches have always been of the head, rather

than of the purse. I put the bank-note into my waistcoat-pocket,

fastened it safely there with a pin I took out of my cuff, and

then--mind, not until _then_--I told Sir Benjamin----But I'll read it:

"O'Kelly (with that noble disregard for lucre which always

distinguished our eminently patriotic, poetic, high-minded, much

accomplished, and generous-hearted countryman) immediately told Sir

Benjamin, that he would rather relinquish the money than abandon

the anticipated pleasure of a personal interview with his

Sovereign.

"Mind--I had the fifty pounds snug in my pocket all the while. You may

be certain that I wouldn't have spoken that way _before_ fingering the

cash.

"On this most disinterested and loyal determination having been

mentioned to His Majesty, he was so delighted with it, that he

desired the Bard to be ushered instantly into the Grand Hall of

Audience. This was done, and there the Most Noble the Marquis of

Congynham had the honour of introducing His Majesty to the Poet.

"Wasn't it a grand sight! There was the King on his throne, and all the

great officers of State standing around him. In one hand the King held a

sceptre of pure gold, and the other was stretched out to receive my

book. On his head he wore a crown of gold, studded all over with jewels,

and weighing half a hundred weight, at the very least. On his breast, in

the place where a diamond star is usually represented in the portraits,

His Majesty wore a bunch of shamrock, the size of a cauliflower. Now

you'll hear what occurred:--

"Compliments being exchanged, the King descended from his throne,

and had the pleasure of introducing the Marchioness of Conyngham,

and all the other Ladies of the Bedchamber, to the Bard. His

Majesty, then--returning to his throne, and insisting that the Bard

should occupy an arm-chair by his right side--said, "Mr.

O'Kelly"----"O'KELLY, without the _Mister_, if you please," said

the Bard, "Your Majesty would not say Mr. Shakspeare or Mr.

Milton." "True enough," said the King, "I sit corrected: I beg your

pardon, O'Kelly. I should have known better. Well, then, O'Kelly, I

am quite sure that I shall be delighted with your beautiful poems,

when I've time to read them." To this the Bard replied, "Your

Majesty never spoke a truer word. I believe they'd delight and

instruct any one." At this intelligent, and most correct

observation, his Majesty was pleased to smile. He then added, "I'm

sorry to see, by your iron leg, that you are lame." O'Kelly, with

that ready wit for which he is as remarkable as he is for his

modesty, instantly replied, "If I halt in my leg, I don't in my

verses, for

"If God one member has oppressed,

He's made more perfect all the rest."

It is impossible for words to describe the thunders of applause by

which this beautiful extempore impromptu was followed.

"I knew, well enough, that something smart would be expected from a man

like me; so I went prepared with several impromptus, to be introduced

when the occasion would allow.

"His Majesty then said, "It is really remarkable that you, and my

friend Walter Scott, should both be lame." The Bard replied, "And

Lord Byron also." His Majesty then observed, "It is a wonderful

coincidence--the three great poets of the three kingdoms." At the

request of the Marquis of Conyngham, the Bard then made the

following extemporaneous epigram on the spot, off hand, on this

interesting subject:

'Three poets for three sister kingdoms born,

"That's England, Ireland, and Scotland:--

'One for the rose, another for the thorn,

"You know that the rose and thistle are the national emblems of England

and Scotland:

'One for the shamrock,

"That's poor old Ireland,--

'which shall ne'er decay,

While rose and thorn must yearly die away.'

"His Majesty was quite electrified at the ready wit displayed in

this beautiful impromptu, and took leave of the Bard in the most

affectionate and gracious manner. It is whispered among the

fashionable circles, that O'Kelly has declined the offer of a

Baronetcy, made to him by command of the Sovereign."

"Indeed," said the Bard, in conclusion, "the King and me were mutually

pleased with each other. I'd have had myself made a Baronet, like Scott,

but I have not the dirty acres to keep up the dignity. 'Tis my private

notion, if the King had seen me first, I'd have had ten times the money

he sent me. Well, he's every inch a King, and here's his health."

* * * * *

You may judge, from what he printed and what he spoke, whether the

modesty of the Bard was not equal to his genius. It is a fact, I

understand, that he actually made his way to an audience with George

the Fourth; he must have rather astonished his Majesty. In his later

years the Bard fluctuated between Cork and Limerick (in the last-named

city of "beautiful lasses," he had a daughter very well married),[10]

and, wherever he might be, was open to algebraic donations of strong

drink--that is, "any _given_ quantity."

[10] The saying in Ireland, when the locality of good-looking

people is to be indicated, is--"Cork lads and Limerick lasses." In

Lancashire, there is something like this in the familiar manner in

which the natives speak of "Wigan _chaps_, Bolton _fellows_,

Manchester _men_, and Liverpool _gentlemen_."

Such a fungus as the Bard O'Kelly could only have been produced in and

tolerated by a very peculiar state of society. Out of Ireland he would

have starved--unless he followed a different vocation. He was partly

laughed at, partly feared. Satire was his weapon. His manners, attire,

and conversation, would scarcely be endured now in the servants' hall;

yet, even as lately as twenty years ago, he forced his way into the

company of respectable people--aye, and got not only hospitality from

them, but _douceurs_ of wearing apparel and money. One comfort is, such

a person would have little chance in Ireland now.

The Bard O'Kelly died about fifteen years ago, having lived in clover

for more than forty years, by the fears of those whom he made his

tributaries. Until he published, in 1831, the world took it for granted,

that even as _he_ said, he had some poetic talent. The list of

subscribers to his volume had between seven and eight hundred names,

including ladies, peers of the realm, and members of Parliament. The

"Bard's" want of ability was companioned by want of principle--for two,

at least, of the poems which he published as his own, were written by

others. One, commencing, "My life is like the summer rose," is the

composition of R. H. Wilde, a distinguished American man of letters; and

another, beginning "On beds of snow the moonbeams slept," has been

_conveyed_ from the early poems of a writer named--Thomas Moore. There

is cool intrepidity in pilfering from a poet so universally known as

Moore. When Scott visited Ireland, he was waited on by O'Kelly with the

same "extempore impromptu" he had inflicted on George IV., years before,

and (Lockhart relates) compelled the Ariosto of the North to pay the

usual tribute--by subscribing to his poems.

There are scores of Irishmen now in New York, who were personally

acquainted with O'Kelly, and can testify to the accuracy--I might even

say the moderation, of my description of him.

FATHER PROUT.

Those who have perused that polyglot of wisdom and wit, learning and

fun, wild eccentricity and plain sense, 'yclept "THE PROUT PAPERS,"

which originally appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_, during the editorship

of Dr. Maginn, may feel some curiosity respecting the individual whose

name has thus been preserved (not unlike the fly in amber) through all

literary time. They would naturally think, after admiring the rare

facility of versification, the playfulness, the fancy, the wit, the

impetuous frolic, the deep erudition which distinguishes the said

"Papers," that Father Prout must have been a wonderful man, gifted in an

extraordinary manner.

What is there in the language more spirited than the Prout translations

from Béranger? As was said of Goethe's Faust, translated by Anster, the

fact was _transfused_ into our vernacular. What wondrous flexibility is

given to the old Latin tongue, by the versions of Moore into that

language! What charming mastery of learning, as exhibited in the

translations of "The Groves of Blarney" into a variety of tongues! What

grave humour in treating that original song as if it were only a

translation! Two wits--who not only belonged to Cork, but had seen a

great many _drawings_ of it in their time--were the perpetrators of this

literary mystification. Frank Mahony and Frank Murphy--a priest and a

lawyer. On their own hook, to use a common phrase, they have done

nothing worth particular mention; but some plants, we know, produce

flowers, while others yield fruit.

For a long time, in England, the full credit of the Fraserian articles

was given to Father Prout. Then set in a spring-tide of disbelief, and

the very existence of such a man was doubted. Erroneous doubt! for I

have seen him--spoken to him--dined with him. The Father Prout, however,

of real life was very different from him of the Prout Papers. He was

parish-priest of Watergrass-hill, midway between the city of Cork and

the town of Fermoy--a locality known as the highest arable land in

Ireland. Prout was one of the old priests who, when it was penal for a

Catholic clergyman to exist in Ireland, picked up the elements of his

education how he could, completed it at a foreign university, and came

back to Ireland, a priest, to administer the consolations of religion to

the peasantry of his native land. Sometimes, the Catholic priest

evidenced to the last, in conduct and manners, that his youth had been

passed in countries in which social civilization had extended further

than in Ireland. Sometimes, the learning and the polish which had been

acquired abroad were forgotten at home--as the sword loses its

brightness from disuse--and, living much among the peasantry, the priest

lost a part of the finer courtesy of the gentleman, and assumed the

roughness of the bulk of his parishioners. Wherever there was a resident

Protestant landowner, the Priest of the olden time instinctively formed

friendly relations with him--for, at that time, the priestly order was

not invariably supplied from the peasantry, and tolerance was more

declared and practiced by members of all persuasions, in Ireland, at

that time than it is now. Prout was literally a "round, fat, oily man of

God." He had a hand small as a woman's, and was very proud of it. He had

an unconquerable spirit of good-humour, and it was utterly impossible

for any one to be in his company for ten minutes without feeling and

basking in the sunshine of his buoyant and genial good-nature. Of

learning he had very little. I do not know what his share might have

been half a century before, when he was fresh from Douay or the

Sorbonne, but few traces were left in his latter years. In the society

of his equals or his superiors, Prout could keep up the shuttlecock of

conversation as well as any one, and in the fashion of the place and

class, but he was equally at home amid the festivities of a country

wedding, or the genialities of the hospitable entertainment which

followed the holding of a country Station at a rich farmer's domicile.

What the world has received as "The Reliques of Father Prout," owes

nothing to the little _padrone_. He had a strong sense of the humourous,

and, when the fancy seized him, was not very particular how or where he

indulged it.

Prout, residing only nine miles from Cork, frequently visited that city,

where he had a great many acquaintances, at all times glad to see him.

In one Protestant family with which he was intimate, there were several

very handsome daughters, full of life and high spirits, who especially

delighted in drawing out the rotund priest. He had repeatedly urged them

to "drop in" upon him, some day; and when the spirit of fun was strong,

early on a Sunday morning in June, they ordered out the carriage, and

directed their Jehu to drive them to Watergrass-hill.

Now, though that terminus was only nine (Irish[11]) miles distant, the

greater part of the way--certainly all from Glanmire--was terribly

up-hill. The result was that, instead of reaching Father Prout's about

ten o'clock, as they had anticipated, they did not draw up at his door

until an hour and a half later, and were there informed that "his

Reverence had be off to last mass." They determined to follow

him, partly from curiosity to see in what manner divine worship was

performed in a Catholic chapel.

[11] Irish miles are longer than English, in the proportion of 11

to 14. A traveller complained to the chaise-driver of the

narrowness of the way. "Oh, then," said the man, "why need you be

angry with the roads? Sure, we make up in the length for the scanty

measure we get in the width."

The chapel in which Father Prout officiated was by no means a building

of pretension. At that time the roof was out of repair, and, in wet

weather, acted as a gigantic shower-bath. The floor, then, consisted of

beaten earth, which was somewhat of a puddle whenever the rains

descended and the winds blew. The Cork ladies soon found the chapel,

entered it, and (accustomed to the rich churches of their own

persuasion) gazed in wonder on the humble, unadorned place of worship in

which they stood. It may literally be said "in which they stood," for

there were no pews, no chairs, not even a solitary stool.

Presently the chapel began to fill, and "the pressure from without"

gradually drove the ladies nearer and yet nearer to the altar. At length

Father Prout entered in his clerical attire, and commenced the service.

In Catholic churches the priest officiates, during the early part of the

service, with his face to the altar, and his back to the congregation.

Thus, it happened that Prout never saw his Cork friends until the time

when he turned round to the congregation. Then he beheld them,

handsomely and fashionably attired, standing up (for the floor was too

puddled to allow them to soil their vesture by kneeling, as every one

else did), the gazed-at by all beholders, looking and feeling the

reverse of comfortable.

Father Prout immediately looked at his clerk, Pat Murphy,--an original

in his way,--caught his eye and his attention, and gently inclining

towards him, whispered, "send for three chairs for the ladies." Pat, who

was a little deaf, imperfectly caught his master's words, and turned

round to the congregation and roared out, "Boys! his Reverence says,

'Three cheers for the ladies.'" The congregation, obedient and gallant,

gave three tremendous shouts, to the surprise of the ladies and the

horror of the priest. There was a good deal of merriment when the

mistake was explained, but to his dying day Father Prout was reminded,

whenever he visited Cork, of the "Three cheers for the ladies."

Pat Murphy, his clerk, was quite a character. He affected big words, and

was mortally offended whenever any one called him _clerk_ or _sexton_.

"I pity the weakness of your intellectual organization," he would

contemptuously exclaim. "If you had only brains enough to distinguish B

from a bull's foot, you would appreciate my peculiar and appropriate

official designation. The words 'clerk' and 'sexton' are appellations

which distinctify the menial avocations of persons employed in heretical

places of worship. My situation is that of Sacristan and my responsible

duty is to act as custodian of the sacred utensils and vestments of

the chapel."

Murphy had an exaggerated idea of the abilities of his principal, and

stoutly maintained that if the Pope knew what was good for the Church,

he would long since have elevated Father Prout to the episcopal dignity.

His chief regret, when dying, was, that he did not survive to see _this_

consummation.

Sometimes Pat Murphy would condescend to enter into a _vivâ voce_

controversy with one of the "heretics," (as he invariably designated the

Protestants,) on the comparative merits of the rival churches. His

invariable wind-up, delivered gravely and authoritatively, as a

clincher, to which he would permit no reply, was as follows:--"I

commiserate your condition, which is the result of your miserable

ignorance. Unfortunate individual! out of the New Testament itself I can

prove that your religion is but a thing of yesterday. With you

Protestants the Apostle Paul had not the most distant acquaintance,

whereas he corresponded with us of the Holy Roman Church. You doubt it?

Know you not that, from Corinth, he wrote an Epistle to the _Romans_,

and if the Protestants were in existence then, and known to him, why did

he not as well send an Epistle unto _them_?"

Father Prout was short and rotund. His Sacristan was tall and thin.

Immemorial usage permits the clerical cast-off garments to descend, like

heirlooms, to the parish clerk. Pat Murphy, in the threadbare

garments which erst had clothed the rotundity of Father Prout, was a

ludicrous looking object. The doctrine of compensation used to be

carried out, on such occasions, with more truth than beauty. The waist

of the priest's coat would find itself under Murphy's arms, the

wristbands would barely cover his elbows, and the pantaloons, sharing

the fate of the other garments, would end at his knees, leaving a wide

interval of calf visible to public gaze. On the other hand, by way of

equivalent, the garments would voluminously wrap around him, in folds,

as if they were intended to envelope not one Pat Murphy, but three such

examples of the mathematical definition, "length without breadth." On

one occasion I had the double satisfaction of seeing Father Prout, like

Solomon, in all his glory, with Pat Murphy in full costume. It happened

in this wise:

There was pretty good shooting about Watergrass-hill, and the officers

of an infantry regiment, who were quartered at Fermoy, at the period to

which I refer, had made Prout's acquaintance, while peppering away at

the birds, and had partaken of a capital impromptu luncheon which he got

up on the moment. Prout, it may be added, was in the habit of receiving

presents of game, fish and poultry from his friends in Cork, (the

mail-coaches and other public conveyances passing his door several times

every day,) and as long as Dan Meagher, of Patrick-street, was in the

wine-trade, be sure that his friend, Father Prout, did not want good

samples of the generous juice of the grape. Of course, he also had a

supply of real _potheen_. Cellar and larder thus provided for, Prout was

fond of playing the host.

A great intimacy speedily sprung up between Prout and his military

friends, and he partook of numerous dinners at their mess in Fermoy

Barracks. At last, determined to return the compliment, he invited them

all to dine with him at Watergrass-hill. One of my own cousins, who

happened to be one of the guests, took me with him--on the Roman plan, I

presume, which permitted an invited guest to bring _his shade_. I was a

youngster at the time, but remember the affair as if it were of

yesterday.

If there was any anticipation of a spoiled dinner, it was vain. Prout,

who was on intimate terms with all his neighbours for half a dozen miles

round, had been wise enough to invoke the aid of the Protestant rector

of Watergrass-hill, who not only lent him plate, china, and all other

table necessaries, but--what was of more importance--also spared him the

excellent cook who, it was said, could compose a dinner, in full

variety, out of any one article of food. Each of the officers was

attended at table by his own servant, and Pat Murphy, in full dress,

officiated as servitor, at the particular disposal of Father Prout

himself.

The dinner was excellent,--well-cooked, well-served, and worthy of

praise for the abundance, variety, and excellence of the viands. There

was everything to be pleased with--nothing to smile at.

I beg to withdraw the last four words. There was Pat Murphy, in an

ex-suit of Prout's, looking such a figure of fun, that, on recalling the

scene now, I wonder how, one and all, we did not burst into a shout of

laughter when he first was presented to view. He looked taller, and

scraggier, and leaner than usual--his clothes appearing greater misfits

than ever! Prout, who kept his countenance remarkably well, evidently

saw and enjoyed the ludicrous appearance of his man. On the other hand,

the man, taking on himself the duties of Major Domo, ordered the other

attendants about in all directions, muttering curses between his teeth

whenever they did not do exactly as he commanded. But everything went

off gaily, and Prout's rubicund face became redder and more radiant

under the influence of this success.

In the course of the entertainment, Father Prout, addressing his

attendant, said, "Pat, a glass of porter, if you please." The liquor was

poured, and, as it frothed in the glass, Prout raised it to his lips

with the words, "Thank you, Pat." Waiting until he had completed the

draught, Pat, in a tone of earnest remonstrance, said, "Ah, then, your

Reverence, why should _you_ thank me for what's your own? It would be

decent for these genteels who are dining here, to thank me for the good

drink, but you've no right to do anything of the sort, seeing that the

liquor is your own. It is my supplication that you will not do so again;

there is an incongruity in it which I disrelish." We had some difficulty

in not laughing, but contrived to keep serious faces during this

colloquy.

The liberality of the little Padre had provided us with three courses,

and just as Pat Murphy was in the act of relieving a noble roasted

haunch of mutton, before his master, by a dish of snipe, he happened to

look out of the window and see one of his own familiar associates

passing along the street. Hastily flinging down the dish, he threw up

the window, and, kneeling down, with his long arms resting on the sill,

loudly hailed his friend, "Where are ye going, Tom?" The answer was that

a dance was expected in the neighbourhood, and at which, of course, Pat

would be "to the fore." Now, the said Pat, very much like Ichabod Crane

in figure, had a sort of sneaking desire, like him, to be wherever

pretty women were to be seen. "No," said Pat, "I do not anticipate to be

relieved in any thing like proper time from attendance here this

evening. His Reverence, who has been ating and drinking, with remarkable

avidity, on the military officers down in Fermoy, is hospitable to-day,

and entertains the whole squad of them at dinner. To see them _ate_,

you'd think they had just got out of a hard Lent. 'Tisn't often, I dare

say, that they get such a feast. There's the mutton sent by Chetwood of

Glanmire; and the poultry by Cooper Penrose of Wood-hill; and the

lashings of game by Devonshire of Kilshanneck; and the fruit by Lord

Riversdale of Lisnegar--that is, by his steward, for 'tis little his

Lordship sees of the place that gives him a good six thousand a

year;--and the barrel of porter from Tommy Walker of Fermoy; and the

wine from red-faced Dan Meagher of Cork; and everything of the best.

Depend on it, the officers won't stir until they have made fools of all

the provender. By-and-bye, that the poor mightn't have a chance of the

leavings, they will be calling for grilled bones, and devilled legs and

gizzards. No, Tom, my mind misgives me that I can't go to the dance this

evening. Here's the officers, bad 'cess to them, that are sedentary

fixtures until midnight."

This oration delivered,--and every one had been silent while Pat Murphy

was thus unburthening his mind,--he arose from his knees, closed the

window, and resumed his place behind Father Prout, with "a countenance

more of sorrow than of anger," calm and unconcerned as if nothing had

occurred out of the ordinary routine. At that moment, Prout threw

himself back on his chair, and laughed until the tears rolled down his

cheeks, and thus encouraged, the company followed his example, and

laughed also. When the mirth had subsided, it was almost renewed by the

solemn countenance of Pat Murphy, grave rather than severe--a sort of

domestic Marius sitting, in sad contemplation, amid the ruins of

Carthage.

Father Prout had rather a rough set of parishioners to deal with. He

could be, and was, very much of the gentleman, but it pleased him to

appear plain and unpolished to those among whom his lot was cast. At

times, when nothing else would do, he would address them, in an

exhortation, very much in the spirit of Swift's "if you like the

conditions, down with the dust!" At such times, Rabelais, "in his easy

chair," would have smiled, and Swift himself would have hailed Prout as

a congenial spirit.

I have a memorandum of one of these sermons. The object was to collect

some arrears of "dues" from certain non-paying parishioners,

(constituting rather a large portion of his congregation,) and I have

been told that the discourse was much to this effect:

FATHER PROUT'S SERMON.