Produced by David Widger
THE O'DONOGHUE;
TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
By Charles Lever
Dublin
William Curry, Jun. And Company.
William S. Orr And Co. London.
Fraser And Co. Edinburgh.
1845.
TO
JOHN WILSON, ESQ.,
Professor of Moral Philosophy In the University of Edinburgh, &c.
Dear Sir,
It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedication can give
the pleasure I now feel in availing myself of your kind
permission to inscribe this volume to you. As a boy, the
greatest happiness of my life was in your writings; and
among all my faults and failures, I can trace not one to
your influence, while, if I have ever been momentarily
successful in upholding the right, and denouncing the wrong,
I owe more of the spirit that suggested the effort to
yourself than to any other man breathing.
With my sincerest respects, and, if I dared, I should say,
with my warmest regards,
I am, yours truly,
CHARLES LEVER.
Carlsruhe, October 18th, 1845.
THE O'DONOGHUE;
A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
CHAPTER I. GLENFLESK.
In that wild and picturesque valley which winds its way between the
town of Macroom and Bantry Bay, and goes by the name of Glenflesk, the
character of Irish scenery is perhaps more perfectly displayed than in
any other tract of the same extent in the island. The mountains, rugged
and broken, are singularly fanciful in their outline; their sides a
mingled mass of granite and straggling herbage, where the deepest green
and the red purple of the heath-bell are blended harmoniously together.
The valley beneath, alternately widening and narrowing, presents one
rich meadow tract, watered by a deep and rapid stream, fed by a thousand
rills that come tumbling, and foaming down the mountain sides, and to
the traveller are seen like white streaks marking the dark surface of
the precipice. Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles of this lonely
glen, and save for the herds of cattle and the flocks of sheep here and
there to be descried, it would seem as if the spot had been forgotten
by man, and left to sleep in its own gloomy desolation. The river
itself has a character of wildness all its own-now, brawling over
rugged rocks-now foaming between high and narrow sides, abrupt as walls,
sometimes, flowing over a ledge of granite, without a ripple on the
surface-then plunging madly into some dark abyss, to emerge again, lower
down the valley, in one troubled sea of foam and spray: its dull roar
the only voice that echoes in the mountain gorge. Even where the humble
roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the aspect of habitation rather
heightens than diminishes the feeling of loneliness and desolation
around. The thought of poverty enduring its privations unseen and
unknown, without an eye to mark its struggles, or a heart to console its
griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, and one wonders what manner of man
he can be, who has fixed his dwelling in such solitude.
In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human being, save that dark
speck be such which crowns the cliff, and stands out from the clear sky
behind. Yes, it is a child watching the goats that are browsing along
the mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has hidden him from
your view. Life of dreariness and gloom! What sad and melancholy
thoughts must be his companions, who spends the live-long day on
these wild heaths, his eye resting on the trackless waste where no
fellow-creature moves! how many a mournful dream will pass over his
mind! what fearful superstitions will creep in upon his imagination,
giving form and shape to the flitting clouds, and making the dark
shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and substance.
Poor child of sorrow! How destiny has marked you for misery! For you no
childish gambols in the sun--no gay playfellow--no paddling in the running
stream, that steals along bright and glittering, like happy infancy--no
budding sense of a fair world, opening in gladness; but all, a dreary
waste--the weariness of age bound up with the terrors of childhood.
The sun was just setting on a mellow evening, late in the autumn of a
year towards the close of the last century, as a solitary traveller
sat down to rest himself on one of the large rocks by the road-side;
divesting himself of his gun and shot-pouch, he lay carelessly at his
length, and seemed to be enjoying the light breeze which came up the
valley.
He was a young and powerfully-built man, whose well-knit frame and
muscular limbs showed how much habitual exercise had contributed to
make the steepest paths of the mountain a task of ease to him. He was
scarcely above the middle height, but with remarkable breadth of chest,
and that squareness of proportion which indicates considerable physical
strength; his countenance, except for a look of utter listlesness and
vacuity, had been pleasing; the eyes were large and full, and of the
deep grey which simulates blue; the nose large and well-formed; the
mouth alone was unprepossessing-the expression it wore was of ill-humour
and discontent, and this character seemed so habitual that even as he
sat thus alone and in solitude, the curl of the upper lip betrayed his
nature.
His dress was a shooting-jacket of some coarse stuff, stained and washed
by many a mountain streamlet; loose trowsers of grey cloth, and heavy
shoes-such as are worn by the peasantry, wherever such luxuries are
attainable. It would have been difficult, at a mere glance, to have
decided what class or condition of life he pertained to; for, although
certain traits bespoke the person of a respectable rank, there was
a general air of neglect about him, that half contradicted the
supposition. He lay for some time perfectly motionless, when the tramp
of horses at a distance down the glen suddenly roused him from his
seeming apathy, and resting on his elbow he listened attentively. The
sounds came nearer and nearer, and now, the dull roll of a carriage
could be heard approaching. Strange noises these in that solitary
valley, where even the hoofs of a single horse but rarely routed the
echoes. A sudden dip of the road at a little distance from where he lay,
concealed the view, and he remained in anxious expectancy, wondering
what these sounds should portend, when suddenly the carriage seemed to
have halted, and all was still.
For some minutes the youth appeared to doubt whether he had not
been deceived by some swooping of the wind through the passes in the
mountains, when the sound of voices fell on his ear, and at the
same moment, two figures appeared over the crest of the hill, slowly
advancing up the road. The one was a man advanced in years, but still
hale and vigorous, in look-his features even yet eminently handsome,
wore an air of mingled frankness and haughtiness; there was in their
expression the habitual character of one accustomed to exert a degree
of command and influence over others-a look, which of all the
characteristics of temper, is least easily mistaken.
At his side walked one who, even at a passing glance, might be
pronounced his daughter, so striking the resemblance between them, She
did not seem above sixteen years of age, but through the youthful traits
of her features you could mark the same character of expression her
father's wore, modified by the tender beauty, which at that age, blends
the loveliness of the girl with the graces of womanhood. Bather above
than below the middle height, her figure had that distinguishing mark
of elegance high birth impresses, and in her very walk a quick observer
might detect an air of class.
They both stopped short as they gained the summit of the hill, and
appeared wonder-struck at the scene before them. The grey gloom of
twilight threw its sombre shadows over the valley, but the mountain
peaks were tipped with the setting sun, and shone in those rich
violet and purple hues the autumn heath displays so beautifully. The
dark-leaved holly and the bright arbutus blossom lent their colour to
every jutting cliff and promontory, which, to eyes unacquainted with
the scenery, gave an air of culture strangely at variance with the
desolation around.
“Is this wild enough for your fancy, Sybella,” said the father, with a
playful smile, as he watched the varying expression of the young girl's
features, “or would you desire something still more dreary?” But she
made no answer. Her gaze was fixed on a thin wreath of smoke that curled
its way upwards from what appeared a low mound of earth, in the valley
below the road; some branches of trees, covered with sods of earth,
grass-grown and still green, were heaped up together, and through these
the vapour found a passage and floated into the air.
“I am wondering what that fire can mean,” said she, pointing downwards
with her finger.
“Here is some one will explain it,” said the old man, as for the first
time he perceived the youth, who still maintained his former attitude
on the bank, and with a studied indifference, paid no attention to those
whose presence had before so much surprised him.
“I say, my good fellow, what does that smoke mean we see yonder?”
The youth sprung to his feet with a bound that almost startled his
questioner, so sudden and abrupt the motion; his features, inactive and
colourless the moment before, seemed almost convulsed now, while they
became dark with blood.
“Was it to me you spoke?” said he, in a low guttural tone, which his
passion made actually tremulous.
“Yes--”
But before the old man could reply, his daughter, with the quick tact
of womanhood, perceiving the mistake her father had fallen into, hastily
interrupted him by saying,--
“Yes, sir, we were asking you the cause of the fire at the foot of that
cliff.”
The tone and the manner in which the words were uttered seemed at once
to have disarmed his anger; and although for a second or two he made no
answer, his features recovered their former half-listless look, as he
said--
“It is a cabin--There is another yonder, beside the river.”
“A cabin! Surely you cannot mean that people are living there?” said the
girl, as a sickly pallor spread itself across her cheeks.
“Yes, to be sure,” replied the youth; “they have no better hereabouts.”
“What poverty--what dreadful misery is this!” said she, as the great
tears gushed forth, and stole heavily down her face.
“They are not so poor,” answered the young man, in a voice of almost
reproof. “The cattle along that mountain all belong to these people--the
goats you see in that glen are theirs also.”
“And whose estate may this be?” said the old man.
Either the questioner or his question seemed to have called up again
the youth's former resentment, for he fixed his eyes steadily on him for
some time without a word, and then slowly added--
“This belongs to an Englishman--a certain Sir Marmaduke Travers--It is
the estate of O'Donoghue.”
“Was, you mean, once,” answered the old man quickly.
“I mean what I say,” replied the other rudely. “Confiscation cannot take
away a right, it can at most--”
This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, for while he
was speaking, his quick glance detected a dark object soaring above his
head. In a second he had seized his gun, and taking a steady aim, he
fired. The loud report was heard repeated in many a far-off glen, and
ere its last echo died away, a heavy object fell upon the road not many
yards from where they stood.
“This fellow,” said the youth, as he lifted the body of a large black
eagle from the ground--“This fellow was a confiscator too, and see what
he has come to. You'd not tell me that our lambs were his, would you?”
The roll of wheels happily drowned these words, for by this time the
postillions had reached the place, the four post-horses labouring under
the heavy-laden travelling carriage, with its innumerable boxes and
imperials.
The post boys saluted the young man with marked deference, to which he
scarcely deigned an acknowledgment, as he replaced his shot-pouch, and
seemed to prepare for the road once more.
Meanwhile the old gentleman had assisted his daughter to the carriage,
and was about to follow, when he turned around suddenly and said--
“If your road lies this way, may I offer you a seat with us?”
The youth stared as if he did not well comprehend the offer, and his
cheek flushed, as he answered coldly--
“I thank you; but my path is across the mountain.”
Both parties saluted distantly, the door of the carriage closed, and the
word to move on was given, when the young man, taking two dark feathers
from the eagle's wing, approached the window.
“I was forgetting,” said he, in a voice of hesitation and diffidence,
“perhaps you would accept these feathers.”
The young girl smiled, and half blushing, muttered some words in reply,
as she took the offered present. The horses sprung forward the next
instant, and a few minutes after, the road was as silent and deserted
as before; and save the retiring sound of the wheels, nothing broke the
stillness.