As the glen continues to wind between the mountains, it gradually
becomes narrower, and at last contracts to a mere cleft, flanked on
either side by two precipitous walls of rock, which rise to the
height of several hundred feet above the road; this is the pass of
Keim-an-eigh, one of the wildest and most romantic ravines of the
scenery of the south.
At the entrance to this pass there stood, at the time we speak of, a
small wayside inn, or shebeen-house, whose greatest recommendation was
in the feet, that it was the only place where shelter and refreshment
could be obtained for miles on either side. An humble thatched cabin
abutting against the granite rock of the glen, and decorated with an
almost effaced sign of St. Finbar converting a very unprepossessing
heathen, over the door, showed where Mary M'Kelly dispensed
“enthertainment for man and baste.”
A chance traveller, bestowing a passing glance upon this modest edifice,
might deem that an inn in such a dreary and unfrequented valley,
must prove a very profitless speculation--few, very few travelled the
road--fewer still would halt to bait within ten miles of Bantry. Report,
however, said differently; the impression in the country was, that
“Mary's”--as it was briefly styled--had a readier share of business than
many a more promising and pretentious hotel; in fact, it was generally
believed to be the resort of all the smugglers of the coast; and the
market, where the shopkeepers of the interior repaired in secret to
purchase the contraband wares and “run goods,” which poured into the
country from the shores of France and Holland.
Vast storehouses and caves were said to exist in the rock behind
the house, to store away the valuable goods, which from time to time
arrived; and it was currently believed that the cargo of an Indiaman
might have been concealed within these secret recesses, and never a cask
left in view to attract suspicion.
It is not into these gloomy receptacles of contraband that we would now
conduct our reader, but into a far more cheerful and more comfortable
locality--the spacious kitchen of the cabin, or, in fact, the apartment
which served for the double purpose of cooking and eating--the common
room of the inn, where around a blazing fire of black turf was seated a
party of three persons.
At one side sat the fat and somewhat comely figure of Mary herself, a
woman of some five-and-forty years, with that expression of rough and
ready temperament, the habits of a wayside inn will teach. She had a
clear, full eye--a wide, but not unpleasant mouth--and a voice that
suited well the mellifluous intonation of a Kerry accent. Opposite to
her were two thin, attenuated old men, who, for dress, look, age, voice,
and manner, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish from
each other; for while the same weather-beaten, shrivelled expression was
common to both, their jackets of blue cloth, leather breeches, and
top boots, were so precisely alike, that they seemed the very Dromios
brought back to life, to perform as postillions. Such they were--such
they had been for above fifty years. They had travelled the country from
the time they were boys--they entered the career together, and together
they were jogging onward to the last stage of all, the only one where
they hoped to be at rest! Joe and Jim Daly were two names no one ever
heard disunited; they were regarded as but one corporeally, and although
they affected at times to make distinctions themselves, the world never
gave them credit for any consciousness of separate identity. These were
the postillions of the travelling carriage, which having left at its
destination, about two miles distant, they were now regaling themselves
at Mary's, where the horses were to rest for the night.
“Faix, ma'am, and it's driving ye may call it,” said one of the pair,
as he sipped a very smoking compound the hostess had just mixed, “a
hard gallop every step of the way, barrin' the bit of a hill at
Carrignacurra.”
“Well, I hope ye had the decent hansel for it, any how, Jim?”
“I'm Joe, ma'am, av its plazing to ye; Jim is the pole-end boy; he rides
the layders. And it's true for ye--they behaved dacent.”
“A goold guinea, divil a less”--said the other, “there's no use in
denying it. Begorra, it was all natural, them's as rich as Crasis; sure
didn't I see the young lady herself throwing out the tenpenny bits to
the gossoons, as we went by, as if it was dirt; bad luck to me, but I
was going to throw down the Bishop of Cloyne.”
“Throw down who?” said the hostess.
“The near wheeler, ma'am; he's a broken-kneed ould divil, we bought from
the bishop, and called him after him; and as I was saying, I was going
to cross them on the pole, and get a fall, just to have a scramble for
the money, with the gaffers.”
“'They look so poor,' says she. God help her--it's little poverty she
saw--there isn't one of them crayters hasn't a sack of potatoes.”
“Ay--more of them a pig.”
“And hens,” chimed in the first speaker, with a horror at the imposition
of people so comfortably endowed, affecting to feel any pressure or
poverty.
“And what's bringing them here at all?” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a voice
of some asperity; for she foresaw no pleasant future in the fact of a
resident great man, who would not be likely to give any encouragement to
the branch of traffic her principal customers followed.
“Sorrow one of me knows,” was the safe reply of the individual
addressed, who not being prepared with any view of the matter, save that
founded on the great benefit to the country, preferred this answer to a
more decisive one.
“'Tis to improve the property, they say,” interposed the other, who was
not equally endowed with caution. “To look after the estate himself he
has come.”
“Improve, indeed!” echoed the hostess. “Much we want their improving!
Why didn't they leave us the ould families of the country? It's little
we used to hear of improving, when I was a child. God be good to
us.--There was ould Miles O'Donoghue, the present man's father, I'd like
to see what he'd say, if they talked to him about improvement. Ayeh!
sure I mind the time a hogshead of claret didn't do the fortnight. My
father, rest his soul, used to go up to the house every Monday morning
for orders; and ye'd see a string of cars following him at the same
time, with tay, and sugar, and wine, and brandy, and oranges, and
lemons. Them was the raal improvements!”
“'Tis true for ye, ma'am. It was a fine house, I always heerd tell.”
“Forty-six in the kitchen, besides about fourteen colleens and gossoons
about the place; the best of enthertainment up stairs and down.”
“Musha! that was grand.”
“A keg of sperits, with a spigot, in the servants' hall, and no saying
by your leave, but drink while ye could stand over it.”
“The Lord be good to us!” piously ejaculated the twain.
“The hams was boiled in sherry wine.”
“Begorra, I wish I was a pig them times.”
“And a pike daren't come up to table without an elegant pudding in his
belly that cost five pounds!”
“'Tis the fish has their own luck always,” was the profound meditation
at this piece of good fortune.
“Ayeh! ayeh!” continued the hostess in a strain of lamentation, “When
the ould stock was in it, we never heerd tell of improvements. He'll be
making me take out a license, I suppose,” said she, in a voice of half
contemptuous incredulity.
“Faix, there's no knowing,” said Joe, as he shook the ashes out of his
pipe, and nodded his head sententiously, as though to say, that in the
miserable times they'd fallen upon, any thing was possible.
“Licensed for sperits and groceries,” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a sort of
hysterical giggle, as if the thought were too much for her nerves.
“I wouldn't wonder if he put up a pike,” stammered out Jim, thereby
implying that human atrocity would have reached its climax.
The silence which followed this terrible suggestion, was now loudly
interrupted by a smart knocking at the door of the cabin, which was
already barred and locked for the night.
“Who's there?” said Mary, as she held a cloak across the blaze of the
fire, so as to prevent the light being seen through the apertures of the
door--“'tis in bed we are, and late enough, too.”
“Open the door, Mary, it's me,” said a somewhat confident voice. “I saw
the fire burning brightly--and there's no use hiding it.”
“Oh, troth, Mr. Mark, I'll not keep ye out in the cowld,” said the
hostess, as, unbarring the door, she admitted the guest whom we had seen
some time since in the glen. “Sure enough, 'tisn't an O'Donoghue we'd
shut the door agin, any how.”
“Thank ye, Mary,” said the young man; “I have been all day in the
mountains, and had no sport; and as that pleasant old Scotch uncle of
mine gives me no peace, when I come home empty-handed, I have resolved
to stay here for the night, and try my luck to-morrow. Don't stir,
Jim--there's room enough, Joe: Mary's fire is never so grudging, but
there's a warm place for every one. What's in this big pot here, Mary?”
“It's a stew, sir; more by token, of your honour's providin'.”
“Mine--how is that?”
“The hare ye shot afore the door, yesterday morning; sure it's raal luck
we have it for you now;” and while Mary employed herself in the pleasant
hustle of preparing the supper, the young man drew near to the fire, and
engaged the others in conversation.
“That travelling carriage was going on to Bantry, Joe, I suppose?” said
the youth, in a tone of easy indifference.
“No sir; they stopped at the lodge above.”
“At the lodge!--surely you can't mean that they were the English
family--Sir Marmaduke.”
“'Tis just himself, and his daughter. I heerd them say the names, as we
were leaving Macroom. They were not expected here these three weeks;
and Captain Hemsworth, the agent, isn't at home; and they say there's
no servants at the lodge, nor nothin' ready for the quality at all; and
sure when a great lord like that--”
“He is not a lord you fool; he has not a drop of noble blood in his
body: he's a London banker--rich enough to buy birth, if gold could
do it.” The youth paused in his vehemence; then added, in a muttering
voice--“Rich enough to buy up the inheritance of those who have blood in
their veins.”
The tone of voice in which the young man spoke, and the angry look which
accompanied these words, threw a gloom over the party, and for some time
nothing was said on either side. At last he broke silence abruptly by
saying--
“And that was his daughter, then?”
“Yes, sir; and a purty crayture she is, and a kind-hearted. The moment
she heerd she was on her father's estate, she began asking the names of
all the people, and if they were well off, and what they had to ate, and
where was the schools.”
“The schools!” broke in Mary, in an accent of great derision--“musha,
it's great schooling we want up the glen, to teach us to bear poverty
and cowld, without complaining: learning is a fine thing for the
hunger--”
Her irony was too delicate for the thick apprehension of poor Jim, who
felt himself addressed by the remark, and piously responded--
“It is so, glory be to God!”
“Well,” said the young man, who now seemed all eagerness to resume
the subject--“well, and what then?”
“Then, she was wondering where was the roads up to the cabins on the
mountains, as if the likes of them people had roads!”
“They've ways of their own--the English,” interrupted Jim, who felt
jealous of his companion being always referred to--“for whenever we
passed a little potatoe garden, or a lock of oak, it was always, 'God
be good to us, but they're mighty poor hereabouts;' but when we got into
the raal wild part of the glen, with divil a house nor a human being
near us, sorrow word out of their mouths but 'fine, beautiful, elegant!'
till we came to Keim-an-eigh, and then, ye'd think that it was fifty
acres of wheat they were looking at, wid all the praises they had for
the big rocks, and black cliffs oyer our heads.”
“I showed them your honour's father's place on the mountains,” said Joe.
“Yes, faith,” broke in Jim; “and the young lady laughed and said, 'you
see, father, we have a neighbour after all.'”
The blood mounted to the youth's cheek, till it became almost purple,
but he did not utter a word.
“'Tis the O'Donoghue, my lady,' said I,” continued Joe, who saw the
difficulty of the moment, and hastened to relieve it--“that's his castle
up there, with the high tower. 'Twas there the family lived these nine
hundred years, whin the whole country was their own; and they wor kings
here.”
“And did you hear what the ould gentleman said then?” asked Jim.
“No, I didn't--I wasn't mindin' him,” rejoined Joe; endeavouring with
all his might to repress the indiscreet loquacity of the other.
“What was it, Jim?” said the young man, with a forced smile.
“Faix, he begun a laughing, yer honour, and says he, 'We must pay our
respects at Coort,' says he; 'and I'm sure we'll be well received, for
we know his Royal Highness already--that's what he called yer honour.”
The youth sprang to his feet, with a gesture so violent and sudden, as
to startle the whole party.
“What,” he exclaimed, “and are we sunk so low, as to be a scoff and a
jibe to a London money-changer? If I but heard him speak the words--”
“Arrah, he never said it at all,” said Joe, with a look that made his
counterpart tremble all over. “That bosthoon there, would make you
believe he was in the coach, convarsing the whole way with him. Sure
wasn't I riding the wheeler, and never heerd a word of it. Whisht, I
tell ye, and don't provoke me.”
“Ay, stop your mouth with some of this,” interposed Mary, as she helped
the smoking and savoury mess around the table.
Jim looked down abashed and ashamed; his testimony was discredited; and
without knowing why or wherefore, he yet had an indistinct glimmering
that any effort to vindicate his character would be ill-received; he
therefore said nothing more: his silence was contagious, and the meal
which a few moments before promised so pleasantly, passed off with gloom
and restraint.
All Mary M'Kelly's blandishments, assisted by a smoking cup of mulled
claret--a beverage which not a Chateau on the Rhone could rival in racy
flavour--failed to recall the young man's good-humour: he sat in gloomy
silence, only broken at intervals by sounds of some low muttering
to himself. Mary at length having arranged the little room for his
reception, bade him good night, and retired to rest. The postillions
sought their dens over the stable, and the youth, apparently lost in his
own thoughts, sat alone by the embers of the turf fire, and at last sunk
to sleep where he was, by the chimney-corner.