Produced by David Widger
ST. PATRICK'S EVE
By Charles James Lever
Illustr. by Phiz.
London:
Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.
MDCCCXLV.
TO MY CHILDREN
MY DEAR CHILDREN,
There are few things less likely than that it will ever be your lot
to exercise any of the rights or privileges of landed property. It may
chance, however, that even in your humble sphere, there may be those
who shall look up to you for support, and be, in some wise, dependent
on your will; if so, pray let this little story have its lesson in your
hearts, think, that when I wrote it, I desired to inculcate the truth,
that prosperity has as many duties as adversity has sorrows; that those
to whom Providence has accorded many blessings are but the stewards of
His bounty to the poor; and that the neglect of an obligation so sacred
as this charity is a grievous wrong, and may be the origin of evils
for which all your efforts to do good through life will be but a poor
atonement.
Your affectionate Father,
CHARLES LEVER.
Templeogue, March 1, 1845.
[Illustration: 012]
FIRST ERA.
IT was on the 16th of March, the eve of St. Patrick, not quite twenty
years ago, that a little village on the bank of Lough Corrib was
celebrating in its annual fair “the holy times,” devoting one day to
every species of enjoyment and pleasure, and on the next, by practising
prayers and penance of various kinds, as it were to prepare their minds
to resume their worldly duties in a frame of thought more seemly and
becoming.
If a great and wealthy man might smile at the humble preparations for
pleasure displayed on this occasion, he could scarcely scoff at the
scene which surrounded them. The wide valley, encircled by lofty
mountains, whose swelling outlines were tracked against the blue sky, or
mingled gracefully with clouds, whose forms were little less fantastic
and wild. The broad lake, stretching away into the distance, and either
lost among the mountain-passes, or contracting as it approached the
ancient city of Galway: a few, and but very few, islands marked its
surface, and these rugged and rocky; on one alone a human trace was
seen-the ruins of an ancient church; it was a mere gable now, but you
could still track out the humble limits it had occupied-scarce space
sufficient for twenty persons: such were once, doubtless, the full
number of converts to the faith who frequented there. There was a wild
and savage grandeur in the whole: the very aspect of the mountains
proclaimed desolation, and seemed to frown defiance at the efforts of
man to subdue them to his use; and even the herds of wild cattle seemed
to stray with caution among the cliffs and precipices of this dreary
region. Lower down, however, and as if in compensation of the infertile
tract above, the valley was marked by patches of tillage and grass-land,
and studded with cottages; which, if presenting at a nearer inspection
indubitable signs of poverty, yet to the distant eye bespoke something
of rural comfort, nestling as they often did beneath some large rock,
and sheltered by the great turf-stack, which even the poorest possessed.
Many streams wound their course through this valley; along whose
borders, amid a pasture brighter than the emerald, the cattle grazed,
and there, from time to time some peasant child sat fishing as he
watched the herd.
Shut in by lake and mountain, this seemed a little spot apart from all
the world; and so, indeed, its inhabitants found it. They were a poor
but not unhappy race of people, whose humble lives had taught them
nothing of the comforts and pleasures of richer communities. Poverty
had, from habit, no terrors for them; short of actual want, they never
felt its pressure heavily.
Such were they who now were assembled to celebrate the festival of their
Patron Saint. It was drawing towards evening; the sun was already low,
and the red glare that shone from behind the mountains shewed that he
was Bear his setting. The business of the fair was almost concluded;
the little traffic so remote a region could supply, the barter of a few
sheep, the sale of a heifer, a mountain pony, or a flock of goats, had
all passed off; and now the pleasures of the occasion were about to
succeed. The votaries to amusement, as if annoyed at the protracted
dealings of the more worldly minded, were somewhat rudely driving away
the cattle that still continued to linger about; and pigs and poultry
were beginning to discover that they were merely intruders. The canvass
booths, erected as shelter against the night-air, were becoming crowded
with visitors; and from more than one of the number the pleasant sounds
of the bagpipe might now be heard, accompanied by the dull shuffling
tramp of heavily-shod feet.
[Illustration: 016]
Various shows and exhibitions were also in preparation, and singular
announcements were made by gentlemen in a mingled costume of Turk and
Thimble-rigger, of “wonderful calves with two heads;” “six-legged pigs;”
and an “infant of two years old that could drink a quart of spirits at a
draught, if a respectable company were assembled to witness it;”--a feat
which, for the honour of young Ireland, it should be added, was ever
postponed from a deficiency in the annexed condition.
Then there were “restaurants” on a scale of the most primitive
simplicity, where boiled beef or “spoleen” was sold from a huge
pot, suspended over a fire in the open air, and which was invariably
surrounded by a gourmand party of both sexes; gingerbread and cakes of
every fashion and every degree of indigestion also abounded; while
jugs and kegs flanked the entrance to each tent, reeking with a
most unmistakable odour of that prime promoter of native drollery and
fun--poteen. All was stir, movement, and bustle; old friends, separated
since the last occasion of a similar festivity, were embracing
cordially, the men kissing with an affectionate warmth no German ever
equalled; pledges of love and friendship were taken in brimming glasses
by many, who were perhaps to renew the opportunity for such testimonies
hereafter, by a fight that very evening; contracts, ratified by whisky,
until that moment not deemed binding; and courtships, prosecuted with
hopes, which the whole year previous had never suggested; kind
speeches and words of welcome went round; while here and there some
closely-gathered heads and scowling glances gave token, that other
scores were to be acquitted on that night than merely those of commerce;
and in the firmly knitted brow, and more firmly grasped blackthorn, a
practised observer could foresee, that some heads were to carry away
deeper marks of that meeting, than simple memory can impress;--and thus,
in this wild sequestered spot, human passions were as rife as in the
most busy communities of pampered civilisation. Love, hate, and hope,
charity, fear, forgiveness, and malice; long-smouldering revenge,
long--subdued affection; hearts pining beneath daily drudgery, suddenly
awakened to a burst of pleasure and a renewal of happiness in the sight
of old friends, for many a day lost sight of; words of good cheer;
half mutterings of menace; the whispered syllables of love; the
deeply-uttered tones of vengeance; and amid all, the careless reckless
glee of those, who appeared to feel the hour one snatched from the grasp
of misery, and devoted to the very abandonment of pleasure. It seemed in
vain that want and poverty had shed their chilling influence over hearts
like these. The snow-drift and the storm might penetrate their frail
dwellings; the winter might blast, the hurricane might scatter their
humble hoardings; but still, the bold high-beating spirit that lived
within, beamed on throughout every trial; and now, in the hour of
long-sought enjoyment, blazed forth in a flame of joy, that was all but
frantic.
The step that but yesterday fell wearily upon the ground, now smote the
earth with a proud beat, that told of manhood's daring; the voices were
high, the eyes were flashing; long pent-up emotions of every shade and
complexion were there; and it seemed a season where none should wear
disguise, but stand forth in all the fearlessness of avowed resolve;
and in the heart-home looks of love, as well as in the fiery glances of
hatred, none practised concealment. Here, went one with his arm round
his sweetheart's waist,--an evidence of accepted affection none dared
even to stare at; there, went another, the skirt of his long loose coat
thrown over his arm, in whose hand a stick was brandished--his gesture,
even without his wild hurroo! an open declaration of battle, a challenge
to all who liked it. Mothers were met in close conclave, interchanging
family secrets and cares; and daughters, half conscious of the parts
they themselves were playing in the converse, passed looks of sly
intelligence to each other. And beggars were there too--beggars of a
class which even the eastern Dervish can scarcely vie with: cripples
brought many a mile away from their mountain-homes to extort charity by
exhibitions of dreadful deformity; the halt, the blind, the muttering
idiot, the moping melanc holy mad, mixed up with strange and motley
figures in patched uniforms and rags--some, amusing the crowd by their
drolleries, some, singing a popular ballad of the time--while through
all, at every turn and every corner, one huge fellow, without legs, rode
upon an ass, his wide chest ornamented by a picture of himself, and a
paragraph setting forth his infirmities. He, with a voice deeper than
a bassoon, bellowed forth his prayer for alms, and seemed to monopolise
far more than his proportion of charity, doubtless owing to the more
artistic development to which he had brought his profession.
[Illustration: 020]
“De prayers of de holy Joseph be an yez, and relieve de maimed; de
prayers and blessins of all de Saints on dem that assists de suffering!”
And there were pilgrims, some with heads venerable enough for the
canvass of an old master, with flowing beards, and relics hung round
their necks, objects of worship which failed not to create sentiments of
devotion in the passers-by. But among these many sights and sounds, each
calculated to appeal to different classes and ages of the motley mass,
one object appeared to engross a more than ordinary share of attention;
and although certainly not of a nature to draw marked notice elsewhere,
was here sufficiently strange and uncommon to become actually a
spectacle. This was neither more nor less than an English groom, who,
mounted upon a thorough-bred horse, led another by the bridle, and
slowly paraded backwards and forwards, in attendance on his master.
“Them's the iligant bastes, Darby,” said one of the bystanders, as the
horses moved past. “A finer pair than that I never seen.”
“They're beauties, and no denying it,” said the other; “and they've
skins like a looking-glass.”
“Arrah, botheration t' yez! what are ye saying about their skins?” cried
a third, whose dress and manner betokened one of the jank of a small
farmer. “'Tis the breeding that's in 'em; that's the raal beauty. Only
look at their pasterns; and see how fine they run off over the quarter.”
“Which is the best now, Phil?” said another, addressing the last speaker
with a tone of some deference.
“The grey horse is worth two of the dark chesnut,” replied Phil
oracularly.
“Is he, then!” cried two or three in a breath. “Why is that, Phil?”
“Can't you perceive the signs of blood about the ears? They're long, and
coming to a point--”
“You're wrong this time, my friend,” said a sharp voice, with an accent
which in Ireland would be called English. “You may be an excellent
judge of an ass, but the horse you speak of, as the best, is not worth
a fourth part of the value of the other.” And so saying, a young and
handsome man, attired in a riding costume, brushed somewhat rudely
through the crowd, and seizing the rein of the led horse, vaulted
lightly into the saddle and rode off, leaving Phil to the mockery and
laughter of the crowd, whose reverence for the opinion of a gentleman
was only beneath that they accorded to the priest himself.
“Faix, ye got it there, Phil!” “'Tis down on ye he was that time!”
“Musha, but ye may well get red in the face!” Such and such-like
were the comments on one who but a moment before was rather a popular
candidate for public honours.
“Who is he, then, at all?” said one among the rest, and who had come up
too late to witness the scene.
“'Tis the young Mr. Leslie, the landlord's son, that's come over to fish
the lakes,” replied an old man reverentially.
“Begorra, he's no landlord of mine, anyhow,” said Phil, now speaking for
the first time. “I hould under Mister Martin, and his family was here
before the Leslies was heard of.” These words were said with a certain
air of defiance, and a turn of the head around him, as though to imply,
that if any one would gainsay the opinion, he was ready to stand by and
maintain it. Happily for the peace of the particular moment, the crowd
were nearly all Martins, and so, a simple buzz of approbation followed
this announcement. Nor did their attention dwell much longer on the
matter, as most were already occupied in watching the progress of the
young man, who, at a fast swinging gallop, had taken to the fields
beside the lake, and was now seen flying in succession over each dyke
and wall before him, followed by his groom. The Irish passion for feats
of horsemanship made this the most fascinating attraction of the fair;
and already, opinions ran high among the crowd, that it was a race
between the two horses, and more than one maintained, that “the little
chap with the belt” was the better horseman of the two. At last, having
made a wide circuit of the village and the green, the riders were seen
slowly moving down, as if returning to the fair.
There is no country where manly sports and daring exercises are held
in higher repute than Ireland. The chivalry that has died out in richer
lands still reigns there; and the fall meed of approbation will ever be
his, who can combine address and courage before an Irish crowd. It is
needless to say, then, that many a word of praise and commendation
was bestowed on young Leslie. His handsome features, his slight but
well-formed figure, every particular of his dress and gesture, had
found an advocate and an admirer; and while some were lavish in their
epithets on the perfection of his horsemanship, others, who had seen him
on foot, asserted, “that it was then he looked well entirely.” There is
a kind of epidemic character pertaining to praise. The snow-ball gathers
not faster by rolling, than do the words of eulogy and approbation; and
so now, many recited little anecdotes of the youth's father, to shew
that he was a very pattern of landlords and country gentlemen, and had
only one fault in life,--that he never lived among his tenantry.
“'Tis the first time I ever set eyes on him,” cried one, “and I hould my
little place under him twenty-three years come Michaelmas.”
“See now then, Barney,” cried another, “I'd rather have a hard man that
would stay here among us, than the finest landlord ever was seen that
would be away from us. And what's the use of compassion and pity when
the say would be between us? 'Tis the Agent we have to look to.”
“Agent! 'Tis wishing them, I am, the same Agents! Them's the boys has
no marcy for a poor man: I'm tould now”--and here the speaker assumed
a tone of oracular seriousness that drew several listeners towards
him--“I'm tould now, the Agents get a guinea for every man, woman, and
child they turn out of a houldin.” A low murmur of indignant anger ran
through the group, not one of whom ventured to disbelieve a testimony
thus accredited.
“And sure when the landlords does come, devil a bit they know about
us--no more nor if we were in Swayden; didn't I hear the ould gentleman
down there last summer, pitying the people for the distress. 'Ah,' says
he, 'it's a hard sayson ye have, and obliged to tear the flax out of the
ground, and it not long enough to cut!'”
A ready burst of laughter followed this anecdote, and many similar
stories were recounted in corroboration of the opinion.
[Illustration: 027]
“That's the girl takes the shine out of the fair,” said one of the
younger men of the party, touching another by the arm, and pointing to a
tall young girl, who, with features as straight and regular as a classic
model, moved slowly past. She did not wear the scarlet cloak of the
peasantry, but a large one of dark blue, lined with silk of the same
colour; a profusion of brown hair, dark and glossy, was braided on each
side of her face, and turned up at the back of the head with the grace
of an antique cameo. She seemed not more than nineteen years of age, and
in the gaze of astonishment and pleasure she threw around her, it might
be seen how new such scenes and sights were to her.
“That's Phil Joyce's sister, and a crooked disciple of a brother she
has,” said the other; “sorra bit if he'd ever let her come to the
'pattern' afore to-day; and she's the raal ornament of the place now
she's in it.”
“Just mind Phil, will ye! watch him now; see the frown he's giving the
boys as they go by, for looking at his sister. I wouldn't coort a girl
that I couldn't look in the face and see what was in it, av she owned
Ballinahinch Castle,” said the former.
“There now; what is he at now?” whispered the other; “he's left her in
the tent there: and look at him, the way he's talking to ould Bill; he's
telling him something about a fight; never mind me agin, but there'll be
'wigs on the green' this night.”
“I don't know where the Lynchs and the Connors is to-day,” said the
other, casting a suspicious look around him, as if anxious to calculate
the forces available in the event of a row. “They gave the Joyces their
own in Ballinrobe last fair. I hope they're not afeard to come down
here.”
“Sorra bit, ma bouchai,” said a voice from behind his shoulder; and at
the same moment the speaker clapped his hands over the other's eyes:
“Who am I, now?”
“Arrah! Owen Connor; I know ye well,” said the other; “and His yourself
ought not to be here to-day. The ould father of ye has nobody but
yourself to look after him.”
“I'd like to see ye call him ould to his face,” said Owen, laughing:
“there he is now, in Poll Dawley's tent, dancing.”
“Dancing!” cried the other two in a breath.
“Aye, faix, dancing 'The little bould fox;' and may I never die in sin,
if he hasn't a step that looks for all the world as if he made a hook
and eye of his legs.”
The young man who spoke these words was in mould and gesture the very
ideal of an Irish peasant of the west; somewhat above the middle size,
rather slightly made, but with the light and neatly turned proportion
that betokens activity, more than great strength, endurance, rather than
the power of any single effort. His face well became the character of
his figure; it was a handsome and an open one, where the expressions
changed and crossed each other with lightning speed, now, beaming with
good nature, now, flashing in anger, now, sparkling with some witty
conception, or frowning a bold defiance as it met the glance of some
member of a rival faction. He looked, as he was, one ready and willing
to accept either part from fortune, and to exchange friendship and hard
knocks with equal satisfaction. Although in dress and appearance he was
both cleanly and well clad, it was evident that he belonged to a very
humble class among the peasantry. Neither his hat nor his greatcoat,
those unerring signs of competence, had been new for many a day before;
and his shoes, in their patched and mended condition, betrayed the pains
it had cost him to make even so respectable an appearance as he then
presented.
“She didn't even give you a look to-day, Owen,” said one of the former
speakers; “she turned her head the other way as she went by.”
“Faix, I'm afeard ye've a bad chance,” said the other.
“Joke away, boys, and welcome,” said Owen, reddening to the eyes as he
spoke, and shewing that his indifference to their banterings was very
far from being real; “'tis little I mind what ye say,--as little as she
herself would mind _me_,” added he to himself.
“She's the purtiest girl in the town-land, and no second word to
it,--and even if she hadn't a fortune--”
“Bad luck to the fortune!--that's what I say,” cried Owen, suddenly;
“'tis that same that breaks my rest night and day; sure if it wasn't for
the money, there's many a dacent boy wouldn't be ashamed nor afeard to
go up and coort her.”
“She'll have two hundred, divil a less, I'm tould,” interposed the
other; “the ould man made a deal of money in the war-time.”
“I wish he had it with him now,” said Owen, bitterly.
“By all accounts he wouldn't mislike it himself. When Father John was
giving him the rites, he says, 'Phil,' says he, 'how ould are ye now?'
and the other didn't hear him, but went on muttering to himself; and
the Priest says agin, 'Tis how ould you are, I'm axing.' 'A hundred and
forty-three,' says Phil, looking up at him. 'The Saints be good to
us,' says Father John, 'sure you're not that ould,--a hundred and
forty-three?' 'A hundred and forty-seven.' 'Phew! he's more of it--a
hundred and forty-seven!' 'A hundred and fifty,' cries Phil, and he gave
the foot of the bed a little kick, this way--sorra more--and he died;
and what was it but the guineas he was countin' in a stocking under the
clothes all the while? Oh, musha! how his sowl was in the money, and he
going to leave it all! I heerd Father John say, 'it was well they found
it out, for there'd be a curse on them guineas, and every hand that
would touch one of them _in secla seclorum_;' and they wer' all tuck
away in a bag that night, and buried by the Priest in a saycret place,
where they'll never be found till the Day of Judgment.”
Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the group was drawn
off by seeing numbers of people running in a particular direction, while
the sound of voices and the general excitement shewed something new was
going forward. The noise increased, and now, loud shouts were heard,
mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance of those party
cries so popular in an Irish fair. The young men stood still as if the
affair was a mere momentary ebullition not deserving of attention, nor
sufficiently important to merit the taking any farther interest in it;
nor did they swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from time
to time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, leading forth
one, whose bleeding temples, or smashed head, made retreat no longer
dishonourable.
“They're at it early,” was the cool commentary of Owen Connor, as with a
smile of superciliousness he looked towards the scene of strife.
“The Joyces is always the first to begin,” remarked one of his
companions.
“And the first to lave off too,” said Owen; “two to one is what they
call fair play.”
“That's Phil's voice!--there now, do you hear him shouting?”
“'Tis that he's best at,” said Owen, whose love for the pretty Mary
Joyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of her ill-tempered brother.
At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the screams of the
women mingling with the uproar, which no longer seemed a mere passing
skirmish, but a downright severe engagement.
“What is it all about, Christy?” said Owen, to a young fellow led past
between two friends, while the track of blood marked every step he went.
“'Tis well it becomes yez to ax,” muttered the other, with his swollen
and pallid lips, “when the Martins is beating your landlord's eldest son
to smithereens.”
“Mr. Leslie--young Mr. Leslie?” cried the three together; but a wild
war-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back. “Hurroo! Martin for ever!
Down with the Leslies! Ballinashough! Hurroo! Don't leave one of them
living! Beat their sowles out!”
“Leslie for ever!” yelled out Owen, with a voice heard over every part
of the field; and with a spring into the air, and a wild flourish of his
stick, he dashed into the crowd.
“Here's Owen Connor, make way for Owen;” cried the non-combatants, as
they jostled and parted each other, to leave a free passage for one
whose prowess was well known.
“He'll lave his mark on some of yez yet!” “That's the boy will give you
music to dance to!” “Take that, Barney!” “Ha! Terry, that made your nob
ring like a forty-shilling pot!” Such and such-like were the comments
on him who now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the very
midst of the combatants, and fought' his way onwards to where some seven
or eight were desperately engaged over the fallen figure of a man. With
a shrill yell no Indian could surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owen
came down in the midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorn
telling on his man as unerringly as though it were wielded by the hand
of a giant.
“Save the young Master, Owen! Shelter him! Stand over him, Owen Connor!”
were how the cries from all sides; and the stout-hearted peasant,
striding over the body of young Leslie, cleared a space around him, and,
as he glanced defiance on all sides, called out, “Is that your courage,
to beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his life? Oh,
you cowardly set! Come and face the men of your own barony if you dare!
Come out on the green and do it!--Pull him away--pull him away quick,”
whispered he to his own party eagerly. “Tear-an-ages! get him out of
this before they're down on me.”
As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their party now
trebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down with a force that nothing
could resist. Poor Owen--the mark for every weapon--fell almost the
first, his head and face one undistinguishable mass of blood and
bruises, but not before some three or four of his friends had rescued
young Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts of
the fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was impossible, and
self-defence almost suggested some participation in the battle. The
victory was, however, with the Joyces. They were on their own territory;
they mustered every moment stronger; and in less than half an hour they
had swept the enemy from the field, save where a lingering wounded man
remained, whose maimed and crippled condition had already removed him
from all the animosities of combat.
[Illustration: 036]
“Where's the young master?” were the first words Owen Connor spoke, as
his friends carried him on the door of a cabin, hastily unhinged for the
purpose, towards his home.
“Erra! he's safe enough, Owen,” said one of his bearers, who was by no
means pleased that Mr. Leslie had made the best of his way out of the
fair, instead of remaining to see the fight out.
“God be praised for that same, anyhow!” said Owen piously. “His life was
not worth a 'trawneen' when I seen him first.”
It may be supposed from this speech, and the previous conduct of him
who uttered it, that Owen Connor was an old and devoted adherent of the
Leslie family, from whom he had received many benefits, and to whom he
was linked by long acquaintance. Far from it. He neither knew Mr. Leshe
nor his father. The former he saw for the first time as he stood over
him in the fair; the latter he had never so much as set eyes upon, at
any time; neither had he or his been favoured by them. The sole tie that
subsisted between them--the one link that bound the poor man to the
rich one--was that of the tenant to his landlord. Owen's father and
grandfather before him had been cottiers on the estate; but being very
poor and humble men, and the little farm they rented, a half-tilled
half-reclaimed mountain tract, exempt from all prospect of improvement,
and situated in a remote and unfrequented place, they were merely known
by their names on the rent-roll. Except for this, their existence had
been as totally forgotten, as though they had made part of the wild
heath upon the mountain.
While Mr. Leslie lived in ignorance that such people existed on his
property, they looked up to him with a degree of reverence almost
devotional. The owner of the soil was a character actually sacred in
their eyes; for what respect and what submission were enough for one,
who held in his hands the destinies of so many; who could raise them
to affluence, or depress them to want, and by his mere word control the
Agent himself, the most dreaded of all those who exerted an influence on
their fortunes?
There was a feudalism, too, in this sentiment that gave the reverence a
feeling of strong allegiance. The landlord was the head of a clan, as it
were; he was the culminating point of that pyramid of which they formed
the base; and they were proud of every display of his wealth and his
power, which they deemed as ever reflecting credit upon themselves. And
then, his position in the county--his rank--his titles--the amount
of his property--his house--his retinue--his very equipage, were all
subjects on which they descanted with eager delight, and proudly exalted
in contrast with less favoured proprietors. At the time we speak of,
absenteeism had only begun to impair the warmth of this affection; the
traditions of a resident landlord were yet fresh in the memory of the
young; and a hundred traits of kindness and good-nature were mingled
in their minds with stories of grandeur and extravagance, which, to
the Irish peasant's ear, are themes as grateful as ever the gorgeous
pictures of Eastern splendour were to the heightened imagination and
burning fancies of Oriental listeners.
Owen Connor was a firm disciple of this creed. Perhaps his lone
sequestered life among the mountains, with no companionship save that
of his old father, had made him longer retain these convictions in
all their force, than if, by admixture with his equals, and greater
intercourse with the world, he had conformed his opinions to the
gradually changed tone of the country. It was of little moment to
him what might be the temper or the habits of his landlord. The
monarchy--and not the monarch of the soil--was the object of his
loyalty; and he would have deemed himself disgraced and dishonoured had
he shewn the slightest backwardness in his fealty. He would as soon have
expected that the tall fern that grew wild in the valley should have
changed into a blooming crop of wheat, as that the performance of such
a service could have met with any requital. It was, to his thinking, a
simple act of duty, and required not any prompting of high principle,
still less any suggestion of self-interest. Poor Owen, therefore, had
not even a sentiment of heroism to cheer him, as they bore him slowly
along, every inequality of the ground sending a pang through his aching
head that was actually torture.
“That's a mark you'll carry to your dying day, Owen, my boy,” said one
of the bearers, as they stopped for a moment to take breath. “I can see
the bone there shining this minute.”
“It must be good stuff anyways the same head,” said Owen, with a sickly
attempt to smile. “They never put a star in it yet; and faix I seen the
sticks cracking like dry wood in the frost.”
“It's well it didn't come lower down,” said another, examining the deep
cut, which gashed his forehead from the hair down to the eyebrow. “You
know what the Widow Glynn said at Peter Henessy's wake, when she saw
the stroke of the scythe that laid his head open--it just come, like
yer own, down to that--'Ayeh!' says she, 'but he's the fine corpse; and
wasn't it the Lord spared his eye!'”
“Stop, and good luck to you, Freney, and don't be making me laugh; the
pain goes through my brain like the stick of a knife,” said Owen, as he
lifted his trembling hands and pressed them on either side of his head.
They wetted his lips with water, and resumed their way, not speaking
aloud as before, but in a low undertone, only audible to Owen at
intervals; for he had sunk into a half-stupid state, they believed to be
sleep. The path each moment grew steeper; for, leaving the wild “boreen”
road, which led to a large bog on the mountainside, it wound now
upwards, zigzaging between masses of granite rock and deep tufts of
heather, where sometimes the foot sunk to the instep. The wet and spongy
soil increased the difficulty greatly; and although all strong and
powerful men, they were often obliged to halt and rest themselves.
“It's an elegant view, sure enough,” said one, wiping his dripping
forehead with the tail of his coat. “See there! look down where the fair
is, now! it isn't the size of a good griddle, the whole of it. How purty
the lights look shining in the water!”
“And the boats, too! Musha! they're coming up more of them. There'll be
good divarshin there, this night.” These last words, uttered with a half
sigh, shewed with what a heavy heart the speaker saw himself debarred
from participating in the festivity.
“'Twas a dhroll place to build a house then, up there,” said another,
pointing to the dark speck, far, far away on the mountain, where Owen
Connor's cabin stood.
“Owen says yez can see Galway of a fine day, and the boats going out
from the Claddagh; and of an evening, when the sun is going down, you'll
see across the bay, over to Clare, the big cliffs of Mogher.”
“Now, then! are ye in earnest? I don't wonder he's so fond of the
place after all. It's an elegant thing to see the whole world, and fine
company besides. Look at Lough Mask! Now, boys, isn't that beautiful
with the sun on it?”
“Come, it's getting late, Freney, and the poor boy ought to be at home
before night;” and once more they lifted their burden and moved forward.
For a considerable time they continued to ascend without speaking, when
one of the party in a low cautious voice remarked, “Poor Owen will think
worse of it, when he hears the reason of the fight, than for the cut on
the head--bad as it is.”
“Musha; then he needn't,” replied another; “for if ye mane about Mary
Joyce, he never had a chance of her.”
“I'm not saying that he had,” said the first speaker; “but he's just as
fond of her; do you mind the way he never gave back one of Phil's blows,
but let him hammer away as fast as he plazed?”
“What was it at all, that Mr. Leslie did?” asked another; “I didn't hear
how it begun yet.”
“Nor I either, rightly; but I believe Mary was standing looking at the
dance, for she never foots a step herself--maybe she's too ginteel--and
the young gentleman comes up and axes her for a partner; and something
she said; but what does he do, but put his arm round her waist and gives
her a kiss; and, ye see, the other girls laughed hearty, because they
say, Mary's so proud and high, and thinking herself above them all. Phil
wasn't there at the time; but he heerd it afterwards, and come up to
the tent, as young Mr. Leslie was laving it, and stood before him and
wouldn't let him pass. 'I've a word to say to ye,' says Phil, and
he scarce able to spake with passion; 'that was my sister ye had the
impudence to take a liberty with.' 'Out of the way, ye bogtrotter,' says
Leslie: them's the very words he said; 'out of the way, ye bog-trotter,
or I'll lay my whip across your shoulders.' 'Take that first,' says
Phil; and he put his fist between his two eyes, neat and clean;--down
went the Squire as if he was shot. You know the rest yourselves. The
boys didn't lose any time, and if 'twas only two hours later, maybe the
Joyces would have got as good as they gave.”
A heavy groan from poor Owen now stopped the conversation, and they
halted to ascertain if he were worse,--but no; he seemed still sunk in
the same heavy sleep as before, and apparently unconscious of all about
him. Such, however, was not really the case; by some strange phenomenon
of sickness, the ear had taken in each low and whispered word, at the
time it would have been deaf to louder sounds; and every syllable they
had spoken had already sunk deeply into his heart; happily for him, this
was hut a momentary pang; the grief stunned him at once, and he became
insensible.
It was dark night as they reached the lonely cabin where Owen lived,
miles away from any other dwelling, and standing at an elevation of
more than a thousand feet above the plain. The short, sharp barking of a
sheep-dog was the only sound that welcomed them; for the old man had not
heard of his son's misfortune until long after they quitted the fair.
The door was hasped and fastened with a stick; precaution enough in such
a place, and for all that it contained, too. Opening this, they carried
the young man in, and laid him upon the bed; and, while some busied
themselves in kindling a fire upon the hearth, the others endeavoured,
with such skill as they possessed, to dress his wounds, an operation
which, if not strictly surgical in all its details, had at least the
recommendation of tolerable experience in such matters.
“It's a nate little place when you're at it, then,” said one of them, as
with a piece of lighted bog-pine he took a very leisurely and accurate
view of the interior.
The opinion, however, must be taken by the reader, as rather reflecting
on the judgment of him who pronounced it, than in absolute praise of the
object itself. The cabin consisted of a single room, and which, though
remarkably clean in comparison with similar ones, had no evidence of
anything above very narrow circumstances. A little dresser occupied
the wall in front of the door, with its usual complement of crockery,
cracked and whole; an old chest of drawers, the pride of the house,
flanked this on one side; a low settle-bed on the other; various prints
in very florid colouring decorated the walls, all religious subjects,
where the Apostles figured in garments like bathing-dresses; these
were intermixed with ballads, dying speeches, and suchlike ghostly
literature, as form the most interesting reading of an Irish peasant;
a few seats of unpainted deal, and a large straw chair for the old man,
were the principal articles of furniture. There was a gun, minus the
lock, suspended over the fireplace; and two fishing-rods, with a gaff
and landing-net, were stretched upon wooden pegs; while over the bed was
an earthenware crucifix, with its little cup beneath, for holy water;
the whole surmounted by a picture of St. Francis Xavier in the act of
blessing somebody: though, if the gesture were to be understood without
the explanatory letter-press, he rather looked like a swimmer preparing
for a dive. The oars, mast, and spritsail of a boat were lashed to the
rafters overhead; for, strange as it may seem, there was a lake at that
elevation of the mountain, and one which abounded in trout and perch,
affording many a day's sport to both Owen and his father.
Such were the details which, sheltered beneath a warm roof of
mountain-fern, called forth the praise we have mentioned; and, poor as
they may seem to the reader, they were many degrees in comfort beyond
the majority of Irish cabins.
The boys--for so the unmarried men of whatever age are called--having
left one of the party to watch over Owen, now quitted the house, and
began their return homeward. It was past midnight when the old man
returned; and although endeavouring to master any appearance of emotion
before the “strange boy,” he could with difficulty control his feelings
on beholding his son. The shirt matted with blood, contrasting with
the livid colourless cheek--the heavy irregular breathing--the frequent
startings as he slept--were all sore trials to the old man's nerve; but
he managed to seem calm and collected, and to treat the occurrence as an
ordinary one.
“Harry Joyce and his brother Luke--big Luke as they call him--has sore
bones to-night; they tell me that Owen didn't lave breath in their
bodies,” said he, with a grim smile, as he took his place by the fire.
“I heerd the ribs of them smashing like an ould turf creel,” replied the
other.
“'Tis himself can do it,” said the old fellow, with eyes glistening with
delight; “fair play and good ground, and I'd back him agin the Glen.”
“And so you might, and farther too; he has the speret in him--that's
better nor strength, any day.”
And thus consoled by the recollection of Owen's prowess, and gratified
by the hearty concurrence of his guest, the old father smoked and
chatted away till daybreak. It was not that he felt any want of
affection for his son, or that his heart was untouched by the sad
spectacle he presented,--far from this; the poor old man had no other
tie to life--no other object of hope or love than Owen; but years of a
solitary life had taught him rather to conceal his emotions within his
own bosom, than seek for consolation beyond it; besides that, even in
his grief the old sentiment of faction-hatred was strong, and vengeance
had its share in his thoughts also.
It would form no part of our object in this story, to dwell longer
either on this theme, or the subject of Owen's illness; it will be
enough to say, that he soon got better, far sooner perhaps than if all
the appliances of luxury had ministered to his recovery; most certainly
sooner than if his brain had been ordinarily occupied by thoughts and
cares of a higher order than his were. The conflict, however, had left
a deeper scar behind, than the ghastly wound that marked his brow. The
poor fellow dwelt upon the portions of the conversation he overheard as
they carried him up the mountain; and whatever might have been his fears
before, now he was convinced that all prospect of gaining Mary's love
was lost to him for ever.
This depression, natural to one after so severe an injury, excited
little remark from the old man; and although he wished Owen might make
some effort to exert himself, or even move about in the air, he left him
to himself and his own time, well knowing that he never was disposed to
yield an hour to sickness, beyond what he felt unavoidable.
It was about eight or nine days after the fair, that the father was
sitting mending a fishing-net at the door of his cabin, to catch the
last light of the fading day. Owen was seated near him, sometimes
watching the progress of the work, sometimes patting the old sheep-dog
that nestled close by, when the sound of voices attracted them: they
listened, and could distinctly hear persons talking at the opposite side
of the cliff, along which the pathway led; and before they could even
hazard a guess as to who they were, the strangers appeared at the
angle of the rock. The party consisted of two persons; one, a gentleman
somewhat advanced in life, mounted on a stout but rough-looking
pony--the other, was a countryman, who held the beast by the bridle, and
seemed to take the greatest precaution for the rider's safety.
The very few visitors Owen and his father met with were for the most
part people coming to fish the mountain-lake, who usually hired ponies
in the valley for the ascent; so that when they perceived the animal
coming slowly along, they scarce bestowed a second glance upon them, the
old man merely remarking, “They're three weeks too early for this water,
any how;” a sentiment concurred in by his son. In less than five minutes
after, the rider and his guide stood before the door.
“Is this where Owen Connor lives?” asked the gentleman.
“That same, yer honor,” said old Owen, uncovering his head, as he rose
respectfully from his low stool.
“And where is Owen Connor himself?”
“'Tis me, sir,” replied he; “that's my name.”
“Yes, but it can scarcely be you that I am looking for; have you a son
of that name?”
“Yes, sir, I'm young Owen,” said the young man, rising, but not without
difficulty; while he steadied himself by holding the door-post.
“So then I am all right: Tracy, lead the pony about, till I call you;”
and so saying, he dismounted and entered the cabin.
“Sit down, Owen; yes, yes--I insist upon it, and do you, also. I have
come up here to-day to have a few moments' talk with you about an
occurrence that took place last week at the fair. There was a young
gentleman, Mr. Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people: let me
hear your account of it.”
Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea flashed across
the minds of both, that the visitor was a magistrate come to take
information against the Joyces for an assault; and however gladly they
would have embraced any course that promised retaliation for their
injuries, the notion of recurring to the law was a degree of baseness
they would have scorned to adopt.
“I'll take the 'vestment' I never seen it at all,” said the old man
eagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner of cross-questioning or
badgering could convert him into an informer.
“And the little I saw,” said Owen, “they knocked out of my memory with
this;” and he pointed to the half-healed gash on his forehead.
“But you know something of how the row begun?”
“No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair.”
“Was young Mr. Leslie in fault--did you hear that?”
“I never heerd that he did any thing--unagreeable,” said Owen, after
hesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a word.
“So then, I'm not likely to obtain any information from either of you.”
They made no reply, but their looks gave as palpable a concurrence to
this speech, as though they swore to its truth.
“Well, I have another question to ask. It was you saved this young
gentleman, I understand; what was your motive for doing so? when, as by
your own confession, you were at a distance when the fight begun.”
“He was my landlord's son,” said Owen, half roughly; “I hope there is no
law agin that.”
“I sincerely trust not,” ejaculated the gentleman; “have you been long
on the estate?”
“Three generations of us now, yer honor,” said the old man.
“And what rent do you pay?”
“Oh, musha, we pay enough! we pay fifteen shillings an acre for the bit
of callows below, near the lake, and we give ten pounds a year for the
mountain--and bad luck to it for a mountain--it's breaking my heart,
trying to make something out of it.”
“Then I suppose you'd be well pleased to exchange your farm, and take
one in a better and more profitable part of the country?”
Another suspicion here shot across the old man's mind; and turning to
Owen he said in Irish: “He wants to get the mountain for sporting over;
but I'll not lave it.”
The gentleman repeated his question.
“Troth, no then, yer honor; we've lived here so long we'll just stay our
time in it.”
“But the rent is heavy, you say.”
“Well, we'll pay it, plaze God.”
“And I'm sure it's a strange wild place in winter.”
“Its wholesome, any how,” was the short reply.
“I believe I must go back again as wise as I came,” muttered the
gentleman. “Come, my good old man,--and you, Owen; I want to know how
I can best serve you, for what you've done for me: it was my son you
rescued in the fair--”
“Are you the landlord--is yer honor Mr. Leslie?” exclaimed both as they
rose from their seats, as horrified as if they had taken such a liberty
before Royalty.
“Yes, Owen; and I grieve to say, that I should cause so much surprise to
any tenant, at seeing me. I ought to be better known on my property;
and I hope to become so: but it grows late, and I must reach the valley
before night. Tell me, are you really attached to this farm, or have I
any other, out of lease at this time, you like better?”
“I would not leave the ould spot, with yer honor's permission, to get a
demesne and a brick house; nor Owen neither.”
“Well, then, be it so; I can only say, if you ever change your mind,
you'll find me both ready and willing to serve you; meanwhile you must
pay no more rent, here.”
“No more rent!”
“Not a farthing; I'm sorry the favour is so slight a one, for indeed the
mountain seems a bleak and profitless tract.”
“There is not its equal for mutton--”
“I'm glad of it, Owen; and it only remains for me to make the shepherd
something more comfortable;--well, take this; and when I next come up
here, which I intend to do, to fish the lake, I hope to find you in a
better house;” and he pressed a pocket-book into the old man's hand as
he said this, and left the cabin: while both Owen and his father
were barely able to mutter a blessing upon him, so overwhelming and
unexpected was the whole occurrence.
[Illustration: 060]
SECOND ERA
From no man's life, perhaps, is hope more rigidly excluded than from
that of the Irish peasant of a poor district. The shipwrecked mariner
upon his raft, the convict in his cell, the lingering sufferer on a sick
hed, may hope; but he must not.
Daily labour, barely sufficient to produce the commonest necessaries of
life, points to no period of rest or repose; year succeeds year in the
same dull routine of toil and privation; nor can he look around him and
see one who has risen from that life of misery, to a position of even
comparative comfort.