The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Ye’ll be hungry this morning, Doctor,” said Sir Archy, “and I have ordered breakfast a bit early. A pick o’ ham at twelve o’clock, and a quart of sherry, aye gives a man a relish for breakfast.”

“Begad so it might, or for supper too,” responded Roach, “when the ham was a shank bone, and the sherry-bottle like a four ounce mixture.”

“Ye slept surprisingly after your slight refection. I heerd ye snoring like a grampus.”

“‘Twasn’t the night-mare, from indigestion, any how,” said Roach, with a grin. “I’ll give you a clean bill of health from that malady here.”

“It’s weel for us, that we ken a cure for it – more than ye can say for the case you’ve just left.”

“I saved the boy’s life,” said Roach indignantly.

“Assuredly ye did na kill him, and folks canna a’ways say as muckle for ye. We maun thank the Lord for a’ his mercies; and he vouchsafed you, a vara sound sleep.”

How this controversy was to be carried on further, it is not easy to say; but at this moment the door of the breakfast-room opened cautiously, and a wild rough head peeped stealthily in, which gradually was followed by the neck, and in succession the rest of the figure of Kerry O’Leary, who, dropping down on both knees before the Doctor, cried out in a most lamentable accent —

“Oh! Docther darlint – Docther dear – forgive me – for the love of Joseph, forgive me!”

Roach’s temper was not in its blandest moment, and his face grew purple with passion, as he beheld the author of his misfortunes at his feet.

“Get out of my sight, you scoundrel, I never want to set eyes on you, till I see you in the dock – ay, with handcuffs on you.”

“Oh, murther, murther, is it take the law of me, for a charge of swan drops? Oh, Docther acushla, don’t say you’ll do it.”

“I’ll have your life, as sure as my name’s Roach.”

“Try him wi’ a draught,” interposed M’Nab.

“Begorra, I’m willn’,” cried Kerry, grasping at the mediation. “I’ll take any thing, barrin’ the black grease he gave the masther – that would kill the divil.”

This exceptive compliment to his skill was not so acceptable to the Doctor, whose passion boiled over at the new indignity.

“I’ll spend fifty guineas, but I’ll hang you, – there’s my word on it.”

“Oh, wirra! wirra!” cried Kerry, whose apprehensions of how much law might be had for the money, made him tremble all over – “that’s what I get for tramping the roads all night after the pony.”

“Where’s the pony – where’s the gig?” called out Roach, suddenly reminded by material interests, that he had more at stake than mere vengeance.

“The beast is snug in the stable – that’s where he is, eating a peck of oats – last year’s corn – divil a less.”

“And the gig?”

“Oh, the gig, is it? Musha, we have the gig too,” responded Kerry, but with a reluctance that could not escape the shrewd questioner.

“Where is it, then?” said Roach, impatiently.

“Where would it be, but in the yard? – we’re going to wash it.”

The Doctor did not wait for the conclusion of this reply, but hastening from the room, passed down the few stairs that led towards the old court-yard, followed by Sir Archy and Kerry, the one, eager to witness the termination of the scene – the other, muttering in a very different spirit – “Oh, but it’s now we’ll have the divil to pay!”

As soon as Roach arrived at the court-yard, he turned his eyes on every side, to seek his conveyance; but although there were old harrows, broken ploughs, and disabled wheel-barrows in numbers, nothing was there, that bore any resemblance to what he sought.

“Where is it?” said he, turning to Kerry, with a look of exasperation that defied all attempt to assuage by mere “blarney” – “where is it?”

“Here it is, then,” said O’Leary, with the tone of one, whose courage was nerved by utter despair, while at the same time, he drew forth two wheels and an axle, the sole surviving members of the late vehicle, As he displayed the wreck before them, the ludicrous – always too strong for an Irish peasant, no matter how much it may be associated with his own personal danger – overcame his more discreet instincts, and he broke forth into a broad grin, while he cried – “‘There’s the inside of her, now!’ as Darby Gossoon said, when he tuk his watch in pieces, ‘and begorra, we’ll see how she’s made, any way!’”

This true history must not recount the expressions in which Roach permitted himself to indulge; it is enough to say, that his passion took the most violent form of invective, against the house, the glen, the family, and their retainers, to an extreme generation, while he stamped and gesticulated like one insane.

“Ye’ll hae sma’ space for yer luggage in you,” said M’Nab, with one of his driest laughs, while he turned back and re-entered the house.

“Where’s my pony? – where’s my pony?” shouted out the Doctor, determined to face all his calamities at once.

“Oh, faix, he’s nothing the worse,” said Kerry, as he unlocked the door of the stable, and pointed with all the pride of veracity to a beast in the stall before them. “There, he is, jumping like a kid, out of his skin wid’ fun this morning.”

Now, although the first part of Kerry’s simile was assuredly incorrect, as no kid, of which we have any record, ever bore the least resemblance to the animal in question, as to the fact of being “out of his skin” there could not be a second opinion, the beast being almost entirely flayed from his shoulders to his haunches, his eyes being represented by two globular masses, about the size of billiard-balls, and his tail bearing some affinity to an overgrown bamboo, as it hung down, jointed and knotted, but totally destitute of hair.

“The thief of the world,” said Kerry, as he patted him playfully; “he stripped a trifle of hair off him with kicking; but a little gunpowder and butter will bring it on again, in a day or two.” “Liar that thou art, Kerry – it would take a cask of one, and a firkin of the other to make up the necessary ointment!”

There are some evils which no anticipation can paint equal to their severity, and these, in compensation perhaps, are borne for the most part, without the same violent exuberance of sorrow lesser misfortunes elicit. So it was – Roach spoke not a word: one menace of his clenched hand towards Kerry, was the only token he gave of his malice, and he left the stable.

“I’ve a note here for Doctor Roach,” said a servant, in Sir Marmaduke’s livery, to Kerry, as he proceeded to close and lock the stable-door.

“I’m the person,” said the Doctor, taking the billet and breaking the seal. “Have you the carriage here now?” asked he, when he had finished reading.

“Yes, sir, it’s on the road. Sir Marmaduke desired me not to drive up, for fear of disturbing the sick gentleman.”

“I’m ready, then,” said the Doctor; “and never casting a look backward, nor vouchsafing another word, he passed out of the gate, and descended towards the high road.

“I’ll take good care of the baste till I see you, sir,” shouted Kerry after him; and then, as the distance widened, he added, “and may I never see your ould yallow wig agin, I pray this day. Divil take me, but I hope you’ve some of the slugs in ye, after all;” and with these pious wishes, expressed fervently, Kerry returned to the house, his heart considerably lightened by the Doctor’s departure.

Scarcely was he seated beside the kitchen fire – the asylum he regarded as his own – when, all fears for his misconduct and its consequences past, he began speculating in a very Irish fashion, on the reasons of the Doctor’s sudden departure.

“He’s off now to ‘the Lodge’ – devil fear him – faix if he gets in there, they’ll not get him out so asy – they’ll have a pain for every day of the week before he leaves them. Well, well, thanks be to God, he’s out of this.”

“Is he gone, Kerry?” said Mrs. Branagan. “Did he leave a ‘cure’ for Master Herbert before he went?”

“Sorra bit,” cried Kerry, as if a sudden thought struck him, “that’s what he didn’t!” and without hesitating another moment, he sprung from his chair, and mounted the stairs towards the parlour, where now the O’Donoghue, Mark, and Sir Archy were assembled at breakfast.

“He’s away, sir, he’s off again,” said Kerry, as though the nature of his tidings did not demand any more ceremonious preliminary.

“Who’s away? Who’s gone?” cried they all in breath.

“The Doctor, sir, Doctor Roach. There was a chap in a sky-blue livery came up with a bit of a letter for him to go down there, and when he read it, he just turned about, this way,” here Kerry performed a not over graceful pirouette, “and without saying by yer leave, he walks down the road and gets into the coach. ‘Won’t you see Master Herbert before you go, sir,’ says I; ‘sure you’re not leaving him that way?’ but bad luck to one word he’d say, but went away wid a grin on him.”

“What!” cried Mark, as his face crimsoned with passion. “Is this true? – are you sure of what you’re saying?”

“I’ll take the book an it,” said Kerry, solemnly.

“Well, Archy,” said the O’Donoghue, addressing his brother-in-law. “You are a good judge of these matters. Is this conduct on the part of our neighbour suitable or becoming? Was it exactly right and proper to send here for one, whose services we had taken the trouble to seek, and might much have needed besides? Should we not have been consulted, think you?”

“There’s not a poor farmer in the glen would not resent it!” cried Mark, passionately.

“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Sir Archy, cautiously, “we hae na heard a’ the tale yet. Roach may perhaps explain.”

“He had better not come here, to do so,” interrupted Mark, as he strode the room in passion; “he has a taste for hasty departures, and, by G – , I’ll help him to one; for out of that window he goes, as sure as my name is Mark.”

“‘Tis the way to serve him, divil a doubt,” chimed in Kerry, who was not sorry to think how agreeably he might thus be relieved from any legal difficulties.

“I am no seeking to excuse the man,” said Sir Archy, temperately. “It’s weel kenned we hae na muckle love for ane anither; but fair play is bonnie play.”

“I never heard a mean action yet, but there was a Scotch adage to warrant it,” muttered Mark, in a whisper inaudible by the rest.

“Its no’ improbable but that Sir Marmaduke Travers did ask if the Doctor could be spared, and it’s no’ impossible, either, that Roach took the answering the question in his ain hands.”

“I don’t think so,” broke in Mark; “the whole thing bears a different aspect. It smacks of English courtesy to an Irish kern.”

“By Jove, Mark is right,” said the O’Donoghue, whose prejudices, strengthened by poverty, too readily chimed in with any suspicion of intended insult.

“They were not long learning the game,” said Mark, bitterly; “they are, if I remember aright, scarce two months in the country, and, see, they treat us as ‘mere Irish’ already.

“Ye’r ower hasty, Mark. I hae na muckle respect for Roach, nor wad I vouch for his good breeding; but a gentleman, as this Sir Marmaduke’s note bespeaks him – .”

“What note? I never heard of it.”

“Oh! it was a polite kind of message, Mark, to say he would be obliged if I permitted him to pay his respects here. I forget to tell you of it.”

“Does the enemy desire a peep at the fortress, that he may calculate how long we can hold out?” said the youth, sternly.

“Begorra, with the boys from Ballyvourney and Inchigeela, we’ll howld the place agin the English army,” said Kerry, mistaking the figurative meaning of the speech; and he rubbed his hands with delight at the bare prospect of such a consummation.

Sir Archy turned an angry look towards him, and motioned with his hand for him to leave the room. Kerry closed the door after him, and for some minutes the silence was unbroken.

“What does it matter after all?” said the O’Donoghue, with a sigh. “It is a mere folly to care for these things, now. When the garment is worn and threadbare, one need scarce fret that the lace is a little tarnished.”

“True, sir, quite true; but you are not bound to forget or forgive him, who would strip it rudely off, even a day or an hour before its time.”

“There is na muckle good in drawing inferences from imaginary evils. Shadows are a’ bad enough; but they needna hae children and grandchildren; and so I’ll even take a cup o’ tea to the callant;” and thus, wise in practice and precept, Sir Archibald left the room, while O’Donoghue and Mark, already wearied of the theme, ceased to discuss it further.

CHAPTER XV. SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY

In the small, but most comfortable apartment of the Lodge, which in virtue of its book-shelves and smartly bound volumes was termed “the Study,” sat Sir Marmaduke Travers. Before him was a table covered with writing materials, books, pamphlets, prints, and drawings; his great arm-chair was the very ideal of lounging luxury, and in the soft carpet his slippered feet were almost hidden. Through the window at his right hand, an alley in the beech-wood opened a view of mountain scenery, it would have been difficult to equal in any country of Europe. In a word, it was a very charming little chamber, and might have excited the covetousness of those whose minds must minister to their maintenance, and who rarely pursue their toilsome task, save debarred from every sound and sight that might foster imagination. How almost invariably is this the case! Who has not seen, a hundred times over, some perfect little room, every detail of whose economy seemed devised to sweeten the labour of the mind, teeming with its many appliances for enjoyment, yet encouraging thought more certainly than ministering to luxury – with its cabinet pictures, its carvings, its antique armour, suggestive in turn of some passage in history, or some page in fiction; – who has not seen these devoted to the half hour lounge over a newspaper, or the tiresome examination of house expenditure with the steward, while he, whose mental flights were soaring midway ‘twixt earth and heaven, looked out from some gloomy and cobwebbed pane upon a forest of chimneys, surrounded by all the evils of poverty, and tortured by the daily conflict with necessity.

Here sat Sir Marmaduke, a great volume like a ledger open before him, in which, from time to time, he employed himself in making short memoranda. Directly in front of him stood, in an attitude of respectful attention, a man of about five-and-forty years of age, who, although dressed in an humble garb, had yet a look of something above the common; his features were homely, but intelligent, and though a quick sharp glance shot from his grey eye when he spoke, yet in his soft, smooth voice the words came forth with a measured calm, that served to indicate a patient and gentle disposition. His frame betokened strength, while his face was pale and colourless, and without the other indications of active health in his gait and walk, would have implied a delicacy of constitution. This was Sam Wylie the sub-agent – one whose history may be told in a few words: – His father had been a butler in the O’Donoghue house, where he died, leaving his son, a mere child, as a legacy to his master. The boy, however, did not turn out well; delinquencies of various kinds – theft among the number – were discovered against him; and after many, but ineffectual efforts, to reclaim him, he was turned off, and advised, as he wished to escape worse, to leave the county. He took the counsel, and did so; nor for many a year after was he seen or heard of. A report ran that he passed fourteen years in transportation; but however that might be, when he next appeared in Kerry, it was in the train of a civil engineer, come to make surveys of the county. His cleverness and skill in this occupation recommended him to the notice of Hemsworth, who soon after appointed him as bailiff, and, subsequently, sub-agent on the estate; and in this capacity he had now served about fifteen years, to the perfect satisfaction, and with the full confidence of his chief. Of his “antecedents,” Sir Marmaduke knew nothing; he was only aware of the implicit trust Hemsworth had in him, and his own brief experience perfectly concurred in the justice of the opinion. He certainly found him intelligent, and thoroughly well-informed on all connected with the property. When questioned, his answers were prompt, direct, and to the purpose; and to one of Sir Marmaduke’s business habits, this quality possessed merit of the highest order. If he had a fault with him, it was one he could readily pardon – a leniency towards the people – a desire to palliate their errors and extenuate their failings – and always to promise well for the future, even when the present looked least auspicious. His hearty concurrence with all the old baronet’s plans for improvement were also highly in his favour; and already Wylie was looked on as “a very acute fellow, and with really wonderful shrewdness for his station;” as if any of that acuteness or that shrewdness, so estimated, could have its growth in a more prolific soil, than in the heart and mind of one bred and reared among the people; who knew their habits, their tone of thinking, their manners, and their motives – not through any false medium of speculation and theory, but practically, innately, instinctively – who had not studied the peasantry like an algebraic formula, or a problem iu Euclid, but read them, as they sat beside their turf fires, in the smoke of their mud hovels, cowering from the cold of winter, and gathering around the scanty meal of potatoes – the only tribute they had not rendered to the landlord.

“Roger Sweeny,” said Sir Marmaduke – “Roger Sweeny complains of his distance from the bog; he cannot draw his turf so easily, as when he lived on that swamp below the lake; but I think the change ought to recompense him for the inconvenience.”

“He’s a Ballyvourney man, your honour,” said Sam, placidly, “and if you couldn’t bring the turf up to his door, and cut it for him, and stack it, and carry a creel of it inside, to make the fire, he’d not be content.”

“Oh, that’s it – is it?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting an explanation he was far from thoroughly understanding. “Then here’s Jack Heffernan – what does this fellow mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?”

“He only means, your honour, that he’s too good for the place, and wants better food than the rest of the family.”

“The man’s a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me that he never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of the most experienced fellows in England. Widow Mul – Mul – what?” said he, endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book before him – “Mulla – ”

“Mullahedert, your honour,” slipped in Wylie, “a very dacent crayture.”

“Then why won’t she keep those bee-hives; can’t she see what an excellent thing honey is in a house – if one of her children was sick, for instance?”

“True for you, sir,” said Sam, without the slightest change of feature. “It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think of these things – upon my word, it’s surprising.”

“Samuel M’Elroy refuses to drain the field – does he?”

“No, sir; but he says the praties isn’t worth digging out of dry ground, nor never does grow to any size. He’s a Ballyvourney man, too, sir.”

“Oh, is he?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full for any degree of eccentricity.

“Shamus M’Gillicuddy – heavens what a name! This Shamus appears a very desperate fellow; he beat a man the other evening, coming back from the market.”

“It was only a neighbour, sir; they live fornint each other.”

“A neighbour! but bless my heart, that makes it worse.”

“Sure, sir, it was nothing to speak of; it was Darby Lenahan said your honour’s bull was a pride to the place, and Shamus said the O’Donoghue’s was a finer baste any day; and from one word they came to another, and the end of it was, Lenahan got a crack on the scull that laid him Quivering on the daisies.”

“Savage ruffian, that Shamus; I’ll keep a sharp eye on him.”

“Faix, and there’s no need – he’s a Ballyvourney man.”

The old baronet looked up from his large volume, and seemed for a moment undecided whether he should not ask the meaning of a phrase, which, occurring at every moment, appeared most perplexing in signification; but the thought that by doing so, he should confess his ignorance before the sub-agent, deterred him, and he resolved to leave the interpretation to time and his own ingenuity.

“What of this old fellow, who has the mill? – has he consented to have the overshot wheel?”

“He tried it on Tuesday, sir,” said Sam, with an almost imperceptible smile, “and the sluice gave way, and carried off the house and the end of the barn into the tail race. He’s gone in, to take an action again your honour for the damages.”

“Ungrateful rascal! I told him I’d be at the whole expense myself, and I explained the great saving of water the new wheel would ensure him.”

“True, indeed, sir; but as the stream never went dry for thirty years, the ould idiot thought it would last his time. Begorra, he had enough of water on Tuesday, anyhow.”

“He’s a Ballyvourney man, isn’t he?”

“He is sir,” replied Wylie, with the gravity of a judge.

Another temptation crossed Sir Marmaduke’s mind, but he withstood it, and went on —

“The mountain has then been divided as I ordered, has it?”

“Yes, sir; the lines were all marked out before Saturday.”

“Well, I suppose the people were pleased to know, that they have, each, their own separate pasturage?”

“Indeed, and, sir, I won’t tell you a lie – they are not; they’d rather it was the ould way still.”

“What, have I taken all this trouble for nothing then? – is it possible that they’d rather have their cattle straying wild about the country, than see them grazing peaceably on their own land?”

“That’s just it, sir; for, you see, when they had the mountain among them, they fed on what they could get; one, had maybe a flock of goats, another, maybe a sheep or two, a heifer, an ass, or a bullsheen.

“A what?”

“A little bull, your honour; and they didn’t mind if one had more nor another, nor where they went, for the place was their own; but now. that it is all marked out and divided, begorra, if a beast is got trespassing, out comes some one with a stick, and wallops him back again, and then the man that owns him, natural enough, would’nt see shame on his cow, or whatever it was, and that leads to a fight; and faix, there’s not a day now, but there’s blood spilt over the same boundaries.”

“They’re actually savages!” said Sir Marmaduke, as he threw his spectacles over his forehead, and dropped his pen from his fingers in mute amazement; “I never heard – I never read of such a people.”

“They’re Ballyvourney men,” chimed in Wylie, assentively.

“D – d – ”

Sir Marmaduke checked himself suddenly, for the idea flashed on him that he ought at least to know what he was cursing, and so he abstained from such a perilous course, and resumed his search in the big volume. Alas! his pursuit of information was not more successful as he proceeded: every moment disclosed some case, where, in his honest efforts to improve the condition of the people, from ignorance of their habits, from total unconsciousness of the social differences of two nations, essentially unlike, he discovered the failure of his plans, and unhesitatingly ascribed to the prejudices of the peasantry, what with more justice might have been charged against his own unskilfulness. He forgot that a people long neglected cannot at once be won back – that confidence is a plant of slow growth; but more than all, he lost sight of the fact, that to engraft the customs and wants of richer communities, upon a people sunk in poverty and want – to introduce among them new and improved modes of tillage – to inculcate notions which have taken ages to grow up to maturity, in more favoured lands, must be attended with failure and disappointment. On both sides the elements of success were wanting. The peasantry saw – for, however strange it may seem, through every phase of want and wretchedness their intelligence and apprehension suffer no impairment – they saw his anxiety to serve them, they believed him to be kind-hearted and well-wishing, but they knew him to be also wrong-headed and ignorant of the country, and what he gained on the score of good feeling, he lost on the score of good sense; and Paddy, however humble his lot, however hard his condition, has an innate reverence for ability, and can rarely feel attachment to the heart, where he has not felt respect for the head. It is not a pleasant confession to make, yet one might explain it without detriment to the character of the people, but assuredly, popularity in Ireland would seem to depend far more on intellectual resources, than on moral principle and rectitude. Romanism has fostered this feeling, so natural is it to the devotee to regard power and goodness as inseparable, and to associate the holiness of religion, with the sway and influence of the priesthood. If the tenantry regarded the landlord as a simple-hearted, crotchety old gentleman with no harm in him, the landlord believed them to be almost incurably sunk in barbarism and superstition. Their native courtesy in declining to accept suggestions they never meant to adopt, he looked on as duplicity; he could not understand that the matter-of-fact sternness of English expression has no parallel here; that politeness, as they understood it, has a claim, to which truth itself may be sacrificed; and he was ever accepting in a literal sense, what the people intended to be received with its accustomed qualification.