A VISIT TO IRELAND IN 1874.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bernard at the close of a long discussion, “it is quite marvellous how little Englishmen know about Ireland! And their prejudices are the necessary consequence of such ignorance! I wish they could be made to travel there more!”
No one, perhaps, more heartily agreed with him than I did, taught by my experiences of last autumn, which occurred in the following manner.
I had been sometime absent from that country, a resident in London, when I unexpectedly received a pressing invitation last September, from a friend living in the County Westmeath, to cross St. George’s Channel and pay her my long-promised visit. “Westmeath!” exclaimed my London circle—“Westmeath! You must not dream of it! You’ll be shot, my dear!” said one old lady. “Taken up by the police!” said another. “It’s ridiculous, absurd!” cried a third. “Remember the Peace-Preservation Act and all that implies—murders, Fenians, Ribbonmen, police! Don’t risk your precious life amongst them, or we shall never lay eyes upon you again!” And they all looked as solemn as if they had received an invitation to attend my Requiem, and were meditating what flowers to choose for the wreaths each meant to lay upon my coffin.
Nothing, however, made me hesitate. Go I would, in defiance of all their remonstrances; for, I argued, if my friend, who herself owned land in Westmeath, could live there and see no impropriety in asking me, as a matter of course I should run no risk in accepting her invitation. At length, finding me obstinate, my cousin, Harry West, came forward, and, volunteering to escort me, promised my relatives that he would judge for himself, and if he saw danger would insist on my returning with him. He was a middle-aged man, land agent of an estate in Buckinghamshire—one of the most peaceful counties in the United Kingdom—had never set foot in Ireland, but, having been studying the Irish question—as he thought—and poring over the debates on this same Peace-Preservation Act last session, held even gloomier views concerning Ireland than any of my other numerous acquaintances. In consequence, I looked upon this as the most self-sacrificing act of friendship he could possibly offer. At the same time, I accepted it.
Accordingly, we started by the night mail which leaves Euston Square at twenty-five minutes past eight P.M.
For the first two hours I was haunted, I confess, by the dread of the Scotch limited mail running into us, as I knew it was to leave the same spot only five minutes later; and both trains being express, if any hitch should occur to us between the stations, we might “telescope” each other without any means of preventing it. At least, so it seemed to my ignorant mind. Harry fortunately knew nothing of this; but his thoughts were none the less running upon danger, remembering some terrible accidents to this same Irish mail—notably the one some four years ago, when Lord and Lady Farnham, Judge Berwick and his sister, and others we knew, were reduced to a heap of ashes in a few minutes by an explosion of petroleum which caught fire in a collision. Luckily, Harry fell asleep on quitting Chester, and never noticed the fatal spot, nor awoke until we drew up at five minutes past three A.M. alongside the mail packet Leinster some way out on the pier at Holyhead.
The night was fine, the sea calm, the passengers tired; so every one slept tranquilly until the stewardess, rushing into the ladies’ cabin, announced that we had passed the Kish light some time, and should be “in” in half an hour.
Without conveying any meaning to an English lady close by, the word quickly roused me; for it was full of memories—sad, yet happy. Many and many an evening, when living once on the Wicklow shore, had I sat watching on the far horizon the sparkling light which marked the well-known light-ship nine miles off the Irish coast. Of a summer’s night it shone like a twinkling star, suggestive of cool, refreshing breezes far away upon the calm waters, when perchance a hot breeze hung heavily over the land; but in winter the simple knowledge of its existence, with two men living there on board in a solitude that was broken only once a month, while the winds and waves raged fiercely around the ship, often haunted my dreams and made the stormy nights doubly dreary all along the Wicklow sea-board.
“The Kish light! Has not that a delightful, pleasant home sound?” said a middle-aged woman near, looking at me as if she had divined my thoughts. “And these boats—there are no others to be compared to them! The English have no excuse for not coming to Ireland,” she continued, “with vessels of this kind, that are like true floating bridges, so steady, swift, and large. Who could be ill in them? No one!”
I was puzzled to think who she could be; for though the face was not unfamiliar, I could give it no name. It was that of a lady, certainly, with a bright, intelligent, happy expression; but I saw that her garb was coarse as she bent and rummaged for something in her bag. In a moment, however, the mystery was solved by her lightly throwing a snow-white piece of linen over her head, which, as if by magic, took the form of the cornet of a Sister of S. Vincent de Paul.
“Sister Mary!” I exclaimed, “whom I knew at Constantinople!”
“The same,” she answered. “I thought I knew you!” And shaking hands cordially, we sat down to talk over the past.
She was a native of Ireland—her accent alone betrayed her, though she had not seen her native land for years—and I had known her in the East, after which she had been to Algiers and various other parts. Now, to her great joy, she had been ordered for a while to one of the convents of the order in Dublin—a joy which, though she tried, nun-like, to subdue it, burst forth uncontrollably the nearer we approached the land. Coming with me on deck to watch our entrance into Kingstown Harbor, the first person we met was Harry West, who eyed my companion with amazement; for he had never seen a Sister of Charity in living form before, though he entertained that sort of romantic admiration for them which the most rigid Protestants often accord to this order, though they deny it to every other. Turning round again, my surprise was great at encountering the Bishop—the Catholic Bishop—of ——shire, on his way to the consecration of a church in the far west of Ireland. “Quelle heureuse rencontre!” said his lordship playfully; for we were very old friends. “You see I am attracted also to the dear old country! You smile,” he continued, noticing my amused expression as I introduced Harry to him. “Oh! yes, I know I am a Saxon, pur sang. But we English bishops and priests always feel as if we were at home the instant we put our foot on shore in the Green Isle. There’s Kingstown and its church, where I shall go to say Mass the moment we land. Watch, now!” he added, as we drew up alongside the jetty; “you’ll see how civil the men will be the instant they perceive I am a bishop.” As he spoke a porter rushed by, and an impulse seized me to give him a hint to this effect. At once the man knelt down, in all his hurry, “for his lordship’s blessing;” nor did he limit his attentions to this, but insisted on carrying his luggage, not only on shore, but up to the hotel, refusing, as the bishop later told us, to accept a penny for his time and trouble—“the honor of serving his lordship and of getting his blessing was quite reward enough!”
Harry, standing by, could not believe his eyes. It was a phase of life quite unknown to him. But there was no time for meditation; the train was on the pier, the whistle sounded, and we were soon on the road to Dublin.
It was Sunday—the one day of all others which, had I wished to show Harry the difference between the two countries, I should have purposely chosen; the one morning in the week when Dublin is astir from early dawn, and London, on the other hand, sleeps. Residents in the latter, Catholic residents especially, are painfully aware of the difficulty of finding cab or conveyance of any kind to take them to early Mass, and know how, in the finest summer weather, they may wander through the parks without meeting a human being until the afternoon. In England church-going commences, properly speaking, at eleven o’clock only, and then chiefly for the upper classes; the evening services, on the contrary, are largely attended by the servants and trades-people, to meet which custom a vast majority of families dine on cold viands, or even relinquish the meal altogether, substituting tea, with cold meat—or “heavy tea,” as it is generally called—for the ordinary social gathering. In Ireland, as in every Catholic country, the whole system is reversed, as the natural consequence of the church discipline, which enjoins the hearing of Mass on the whole community, high and low; and—contrary to the Protestant system—once this obligation fulfilled, the attendance at evening service is necessarily much smaller. Harry never having even been out of England, except for a “run up the Rhine” some years before, and knowing no Catholic but myself, it never occurred to him to think of these distinctions, nor to suppose that he would find anything in Ireland different from English ways, except that unlimited lawlessness the existence of which he believed made life so impossible there.
He was in the process of recovering from his astonishment at the unfamiliar phraseology of the Westland Row railway porters when our passage to the cab was impeded by a crowd suddenly rushing along the footway, met by an advancing one from the opposite direction, composed of the very poorest class, men, women, and children. Harry’s lively imagination and preconceived ideas led him at once to conclude that it must be a Fenian Hyde Park mob renforcé; and the bewildered horror of his countenance at thus finding his worst fears realized the instant he arrived at the Dublin terminus was beyond all description comic.
“Ah! sure, your honor, it’s the seven o’clock Mass that’s just over, and the half-past seven that is going to begin,” explained the cabman, pointing to the large church which stands at Westland Row adjoining the railway station. “Sure, this goes on every half-hour until one o’clock. An’t we all obliged to hear Mass, whatever else we do?” And as we proceeded, I cross-questioned him for the benefit of my cousin. We discovered that this same man had been to church at six o’clock that morning, belonged to a confraternity, approached the sacraments regularly, and performed various acts of charity in sickness and distress amongst his fellow-members, in accordance with the rules of the said society; yet he was but poorly clad, and showed no outward signs of the remarkable intelligence with which he answered me on every point.
As usual on these occasions, the choice of a hotel had been puzzling, the Shelbourne, Morrison’s, Maple’s, each having their distinctive advantages; but at last we decided in favor of the Imperial, a quiet but comfortable establishment facing the General Post-Office in Sackville Street. The streets were alive with people as we crossed Carlisle Bridge, past Smith O’Brien’s white marble statue; and Harry could not help noticing the contrast to England at that early Sunday hour.
Refreshed by our ablutions and clean toilets, we were comfortably seated at breakfast, when sounds of music approaching caused us to rush to the window, and showed us a wagonette full of musicians in green uniform, playing “Garry Owen” and “Patrick’s Day,” followed by half a dozen outside cars full of men and women.
“Fenians!” cried Harry. “I told you I could not be mistaken.”
“Only some trade guild going out for an innocent day’s pleasure in the country; after having been to Mass too, I have no doubt,” observed a gentleman close by, whose accent was unmistakably English. “This is not the only custom that will seem new to you, if you are strangers,” he continued, addressing Harry, and smiling meanwhile. “No two countries ever were more different than England and Ireland. I shall never forget my astonishment on arriving here two years ago. I could not get accustomed to it at all at first. I remember one circumstance particularly which greatly struck me. I arrived on a Sunday morning, as you have done, and taking up the Freeman’s Journal—one of the best Dublin papers—on Monday, perceived a short paragraph in a corner, headed, ‘A Bishop Killed,’ so small that it might easily have escaped notice. Nor was there any allusion to it in any other part of the paper; but, reading on, you may conceive my surprise at finding that ‘a bishop’ was no one less than the Bishop of Winchester, the leading bishop in England, whose death by a fall from his horse, you will remember, convulsed that country through its length and breadth. Not one of my acquaintances even—and I had many in Dublin—took the smallest interest in it. They had not followed his career; he had not the slightest influence in Ireland; and few knew his name, or that he was any relation to the great Wilberforce. On the other hand, they were at the time living upon news from the North, where a police officer was on his trial for the murder of a bank manager—a fact which no one in England gave the smallest heed to. I had never heard of it. But that same afternoon the head waiter of the hotel, unable to conceal his excitement, came up and whispered to me, ‘He is condemned, sir! I have got a telegram from Omagh myself this instant.’ I had only been thirty-six hours in Ireland at the time, and, having merely glanced at the newspaper, knew nothing of the trial; so I was electrified and mystified beyond measure, and had no remedy but to sit down and study it. I then discovered it was deeply interesting from its bearing upon all classes, and I could not resist writing to some of the English papers and endeavoring to excite them on the subject. But it would not do! No paper inserted my letter. The similarity of interest is not kept up continuously between the two countries, owing very much, I think, to the little interchange of newspapers between them. I hope you have ordered your Times to be forwarded, sir,” he continued; “for you can’t expect to find one to buy in Dublin. They’ll always give you the Irish Times, if you merely ask for the Times; they never think about the latter—far less than on the Continent.”
This was a dreadful blow to Harry; for, like all Englishmen, he could not exist without his Times at breakfast, and, though I proposed that he should write for it by that night’s mail, his reviving spirits were sadly checked by the feeling of being in a land which apparently did not believe in his guide and vade-mecum. I felt it would be heartless under such circumstances to leave him alone; yet, I should go to Mass. At length, not liking to let me wander by myself in “such a dangerous city,” he offered to accompany me and give up his own service for the day. A little curiosity, I thought, lurked beneath the kindness; but if so, it was amply rewarded.
Following the porter’s direction of “first to the right and then to the left,” we soon reached the handsome church in Marlborough Street, opposite the National Schools. As at Westland Row, so here an immense crowd was pouring out, but a far larger one pushing in; so that, although long before twelve o’clock, we considered ourselves fortunate in getting any places whatever. Unaware that this was the cathedral, and without any expectations regarding it in consequence, our surprise was great when a long procession moved up the centre, closed by His Eminence Cardinal Cullen, in full pontificals, blessing us as he passed. “Those are the canons who attend on all great occasions, and the young men are the students at Clonliffe Seminary,” whispered a young woman next me in answer to my inquiries, while his eminence was taking his seat on the throne, to Harry’s infinite edification. “And we shall have a sermon from Father Burke after Mass,” she continued—“‘our Prince of Preachers,’ as the cardinal calls him. I came here more than an hour ago, in order to get a place. I promise you it’ll be worth hearing. Oh! there’s no one like him. God bless him!”
And as she said, so it happened. The instant Mass was over, not before, the famous Dominican was seen ascending the pulpit. The centre of the church was filled with benches, and a standing mass in the passage between, while the aisles were so packed by the poorest classes that a pin could not be dropped amongst them. Of that vast multitude not one individual had stirred, and in a few seconds they hung with rapt attention upon every word spoken by the gifted preacher. By their countenances it was easy to see how they followed all his arguments, drank in every sentiment, and—who could wonder at it?—were entranced by his lofty accents. Harry himself was mesmerized. The subject was charity, and the cause an appeal for schools under Sisters of Charity. In all his experience of English preachers—and it was varied—Harry confessed that he had never heard anything like this. Whether for sublime language, beautiful, delicate action, pathetic tone, quotations from Scripture Old and New, or eloquence of appeal, he considered it unrivalled. It lasted an hour, but seemed not five minutes. As we passed out of the door, the plates were filled with piles of those one-pound notes which in Ireland represent the gold. I saw Harry’s hand glide almost unconsciously into his pockets, and beheld a sovereign fall noiselessly amongst the paper.
“One certainly is the better of a fine sermon,” he remarked, as we sauntered back to the hotel; “and I never heard a finer. Altogether, it was a remarkable sight, and the people looked mild enough. But we must not trust to appearances nor be deceived too easily, you know,” he added after a few moments.
I knew nothing of the kind, but thought the best reply would be a proposal to follow the multitude who were now crowding the tram-carriages that start from Nelson’s Pillar to all the suburbs. “In half an hour the streets will be deserted until evening,” said our English acquaintance, whom we again met accidentally, and who recommended a walk on the pier at Kingstown as the least fatiguing trip, volunteering, moreover, to accompany us part of the way, as he was going to visit friends on that line at the “Rock,” as Blackrock is usually called. It was contrary to Harry’s customs on the “Sabbath”; yet, after all the church-going he had seen that morning, he could not deny that air and exercise were most legitimate. Accordingly, entering a crowded train to Westland Row, we soon found ourselves retracing the route we came a few hours before.
Most truly has it been said that no city has more varied or beautiful suburbs than Dublin, and no population which so much enjoy them. Hitherto we had seen few but the lower and middle classes; for the wealthier side of Dublin is south of the Liffey. Moreover, being autumn, the “fashionables” were not in town. They were either travelling on the Continent or scattered in the vicinity. The train, however, was full of smart dresses and bright faces, “wreathed in smiles” and brimming over with merriment. Every one, too, seemed more or less to know every one else, and even our English friend was acquainted with many. “That is Judge Keogh,” he said, as he bowed to a short, square-built man waiting on the platform near us—“Keogh, of the celebrated Galway judgment—a man of first-rate talent, as you may guess from his broad forehead and long head; but he has ruined himself by his violence on that occasion. He is quite ‘broken’ since then, and his spirits gone; for he knows what his fellow-countrymen think of him, and he rarely appears in public except upon the bench. He is probably going to Bray now, where he is spending the summer quietly and unnoticed. And that is Judge Monahan getting into the next carriage with those ladies—he who presided at the Yelverton trial; also of great legal capacity and a most kindly, tender-hearted man, always surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Sir Dominic Corrigan, the eminent physician, is in that corner yonder; his fame has doubtless reached you too,” he continued, addressing Harry, who had been contemplating the two legal celebrities, well known to him through his oracle, the Times, which, from their connection with the above-named events, had noticed them on both occasions. “I could point out many others, if I could escort you to Kingstown”; but as we halted at the Blackrock Station a smart carriage was awaiting and carried him off inland, whilst we dashed onwards, the blue waters of Dublin Bay, bounded by the hill of Howth, on our left, and rows of terraces and pretty villas along the shore on our right.
It was a bright afternoon, with a cool, refreshing breeze, and the pier was one gay mass of pedestrians. The whole of Dublin might have been there, so great was the gathering; but we afterwards found that every other side of the capital was equally frequented. Fully an English mile in length, it is of substantial masonry, which on the outer side slopes by large blocks of granite into the sea, while a broad road skirts the inner line next to the harbor, terminated by a lighthouse at the extreme point. Old and young were here congregated; children playing amongst the granite rocks; clerks and shop-girls, mixed with whole families of the professional classes of the capital, perambulating in groups, dressed in their prettiest and brightest, looking the very pictures of enjoyment and friendly intercourse. A man-of-war was anchored in the harbor, which was also full of graceful yachts and alive with boating parties rowing about in all directions. A more healthful, innocent afternoon it were difficult to conceive, and even Harry admitted the general brio which seemed to pervade the air. Nor could he any longer deny the proverbial beauty of the Dublin maidens; and I found him quite ready to linger on a seat and watch the clear complexions and faultless features that passed in such constant succession before us.
After some time that tinge of melancholy common to strangers in a crowd began imperceptibly to steal over us, as we awoke to the recollection that we alone seemed without acquaintances in that throng, and we moved to the station on our way Dublin-ward. Suddenly the one defect to us was repaired; for on the platform we found the Bishop of ——shire going to Dalkey to dine with some old friends. Harry had made rapid strides since the morning; for his face brightened as he recognized our fellow-passenger, and the next moment, undisguisedly admitting that he had spent a charming day, he dwelt with earnestness on the splendid sermon of the morning.
“Oh! yes,” observed a priest who accompanied his lordship, “even a Protestant clergyman told me lately that he considered the only orators in the true sense of the word now in the United Kingdom to be Gladstone, Bright, and Father Burke. But Father Burke has something more than mere oratory,” said he, smiling. “You ought to hear him at his own church in Dominic Street, where he is to preach again to-night. He is more at home there than anywhere else. If you want a real treat in the matter of preaching, I recommend you to go there.”
The remark was dropped at random; but, to my excessive surprise, Harry caught fire, and, finding me willing, he hurried through his dinner in a manner that was perfectly astounding. Then, in feverish haste, we made our way to S. Saviour’s. It was not yet eight o’clock, but still the church was so full that entrance was quite impossible. There was no standing room even, said those at the door, and we were turning away, to Harry’s deep disappointment, when a beggar-woman accosted us with “Won’t your honor give me something for a cup of tea? Sure, I dreamt last night that your honor would give me a pound of tea and her ladyship a pound of sugar. Ye were the very faces I saw in my drame. And may God reward ye!”
“Dreams go by contraries,” replied Harry testily, so vexed at missing the sermon that he was in no humor to be teased.
“Indeed! then, that’s just it,” answered the woman, an arch wink lighting up her wizened features. “It’s just your honor, then, that’s to give me the sugar and her ladyship the tea; so it’ll be good luck for me anyhow! And may God bless you and his holy Mother watch over you!” she continued, as Harry, unable to resist a hearty laugh at the woman’s readiness, drew out his purse and handed her a shilling. “And now, sure, I’ll show ye how to get in to hear his riverence! There’s no one all the world over like Father Burke!—the darlin’. It would be a sin for you to go away without hearing him; so I’ll bring ye round to the sacristy door, and you’ll get in quite comfortable!”
“You must be very much at home here, if you can manage that,” observed Harry, amused at the whole performance, as we meekly followed our tattered guide.
“Oh! then, don’t I spend half my time in the church, your honor! A poor body like me can’t work; but sure an’ can’t I pray? I hear three Masses every Sunday and one every week-day. Sure, it’d be a sin if I didn’t. Oh! I don’t mane it’d be a sin on week-days, but it’d be a mortal sin if I didn’t hear one on Sundays. Sure, every one knows that!” …
This was, however, precisely the kind of knowledge in which Harry was utterly deficient. Mortal sin and venial sin were to him, as to most Englishmen, unknown terms, and he gaped with bewilderment as this ragged woman proceeded to develop to him the difference in the clearest possible language. There is no saying to what length the catechetical instruction might have extended, if we had not reached the sacristy door, where, true enough, the clerk, noticing we were strangers, led us into reserved seats beside the sanctuary, though even there but scant room then remained.
S. Saviour’s, built by the Dominicans within the last fifteen years, is an excellent specimen of Gothic, and, filled to overflowing with a devout, earnest congregation, upon whom brilliant gaseliers now shed a flood of light, no sight could be more impressive. The devotions, so fitting in a Dominican church, commenced with the Rosary, which being over, the black mantle, white robe, and striking head of the favorite preacher rose above the pulpit ledge. His text was again on charity; and if anything were needed to show his powers, the versatility with which he treated the same theme would have been all-sufficient. Harry was lost in admiration, especially as it was extempore, in contradistinction to the Protestant habit of reading sermons; nor could he believe, on looking at his watch, that we had once more been listening for an entire hour. He could have remained there for many more quarters; and, to judge from their countenances, so could the whole congregation, even to the very poorest. Benediction followed, and, as deeply impressed as in the morning, we pursued our way back with the crowd through Dominic Street into Sackville street and to our “home” at the Imperial Hotel.
Next morning Harry West was a different man. I sought, however, for an explanation in vain. No Times, it is true, was forthcoming; but then it was Monday, and in his Buckinghamshire retreat this likewise happened on the first day of the week. The Irish papers doubtless irritated him by their paucity of English news—not even “a bishop killed!”—and their volubility on topics quite unfamiliar to him was very vexatious. Still this was not sufficient to account for the change which had come over the spirit of his dream. At length, by a slight hint, I discovered that he thought he had allowed himself to be carried away giddily by the excitement of the previous day, and that he must look at matters more soberly if he really were to be an impartial judge. This was the day of our departure for Westmeath, and he would not be influenced by any one. Our train did not leave until three P.M., and I urged a ramble through the town; but in his present mood he viewed everything askance, and would not even smile at the many witticisms and pleasant answers which I found it possible to draw forth from the guides, porters, and cabmen, almost unconsciously to themselves.
At last we started from the Broadstone station. The afternoon was cloudy, and, as we advanced, the country became dull and uninteresting. The line ran beside a canal—on which there seemed but poor traffic—bordered by broad fields of pasture, so thinly stocked with cattle, however, and so deserted-looking, though in the vicinity of Dublin, that the effect was even depressing upon me. Two ladies in our compartment, certainly, noticed it as something unusual, saying some mysterious words about Ballinasloe fair and how different it would be when that event took place; but they left the carriage immediately, so we had no opportunity of cross-questioning them. In the course of two and a half hours we reached our terminus at Athboy, and the porter, asking if we were the friends expected by Mrs. Connor, handed me a note just brought from her. It explained that one of her horses being laid up and she likewise ailing, she could neither come herself nor send her carriage; she hoped, therefore, that we might be content with the “outside car,” a cart going at the same time for our luggage. Content I certainly was, for I loved the national vehicle; but Harry had never tried one, and in his present temper nothing pleased him. The civility of the coachman even provoked him, and made him whisper something about “blarney” in my ear. However, putting our cloaks and bundles in the “well,” we got up back to back, one on each side and the coachman on the seat in the middle.
Athboy, too, known to Harry from the debates as a focus of Ribbonism, was an unlucky starting-point, and the number of barefooted though well-made, handsome children running about its streets, greatly shocked him.
Whether the coachman really urged on the horse faster than on subsequent occasions, or the turnings were sharper, or that Harry was startled by the difficulty every novice experiences in holding on, I have never since been able to ascertain; but, looking around at him in less than five minutes after we left, his piteous expression convulsed me with laughter. From him, however, it met with no response, and he either could not or would not admire the brilliant sunset sky, which in autumn is often so exquisite in this part of Ireland. With every step the road grew prettier, thickly overshadowed by the large, spreading trees of the beautiful gentlemen’s seats in this district; though here and there a wretched roadside cabin startled Harry from his revery, and the recurrence of a black cross now and again on a wall attracted his attention.
“O sir! that’s only where some one was killed,” answered Dan, the coachman, most innocently, making Harry shudder meanwhile; though in the same breath he added: “This is where Mr. W—— was killed by a fall from his horse, and the last one was put up where poor Biddy Whelan was thrown out of the cart when returning from market at Delvin two years last Michaelmas, by the old horse shying. She died on the spot in a few minutes, and these crosses are painted that way on the wall to remind us to say a prayer for the poor souls. God be merciful to them!”
Harry’s sidelong glances towards me, however, plainly proved that he mistrusted the man’s words and gave them a very different meaning. By degrees—as always does happen on these cars, which amongst their many advantages cannot boast their adaptation for conversation—we grew silent, and no one had spoken for the next ten minutes, when we turned down a long, straight road, rendered still darker by the magnificent elms which stretched across it as in a high arch. Suddenly a feeble shot was heard not far off, and at the same moment Harry jumped off the car, put his hand to his heart, and cried out: “I’m killed! I’m killed!” What words can express my horror? To this day I know not how I too jumped off; I only know that I found myself standing beside him in an agony of mind. Had all my vain boasting, all my obstinacy, resulted in this? Was poor Harry West thus to be sacrificed to my foolhardiness? But the agony though sharp was—must I betray my cousin’s weakness, and confess it?—short. I looked for blood, for fainting, for anything resembling my preconceived notions of a “roadside murder”; when, as quickly as he had jumped off the car, so quickly he now seemed to recover. Ashamed of himself he certainly was, when, taking away his hand, he was obliged to admit “it was all a mistake!” After all, he had never been touched! But the shot had been so unexpected, and he had at the time been brooding so deeply over all the stories he had read of “agrarian outrages,” that he had positively thought he had been hit; and very natural it seemed to him, as no doubt he had been already recognized as a land agent by the Irish population![178] Quite impossible is it to describe my mingled feelings of vexation at the needless fright and of uncontrollable amusement at my English friend’s unexampled folly. Dan, the coachman, underwent the same process, only in an aggravated form; for, while he felt indignant at the implied insult to his countrymen, every feature in his face betrayed the most uncontrollable amusement, mixed with supreme contempt; for he declared that the shot was fired by his own son running in search of hedge-sparrows, as was his wont at that hour, and he pointed him out to us in the next field, which belonged to Mrs. Connor. The gate of her avenue was only a few yards further on.
If I had wished to break the ice on our arrival at Mauverstown, this incident would effectually have accomplished it. But the party consisted of Mrs. Connor; her son, a youth of twenty; Katie, a daughter of twenty-nine, and a handsome, black-eyed, fair-complexioned young lady, Miss Florence O’Grady, come on a visit “all the way from Kerry.” Poor Harry! At a glance I saw that he was in my power, and he gave me such an imploring look that my lips were sealed, in the hope of saving him from the tender mercies of the merry young ones. Not a word did I say of the adventure. It was not to be expected, however, that Dan would show him equal mercy; and young Connor’s roguish expression next morning, when he came in late to breakfast after a visit to the stables, told me that he had heard the story, and, moreover, that it had lost nothing in the telling. Fortunately Harry, who was by nature the kindest and most amiable of men, had thoroughly recovered his ordinary good temper, and joined in the laugh against himself so cordially that the hearts of all were at once gained. Had he by chance done otherwise, his life would have been made miserable; but now one and all declared that they would only punish him by making him acquainted with every hedge and bush in the country, and that he should not leave until he “made restitution” by singing the praises of “ould Ireland.” Charlie Connor would help him in the shooting, the young ladies could take him across country—for “cub-hunting” had begun, though it was too early yet for the regular hunt—while Mrs. Connor mentioned a list of gentlemen’s places far and near which she would show him, that he might tell his English friends it was not quite so barbarous a land as they evidently imagined.
Good-natured though he was, Harry’s face lengthened at a prospect which would involve a longer stay than he had intended; but there was no time for reflection, for Charlie led him off to inspect the farm, the young ladies took him through the pleasure-grounds on his return, and in the afternoon we all drove to a croquet party more than eight miles off.
Henceforward most faithfully did they carry out their resolutions, leaving no morning or afternoon unappropriated to some pleasure. Of all counties in Ireland, Westmeath is remarkable for its many handsome seats, well-timbered parks, and the pleasant social intercourse maintained amongst their owners. At this season, too, every one was at home, and croquet parties, matinées musicales, or dinner parties were countless. The shooting filled a certain place in the programme for the gentlemen, no doubt; still, Harry, announcing that he saw more of the country by following the ladies, always managed to accompany us. The gardens and conservatories interested him, he said; and the luxuriance of the shrubs and evergreens always attracted his admiration, and was an invariable excuse for a saunter with the young ladies, though oftener with only one of the party. When we had inspected those in our immediate vicinity, a flower-show at Kells, in the bordering county of Meath (also under the Peace-Preservation Act!), displayed to us in addition the “beauty, gallantry, and fashion” of both neighborhoods. Nothing, perhaps, on these occasions is more striking to a stranger than the sort of family life which seems to exist in Irish counties, every one knowing the other from boyhood intimately—nay, from generation to generation. Above all is it remarkable how every one can tell at once by the family name what part of Ireland a new-comer springs from, or whether Celtic, of “the Pale,” or Cromwellian, with most unerring accuracy. The majority of land-owners in Meath and Westmeath belong to the latter—Cromwellian—class; but this in no way hinders their living on the best terms—unlike what occurs in the “Black North”—with their Catholic neighbors, few and far between though these undoubtedly are.
One of the prettiest and most interesting places in this neighborhood—Ballinlough Castle—belongs to the descendants of the very ancient sept of O’Reilly, although within the present century they have taken the name of Nugent, in consequence of a large property having been left to them by one of that family. As the word implies, it is situated on a lough, or small lake, and the house consists of an old building to which several large rooms have been added within the present century. The northwest front is now completely covered with ivy, thickly intermingled with Virginia creepers, the deep-red leaves of which amidst the dark green of the ivy made a beautiful picture at this autumnal season. Embedded in the foliage, a tablet over the door records the date, 1614—thirty-five years before the invasion of Ireland by Cromwell. In the dining-room are two deep recesses, still called by the family Cromwell’s stables; for tradition relates that in one his horse, in the other his cow, rested during the one night he slept in the castle. Early on the following day he left the place to continue his march; but before he had proceeded far, having repented that he had not seized so fine a property, he sent back one of his officers with an order to the O’Reilly, the owner, to surrender at once, giving the officer permission—as was his wont on such occasions—to take and keep the castle for himself. Not so easy was this, however, as they had imagined from their previous day’s experience; for “forewarned is forearmed,” and the instant Cromwell departed the house had been barricaded. His messenger, therefore, seen returning along the avenue, was communicated with now only from behind closed doors. Yet the owner did not refuse in so many words. He merely presented the house-key hanging on the end of a pistol, through an opening over the door, desiring the man to seize it if he dared! Not of a daring character, however, was the officer, and he took a few moments to consider; then, throwing a would-be contemptuous look at the coveted house and land, he turned away, was soon out of sight, and no Cromwell or Cromwellian ever troubled Ballinlough again.
The castle contains, besides some most beautiful carvings from Spain, Aubusson tapestries from France, marble chimney-pieces and paintings from Italy, collected in his travels by Sir James Nugent some fifty years since; also many relics of past times—for example, one very fine Vandyke; a full-length portrait of Lady Thurles, widow of the Duke of Ormond’s son, and afterwards allied to the O’Reillys; another, of the famous Peggy O’Neil, only daughter of Sir Daniel O’Neil, the hero at the battle of the Boyne, who is said to be the one who exclaimed when the day was over: “Change kings, and we will fight the battle over again.” He then accompanied King James to France, but, being subsequently pardoned by William and recalled to take possession of his estates, he died at Calais on his road home. King William, strange to relate, is stated notwithstanding, in a fit of generosity, to have given a large dower to this his only daughter Peggy when she soon afterwards married Hugh O’Reilly, of Ballinlough Castle, and thus became the ancestress of the present family. A satin quilt embroidered by her hands still exists amongst the castle treasures; but most interesting of all the relics is an old chalice dating from that period.
On our road thither we had passed by the ruins of a small chapel carefully preserved, standing in a field still called Cromwell’s field, because there the priest was saying Mass when a scout returned and gave the alarm that the invader and his troops were speedily advancing. In consternation, the congregation fled; but the priest neither could nor would interrupt the Holy Sacrifice, and he had just time to finish it when the enemy’s soldiers appeared in sight. Then, and then only, he took flight across the fields; but his foot slipped as he was crossing the nearest hedge, and the chalice which he held in his hand was bent by his fall. And this same chalice, notched and bent, we now saw carefully preserved by the gracious Dame-Châtelaine of Ballinlough. And here it may be noticed that similar relics and traditions are found all over Ireland. Another family of our acquaintance possesses the diminutive, plain chalice used by a priest of their blood—his name being engraven on the base—for saying Mass behind a hedge when even this was penal both for priest and people. In that particular case, too, this steadfastness to his duty did end fatally; for this same priest was one of those killed at Drogheda. In the grounds of another friend a small, thickly-wooded eminence is shown, with a grotto which served to shelter the priest when officiating, whilst the congregation knelt in groups around, with scouts outside ready to give warning of any unfriendly approach. Elsewhere the “priest’s hill,” enclosed within the demesne walls, bears its name from the sad fate of another of the sacred ministry killed there whilst caught in the act of saying Mass. Two hundred years and more have elapsed since Cromwell’s day, but it is no wonder that the memory of these events is still fresh in the minds of a faithful posterity, or that they should delight to speak of deeds which would honor any people.
Deeply impressed as Harry West was by traditions which until then had been unknown to him, he was further edified by the manner in which the Irish poor flock from far and near on Sunday mornings to the parish church, often walking thither many a long mile in hail, rain, and snow. Sometimes it stands at a central point, on a hill or in the middle of a field, no village even near; but many handsome new churches are in course of erection from contributions gathered chiefly amongst the poor. Some of these collections are wonderful, considering the localities, seven and eight hundred pounds—nay, a thousand—being often the result of the “laying the foundation-stone,” or “opening day,” in a district solely inhabited by farmers and peasants—especially, be it added, if the favorite Father Burke be the preacher. Many and many a time, however, large sums are sent on such occasions back from America from some old parishioner whose fortune has increased since he left the “dear ould country,” but whose heart still clings to it faithfully and tenderly. Most remarkable, too, is the correspondence kept up by emigrants with their families, and the large presents in money “sent home” from sons to fathers, brothers to sisters. It was our friend’s custom—as it is at Ballinlough Castle and many other houses—to let the poorer cottagers come up to the hall-door for doles of bread, or presents of clothes at certain seasons, and at all times for medicine, of which the ladies have knowledge just sufficient for all minor wants. One morning I was watching Mrs. Connor’s distribution, when old Biddy Nolan produced a letter which she begged her honor to read for her. The postmark was Chicago, and it came from her son Mike, who had not written since he left home; but now he gave a full account of his adventures, winding up by enclosing his mother, who was bathed in tears of joy, a draft for twenty pounds—his savings during the last few months!
Another characteristic of the County Westmeath consists in its many pretty lakes; and as picnics, fishing and boating excursions, were not forgotten in the Connor hospitalities, these—Lough Derrevarra in particular—could not be omitted. The road to the lakes lay across a bog, moor, and wild, deserted-looking tract, the exact reverse of the neighborhood we were living in. Dismal enough it was returning sometimes in the dark without meeting a human being perhaps for miles, and difficult to me now and then to resist a shudder. Strange, however, is the world, and in nothing did it appear to me stranger than in Harry West’s air of tranquillity and perfect security.
He never dreamt of jumping off of the car (he would have left a pretty neighbor if he had!), nor seemed to remember the existence of the police, Ribbonmen, or Peace-Preservation Act! He heard no one mention them, and he had given up thinking about them.
Truly, a second change had come over the spirit of his dream. And in proportion to his aversion to my Irish visit, so now he was the one that experienced difficulty in ending it. Not days but weeks passed by; yet there he lingered, to the inconceivable surprise of his friends at home. Not to mine, however. The cause was patent to every one on the spot; nor could I wonder when, one morning, throwing off his customary reserve, he asked me to welcome as a cousin his Irish fiancée, the beautiful Florence O’Grady. Short had been the wooing, he said, but none the less thorough his conversion. A curious mixture of love and religion those outside-car excursions must certainly have been (these two never would avail themselves of carriage or other vehicle); for not only had she conquered his Saxon, but even his religious prejudices so fully that he voluntarily offered to place himself at once under some able teacher.
Christmas was not long in coming round under these circumstances, nor Harry West in returning as a Catholic to claim his Kerry bride, blessing me for having accepted his escort, whilst I regarded the event as a reward for that act of self-denial on his part. Nor could he, at the joyous wedding breakfast, resist describing the scene of his leap from the car on the evening of his arrival, giving a cheer at the same time for the Peace-Preservation Act, which, to him at least—although only from the terror it had inspired—had been the primary cause of so much happiness.