The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Men spoke of their light-heartedness, their gaiety of temper, their flashing and brilliant wit. How little they knew that such qualities, by some strange incongruity of our natures, are the accompaniments of deeply-reflective and imaginative minds, overshadowed by lowering fortune. The glittering fancy, that seems to illumine the path of life, is often but the wild-fire that dances over the bleak and desolate heath.

Their apathy and indifference to exertion was made a matter of reproach to them; yet, was it ever known that toil should be voluntary, when hopeless, and that labour should be endured without a prospect of requital?

We have been led, almost unconsciously, into this somewhat lengthened digression, for which, even did it not bear upon the circumstances of our story, we would not seek to apologize to our reader. Such we believe to have been, in great part, the wrongs of Ireland – the fertile source of those thousand evils under which the land was suffering. From this one theme have arisen, most, if not all, the calamities of the country. Happy were it, if we could say that such existed no longer – that such a state of things was a matter for historical inquiry, or an old man’s memory – and that in our own day these instances were not to be found among us.

When Hemsworth perceived that the project of his life was in peril, he bethought him of every means by which the danger could be averted. Deep and well-founded as was his confidence in the cleverness of his deputy, his station was an insurmountable barrier to his utility at the present conjuncture. Sam Wylie, for so this worthy was called, was admirable as a spy, but never could be employed as minister plenipotentiary: it needed one, now, who should possess more influence over Sir Marmaduke himself. For this purpose, Frederick Travers alone seemed the fitting person; to him, therefore, Hemsworth wrote a letter marked “strictly confidential,” detailing, with pains-taking accuracy, the inevitable misfortunes Sir Marmaduke’s visit would entail upon a people, whose demands no benevolence could satisfy, whose expectations no concessions could content.

He narrated the fearful instances of their vengeance, whenever disappointment had checked the strong current of their hopes; and told, with all the semblance of truth, of scenes of bloodshed and murder, no cause for which could be traced, save in the dark suspicions of a people long accustomed to regard the Saxon as their tyrant.

The night attack upon “the Lodge” furnished also its theme of terror; and so artfully did he blend his fact and fiction, his true statement, and his false inference, that the young man read the epistle with an anxious and beating heart, and longed for the hour, when he should recall those he held dearest, from such a land of anarchy and misfortune.

Not satisfied with the immediate object in view, Hemsworth ingeniously contrived to instil into Frederick’s mind misgivings as to the value of an estate thus circumstanced, representing, not without some truth on his side, that the only chance of bettering the condition of a peasantry so sunk and degraded, was by an actual residence in the midst of them, a penalty, which to the youth, seemed too dear for any requital whatever.

On a separate slip of paper, marked “to be burned when read,” Frederick deciphered the following lines: —

“Above all things, I would caution you regarding a family who, though merely of the rank of farmer, affect a gentility which had its origin some dozen centuries back, and has had ample opportunity to leak out in the meantime; these are the ‘O’Donoghues,’ a dangerous set, haughty, illconditioned, and scheming. They will endeavour, if they can, to obtain influence with your father, and I cannot too strongly represent the hazard of such an event. Do not, I entreat you, suffer his compassion, or mistaken benevolence, to be exercised in their behalf. Were they merely unworthy, I should say nothing on the subject; but they are highly and eminently dangerous, in a land, where their claims are regarded as only in abeyance – deferred, but not obliterated, by confiscation.

“E. H.”

It would in no wise forward the views of our story, were we to detail to our readers the affecting scenes which preluded Frederick’s departure from London, the explanations he was called on to repeat, as he went from house to house, for a journey at once so sudden and extraordinary; for even so late as fifty years ago, a visit to Ireland was a matter of more moment, and accompanied by more solemn preparation, than many now bestow on an overland journey to India. The Lady Marys and Bettys of the fashionable world regarded him pretty much as the damsels of old did some doughty knight, when setting forth on his way to Palestine. That filial affection could exact such an instance of devotion, called up their astonishment, even more than their admiration; and many were the cautions, many the friendly counsels, given to the youth for his preservation in a land so rife with danger.

Frederick was a soldier, and a brave one; but still, he was not entirely divested of those apprehensions which the ignorance of the day propagated; and although only accompanied by a single servant, they were both armed to the teeth, and prepared to do valiant battle, if need be, against the Irish “rogues and rapparrees.”

Here, then, for the present, we shall leave him, having made his last “adieux” to his friends, and set out on his journey to Ireland.

CHAPTER XIV. THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE

Brief as has been the interval of our absence from Glenflesk, time’s changes have been there. Herbert O’Donoghue had experienced a fortunate change in his malady, and on the day following Roach’s eventful return, became actually out of danger. The symptoms of his disease, so suddenly subdued, seemed to reflect immortal honour on the Doctor, who certainly did not scruple to attribute to his skill, what, with more truth, was owing to native vigour and youth. Sir Archy alone was ungrateful enough to deny the claim of physic, and slightly hinted to Roach, that he had at least benefited his patient by example, if not precept, since he had slept the entire night through, without awaking. The remark was a declaration of war, at once; nor was Roach slow to accept the gage of battle – in fact, both parties were well wearied of the truce, and anxious for the fray. Sir Archibald had only waited till the moment Roach’s services in the sick-room could be safely dispensed with, to re-open his fire; while Roach, harassed by so unexpected a peace, felt like a beleaguered fortress during the operation of the miners, and knew not when, and how, the dreaded explosion was to occur. Now, however, the signal-gun was fired – hesitation was at an end; and, of a verity, the champions showed no disinclination for the field.

“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.