Tales and Novels Vol 6 by Maria Edgeworth (page 3)

remark, that it is safer to judge of people by their conduct to others than by their manners towards ourselves; but as yet, he felt scarcely any interest on the subject of Lady Dashfort’s or Lady Isabel’s characters: however, he inquired and listened to all the evidence he could obtain respecting this mother and daughter.

He heard terrible reports of the mischief they had done in families; the extravagance into which they had led men; the imprudence, to say no worse, into which they had betrayed women. Matches broken off, reputations ruined, husbands alienated from their wives, and wives made jealous of their husbands. But in some of these stories he discovered exaggeration so flagrant as to make him doubt the whole; in others, it could not be positively determined whether the mother or daughter had been the person most to blame.

Lord Colambre always followed the charitable rule of believing only half what the world says, and here he thought it fair to believe which half he pleased. He farther observed, that, though all joined in abusing these ladies in their absence, when present they seemed universally admired. Though every body cried “shame!” and “shocking!” yet every body visited them. No parties so crowded as Lady Dashfort’s; no party deemed pleasant or fashionable where Lady Dashfort or Lady Isabel was not. The bon-mots of the mother were every where repeated; the dress and air of the daughter every where imitated. Yet Lord Colambre could not help being surprised at their popularity in Dublin, because, independently of all moral objections, there were causes of a different sort, sufficient, he thought, to prevent Lady Dashfort from being liked by the Irish, indeed by any society. She in general affected to be ill-bred, and inattentive to the feelings and opinions of others; careless whom she offended by her wit or by her decided tone. There are some persons in so high a region of fashion, that they imagine themselves above the thunder of vulgar censure. Lady Dashfort felt herself in this exalted situation, and fancied she might

“Hear the innocuous thunder roll below.”

Her rank was so high that none could dare to call her vulgar: what would have been gross in any one of meaner note, in her was freedom or originality, or Lady Dashfort’s way. It was Lady Dashfort’s pleasure and pride to show her power in perverting the public taste. She often said to those English companions with whom she was intimate, “Now see what follies I can lead these fools into. Hear the nonsense I can make them repeat as wit.” Upon some occasion, one of her friends _ventured_ to fear that something she had said was _too strong_. “Too strong, was it? Well, I like to be strong–woe be to the weak!” On another occasion she was told that certain visitors had seen her ladyship yawning. “Yawn, did I?–glad of it–the yawn sent them away, or I should have snored;–rude, was I? they won’t complain. To say I was rude to them, would be to say, that I did not think it worth my while to be otherwise. Barbarians! are not we the civilized English, come to teach them manners and fashions? Whoever does not conform, and swear allegiance too, we shall keep out of the English pale.”

Lady Dashfort forced her way, and she set the fashion: fashion, which converts the ugliest dress into what is beautiful and charming, governs the public mode in morals and in manners; and thus, when great talents and high rank combine, they can debase or elevate the public taste.

With Lord Colambre she played more artfully: she drew him out in defence of his beloved country, and gave him opportunities of appearing to advantage; this he could not help feeling, especially when the Lady Isabel was present. Lady Dashfort had dealt long enough with human nature to know, that to make any man pleased with her, she should begin by making him pleased with himself.

Insensibly the antipathy that Lord Colambre had originally felt to Lady Dashfort wore off; her faults, he began to think, were assumed; he pardoned her defiance of good-breeding, when he observed that she could, when she chose it, be most engagingly polite. It was not that she did not know what was right, but that she did not think it always for her interest to practise it.

The party opposed to Lady Dashfort affirmed that her wit depended merely on unexpectedness; a characteristic which may be applied to any impropriety of speech, manner, or conduct. In some of her ladyship’s repartees, however, Lord Colambre now acknowledged there was more than unexpectedness; there was real wit; but it was of a sort utterly unfit for a woman, and he was sorry that Lady Isabel should hear it. In short, exceptionable as it was altogether, Lady Dashfort’s conversation had become entertaining to him; and though he could never esteem, or feel in the least interested about her, he began to allow that she could be agreeable.

“Ay, I knew how it would be,” said she, when some of her friends told her this. “He began by detesting me, and did I not tell you that, if I thought it worth my while to make him like me, he must, sooner or later? I delight in seeing people begin with me as they do with olives, making all manner of horrid faces, and silly protestations that they will never touch an olive again as long as they live; but, after a little time, these very folk grow so desperately fond of olives, that there is no dessert without them. Isabel, child, you are in the sweet line–but sweets cloy. You never heard of any body living on marmalade, did ye?”

Lady Isabel answered by a sweet smile.

“To do you justice, you play Lydia Languish vastly well,” pursued the mother; “but Lydia, by herself, would soon tire; somebody must keep up the spirit and bustle, and carry on the plot of the piece, and I am that somebody–as you shall see. Is not that our hero’s voice which I hear on the stairs?”

It was Lord Colambre. His lordship had by this time become a constant visitor at Lady Dashfort’s. Not that he had forgotten, or that he meant to disregard his friend Sir James Brooke’s parting words. He promised himself faithfully, that if any thing should occur to give him reason to suspect designs, such as those to which the warning pointed, he would be on his guard, and would prove his generalship by an able retreat. But to imagine attacks where none were attempted, to suspect ambuscades in the open country, would be ridiculous and cowardly.

“No,” thought our hero; “Heaven forefend I should be such a coxcomb as to fancy every woman who speaks to me has designs upon my precious heart, or on my more precious estate!” As he walked from his hotel to Lady Dashfort’s house, ingeniously wrong, he came to this conclusion, just as he ascended the stairs, and just as her ladyship had settled her future plan of operations.

After talking over the nothings of the day, and after having given two or three _cuts_ at the society of Dublin, with two or three compliments to individuals, who she knew were favourites with his lordship, she suddenly turned to him. “My lord, I think you told me, or my own sagacity discovered, that you want to see something of Ireland, and that you don’t intend, like most travellers, to turn round, see nothing, and go home content.”

Lord Colambre assured her ladyship that she had judged him rightly, for that nothing would content him but seeing all that was possible to be seen of his native country. It was for this special purpose he came to Ireland.

“Ah!–well–very good purpose–can’t be better; but now how to accomplish it. You know the Portuguese proverb says, ‘You go to hell for the good things you _intend_ to do, and to heaven for those you do.’ Now let us see what you will do. Dublin, I suppose, you’ve seen enough of by this time; through and through–round and round–this makes me first giddy, and then sick. Let me show you the country–not the face of it, but the body of it–the people.–Not Castle this, or Newtown that, but their inhabitants. I know them; I have the key, or the pick-lock to their minds. An Irishman is as different an animal on his guard and off his guard, as a miss in school from a miss out of school. A fine country for game, I’ll show you; and if you are a good marksman, you may have plenty of shots ‘at folly as it flies.'”

Lord Colambre smiled.

“As to Isabel,” pursued her ladyship, “I shall put her in charge of Heathcock, who is going with us. She won’t thank me for that, but you will. Nay, no fibs, man; you know, I know, as who does not that has seen the world? that, though a pretty woman is a mighty pretty thing, yet she is confoundedly in one’s way, when any thing else is to be seen, heard,–or understood.”

Every objection anticipated and removed, and so far a prospect held out of attaining all the information he desired, with more than all the amusement he could have expected, Lord Colambre seemed much tempted to accept the invitation; but he hesitated, because, as he said, her ladyship might be going to pay visits where he was not acquainted.

“Bless you! don’t let that be a stumbling-block in the way of your tender conscience. I am going to Killpatricks-town, where you’ll be as welcome as light. You know them, they know you; at least you shall have a proper letter of invitation from my Lord and my Lady Killpatrick, and all that. And as to the rest, you know a young man is always welcome every where, a young nobleman kindly welcome–I won’t say such a young man, and such a young nobleman, for that might put you to your bows or your blushes–but _nobilitas_ by itself, nobility is virtue enough in all parties, in all families, where there are girls, and of course balls, as there are always at Killpatricks-town. Don’t be alarmed; you shall not be forced to dance, or asked to marry. I’ll be your security. You shall be at full liberty; and it is a house where you can do just what you will. Indeed, I go to no others. These Killpatricks are the best creatures in the world; they think nothing good or grand enough for me. If I’d let them, they would lay down cloth of gold over their bogs for me to walk upon. Good-hearted beings!” added Lady Dashfort, marking a cloud gathering on Lord Colambre’s countenance. “I laugh at them, because I love them. I could not love any thing I might not laugh at–your lordship excepted. So you’ll come–that’s settled.”

And so it was settled. Our hero went to Killpatricks-town.

“Every thing here sumptuous and unfinished, you see,” said Lady Dashfort to Lord Colambre, the day after their arrival. “All begun as if the projectors thought they had the command of the mines of Peru, and ended as if the possessors had not sixpence. Luxuries enough for an English prince of the blood: comforts not enough for an English yeoman. And you may be sure that great repairs and alterations have gone on to fit this house for our reception, and for our English eyes!–Poor people!–English visitors, in this point of view, are horribly expensive to the Irish. Did you ever hear, that in the last century, or in the century before the last, to put my story far enough back, so that it shall not touch any body living; when a certain English nobleman, Lord Blank A—-, sent to let his Irish friend, Lord Blank B—-, know that he and all his train were coming over to pay him a visit; the Irish nobleman, Blank B—-, knowing the deplorable condition of his castle, sat down fairly to calculate whether it would cost him most to put the building in good and sufficient repair, fit to receive these English visitors, or to burn it to the ground. He found the balance to be in favour of burning, which was wisely accomplished next day.[1] Perhaps Killpatrick would have done well to follow this example. Resolve me which is worst, to be burnt out of house and home, or to be eaten out of house and home. In this house, above and below stairs, including first and second table, housekeeper’s room, lady’s maids’ room, butler’s room, and gentleman’s, one hundred and four people sit down to dinner every day, as Petito informs me, besides kitchen boys, and what they call _char_-women, who never sit down, but who do not eat or waste the less for that; and retainers and friends, friends to the fifth and sixth generation, who ‘must get their bit and their sup;’ for ‘sure, it’s only Biddy,’ they say;” continued Lady Dashfort, imitating their Irish brogue. “And ‘sure, ’tis nothing at all, out of all his honour my lord has. How could he _feel_ it[2]?–Long life to him!–He’s not that way: not a couple in all Ireland, and that’s saying a great dale, looks less after their own, nor is more off-handeder, or open-hearteder, or greater openhouse-keeper, _nor_[3] my Lord and my Lady Killpatrick.’ Now there’s encouragement for a lord and a lady to ruin themselves.”

[Footnote 1: Fact.]
[Footnote 2: _Feel_ it, become sensible of it, know it.] [Footnote 3: _Nor_, than.]

Lady Dashfort imitated the Irish brogue in perfection; boasted that “she was mistress of fourteen different brogues, and had brogues for all occasions.” By her mixture of mimicry, sarcasm, exaggeration, and truth, she succeeded continually in making Lord Colambre laugh at every thing at which she wished to make him laugh; at every _thing_, but not at every _body_: whenever she became personal, he became serious, or at least endeavoured to become serious; and if he could not instantly resume the command of his risible muscles, he reproached himself.

“It is shameful to laugh at these people, indeed, Lady Dashfort, in their own house–these hospitable people, who are entertaining us.”

“Entertaining us! true, and if we are _entertained_, how can we help laughing?”

All expostulation was thus turned off by a jest, as it was her pride to make Lord Colambre laugh in spite of his better feelings and principles. This he saw, and this seemed to him to be her sole object; but there he was mistaken. _Off-handed_ as she pretended to be, none dealt more in the _impromptu fait à loisir_; and, mentally short-sighted as she affected to be, none had more _longanimity_ for their own interest.

It was her settled purpose to make the Irish and Ireland ridiculous and contemptible to Lord Colambre; to disgust him with his native country; to make him abandon the wish of residing on his own estate. To confirm him an absentee was her object, previously to her ultimate plan of marrying him to her daughter. Her daughter was poor, she would therefore be glad to _get_ an Irish peer for her; but would be very sorry, she said, to see Isabel banished to Ireland; and the young widow declared she could never bring herself to be buried alive in Clonbrony Castle.

In addition to these considerations, Lady Dashfort received certain hints from Mrs. Petito, which worked all to the same point.

“Why, yes, my lady; I heard a great deal about all that, when I was at Lady Clonbrony’s,” said Petito, one day, as she was attending at her lady’s toilette, and encouraged to begin chattering. “And I own I was originally under the universal error that my Lord Colambre was to be married to the great heiress, Miss Broadhurst; but I have been converted and reformed on that score, and am at present quite in another way of thinking.”

Petito paused, in hopes that her lady would ask what was her present way of thinking? But Lady Dashfort, certain that she would tell her without being asked, did not take the trouble to speak, particularly as she did not choose to appear violently interested on the subject.

“My present way of thinking,” resumed Petito, “is in consequence of my having, with my own eyes and ears, witnessed and overheard his lordship’s behaviour and words, the morning he was coming away from _Lunnun_ for Ireland; when he was morally certain nobody was up, nor overhearing nor overseeing him, there did I notice him, my lady, stopping in the antechamber, ejaculating over one of Miss Nugent’s gloves, which he had picked up. ‘Limerick!’ said he, quite loud enough to himself; for it was a Limerick glove, my lady–‘Limerick!–dear Ireland! she loves you as well as I do!’–or words to that effect; and then a sigh, and down stairs and off. So, thinks I, now the cat’s out of the bag. And I wouldn’t give much myself for Miss Broadhurst’s chance of that young lord, with all her Bank stock, scrip, and _omnum_. Now, I see how the land lies, and I’m sorry for it; for she’s no _fortin_; and she’s so proud, she never said a hint to me of the matter: but my Lord Colambre is a sweet gentleman; and–“

“Petito! don’t run on so; you must not meddle with what you don’t understand: the Miss Killpatricks, to be sure, are sweet girls, particularly the youngest.”

Her ladyship’s toilette was finished; and she left Petito to go down to my Lady Killpatrick’s woman, to tell, as a very great secret, the schemes that were in contemplation, among the higher powers, in favour of the youngest of the Miss Killpatricks.

“So Ireland is at the bottom of his heart, is it?” repeated Lady Dashfort to herself: “it shall not be long so.”

From this time forward, not a day, scarcely an hour passed, but her ladyship did or said something to depreciate the country, or its inhabitants, in our hero’s estimation. With treacherous ability, she knew and followed all the arts of misrepresentation; all those injurious arts which his friend, Sir James Brooke, had, with such honest indignation, reprobated. She knew how, not only to seize the ridiculous points, to make the most respectable people ridiculous, but she knew how to select the worst instances, the worst exceptions; and to produce them as examples, as precedents, from which to condemn whole classes, and establish general false conclusions respecting a nation.

In the neighbourhood of Killpatrick’s-town, Lady Dashfort said, there were several _squireens_, or little squires; a race of men who have succeeded to the _buckeens_, described by Young and Crumpe. _Squireens_ are persons who, with good long leases, or valuable farms, possess incomes from three to eight hundred a year, who keep a pack of hounds; _take out_ a commission of the peace, sometimes before they can spell (as her ladyship said), and almost always before they know any thing of law or justice. Busy and loud about small matters; _jobbers at assizes_; combining with one another, and trying upon every occasion, public or private, to push themselves forward, to the annoyance of their superiors, and the terror of those below them.

In the usual course of things, these men are not often to be found in the society of gentry except, perhaps, among those gentlemen or noblemen who like to see hangers-on at their, tables: or who find it for their convenience to have underling magistrates, to _protect_ their favourites, or to propose and _carry_ jobs for them on grand juries. At election times, however, these persons rise into sudden importance with all who have views upon the county. Lady Dashfort hinted to Lord Killpatrick, that her private letters from England spoke of an approaching dissolution of parliament: she knew that, upon this hint, a round of invitations would be sent to the squireens; and she was morally certain that they would be more disagreeable to Lord Colambre, and give him a worse idea of the country, than any other people who could be produced. Day after day some of these personages made their appearance; and Lady Dashfort took care to draw them out upon the subjects on which she knew that they would show the most self-sufficient ignorance, and the most illiberal spirit. They succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations.

“Lord Colambre! how I pity you, for being compelled to these permanent sittings after dinner!” said Lady Isabel to him one night, when he came late to the ladies from the dining-room.

“Lord Killpatrick insisted upon my staying to help him to push about that never-ending, still-beginning electioneering bottle,” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh! if that were all; if these gentlemen would only drink:–but their conversation!” “I don’t wonder my mother dreads returning to Clonbrony Castle, if my father must have such company as this. But, surely, it cannot be necessary.”

“Oh, indispensable! positively indispensable!” cried Lady Dashfort; “no living in Ireland without it. You know, in every country in the world, you must live with the people of the country, or be torn to pieces: for my part, I should prefer being torn to pieces.”

Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel knew how to take advantage of the contrast between their own conversation, and that of the persons by whom Lord Colambre was so justly disgusted: they happily relieved his fatigue with wit, satire, poetry, and sentiment; so that he every day became more exclusively fond of their company; for Lady Killpatrick and the Miss Killpatricks were mere commonplace people. In the mornings, he rode or walked with Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel: Lady Dashfort, by way of fulfilling her promise of showing him the people, used frequently to take him into the cabins, and talk to their inhabitants. Lord and Lady Killpatrick, who had lived always for the fashionable world, had taken little pains to improve the condition of their tenants: the few attempts they had made were injudicious. They had built ornamented, picturesque cottages, within view of their park; and favourite followers of the family, people with half a century’s habit of indolence and dirt, were _promoted_ to these fine dwellings. The consequences were such as Lady Dashfort delighted to point out: every thing let to go to ruin for the want of a moment’s care, or pulled to pieces for the sake of the most surreptitious profit: the people most assisted always appearing proportionally wretched and discontented. No one could, with more ease and more knowledge of her ground, than Lady Dashfort, do the _dishonours_ of a country. In every cabin that she entered, by the first glance of her eye at the head, kerchiefed in no comely guise, or by the drawn-down corners of the mouth, or by the bit of a broken pipe, which in Ireland never characterizes _stout labour_, or by the first sound of the voice, the drawling accent on “your honour,” or, “my lady,” she could distinguish the proper objects of her charitable designs, that is to say, those of the old uneducated race, whom no one can help, because they will never help themselves. To these she constantly addressed herself, making them give, in all their despairing tones, a history of their complaints and grievances; then asking them questions, aptly contrived to expose their habits of self-contradiction, their servility and flattery one moment, and their litigious and encroaching spirit the next: thus giving Lord Colambre the most unfavourable idea of the disposition and character of the lower class of the Irish people. Lady Isabel the while standing by, with the most amiable air of pity, with expressions of the finest moral sensibility, softening all her mother said, finding ever some excuse for the poor creatures, and following, with angelic sweetness, to heal the wounds her mother inflicted.

When Lady Dashfort thought she had sufficiently worked upon Lord Colambre’s mind to weaken his enthusiasm for his native country; and when Lady Isabel had, by the appearance of every virtue, added to a delicate preference, if not partiality for our hero, ingratiated herself into his good opinion, and obtained an interest in his mind, the wily mother ventured an attack of a more decisive nature; and so contrived it was, that if it failed, it should appear to have been made without design to injure, and in total ignorance.

One day, Lady Dashfort, who, in fact, was not proud of her family, though she pretended to be so, was herself prevailed on, though with much difficulty, by Lady Killpatrick, to do the very thing she wanted to do, to show her genealogy, which had been beautifully blazoned, and which was to be produced in evidence in the lawsuit that brought her to Ireland. Lord Colambre stood politely looking on and listening, while her ladyship explained the splendid intermarriages of her family, pointing to each medallion that was filled gloriously with noble, and even with royal names, till at last she stopped short, and covering one medallion with her finger, she said, “Pass over that, dear Lady Killpatrick. You are not to see that, Lord Colambre–that’s a little blot in our scutcheon. You know, Isabel, we never talk of that prudent match of great uncle John’s: what could he expect by marrying into _that_ family, where, you know, all the men were not _sans peur_, and none of the women _sans reproche_?”

“Oh, mamma!” cried Lady Isabel, “not one exception!”

“Not one, Isabel,” persisted Lady Dashfort: “there was Lady —-, and the other sister, that married the man with the long nose; and the daughter again, of whom they contrived to make an honest woman, by getting her married in time to a _blue riband_, and who contrived to get herself into Doctors’ Commons the very next year.”

“Well, dear mamma, that is enough, and too much. Oh! pray don’t go on,” cried Lady Isabel, who had appeared very much distressed during her mother’s speech. “You don’t know what you are saying: indeed, ma’am, you don’t.”

“Very likely, child; but that compliment I can return to you on the spot, and with interest; for you seem to me, at this instant, not to know either what you are saying, or what you are doing. Come, come, explain.”

“Oh, no, ma’am–Pray say no more; I will explain myself another time.”

“Nay, there you are wrong, Isabel; in point of good-breeding, any thing is better than hints and mystery. Since I have been so unlucky as to touch upon the subject, better go through with it, and, with all the boldness of innocence, I ask the question, Are you, my Lord Colambre, or are you not, related to or connected with any of the St. Omars?”

“Not that I know of,” said Lord Colambre; “but I really am so bad a genealogist, that I cannot answer positively.”

“Then I must put the substance of my question into a new form. Have you, or have you not, a cousin of the name of Nugent?”

“Miss Nugent!–Grace Nugent!–Yes,” said Lord Colambre, with as much firmness of voice as he could command, and with as little change of countenance as possible; but, as the question came upon him so unexpectedly, it was not in his power to answer with an air of absolute indifference and composure.

“And her mother was–” said Lady Dashfort.

“My aunt, by marriage; her maiden name was Reynolds, I think. But she died when I was quite a child. I know very little about her. I never saw her in my life; but I am certain she was a Reynolds.”

“Oh, my dear lord,” continued Lady Dashfort; “I am perfectly aware that she did take and bear the name of Reynolds; but that was not her maiden name–her maiden name was–; but perhaps it is a family secret that has been kept, for some good reason, from you, and from the poor girl herself; the maiden name was St. Omar, depend upon it. Nay, I would not have told this to you, my lord, if I could have conceived that it would affect you so violently,” pursued Lady Dashfort, in a tone of raillery; “you see you are no worse off than we are. We have an intermarriage with the St. Omars. I did not think you would be so much shocked at a discovery, which proves that our family and yours have some little connexion.”

Lord Colambre endeavoured to answer, and mechanically said something about “happy to have the honour.” Lady Dashfort, truly happy to see that her blow had hit the mark so well, turned from his lordship without seeming to observe how seriously he was affected; and Lady Isabel sighed, and looked with compassion on Lord Colambre, and then reproachfully at her mother. But Lord Colambre heeded not her looks, and heard none of her sighs; he heard nothing, saw nothing, though his eyes were intently fixed on the genealogy, on which Lady Dashfort was still descanting to Lady Killpatrick. He took the first opportunity he could of quitting the room, and went out to take a solitary walk.

“There he is, departed, but not in peace, to reflect upon what has been said,” whispered Lady Dashfort to her daughter. “I hope it will do him a vast deal of good.”

“None of the women _sans reproche_! None!–without one exception,” said Lord Colambre to himself; “and Grace Nugent’s mother a St. Omar!–Is it possible? Lady Dashfort seems certain. She could not assert a positive falsehood–no motive. She does not know that Miss Nugent is the person to whom I am attached–she spoke at random. And I have heard it first from a stranger,–not from my mother. Why was it kept secret from me? Now I understand the reason why my mother evidently never wished that I should think of Miss Nugent–why she always spoke so vehemently against the marriages of relations, of cousins. Why not tell me the truth? It would have had the strongest effect, had she known my mind.”

Lord Colambre had the greatest dread of marrying any woman whose mother had conducted herself ill. His reason, his prejudices, his pride, his delicacy, and even his limited experience were all against it. All his hopes, his plans of future happiness, were shaken to their very foundation; he felt as if he had received a blow that stunned his mind, and from which he could not recover his faculties. The whole of that day he was like one in a dream. At night the painful idea continually recurred to him; and whenever he was fallen asleep, the sound of Lady Dashfort’s voice returned upon his ear, saying the words, “What could he expect when he married one of the St. Omars? None of the women _sans reproche_.”

In the morning he rose early; and the first thing he did was to write a letter to his mother, requesting (unless there was some important reason for her declining to answer the question) that she would immediately relieve his mind from a great _uneasiness_ (he altered the word four times, but at last left it uneasiness). He stated what he had heard, and besought his mother to tell him the whole truth without reserve.

CHAPTER VIII.

One morning Lady Dashfort had formed an ingenious scheme for leaving Lady Isabel and Lord Colambre _tête-à-tête_; but the sudden entrance of Heathcock disconcerted her intentions. He came to beg Lady Dashfort’s interest with Count O’Halloran, for permission to hunt and shoot on his grounds next season.–“Not for myself, ‘pon honour, but for two officers who are quartered at the next _town_ here, who will indubitably hang or drown themselves if they are debarred from sporting.”

“Who is this Count O’Halloran?” said Lord Colambre.

Miss White, Lady Killpatrick’s companion, said, “he was a great oddity;” Lady Dashfort, “that he was singular;” and the clergyman of the parish, who was at breakfast, declared “that he was a man of uncommon knowledge, merit, and politeness.”

“All I know of him,” said Heathcock, “is, that he is a great sportsman, with a long queue, a gold-laced hat, and long skirts to a laced waistcoat.”

Lord Colambre expressed a wish to see this extraordinary personage; and Lady Dashfort, to cover her former design, and, perhaps thinking absence might be as effectual as too much propinquity, immediately offered to call upon the officers in their way, and carry them with Heathcock and Lord Colambre to Halloran Castle.

Lady Isabel retired with much mortification, but with becoming grace; and Major Benson and Captain Williamson were taken to the count’s. Major Benson, who was a famous _whip_, took his seat on the box of the barouche; and the rest of the party had the pleasure of her ladyship’s conversation for three or four miles: of her ladyship’s conversation–for Lord Colambre’s thoughts were far distant; Captain Williamson had not any thing to say; and Heathcock nothing but “Eh! re’lly now!–‘pon honour!”

They arrived at Halloran Castle–a fine old building, part of it in ruins, and part repaired with great judgment and taste. When the carriage stopped, a respectable-looking man-servant appeared on the steps, at the open hall-door.

Count O’Halloran was out fishing; but his servant said that he would he at home immediately, if Lady Dashfort and the gentlemen would be pleased to walk in.

On one side of the lofty and spacious hall stood the skeleton of an elk; on the other side, the perfect skeleton of a moose-deer, which, as the servant said, his master had made out, with great care, from the different bones of many of this curious species of deer, found in the lakes in the neighbourhood. The leash of officers witnessed their wonder with sundry strange oaths and exclamations.–“Eh! ‘pon honour–re’lly now!” said Heathcock; and, too genteel to wonder at or admire any thing in the creation, dragged out his watch with some difficulty, saying, “I wonder now whether they are likely to think of giving us any thing to eat in this place?” And, turning his back upon the moose-deer, he straight walked out again upon the steps, called to his groom, and began to make some inquiry about his led horse. Lord Colambre surveyed the prodigious skeletons with rational curiosity, and with that sense of awe and admiration, by which a superior mind is always struck on beholding any of the great works of Providence.

“Come, my dear lord!” said Lady Dashfort; “with our sublime sensations, we are keeping my old friend, Mr. Ulick Brady, this venerable person, waiting to show us into the reception-room.”

The servant bowed respectfully–more respectfully than servants of modern date.

“My lady, the reception-room has been lately painted,–the smell of paint may be disagreeable; with your leave, I will take the liberty of showing you into my master’s study.”

He opened the door, went in before her, and stood holding up his finger, as if making a signal of silence to some one within. Her ladyship entered, and found herself in the midst of an odd assembly: an eagle, a goat, a dog, an otter, several gold and silver fish in a glass globe, and a white mouse in a cage. The eagle, quick of eye but quiet of demeanour, was perched upon his stand; the otter lay under the table, perfectly harmless; the Angora goat, a beautiful and remarkably little creature of its kind, with long, curling, silky hair, was walking about the room with the air of a beauty and a favourite; the dog, a tall Irish greyhound–one of the few of that fine race, which is now almost extinct–had been given to Count O’Halloran by an Irish nobleman, a relation of Lady Dashfort’s. This dog, who had formerly known her ladyship, looked at her with ears erect, recognized her, and went to meet her the moment she entered. The servant answered for the peaceable behaviour of all the rest of the company of animals, and retired. Lady Dashfort began to feed the eagle from a silver plate on his stand; Lord Colambre examined the inscription on his collar; the other men stood in amaze. Heathcock, who came in last, astonished out of his constant “Eh! re’lly now!” the moment he put himself in at the door, exclaimed, “Zounds! what’s all this live lumber?” and he stumbled over the goat, who was at that moment crossing the way. The colonel’s spur caught in the goat’s curly beard; the colonel shook his foot, and entangled the spur worse and worse; the goat struggled and butted; the colonel skated forward on the polished oak floor, balancing himself with outstretched arms.

The indignant eagle screamed, and, passing by, perched on Heathcock’s shoulders. Too well bred to have recourse to the terrors of his beak, he scrupled not to scream, and flap his wings about the colonel’s ears. Lady Dashfort, the while, threw herself back in her chair, laughing, and begging Heathcock’s pardon. “Oh, take care of the dog, my dear colonel!” cried she; “for this kind of dog seizes his enemy by the back, and shakes him to death.” The officers, holding their sides, laughed and begged–no pardon; while Lord Colambre, the only person who was not absolutely incapacitated, tried to disentangle the spur, and to liberate the colonel from the goat, and the goat from the colonel; an attempt in which he at last succeeded, at the expense of a considerable portion of the goat’s beard. The eagle, however, still kept his place; and, yet mindful of the wrongs of his insulted friend the goat, had stretched his wings to give another buffet. Count O’Halloran entered; and the bird, quitting his prey, flew down to greet his master. The count was a fine old military-looking gentleman, fresh from fishing: his fishing accoutrements hanging carelessly about him, he advanced, unembarrassed, to Lady Dashfort; and received his other guests with a mixture of military ease and gentlemanlike dignity.

Without adverting to the awkward and ridiculous situation in which he had found poor Heathcock, he apologized in general for his troublesome favourites. “For one of them,” said he, patting the head of the dog, which lay quiet at Lady Dashfort’s feet, “I see I have no need to apologize; he is where he ought to be. Poor fellow! he has never lost his taste for the good company to which he was early accustomed. As to the rest,” said he, turning to Lady Dashfort, “a mouse, a bird, and a fish, are, you know, tribute from earth, air, and water, to a conqueror–“

“But from no barbarous Scythian!” said Lord Colambre, smiling. The count looked at Lord Colambre, as at a person worthy his attention; but his first care was to keep the peace between his loving subjects and his foreign visitors. It was difficult to dislodge the old settlers, to make room for the new comers: but he adjusted these things with admirable facility; and, with a master’s hand and master’s eye, compelled each favourite to retreat into the back settlements. With becoming attention, he stroked and kept quiet old Victory, his eagle, who eyed Colonel Heathcock still, as if he did not like him; and whom the colonel eyed as if he wished his neck fairly wrung off. The little goat had nestled himself close up to his liberator, Lord Colambre, and lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed, going very wisely to sleep, and submitting philosophically to the loss of one half of his beard. Conversation now commenced, and was carried on by Count O’Halloran with much ability and spirit, and with such quickness of discrimination and delicacy of taste, as quite surprised and delighted our hero. To the lady the count’s attention was first directed: he listened to her as she spoke, bending with an air of deference and devotion. She made her request for permission for Major Benson and Captain Williamson to hunt and shoot in his grounds next season: this was instantly granted.

Her ladyship’s requests were to him commands, the count said.–His gamekeeper should be instructed to give the gentlemen, her friends, every liberty, and all possible assistance.

Then, turning to the officers, he said, he had just heard that several regiments of English militia had lately landed in Ireland; that one regiment was arrived at Killpatrick’s-town. He rejoiced in the advantages Ireland, and he hoped he might be permitted to add, England, would probably derive from the exchange of the militia of both countries: habits would be improved, ideas enlarged. The two countries have the same interest; and, from the inhabitants discovering more of each other’s good qualities, and interchanging little good offices in common life, their esteem and affection for each other would increase, and rest upon the firm basis of mutual utility.

To all this Major Benson answered only, “We are not militia officers.”

“The major looks so like a stuffed man of straw,” whispered Lady Dashfort to Lord Colambre, “and the captain so like the king of spades, putting forth one manly leg.”

Count O’Halloran now turned the conversation to field sports, and then the captain and major opened at once.

“Pray now, sir,” said the major, “you fox-hunt in this country, I suppose; and now do you manage the thing here as we do? Over night, you know, before the hunt, when the fox is out, stopping up the earths of the cover we mean to draw, and all the rest for four miles round. Next morning we assemble at the cover’s side, and the huntsman throws in the hounds. The gossip here is no small part of the entertainment: but as soon as we hear the hounds give tongue–“

“The favourite hounds,” interposed Williamson.

“The favourite hounds, to be sure,” continued Benson: “there is a dead silence till pug is well out of cover, and the whole pack well in: then cheer the hounds with tally-ho! till your lungs crack. Away he goes in gallant style, and the whole field is hard up, till pug takes a stiff country: then they who haven’t pluck lag, see no more of him, and, with a fine blazing scent, there are but few of us in at the death.”

“Well, we are fairly in at the death, I hope,” said Lady Dashfort: “I was thrown out sadly at one time in the chase.”

Lord Colambre, with the count’s permission, took up a book in which the count’s pencil lay, “Pasley on the Military Policy of Great Britain;” it was marked with many notes of admiration, and with hands pointing to remarkable passages.

“That is a book that leaves a strong impression on the mind,” said the count.

Lord Colambre read one of the marked passages, beginning with “All that distinguishes a soldier in outward appearance from a citizen is so trifling–” but at this instant our hero’s attention was distracted by seeing in a black-letter book this title of a chapter: “Burial-place of the Nugents.”

“Pray now, sir,” said Captain Williamson, “if I don’t interrupt you, as you are a fisherman too; now in Ireland do you, _Mr._–“

A smart pinch on his elbow from his major, who stood behind him, stopped the captain short, as he pronounced the word _Mr._ Like all awkward people, he turned directly to ask, by his looks, what was the matter.

The major took advantage of his discomfiture, and, stepping before him, determined to have the fishing to himself, and went on with, “Count O’Halloran, I presume you understand fishing, too, as well as hunting?”

The count bowed: “I do not presume to say that, sir.”

“But pray, count, in this country, do you arm your hook this ways? Give me leave;” taking the whip from Williamson’s reluctant hand, “this ways, laying the outermost part of your feather this fashion next to your hook, and the point next to your shank, this wise, and that wise; and then, sir,–count, you take the hackle of a cock’s neck–“

“A plover’s topping’s better,” said Williamson.

“And work your gold and silver thread,” pursued Benson, “up to your wings, and when your head’s made, you fasten all.”

“But you never showed how your head’s made,” interrupted Williamson.

“The gentleman knows how a head’s made; any man can make a head, I suppose: so, sir, you fasten all.”

“You’ll never get your head fast on that way, while the world stands,” cried Williamson.

“Fast enough for all purposes; I’ll bet you a rump and dozen, captain: and then, sir,–count, you divide your wings with a needle.”

“A pin’s point will do,” said Williamson.

The count, to reconcile matters, produced from an Indian cabinet, which he had opened for Lady Dashfort’s inspection, a little basket containing a variety of artificial flies of curious construction, which, as he spread them on the table, made Williamson and Benson’s eyes almost sparkle with delight. There was the _dun-fly_, for the month of March; and the _stone-fly_, much in vogue for April; and the _ruddy-fly_, of red wool, black silk, and red capon’s feathers.

Lord Colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of the Nugents, wished them all at the bottom of the sea.

“And the _green-fly_, and the _moorish-fly_!” cried Benson, snatching them up with transport; “and, chief, the _sad-yellow-fly_, in which the fish delight in June; the _sad-yellow-fly_, made with the buzzard’s wings, bound with black braked hemp, and the _shell-fly_, for the middle of July, made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a peacock’s tail, famous for creating excellent sport.” All these and more were spread upon the table before the sportsmen’s wondering eyes.

“Capital flies! capital, faith!” cried Williamson.

“Treasures, faith, real treasures, by G–!” cried Benson.

“Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now,” were the first words which Heathcock had uttered since his battle with the goat.

“My dear Heathcock, are you alive still?” said Lady Dashfort: “I had really forgotten your existence.”

So had Count O’Halloran, but he did not say so.

“Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,” said Heathcock, stretching himself; “I wish I could forget my existence, for, in my mind, existence is a horrible _bore_.”

“I thought you _was_ a sportsman,” said Williamson.

“Well, sir?”

“And a fisherman?”

“Well, sir?”

“Why look you there, sir,” pointing to the flies, “and tell a body life’s a bore.”

“One can’t _always_ fish or shoot, I apprehend, sir,” said Heathcock.

“Not always–but sometimes,” said Williamson, laughing; “for I suspect shrewdly you’ve forgot some of your sporting in Bond-street.”

“Eh! ‘pon honour! re’lly now!” said the colonel, retreating again to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could venture without imminent danger.

“‘Pon honour,” cried Lady Dashfort, “I can swear for Heathcock, that I have eaten excellent hares and ducks of his shooting, which, to my knowledge,” added she, in a loud whisper, “he bought in the market.”

“_Emptum aprum!_” said Lord Colambre to the count, without danger of being understood by those whom it concerned.

The count smiled a second time; but politely turning the attention of the company from the unfortunate colonel, by addressing himself to the laughing sportsmen, “Gentlemen, you seem to value these,” said he, sweeping the artificial flies from the table into the little basket from which they had been taken; “would you do me the honour to accept of them? They are all of my own making, and consequently of Irish manufacture.” Then, ringing the bell, he asked Lady Dashfort’s permission to have the basket put into her carriage.

Benson and Williamson followed the servant, to prevent them from being tossed into the boot. Heathcock stood still in the middle of the room, taking snuff.

Count O’Halloran turned from him to Lord Colambre, who had just got happily to _the burial-place of the Nugents_, when Lady Dashfort, coming between them, and spying the title of the chapter, exclaimed, “What have you there?–Antiquities! my delight!–but I never look at engravings when I can see realities.”

Lord Colambre was then compelled to follow, as she led the way, into the hall, where the count took down golden ornaments, and brass-headed spears, and jointed horns of curious workmanship, that had been found on his estate; and he told of spermaceti wrapped in carpets, and he showed small urns, enclosing ashes; and from among these urns he selected one, which he put into the hands of Lord Colambre, telling him, that it had been lately found in an old abbey-ground in his neighbourhood, which had been the burial-place of some of the Nugent family.

“I was just looking at the account of it, in the book which you saw open on my table.–And as you seem to take an interest in that family, my lord, perhaps,” said the count, “you may think this urn worth your acceptance.”

Lord Colambre said, “It would be highly valuable to him–as the Nugents were his near relations.”

Lady Dashfort little expected this blow; she, however, carried him off to the moose-deer, and from moose-deer to round-towers, to various architectural antiquities, and to the real and fabulous history of Ireland, on all which the count spoke with learning and enthusiasm. But now, to Colonel Heathcock’s great joy and relief, a handsome collation appeared in the dining-room, of which Ulick opened the folding-doors.

“Count, you have made an excellent house of your castle,” said Lady Dashfort.

“It will be, when it is finished,” said the count. “I am afraid,” added he, smiling, “I live like many other Irish gentlemen, who never are, but always to be, blessed with a good house. I began on too large a scale, and can never hope to live to finish it.”

“‘Pon honour! here’s a good thing, which I hope we shall live to finish,” said Heathcock, sitting down before the collation; and heartily did he eat of eel-pie, and of Irish ortolans [1], which, as Lady Dashfort observed, “afforded him indemnity for the past, and security for the future.”

[Footnote 1: As it may be satisfactory to a large portion of the public, and to all men of taste, the editor subjoins the following account of the Irish ortolan, which will convince the world that this bird is not in the class of fabulous animals:

“There is a small bird, which is said to be peculiar to the Blasquet Islands, called by the Irish, Gourder, the English name of which I am at a loss for, nor do I find it mentioned by naturalists. It is somewhat larger than a sparrow; the feathers of the back are dark, and those of the belly are white; the bill is straight, short, and thick; and it is web-footed: they are almost one lump of fat; when roasted, of a most delicious taste, and are reckoned to exceed an ortolan; for which reason the gentry hereabouts call them the _Irish Ortolan_. These birds are worthy of being transmitted a great way to market; for ortolans, it is well known, are brought from France to supply the markets of London.”–See Smith’s Account of the County of Kerry, p. 186.]

“Eh! re’lly now! your Irish ortolans are famous good eating,” said Heathcock.

“Worth being quartered in Ireland, faith! to taste ’em,” said Benson.

The count recommended to Lady Dashfort some of “that delicate sweetmeat, the Irish plum.”

“Bless me, sir,–count!” cried Williamson, “it’s by far the best thing of the kind I ever tasted in all my life: where could you get this?”

“In Dublin, at my dear Mrs. Godey’s; where _only_, in his majesty’s dominions, it is to be had,” said the count.

The whole vanished in a few seconds.

“‘Pon honour! I do believe this is the thing the queen’s so fond of,” said Heathcock.

Then heartily did he drink of the count’s excellent Hungarian wines; and, by the common bond of sympathy between those who have no other tastes but eating and drinking, the colonel, the major, and the captain, were now all the best companions possible for one another.

Whilst “they prolonged the rich repast,” Lady Dashfort and Lord Colambre went to the window to admire the prospect: Lady Dashfort asked the count the name of some distant hill.

“Ah!” said the count, “that hill was once covered with fine wood; but it was all cut down two years ago.”

“Who could have been so cruel?” said her ladyship.

“I forget the present proprietor’s name,” said the count; “but he is one of those who, according to _the clause of distress_ in their leases, _lead, drive, and carry away_, but never _enter_ their lands; one of those enemies to Ireland–those cruel absentees!”

Lady Dashfort looked through her glass at the mountain:–Lord Colambre sighed, and, endeavouring to pass it off with a smile, said frankly to the count, “You are not aware, I am sure, count, that you are speaking to the son of an Irish absentee family. Nay, do not be shocked, my dear sir; I tell you only because I thought it fair to do so: but let me assure you, that nothing you could say on that subject could hurt me personally, because I feel that I am not, that I never can be, an enemy to Ireland. An absentee, voluntarily, I never yet have been; and as to the future, I declare–“

“I declare you know nothing of the future,” interrupted Lady Dashfort, in a half peremptory, half playful tone–“you know nothing: make no rash vows, and you will break none.”

The undaunted assurance of Lady Dashfort’s genius for intrigue gave her an air of frank imprudence, which prevented Lord Colambre from suspecting that more was meant than met the ear. The count and he took leave of one another with mutual regard; and Lady Dashfort rejoiced to have got our hero out of Halloran Castle.

CHAPTER IX.

Lord Colambre had waited with great impatience for an answer to the letter of inquiry which he had written about Miss Nugent’s mother. A letter from Lady Clonbrony arrived: he opened it with the greatest eagerness–passed over “Rheumatism–warm weather–warm bath–Buxton balls–Miss Broadhurst–your _friend_, Sir Arthur Berryl, very assiduous!” The name of Grace Nugent he found at last, and read as follows:–

“Her mother’s maiden name was _St. Omar_; and there was a _faux pas_, certainly. She was, I am told, (for it was before my time,) educated at a convent abroad; and there was an affair with a Captain Reynolds, a young officer, which her friends were obliged to hush up. She brought an infant to England with her, and took the name of Reynolds–but none of that family would acknowledge her: and she lived in great obscurity, till your Uncle Nugent saw, fell in love with her, and (knowing her whole history) married her. He adopted the child, gave her his name, and, after some years, the whole story was forgotten. Nothing could be more disadvantageous to Grace than to have it revived: this is the reason we kept it secret.”

Lord Colambre tore the letter to bits.

From the perturbation which Lady Dashfort saw in his countenance, she guessed the nature of the letter which he had been reading, and for the arrival of which he had been so impatient.

“It has worked!” said she to herself. “_Pour le coup Philippe je te tiens_!”

Lord Colambre appeared this day more sensible than he had ever yet seemed to the charms of the fair Isabel.

“Many a tennis-ball, and many a heart, is caught at the rebound,” said Lady Dashfort. “Isabel! now is your time!”

And so it was–or so, perhaps, it would have been, but for a circumstance which her ladyship, with all her genius for intrigue, had never taken into her consideration. Count O’Halloran came to return the visit which had been paid to him; and, in the course of conversation, he spoke of the officers who had been introduced to him, and told Lady Dashfort that he had heard a report which shocked him much–he hoped it could not be true–that one of these officers had introduced his mistress as his wife to Lady Oranmore, who lived in the neighbourhood. This officer, it was said, had let Lady Oranmore send her carriage for this woman; and that she had dined at Oranmore with her ladyship and her daughters. “But I cannot believe it! I cannot believe it to be possible, that any gentleman, that any _officer_ could do such a thing!” said the count.

“And is this all?” exclaimed Lady Dashfort. “Is this all the terrible affair, my good count, which has brought your face to this prodigious length?”

The count looked at Lady Dashfort with astonishment.

“Such a look of virtuous indignation,” continued she, “did I never behold on or off the stage. Forgive me for laughing, count; but, believe me, comedy goes through the world better than tragedy, and, take it all in all, does rather less mischief. As to the thing in question, I know nothing about it; I dare say it is not true: but, now, suppose it were–it is only a silly _quiz_ of a raw young officer upon a prudish old dowager. I know nothing about it, for my part: but, after all, what irreparable mischief has been done? Laugh at the thing, and then it is a jest–a bad one, perhaps, but still only a jest–and there’s an end of it: but take it seriously, and there is no knowing where it might end–in this poor man’s being broke, and in half a dozen duels, may be.”

“Of that, madam,” said the count, “Lady Oranmore’s prudence and presence of mind have prevented all danger. Her ladyship _would_ not understand the insult. She said, or she acted as if she said, ‘_Je ne veux rien voir, rien écouter, rien savoir._’ Lady Oranmore is one of the most respectable–“

“Count, I beg your pardon!” interrupted Lady Dashfort; “but I must tell you, that your favourite, Lady Oranmore, has behaved very ill to me; purposely omitted to invite Isabel to her ball; offended and insulted me:–her praises, therefore, cannot be the most agreeable subject of conversation you can choose for my amusement; and as to the rest, you, who have such variety and so much politeness, will, I am sure, have the goodness to indulge my caprice in this instance.”

“I shall obey your ladyship, and be silent, whatever pleasure it might give me to speak on that subject,” said the count; “and I trust Lady Dashfort will reward me by the assurance, that, however playfully she may have just now spoken, she seriously disapproves, and is shocked.”

“Oh, shocked! shocked to death! if that will satisfy you, my dear count.”

The count, obviously, was not satisfied: he had civil, as well as military courage, and his sense of right and wrong could stand against the raillery and ridicule of a fine lady.

The conversation ended: Lady Dashfort thought it would have no farther consequences; and she did not regret the loss of a man like Count O’Halloran, who lived retired in his castle, and who could not have any influence upon the opinion of the fashionable world. However, upon turning from the count to Lord Colambre, who she thought had been occupied with Lady Isabel, and to whom she imagined all this dispute was uninteresting, she perceived, by his countenance, that she had made a great mistake. Still she trusted that her power over Lord Colambre was sufficient easily to efface whatever unfavourable impression this conversation had made upon his mind. He had no personal interest in the affair; and she had generally found that people are easily satisfied about any wrong or insult, public or private, in which they have no immediate concern. But all the charms of her conversation were now tried in vain to reclaim him from the reverie into which he had fallen.

His friend Sir James Brooke’s parting advice occurred to our hero: his eyes began to open to Lady Dashfort’s character; and he was, from this moment, freed from her power. Lady Isabel, however, had taken no part in all this–she was blameless; and, independently of her mother, and in pretended opposition of sentiment, she might have continued to retain the influence she had gained over Lord Colambre, but that a slight accident revealed to him _her_ real disposition.

It happened, on the evening of this day, that Lady Isabel came into the library with one of the young ladies of the house, talking very eagerly, without perceiving Lord Colambre, who was sitting in one of the recesses reading.

“My dear creature, you are quite mistaken,” said Lady Isabel, “he was never a favourite of mine; I always detested him; I only flirted with him to plague his wife. Oh, that wife! my dear Elizabeth, I do hate,” cried she, clasping her hands, and expressing hatred with all her soul, and with all her strength. “I detest that Lady de Cressy to such a degree, that, to purchase the pleasure of making her feel the pangs of jealousy for one hour, look, I would this moment lay down this finger and let it be cut off.”

The face, the whole figure of Lady Isabel, at this moment, appeared to Lord Colambre suddenly metamorphosed; instead of the soft, gentle, amiable female, all sweet charity and tender sympathy, formed to love and to be loved, he beheld one possessed and convulsed by an evil spirit–her beauty, if beauty it could be called, the beauty of a fiend. Some ejaculation, which he unconsciously uttered, made Lady Isabel start. She saw him–saw the expression of his countenance, and knew that all was over.

Lord Colambre, to the utter astonishment and disappointment of Lady Dashfort, and to the still greater mortification of Lady Isabel, announced this night that it was necessary he should immediately pursue his tour in Ireland. We pass over all the castles in the air which the young ladies of the family had built, and which now fell to the ground. We pass all the civil speeches of Lord and Lady Killpatrick; all the vehement remonstrances of Lady Dashfort; and the vain sighs of Lady Isabel. To the last moment Lady Dashfort said, “He will not go.”

But he went; and, when he was gone, Lady Dashfort exclaimed, “That man has escaped from me.” After a pause, turning to her daughter, she, in the most taunting and contemptuous terms, reproached her as the cause of this failure, concluding by a declaration, that she must in future manage her own affairs, and had best settle her mind to marry Heathcock, since every one else was too wise to think of her.

Lady Isabel of course retorted. But we leave this amiable mother and daughter to recriminate in appropriate terms, and we follow our hero, rejoiced that he has been disentangled from their snares. Those who have never been in similar peril will wonder much that he did not escape sooner; those who have ever been in like danger will wonder more that he escaped at all. They who are best acquainted with the heart or imagination of man will be most ready to acknowledge that the combined charms of wit, beauty, and flattery, may, for a time, suspend the action of right reason in the mind of the greatest philosopher, or operate against the resolutions of the greatest of heroes.

Lord Colambre pursued his way to Halloran Castle, desirous, before he quitted this part of the country, to take leave of the count, who had shown him much civility, and for whose honourable conduct and generous character he had conceived a high esteem, which no little peculiarities of antiquated dress or manner could diminish. Indeed, the old-fashioned politeness of what was formerly called a well-bred gentleman pleased him better than the indolent or insolent selfishness of modern men of the ton. Perhaps, notwithstanding our hero’s determination to turn his mind from every thing connected with the idea of Miss Nugent, some latent curiosity about the burial-place of the Nugents might have operated to make him call upon the count. In this hope he was disappointed; for a cross miller, to whom the abbey-ground was let, on which the burial-place was found, had taken it into his head to refuse admittance, and none could enter his ground.

Count O’Halloran was much pleased by Lord Colambre’s visit. The very day of his arrival at Halloran Castle, the count was going to Oranmore; he was dressed, and his carriage was waiting: therefore Lord Colambre begged that he might not detain him, and the count requested his lordship to accompany him.

“Let me have the honour of introducing you, my lord, to a family, with whom, I am persuaded, you will he pleased; by whom you will be appreciated; and at whose house you will have an opportunity of seeing the best manner of living of the Irish nobility.”

Lord Colambre accepted the invitation, and was introduced at Oranmore. The dignified appearance and respectable character of Lady Oranmore; the charming unaffected manners of her daughters; the air of domestic happiness and comfort in her family; the becoming magnificence, free from ostentation, in her whole establishment; the respect and affection with which she was treated by all who approached her, delighted and touched Lord Colambre; the more, perhaps, because he had heard this family so unjustly abused; and because he saw Lady Oranmore and her daughter in immediate contrast with Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel.

A little circumstance which occurred during this visit, increased his interest for the family. When Lady de Cressy’s little boys came in after dinner, one of them was playing with a seal, which had just been torn from a letter. The child showed it to Lord Colambre, and asked him to read the motto. The motto was, “Deeds, not words.” His friend Sir James Brooke’s motto, and his arms. Lord Colambre eagerly inquired if this family was acquainted with Sir James, and he soon perceived that they were not only acquainted with him, but that they were particularly interested about him.

Lady Oranmore’s second daughter, Lady Harriet, appeared particularly pleased by the manner in which Lord Colambre spoke of Sir James. And the child, who had now established himself on his lordship’s knee, turned round, and whispered in his ear, “‘Twas aunt Harriet gave me the seal; Sir James is to be married to aunt Harriet, and then he will be my uncle.”

Some of the principal gentry of this part of the country happened to dine at Oranmore on one of the days Lord Colambre was there. He was surprised at the discovery, that there were so many agreeable, well-informed, and well-bred people, of whom, while he was at Killpatrick’s-town, he had seen nothing. He now discerned how far he had been deceived by Lady Dashfort.

Both the count, and Lord and Lady Oranmore, who were warmly attached to their country, exhorted him to make himself amends for the time he had lost, by seeing with his own eyes, and judging with his own understanding, of the country and its inhabitants, during the remainder of the time he was to stay in Ireland. The higher classes, in most countries, they observed, were generally similar; but, in the lower class, he would find many characteristic differences.

When he first came to Ireland, he had been very eager to go and see his father’s estate, and to judge of the conduct of his agents, and the condition of his tenantry; but this eagerness had subsided, and the design had almost faded from his mind, whilst under the influence of Lady Dashfort’s misrepresentations. A mistake, relative to some remittance from his banker in Dublin, obliged him to delay his journey a few days, and during that time, Lord and Lady Oranmore showed him the neat cottages, and well-attended schools, in their neighbourhood. They showed him not only what could be done, but what had been done, by the influence of great proprietors residing on their own estates, and encouraging the people by judicious kindness.

He saw,–he acknowledged the truth of this; but it did not come home to his feelings now as it would have done a little while ago. His views and plans were altered: he had looked forward to the idea of marrying and settling in Ireland, and then every thing in the country was interesting to him; but since he had forbidden himself to think of a union with Miss Nugent, his mind had lost its object and its spring; he was not sufficiently calm to think of the public good; his thoughts were absorbed by his private concerns. He knew and repeated to himself, that he ought to visit his own and his father’s estates, and to see the condition of his tenantry; he desired to fulfil his duties, but they ceased to appear to him easy and pleasurable, for hope and love no longer brightened his prospects.

That he might see and hear more than he could as heir-apparent to the estate, he sent his servant to Dublin to wait for him there. He travelled _incognito_, wrapped himself in a shabby great-coat, and took the name of Evans. He arrived at a village, or, as it was called, a town, which bore the name of Colambre. He was agreeably surprised by the air of neatness and finish in the houses and in the street, which had a nicely swept paved footway. He slept at a small but excellent inn,–excellent, perhaps, because it was small, and proportioned to the situation and business of the place. Good supper, good bed, good attendance; nothing out of repair; no things pressed into services for which they were never intended by nature or art. No chambermaid slipshod, or waiter smelling of whiskey; but all tight and right, and every body doing their own business, and doing it as if it were their every day occupation, not as if it were done by particular desire, for the first or last time this season. The landlord came in at supper to inquire whether any thing was wanted. Lord Colambre took this opportunity of entering into conversation with him, and asked him to whom the town belonged, and who were the proprietors of the neighbouring estates.

“The town belongs to an absentee lord–one Lord Clonbrony, who lives always beyond the seas, in London; and who had never seen the town since it was a town, to call a town.”

“And does the land in the neighbourhood belong to this Lord Clonbrony?”

“It does, sir; he’s a great proprietor, but knows nothing of his property, nor of us. Never set foot among us, to my knowledge, since I was as high as the table. He might as well be a West India planter, and we negroes, for any thing he knows to the contrary–has no more care, nor thought about us, than if he were in Jamaica, or the other world. Shame for him! But there’s too many to keep him in countenance.”

Lord Colambre asked him what wine he could have; and then inquired who managed the estate for this absentee.

“Mr. Burke, sir. And I don’t know why God was so kind to give so good an agent to an absentee like Lord Clonbrony, except it was for the sake of us, who is under him, and knows the blessing, and is thankful for the same.”

“Very good cutlets,” said Lord Colambre.

“I am happy to hear it, sir. They have a right to be good, for Mrs. Burke sent her own cook to teach my wife to dress cutlets.”

“So the agent is a good agent, is he?”

“He is, thanks be to Heaven! And that’s what few can boast, especially when the landlord’s living over the seas: we have the luck to have got a good agent over us, in Mr. Burke, who is a right bred gentleman; a snug little property of his own, honestly made; with the good-will, and good wishes, and respect of all.”

“Does he live in the neighbourhood?”

“Just _convanient_.[1] At the end of the town; in the house on the hill as you passed, sir; to the left, with the trees about it, all of his own planting, grown too; for there’s a blessing on all he does, and he has done a deal.–There’s salad, sir, if you are _partial_ to it. Very fine lettuce. Mrs. Burke sent us the plants herself.”

[Footnote 1: _Convenient_, near.]

“Excellent salad! So this Mr. Burke has done a great deal, has he? In what way?”

“In every way, sir,–sure was not it he that had improved, and fostered, and _made_ the town of Colambre?–no thanks to the proprietor, nor to the young man whose name it bears, neither!”

“Have you any porter, pray, sir?”

“We have, sir, as good, I hope, as you’d drink in London, for it’s the same you get there, I understand, from Cork. And I have some of my own brewing, which, they say, you could not tell the difference between it and Cork quality–if you’d be pleased to try.–Harry, the corkscrew.”

The porter of his own brewing was pronounced to be extremely good; and the landlord observed it was Mr. Burke encouraged him to learn to brew, and lent him his own brewer for a time to teach him.

“Your Mr. Burke, I find, is _apropos_ to porter, _apropos_ to salad, _apropos_ to cutlets, _apropos_ to every thing,” said Lord Colambre, smiling: “he seems to be a very uncommon agent I suppose you are a great favourite of his, and you do what you please with him.”

“Oh, no, sir, I could not say that; Mr. Burke does not have favourites any way; but, according to my deserts, I trust I stand well enough with him; for, in truth, he is a right good agent.”

Lord Colambre still pressed for particulars; he was an Englishman, and a stranger, he said, and did not exactly know what was meant in Ireland by a good agent.

“Why, he is the man that will encourage the improving tenant; and show no favour or affection, but justice, which comes even to all, and does best for all at the long run; and, residing always in the country, like Mr. Burke, and understanding country business, and going about continually among the tenantry, he knows when to press for the rent, and when to leave the money to lay out upon the land; and, according as they would want it, can give a tenant a help or a check properly. Then no duty work called for, no presents, nor _glove money_, nor _sealing money_ even, taken or offered; no underhand hints about proposals, when land would be out of lease; but a considerable preference, if desarved, to the old tenant, and if not, a fair advertisement, and the best offer and tenant accepted: no screwing of the land to the highest penny, just to please the head landlord for the minute, and ruin him at the end, by the tenant’s racking the land, and running off with the year’s rent; nor no bargains to his own relations or friends did Mr. Burke ever give or grant, but all fair between landlord and tenant; and that’s the thing that will last; and that’s what I call the good agent.”

Lord Colambre poured out a glass of wine, and begged the innkeeper to drink the good agent’s health, in which he was heartily pledged. “I thank your honour:–Mr. Burke’s health! and long may he live over and amongst us; he saved me from drink and ruin, when I was once inclined to it, and made a man of me and all my family.”

The particulars we cannot stay to detail; this grateful man, however, took pleasure in sounding the praises of his benefactor, and in raising him in the opinion of the traveller.

“As you’ve time, and are curious about such things, sir, perhaps you’d walk up to the school that Mrs. Burke has for the poor children; and look at the market house, and see how clean he takes a pride to keep the town: and any house in the town, from the priest to the parson’s, that you’d go into, will give you the same character as I do of Mr. Burke; from the brogue to the boot, all speak the same of him, and can say no other. God for ever bless and keep him over us!”

Upon making further inquiries, every thing the innkeeper had said was confirmed by different inhabitants of the village. Lord Colambre conversed with the shopkeepers, with the cottagers; and, without making any alarming inquiries, he obtained all the information he wanted. He went to the village-school–a pretty, cheerful house, with a neat garden and a play-green; met Mrs. Burke; introduced himself to her as a traveller. The school was shown to him: it was just what it ought to be–neither too much nor too little had been attempted; there was neither too much interference nor too little attention. Nothing for exhibition; care to teach well, without any vain attempt to teach in a wonderfully short time. All that experience proves to be useful, in both Dr. Bell’s and Mr. Lancaster’s modes of teaching, Mrs. Burke had adopted; leaving it to “graceless zealots” to fight about the rest. That no attempts at proselytism had been made, and that no illiberal distinctions had been made in his school, Lord Colambre was convinced, in the best manner possible, by seeing the children of protestants and catholics sitting on the same benches, learning from the same books, and speaking to one another with the same cordial familiarity. Mrs. Burke was an unaffected, sensible woman, free from all party prejudices, and without ostentation, desirous and capable of doing good. Lord Colambre was much pleased with her, and very glad that she invited him to tea.

Mr. Burke did not come in till late; for he had been detained portioning out some meadows, which were of great consequence to the inhabitants of the town. He brought home to tea with him the clergyman and the priest of the parish, both of whom he had taken successful pains to accommodate with the land which suited their respective convenience. The good terms on which they seemed to be with each other, and with him, appeared to Lord Colambre to do honour to Mr. Burke. All the favourable accounts his lordship had received of this gentleman were confirmed by what he saw and heard. After the clergyman and priest had taken leave, upon Lord Colambre’s expressing some surprise, mixed with satisfaction, at seeing the harmony which subsisted between them, Mr. Burke assured him that this was the same in many parts of Ireland. He observed, that “as the suspicion of ill-will never fails to produce it,” so he had often found, that taking it for granted that no ill-will exists, has the most conciliating effect. He said, to please opposite parties, he used no arts; but he tried to make all his neighbours live comfortably together, by making them acquainted with each other’s good qualities; by giving them opportunities of meeting sociably, and, from time to time, of doing each other little services and good offices. Fortunately, he had so much to do, he said, that he had no time for controversy. He was a plain man, made it a rule not to meddle with speculative points, and to avoid all irritating discussions: he was not to rule the country, but to live in it, and make others live as happily as he could.

Having nothing to conceal in his character, opinions, or circumstances, Mr. Burke was perfectly open and unreserved in his manner and conversation; freely answered all the traveller’s inquiries, and took pains to show him every thing he desired to see. Lord Colambre said he had thoughts of settling in Ireland; and declared, with truth, that he had not seen any part of the country he should like better to live in than this neighbourhood. He went over most of the estate with Mr. Burke, and had ample opportunities of convincing himself that this gentleman was indeed, as the innkeeper had described him, “a right good gentleman, and a right good agent.”

He paid Mr. Burke some just compliments on the state of the tenantry, and the neat and flourishing appearance of the town of Colambre.

“What pleasure it will give the proprietor when he sees all you have done!” said Lord Colambre.

“Oh, sir, don’t speak of it!–that breaks my heart; he never has shown the least interest in any thing I have done: he is quite dissatisfied with me, because I have not ruined his tenantry, by forcing them to pay more than the land is worth; because I have not squeezed money from them, by fining down rents; and–but all this, as an Englishman, sir, must be unintelligible to you. The end of the matter is, that, attached as I am to this place and the people about me, and, as I hope, the tenantry are to me,–I fear I shall he obliged to give up the agency.

“Give up the agency! How so? you must not,” cried Lord Colambre, and, for the moment, he forgot himself; but Mr. Burke took this only for an expression of good-will.

“I must, I am afraid,” continued he. “My employer, Lord Clonbrony, is displeased with me–continual calls for money come upon me from England, and complaints of my slow remittances.”

“Perhaps Lord Clonbrony is in embarrassed circumstances,” said Lord Colambre.

“I never speak of my employer’s affairs, sir,” replied Mr. Burke; now for the first time assuming an air of reserve.

“I beg pardon, sir–I seem to have asked an indiscreet question.” Mr. Burke was silent.

“Lest my reserve should give you a false impression, I will add, sir,” resumed Mr. Burke, “that I really am not acquainted with the state of his lordship’s affairs in general. I know only what belongs to the estate under my own management. The principal part of his lordship’s property, the Clonbrony estate, is under another agent, Mr. Garraghty.”

“Garraghty!” repeated Lord Colambre; “what sort of a person is he? But I may take it for granted, that it cannot fall to the lot of one and the same absentee to have two such agents as Mr. Burke.”

Mr. Burke bowed, and seemed pleased with the compliment, which he knew he deserved–but not a word did he say of Mr. Garraghty; and Lord Colambre, afraid of betraying himself by some other indiscreet question, changed the conversation.

The next night the post brought a letter to Mr. Burke, from Lord Clonbrony, which he gave to his wife as soon as he had read it, saying, “See the reward of all my services!”

Mrs. Burke glanced her eye over the letter, and being extremely fond of her husband, and sensible of his deserving far different treatment, burst into indignant exclamations–“See the reward of all your services, indeed!–What an unreasonable, ungrateful man!–So, this is the thanks for all you have done for Lord Clonbrony!”

“He does not know what I have done, my dear. He never has seen what I have done.”

“More shame for him!”

“He never, I suppose, looks over his accounts, or understands them.”

“More shame for him!”

“He listens to foolish reports, or misrepresentations, perhaps. He is at a distance, and cannot find out the truth.”

“More shame for him!”

“Take it quietly, my dear; we have the comfort of a good conscience. The agency may be taken from me by this lord; but the sense of having done my duty, no lord or man upon earth can give or take away.”

“Such a letter!” said Mrs. Burke, taking it up again. “Not even the civility to write with his own hand!–only his signature to the scrawl–looks as if it was written by a drunken man, does not it, Mr. Evans?” said she, showing the letter to Lord Colambre, who immediately recognized the writing of Sir Terence O’Fay.

“It does not look like the hand of a gentleman, indeed,” said Lord Colambre.

“It has Lord Clonbrony’s own signature, let it be what it will,” said Mr. Burke, looking closely at it; “Lord Clonbrony’s own writing the signature is, I am clear of that.”

Lord Clonbrony’s son was clear of it, also; but he took care not to give any opinion on that point.

“Oh, pray read it, sir, read it,” said Mrs. Burke; “read it, pray; a gentleman may write a bad hand, but no _gentleman_ could write such a letter as that to Mr. Burke–pray read it, sir; you who have seen something of what he has done for the town of Colambre, and what he has made of the tenantry and the estate of Lord Clonbrony.”

Lord Colambre read, and was convinced that his father had never written or read the letter, but had signed it, trusting to Sir Terence O’Fay’s having expressed his sentiments properly.

“SIR,

“As I have no farther occasion for your services, you will take notice, that I hereby request you will forthwith hand over, on or before the 1st of November next, your accounts, with the balance due of the _hanging-gale_ (which, I understand, is more than ought to be at this season) to Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., College-green, Dublin, who, in future, will act as agent, and shall get, by post, immediately, a power of attorney for the same, entitling him to receive and manage the Colambre, as well as the Clonbrony estate, for,

“Sir, your obedient humble servant,

“CLONBRONY.

“_Grosvenor-square_.”

Though misrepresentation, caprice, or interest, might have induced Lord Clonbrony to desire to change his agent, yet Lord Colambre knew that his father never could have announced his wishes in such a style; and, as he returned the letter to Mrs. Burke, he repeated, he was convinced that it was impossible that any nobleman could have written such a letter; that it must have been written by some inferior person; and that his lordship had signed it without reading it.

“My dear, I’m sorry you showed that letter to Mr. Evans,” said Mr. Burke; “I don’t like to expose Lord Clonbrony; he is a well-meaning gentleman, misled by ignorant or designing people; at all events, it is not for us to expose him.”

“He has exposed himself,” said Mrs. Burke; “and the world should know it.”

“He was very kind to me when I was a young man,” said Mr. Burke; “we must not forget that now, because we are angry, my love.”

“Why, no, my love, to be sure we should not; but who could have recollected it just at this minute but yourself? And now, sir,” turning to Lord Colambre, “you see what kind of a man this is: now is it not difficult for me to bear patiently to see him ill-treated?”

“Not only difficult, but impossible, I should think, madam,” said Lord Colambre; “I know even I, who am a stranger, cannot help feeling for both of you, as you must see I do.”

“But half the world, who don’t know him,” continued Mrs. Burke, “when they hear that Lord Clonbrony’s agency is taken from him, will think perhaps that he is to blame.”

“No, madam,” said Lord Colambre, “that you need not fear; Mr. Burke may safely trust to his character: from what I have within these two days seen and heard, I am convinced that such is the respect he has deserved and acquired, that no blame can touch him.”

“Sir, I thank you,” said Mrs. Burke, the tears coming into her eyes: “you can judge–you do him justice; but there are so many who don’t know him, and who will decide without knowing any of the facts.”

“That, my dear, happens about every thing to every body,” said Mr. Burke; “but we must have patience; time sets all judgments right, sooner or later.”

“But the sooner the better,” said Mrs. Burke. “Mr. Evans, I hope you will be so kind, if ever you hear this business talked of–“

“Mr. Evans lives in Wales, my dear.”

“But he is travelling through Ireland, my dear, and he said he should return to Dublin, and, you know, there he certainly will hear it talked of; and I hope he will do me the favour to state what he has seen and knows to be the truth.”

“Be assured that I will do Mr. Burke justice–as far as it is in my power,” said Lord Colambre, restraining himself much, that he might not say more than became his assumed character. He took leave of this worthy family that night, and, early the next morning, departed.

“Ah!” thought he, as he drove away from this well-regulated and flourishing place, “how happy I might be, settled here with such a wife as–her of whom I must think no more.”

He pursued his way to Clonbrony, his father’s other estate, which was at a considerable distance from Colambre: he was resolved to know what kind of agent Mr. Nicholas Garraghty might be, who was to supersede Mr. Burke, and, by power of attorney, to be immediately entitled to receive and manage the Colambre as well as the Clonbrony estate.

CHAPTER X.

Towards the evening of the second day’s journey, the driver of Lord Colambre’s hackney chaise stopped, and jumping off the wooden bar, on which he had been seated, exclaimed, “We’re come to the bad step, now. The bad road’s beginning upon us, please your honour.”

“Bad road! that is very uncommon in this country. I never saw such fine roads as you have in Ireland.”

“That’s true; and God bless your honour, that’s sensible of that same, for it’s not what all the foreign quality I drive have the manners to notice. God bless your honour! I heard you’re a Welshman, but whether or no, I am sure you are a jantleman, any way, Welsh or other.”

Notwithstanding the shabby great coat, the shrewd postilion perceived, by our hero’s language, that he was a gentleman. After much dragging at the horses’ heads, and pushing and lifting, the carriage was got over what the postilion said was the worst part of the _bad step_; but as the road “was not yet to say good,” he continued walking beside the carriage.

“It’s only bad just hereabouts, and that by accident,” said he, “on account of there being no jantleman resident in it, nor near; but only a bit of an under-agent, a great little rogue, who gets his own turn out of the roads, and every thing else in life. I, Larry Brady, that am telling your honour, have a good right to know; for myself, and my father, and my brother, Pat Brady, the wheelwright, had once a farm under him; but was ruined, horse and foot, all along with him, and cast out, and my brother forced to fly the country, and is now working in some coachmaker’s yard, in London; banished he is!–and here am I, forced to be what I am–and now that I’m reduced to drive a hack, the agent’s a curse to me still, with these bad roads, killing my horses and wheels–and a shame to the country, which I think more of–Bad luck to him!”

“I know your brother; he lives with Mr. Mordicai, in Long-Acre, in London.”

“Oh, God bless you for that!”

They came at this time within view of a range of about four-and-twenty men and boys, sitting astride on four-and-twenty heaps of broken stones, on each side of the road; they were all armed with hammers, with which they began to pound with great diligence and noise as soon as they saw the carriage. The chaise passed between these batteries, the stones flying on all sides.

“How are you, Jem?–How are you Phil?” said Larry. “But hold your hand, can’t ye, while I stop and get the stones out of the horses’ _feet_. So you’re making up the rent, are you, for St. Dennis?”

“Whoosh!” said one of the pounders, coming close to the postilion, and pointing his thumb back towards the chaise. “Who have you in it?”

“Oh, you need not scruple, he’s a very honest man;–he’s only a man from North Wales, one Mr. Evans, an innocent jantleman, that’s sent over to travel up and down the country, to find is there any copper mines in it.”

“How do you know, Larry?”

“Because I know very well, from one that was tould, and I _seen_ him tax the man of the King’s Head with a copper half-crown at first sight, which was only lead to look at, you’d think, to them that was not skilful in copper. So lend me a knife, till I cut a linchpin out of the hedge, for this one won’t go far.”

Whilst Larry was making the linchpin, all scruple being removed, his question about St. Dennis and the rent was answered.

“Ay, it’s the rint, sure enough, we’re pounding out for him; for he sent the driver round last night-was-eight days, to warn us Old Nick would be down a’-Monday, to take a sweep among us; and there’s only six clear days, Saturday night, before the assizes, sure: so we must see and get it finished any way, to clear the presentment again’ the swearing day, for he and Paddy Hart is the overseers themselves, and Paddy is to swear to it.”

“St. Dennis, is it? Then you’ve one great comfort and security–that he won’t be _particular_ about the swearing; for since ever he had his head on his shoulders, an oath never stuck in St. Dennis’s throat, more than in his own brother, Old Nick’s.”

“His head upon his shoulders!” repeated Lord Colambre. “Pray, did you ever hear that St. Dennis’s head was off his shoulders?”

“It never was, plase your honour, to my knowledge.”

“Did you never, among your saints, hear of St. Dennis carrying his head in his hand?” said Lord Colambre.

“The _rael_ saint!” said the postilion, suddenly changing his tone, and looking shocked. “Oh, don’t be talking that way of the saints, plase your honour.”

“Then of what St. Dennis were you talking just now?–Whom do you mean by St. Dennis, and whom do you call Old Nick?”

“Old Nick,” answered the postilion, coming close to the side of the carriage, and whispering,–“Old Nick, plase your honour, is our nickname for one Nicholas Garraghty, Esq., of College-green, Dublin, and St. Dennis is his brother Dennis, who is Old Nick’s brother in all things, and would fain be a saint, only he’s a sinner. He lives just by here, in the country, under-agent to Lord Clonbrony, as Old Nick is upper-agent–it’s only a joke among the people, that are not fond of them at all. Lord Clonbrony himself is a very good jantleman, if he was not an absentee, resident in London, leaving us and every thing to the likes of them.”

Lord Colambre listened with all possible composure and attention; but the postilion, having now made his linchpin of wood, and _fixed himself_, he mounted his bar, and drove on, saying to Lord Colambre, as he looked at the road-makers, “Poor _cratures_! They couldn’t keep their cattle out of pound, or themselves out of jail, but by making this road.”

“Is road-making, then, a very profitable business!–Have road-makers higher wages than other men in this part of the country?”

“It is, and it is not–they have, and they have not–plase your honour.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“No, beca-ase you’re an Englishman–that is, a Welshman–beg your honour’s pardon. But I’ll tell you how that is, and I’ll go slow over these broken stones–for I can’t go fast: it is where there’s no jantleman over these under-agents, as here, they do as they plase; and when they have set the land they get rasonable from the head landlords, to poor cratures at a rackrent, that they can’t live and pay the rent, they say–“

“Who says?”

“Them under-agents, that have no conscience at all. Not all–but _some_, like Dennis, says, says he, ‘I’ll get you a road to make up the rent:’ that is, plase your honour, the agent gets them a presentment for so many perches of road from the grand jury, at twice the price that would make the road. And tenants are, by this means, as they take the road by contract, at the price given by the county, able to pay all they get by the job, over and above potatoes and salt, back again to the agent, for the arrear on the land. Do I make your honour _sensible_[1]?”

[Footnote 1: Do I make you understand?]

“You make me much more sensible than I ever was before,” said Lord Colambre: “but is not this cheating the county?”

“Well, and suppose,” replied Larry, “is not it all for my good, and yours too, plase your honour?” said Larry, looking very shrewdly.

“My good!” said Lord Colambre, startled. “What have I to do with it?”

“Haven’t you to do with the roads as well as me, when you’re travelling upon them, plase your honour? And sure, they’d never be got made at all, if they wern’t made this ways; and it’s the best way in the wide world, and the finest roads we have. And when the _rael_ jantleman’s resident in the country, there’s no jobbing can be, because they’re then the leading men on the grand jury; and these journeymen jantlemen are then kept in order, and all’s right.”

Lord Colambre was much surprised at Larry’s knowledge of the manner in which county business is managed, as well as by his shrewd good sense: he did not know that this is not uncommon in his rank of life in Ireland.

Whilst Larry was speaking, Lord Colambre was looking from side to side at the desolation of the prospect.

“So this is Lord Clonbrony’s estate, is it?”

“Ay, all you see, and as far and farther than you can see. My Lord Clonbrony wrote, and ordered plantations here, time back; and enough was paid to labourers for ditching and planting. And, what next?–Why, what did the under-agent do, but let the goats in through gaps, left o’ purpose, to bark the trees, and then the trees was all banished. And next, the cattle was let in trespassing, and winked at, till the land was all poached: and then the land was waste, and cried down: and Saint Dennis wrote up to Dublin to Old Nick, and he over to the landlord, how none would take it, or bid any thing at all for it: so then it fell to him a cheap bargain. Oh, the tricks of them! who knows ’em, if I don’t?” Presently, Lord Colambre’s attention was roused again, by seeing a man running, as if for his life, across a bog, near the roadside: he leaped over the ditch, and was upon the road in an instant. He seemed startled at first, at the sight of the carriage; but, looking at the postilion, Larry nodded, and he smiled and said, “All’s safe!” “Pray, my good friend, may I ask what that is you have on your shoulder?” said Lord Colambre. “_Plase_ your honour, it is only a private still, which I’ve just caught out yonder in the bog; and I’m carrying it in with all speed to the gauger, to make a discovery, that the jantleman may benefit by the reward: I expect he’ll make me a compliment.”

“Get up behind, and I’ll give you a lift,” said the postilion.

“Thank you kindly–but better my legs!” said the man; and, turning down a lane, off he ran again, as fast as possible.

“Expect he’ll make me a compliment,” repeated Lord Colambre, “to make a discovery!”

“Ay, plase your honour; for the law is,” said Larry, “that, if an unlawful still, that is, a still without licence for whiskey, is found, half the benefit of the fine that’s put upon the parish goes to him that made the discovery: that’s what that man is after; for he’s an informer.”

“I should not have thought, from what I see of you,” said Lord Colambre, smiling, “that you, Larry, would have offered an informer a lift.”

“Oh, plase your honour!” said Larry, smiling archly, “would not I give the laws a lift, when in my power?”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, and scarcely was the informer out of sight, when, across the same bog, and over the ditch, came another man, a half kind of gentleman, with a red silk handkerchief about his neck, and a silver-handled whip in his hand.

“Did you see any man pass the road, friend?” said he to the postilion.

“Oh! who would I see? or why would I tell?” replied Larry in a sulky tone.

“Come, come, be smart!” said the man with the silver whip, offering to put half-a-crown into the postilion’s hand; “point me which way he took.”

“I’ll have none o’ your silver! don’t touch me with it!” said Larry. “But, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll strike across back, and follow the fields, out to Killogenesawce.”

The exciseman set out again immediately, in an opposite direction to that which the man who carried the still had taken. Lord Colambre now perceived that the pretended informer had been running off to conceal a still of his own.

“The gauger, plase your honour,” said Larry, looking back at Lord Colambre; “the gauger is a _still-hunting_!”

“And you put him on a wrong scent!” said Lord Colambre.

“Sure, I told him no lie: I only said, ‘If you’ll take my advice.’ And why was he such a fool as to take my advice, when I wouldn’t take his fee?”

“So this is the way, Larry, you give a lift to the laws!”

“If the laws would give a lift to me, plase your honour, may be I’d do as much by them. But it’s only these revenue laws I mean; for I never, to my knowledge, broke another commandment: but it’s what no honest poor man among his neighbours would scruple to take–a glass of _potsheen_.”

“A glass of what, in the name of Heaven?” said Lord Colambre.

“_Potsheen_, plase your honour;–beca-ase it’s the little whiskey that’s made in the private still or pot; and _sheen_, because it’s a fond word for whatsoever we’d like, and for what we have little of, and would make much of: after taking the glass of it, no man could go and inform to ruin the _cratures_; for they all shelter on that estate under favour of them that go shares, and make rent of ’em–but I’d never inform again’ ’em. And, after all, if the truth was known, and my Lord Clonbrony should be informed against, and presented, for it’s his neglect is the bottom of the nuisance–“

“I find all the blame is thrown upon this poor Lord Clonbrony,” said Lord Colambre.

“Because he is absent,” said Larry: “it would not be so was he _prisint_. But your honour was talking to me about the laws. Your honour’s a stranger in this country, and astray about them things. Sure, why would I mind the laws about whiskey, more than the quality, or the _jidge_ on the bench?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why! was not I _prisint_ in the court-house myself, when the _jidge_ was on the bench judging a still, and across the court came in one with a sly jug of _potsheen_ for the _jidge_ himself, who _prefarred_ it, when the right thing, to claret; and when I _seen_ that, by the laws! a man might talk himself dumb to me after again’ potsheen, or in favour of the revenue, or revenue officers. And there they may go on, with their gaugers, and their surveyors, and their supervisors, and their watching officers, and their coursing officers, setting ’em one after another, or one over the head of another, or what way they will–we can baffle and laugh at ’em. Didn’t I know, next door to our inn, last year, ten _watching officers_ set upon one distiller, and he was too cunning for them; and it will always be so, while ever the people think it no sin. No, till then, not all their dockets and permits signify a rush, or a turf. And the gauging rod, even! who fears it? They may spare that rod, for it will never mend the child.”

How much longer Larry’s dissertation on the distillery laws would have continued, had not his ideas been interrupted, we cannot guess; but he saw he was coming to a town, and he gathered up the reins, and plied the whip, ambitious to make a figure in the eyes of its inhabitants.

This _town_ consisted of one row of miserable huts, sunk beneath the side of the road, the mud walls crooked in every direction; some of them opening in wide cracks, or zigzag fissures, from top to bottom, as if there had just been an earthquake–all the roofs sunk in various places–thatch off, or overgrown with grass–no chimneys, the smoke making its way through a hole in the roof, or rising in clouds from the top of the open door–dunghills before the doors, and green standing puddles–squalid children, with scarcely rags to cover them, gazing at the carriage.

“Nugent’s town,” said the postilion, “once a snug place, when my Lady Clonbrony was at home to white-wash it, and the like.”

As they drove by, some men and women put their heads through the smoke out of the cabins; pale women, with long, black, or yellow locks–men with countenances and figures bereft of hope and energy.

“Wretched, wretched people!” said Lord Colambre.

“Then it’s not their fault, neither,” said Larry; “for my uncle’s one of them, and as thriving and hard a working man as could be in all Ireland, he was, _afore_ he was tramped under foot, and his heart broke. I was at his funeral, this time last year; and for it, may the agent’s own heart, if he has any, burn in–“

Lord Colambre interrupted this denunciation by touching Larry’s shoulder, and asking some question, which, as Larry did not distinctly comprehend, he pulled up the reins, and the various noises of the vehicle stopped suddenly.

“I did not hear well, plase your honour.”

“What are those people?” pointing to a man and woman, curious figures, who had come out of a cabin, the door of which the woman, who came out last, locked, and carefully hiding the key in the thatch, turned her back upon the man, and they walked away in different directions: the woman bending under a huge bundle on her back, covered by a yellow petticoat turned over her shoulders; from the top of this bundle the head of an infant appeared; a little boy, almost naked, followed her with a kettle, and two girls, one of whom could but just walk, held her hand and clung to her ragged petticoat; forming, all together, a complete group of beggars. The woman stopped, and looked after the man.

The man was a Spanish-looking figure, with gray hair; a wallet hung at the end of a stick over one shoulder, a reaping-hook in the other hand: he walked off stoutly, without ever casting a look behind him.

“A kind harvest to you, John Dolan,” cried the postilion, “and success to ye, Winny, with the quality. There’s a luck-penny for the child to begin with,” added he, throwing the child a penny. “Your honour, they’re only poor _cratures_ going up the country to beg, while the man goes over to reap the harvest in England. Nor this would not be, neither, if the lord was in it to give ’em _employ_. That man, now,