THE HOME-RULE CANDIDATE.

“Deeper than did ever plummet sound.”

Undeterred by this untoward fate, John Ogilby brought out his translation soon after, first at Cambridge and again in London, “adorned with sculptures and illustrated with annotations”—“the fairest edition,” grave Anthony à Wood assures us, “that till then the English press ever produced.” This gorgeous work, pronounced by Pope to be below criticism, nevertheless went through four editions before descending to the congenial fellowship of Vicars under the forgetful wave—a proof how much a good English version of theÆneidwas desired. Ogilby had been a dancing-master, and perhaps learnedin his profession to rival Lucilius, who

“In hora sæpe ducentosUt magnum versus dictabat stans pede in uno.”[172]

“In hora sæpe ducentos

Ut magnum versus dictabat stans pede in uno.”[172]

At all events, although he took to literature late in life—he was past forty before he learned Latin or Greek—he was a prodigious author, as we learn from theDunciad:

“Here groans the shelf with Ogilby the great.”

Besides translating remorselessly everything he could lay hands on, from Homer to Æsop, he found time to write various heroic poems, and had even completed an epic in twelve books on Charles I., when fate took pity on his fellows and sent the great fire of London to the rescue. Phillips, in theTheatrum Poetarum, styles Ogilby a prodigy, and avers that his “Paraphrase on Æsop’s Fables” “is generally confessed to have exceeded whatever hath been done before in that kind.”[173]As Milton’s nephew can scarcely be suspected of a joke, we must conclude that this is not one of the critical judgments which Milton inspired. Nevertheless, Ogilby’s translations and paraphrases procured him a “genteel livelihood” which many better poems have failed to do for their authors.

Neither Vicars nor Ogilby, however, was of sufficient note, nor had their labors sufficient vitality, to set the current of translation fairly going. That was reserved for Dryden, whose famous work came out in 1697. Dryden had all the qualificationsnecessary to ensure him a full harvest of imitation and rivalry at once. He was the most famous poet and critic of his day, and in either capacity had found means to excite abundance of jealousies and resentments. Moreover, his change of religion, and the vigor with which he had espoused the Catholic cause in hisHind and Panther, made him many additional enemies. So it is not to be wondered at that when, as Pope puts it,

“Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden roseIn various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux,”

“Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose

In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux,”

the parsons led the onslaught. First came Parson Milbourn, “the fairest of critics,” who printed his own version side by side with the one he found fault with, and whom Dulness also promptly claimed for her own. Then Dr. Brady, giving over to his worthy coadjutor, Tate, for the nonce the herculean task of promoting Sternhold and Hopkins to be next to the worst poets in the world, devoted himself to the equally gigantic labor of proving that there was a work he could translate more abominably than the Psalms. His version in blank-verse, “when dragged into the light,” says Dr. Johnson, “did not live long enough to cry.” Then Dr. Trapp, the Oxford professor of poetry—majora viribus audens—rushed to the attack and did theÆneidinto, if possible, still blanker verse than his predecessor’s. It was he who said of Dryden’s version “that where Dryden shines most we often see the least of Virgil.” This was true enough; and it was, no doubt, to avoid the like reproach that the good doctor forbore to shine at all. On him was made the well-known epigram apropos of a certain poem said to be better than Virgil:

“Better than Virgil? Yes, perhaps;But then, by Jove, ’tis Dr. Trapp’s!”

“Better than Virgil? Yes, perhaps;

But then, by Jove, ’tis Dr. Trapp’s!”

This is only another form of Bentley’s famous judgment: “A very pretty poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer.” The doctor has had no better luck than his fellows.

“Olli dura quies oculos et ferreus urguetSomnus; in æternam clauduntur lumina noctem.”[174]

“Olli dura quies oculos et ferreus urguet

Somnus; in æternam clauduntur lumina noctem.”[174]

These efforts of the parsons, however, were no doubt inspired at least as much byodium theologicumas by the genuine impulse of emulation. The first true exemplification of this came about 1729 with the version of Pitt,[175]whose choice of Dryden’s couplet was a direct challenge. Johnson’s estimate of the success of this rivalry is not, on the whole, unfair—or, at least, as fair as such comparisons often are. “Dryden,” he says, “leads the reader forward by his general vigor and sprightliness, and Pitt often stops him to contemplate the excellence of a single couplet; Dryden’s faults are forgotten in the hurry of delight, and Pitt’s beauties neglected in the languor of a cold and listless perusal; Pitt pleases the critics and Dryden the people; Pitt is quoted and Dryden read.” Dryden, however, is probably oftener read nowadays than Pitt is quoted. It is something to be a poet after all, and in the exchange of translation we allow for the purity of his metal and the beauty of his coinage. Most of us would rather have the gold of Dryden, though it fall apiece or two short in the reckoning, than the small change of Pitt, though every silver sixpence and copper farthing be accounted for.

Other translations of theÆneidthere were during the eighteenth century, among them one by another Oxford professor of poetry, Hawkins, but none have survived. Pope’s translation of Homer, which was published soon after Pitt’sÆneid, diverted attention to the Greek poet, and gave him with translators a pre-eminence over his Latin rival which only within a few years he can be said to have lost. Pope had no imitators, however, till long after. Even more absolutely than Dryden he swayed the sceptre of poetry in his time; and the presumptuous wight who had ventured to challenge his sovereignty or to measure strength with “that poetical wonder, the translation of theIliad, a performance which no age or nation can pretend to rival,” gods—critical gods—and men and booksellers would have laughed to scorn. It is true, Addison, that most uneasy “brother near the throne,” was shrewdly suspected of meditating such a design under the cloak of his friend and follower, Tickell, and even went so far as to publish—so ran the current gossip of the coffee-houses—a version of the first book of theIliadin Tickell’s name. But the scheme stopped there; Pope’s triumph was too splendid and overwhelming, and his great work calmly defied competition, until the spell of his honeyed couplet was broken, and Cowper could find a hearing for his ponderous Miltonic periods, a full half-century after Pope’s death. The battle which soon thereafter came to be joined between the partisans of the Popian and Cowperian methods—both of them, as Mr. Arnoldassures us, really on a complete equality of error—had the effect of keeping Homer in the foreground and Virgil in the shade, despite the praiseworthy versions of the latter by Simmons in rhymed couplets about 1817, and Kennedy in blank-verse some thirty years later, until the criticalfurorecreated by the appearance of Prof. Conington’sÆneidabout ten years since once more turned the tide and brought our Mantuan to the front.

Conington’s translation, by the novelty of its metre, the freshness of its treatment, the spirit of its movement, its union of fidelity and grace, took the public ear and at once won a popularity which, if we may judge from the fact that a new edition has been lately advertised, it has not yet lost nor is destined speedily to lose. Moreover, its peculiar metre gave rise to a discussion among the critics, which has no doubt had its share in bringing out the two additional versions by Mr. Cranch and Mr. Morris at brief intervals after Professor Conington’s, the former at Boston, the latter in England and reprinted here. Each of these three versions has that “proper reason for existing” in novelty of method and manner which Mr. Arnold demands, and without which, indeed, multiplied translations are but cumberers of the book-stall and a weariness to the flesh. Of Mr. Cranch this assertion may sound a trifle odd, since his work upon its face presents little that is new. In place of the galloping octosyllabics of Prof. Conington or the resurrected Alexandrines of Mr. Morris, he offers us only the familiar blank-verse which Kennedy and Trapp and Brady used, or misused, before him; he has no theories to illustrate, but translateshis author as faithfully as he knows how, and his rendering is neither so exceedingly good nor so excessively bad as to give it any claim to originality upon that score. But then it is the first American translation of Virgil, and that is surely novelty enough.

For as each age, so every country, looks at a classic author through spectacles of its own. “Each age,” as Conington well says in his preface, “will naturally think that it understands an author whom it studies better than the ages which have gone before it”; and it is for this reason, he adds, “that the great works of antiquity require to be translated afresh from time to time to preserve their interest as part of modern literary culture.” But it is not alone that each age will understand an author better than preceding ages; it will understand him differently; it will see him in another light, from far other points of view, modified and interpreted by its own spirit. What Heyne says of the poet is in a measure true of the translator—that he has the genius of his era, which must necessarily qualify his work. We have sometimes fancied even that this business of translation was a kind of metempsychosis through which the poet’s soul shall speak to many different times and lands through forms and in voices changing to suit the moods of each. This, of course, is only one of those fantastic notions which a writer must sometimes be indulged in, if he is to be kept in reasonable good-humor. But we think we may venture to say that two nations translating for themselves what antiquity has to say to them will insensibly find its utterances modified for each of them by their natural modes of thought. Nay, may we not gofurther and say that no two human minds will find precisely the same message in Homer or Virgil or Horace—so infinite are the gradations of thought, so innumerable the shades of meaning and suggestion in a word. Of Virgil this is especially true; for he has, says Prof. Conington, “that peculiar habit, ... common to him and Sophocles, of hinting at two or three modes of expression while actually employing one.”

It is just for this reason that repeated translations of a great author are not only useful but desirable; that, to quote Conington again, “it is well that we should know how our ancestors of the Revolution period conceived of Virgil; it is well that we should be obliged consciously to realize how we conceive of him ourselves.” How true this is no one can fail to perceive who contrasts Dryden’s method in any given passage with Conington’s. The sense of Virgil may be given with equal exactness by each—we saymaybe, which is rather stretching a point, for, in respect of verbal fidelity, the two versions are not to be compared—the interpretation may be equally poetical, but there will remain a subtle something which stamps each, and which we can only say is the flavor of the time. Or, again, compare the Abbé Delille’s French version with Dryden’s English—perhaps a fairer comparison; for both are equally free, though by no means equally acquainted with their author, and both to a certain extent belonged to the same school of composition. Nor are they so very far apart as they seem in point of time; the century or so which divides them was a very much longer period in England than in France. Charles II. was nearer to LouisXV. than to George III. in point of taste. Yet how different from Dryden’s Virgil, or from any Englishman’s, is Delille’s, even though he does not find in his text such enchanting gallicisms as Jean Regnault de Segrais could twist out of the lines,

“Ubi templum illi centumque SabæoThure calent aræ, sertisque recentibus halant”:[176]“Dans le temple où toujours quelque Amant irritéAccuse dans ses vœux quelque jeune Beauté.”

“Ubi templum illi centumque SabæoThure calent aræ, sertisque recentibus halant”:[176]

“Ubi templum illi centumque Sabæo

Thure calent aræ, sertisque recentibus halant”:[176]

“Dans le temple où toujours quelque Amant irritéAccuse dans ses vœux quelque jeune Beauté.”

“Dans le temple où toujours quelque Amant irrité

Accuse dans ses vœux quelque jeune Beauté.”

This is an extreme case, no doubt, and there are Frenchmen even who would not be beyond laughing at it. We are not to forget, as we laugh at it ourselves, that Segrais was not unknown in the Hôtel Rambouillet, and that although his own poetry was not all of this order, not even hisÆneid—Saint-Evremond liked it—he also wrote novels which not even the Hôtel Rambouillet could read. But when that really able man and accomplished scholar, Cardinal Du Perron, turns Horace’s lines in the charming farewell to Virgil (Carm.i. 3):

“Ventorumque regat PaterObstrictis aliis præter Iapygia,”

“Ventorumque regat Pater

Obstrictis aliis præter Iapygia,”

into this sort of thing:

“Ainsi des vents l’humide PèreTon cours heureusement tempere,Tenant ses enfants emplumezSi bien sous la clef enfermezExcepté l’opportun Zephyr,”

“Ainsi des vents l’humide Père

Ton cours heureusement tempere,

Tenant ses enfants emplumez

Si bien sous la clef enfermez

Excepté l’opportun Zephyr,”

we have a version which no doubt seems correct and poetical enough to a Frenchman, but to an English mind suggests nothing so much as a damp and aged poultry-fancier locking up his chickens in the hen-house out of the rain. And a countryman of the cardinal can makenothing more of the “laughing eyes” of Dante’s Piccarda:

“Ond’ ella pronta e conocchi ridenti,”[177]

than

“L’ombre me reponditd’un air satisfait!”

as though the celestial phantom had been a small girl bribed with a tart to answer. To the post-academic Gaul, shivering in the chaste but chilly shadow of that awful Pantheon of the verbal proprieties, the “Marguerite aux yeulx rians et verds” whom his forebears loved to sing would be but a green-eyed monster indeed. Ronsard’s parodies of Pindar were no worse than Ambrose Philips’ travesties of the deep-mouthed Theban—the sparrow-hawk aping the eagle—and not much worse, indeed, than West’s or even Wheelwright’s, or any other imitation of the inimitable that we have seen. But the badness of the one is thoroughly French and of his time, even to his bragging that it was his noble birth which enabled him to reproduce Pindar, wherein Horace, for lack of that virtue, had failed; the badness of the other as thoroughly English and of his age. And what more salient instance could be given of this natural difference in mental constitution, in “the way of looking at things,” than Voltaire’s treatment of the scene inHamletwhere the sentinel answers the question, “Have you had quiet guard?” by the familiar household idiom, “Not a mouse stirring”? “Pas un souris qui trotte” the author ofZairemakes it, and proceeds to inform his countrymen that this Shakspeare was a drunken savage.

Now, while there is no such radical difference between English and American ways of thought as between English and French ways, there is still difference enough to justify us in giving place to Mr. Cranch’s blank-verseÆneid, as beingà priorianother thing from the English blank-verseÆneidsof forty or one hundred and forty years ago. So, without more ado, let us repeat that these three versions of the last decade are sufficiently unlike one another or any that have gone before to warrant attentive notice.

In choosing for the vehicle of his attempt the octosyllabic line—the well-known metre of Scott’sMarmion—Prof. Conington turned his back intrepidly on all the traditions. Scarcely any rhythm we have would seem at first blush worse fitted to give the unlearned reader an adequate idea of the sonorous march of the Latin hexameter or of the stately melody of Virgil’s verse, of the dignity of his sentiments, or the noble gravity of his style. For him who uses such a metre to render theÆneidone half anticipates the need of some such frank confession as that Ronsard, in a fit of remorse, or perhaps a verbal indigestion over his own inconceivable pedantry, puts at the end—at theend, mark you—of one of his never-ending series of odes:

“Les François qui mes vers liront,S’ils ne sont et Grecs et Romains,En lieu de ce livre, ils n’aurontQu’un pesant faix entre les mains”—

“Les François qui mes vers liront,

S’ils ne sont et Grecs et Romains,

En lieu de ce livre, ils n’auront

Qu’un pesant faix entre les mains”—

which for our present purpose we may paraphrase: My excellent reader, if you don’t know Virgil as well as I do, you will find very little of him here, and if you do you will find still less. But Professor Conington soon puts away from us allsuch forebodings. He gives us, in spite of his metre, for the most part, in rare instances, by the help of it, a great deal of Virgil—more, on the whole, than almost any other of the poet’s translators. He has put the story of theÆneidinto bright and animated English verse which may be read with pleasure as a poem for itself, and is yet strictly faithful to the sense and spirit of its original, as close as need be—wonderfully close in many parts—to its language, often skilfully suggestive of some of the most salient peculiarities of its form, and only failing conspicuously, where all translations most conspicuously fail, in rendering the poet’s manner, because the manner of any poet—and we mean by manner that union of thought and form of the poet’s way of seeing with his way of saying things which is the full manifestation of his genius—only failing here because this part of any poet it is next to impossible to reproduce in a foreign tongue, and because the vehicle chosen by Prof. Conington, so opposite in every way to Virgil’s vehicle, increased that difficulty tenfold. But a translation of a long narrative poem is not like the translation of a brief lyric. Is the former to be written for those who understand the original and care for no translation, or for those who, not understanding the original, ask first of the translator that he shall not put them to sleep, and, second, that he shall give them all that his author gives as nearly as possible in the same manner? Two of these demands Prof. Conington’s version fully meets, and it comes as near to the third as was consistent with a metre which gave him the best chance of combining the other two. If any translation of Virgil can hope to be popular it is his; and we hold to the beliefthat it will share with Dryden’s, which, if only for its author’s sake, will live, the affections of theunlatinedEnglish reader for long to come.

As might be expected, it is in battle-pieces and in scenes of swift and animated action, to which Scott’s metre naturally lends itself, and with which it is as naturally associated, that this version chiefly excels. Take, for example, the onset in the eleventh book:

“Meantime the Trojans near the wall,The Tuscans and the horsemen all,In separate troops arrayed;Their mettled steeds the champaign spurn,And, chafing, this and that way turn;Spears bristle o’er the fields, that burnWith arms on high displayed.Messapus and the Latian force,And Coras and Camilla’s horse,An adverse front array;With hands drawn back they couch the spear,And aim the dart in full career;The tramp of heroes strikes the ear,Mixed with the charger’s neigh.Arrived within a javelin’s throw,The armies halt a space; when, lo!Sudden they let their good steeds goAnd meet with deafening cry;Their volleyed darts fly thick as snow,Dark-shadowing all the sky.”

“Meantime the Trojans near the wall,

The Tuscans and the horsemen all,

In separate troops arrayed;

Their mettled steeds the champaign spurn,

And, chafing, this and that way turn;

Spears bristle o’er the fields, that burn

With arms on high displayed.

Messapus and the Latian force,

And Coras and Camilla’s horse,

An adverse front array;

With hands drawn back they couch the spear,

And aim the dart in full career;

The tramp of heroes strikes the ear,

Mixed with the charger’s neigh.

Arrived within a javelin’s throw,

The armies halt a space; when, lo!

Sudden they let their good steeds go

And meet with deafening cry;

Their volleyed darts fly thick as snow,

Dark-shadowing all the sky.”

The Latin could scarcely be given with more spirit or closeness; though in neither respect does Morris fall short of his predecessor, from whom in manner, however, he differstoto cœlo:

“But in meanwhile the Trojan folk the city draw anigh,The Tuscan dukes and all their horse in many a companyWell ordered; over all the plain, neighing, the steed doth fare,Prancing and champing on the bit that turns him here and here.And far and wide the lea is rough with iron harvest now,And with the weapons tost aloft the level meadows glow.Messapus and the Latins swift, lo! on the other hand,And Coras with his brother-lord, and maid Camilla’s band,Against them in the field; and, lo! far back their arms they flingIn couching of the level spears, and shot-spears brandishing.All is afire with neigh of steeds and onfall of the men.And now, within a spear-shot come, short up they rein, and thenThey break out with a mighty cry and spur the maddened steeds;And all at once from every side the storm of spear-shot speeds,As thick as very snowing is, and darkens down the sun.”

“But in meanwhile the Trojan folk the city draw anigh,

The Tuscan dukes and all their horse in many a company

Well ordered; over all the plain, neighing, the steed doth fare,

Prancing and champing on the bit that turns him here and here.

And far and wide the lea is rough with iron harvest now,

And with the weapons tost aloft the level meadows glow.

Messapus and the Latins swift, lo! on the other hand,

And Coras with his brother-lord, and maid Camilla’s band,

Against them in the field; and, lo! far back their arms they fling

In couching of the level spears, and shot-spears brandishing.

All is afire with neigh of steeds and onfall of the men.

And now, within a spear-shot come, short up they rein, and then

They break out with a mighty cry and spur the maddened steeds;

And all at once from every side the storm of spear-shot speeds,

As thick as very snowing is, and darkens down the sun.”

It would be hard to say which version is closer to the original. Conington leaves out the epithetcelereswhich Virgil bestows on the Latins, and also—a graver omission—that brother whom Virgil makes attend him like his shadow (et cum fratre Coras) in every battle-field of theÆneid. This fraternal warrior Morris gives us, indeed, but not very intelligibly, as Coras’ “brother-lord.” On the other hand, although Morris renders the Latin line for line, he is not so concise as Conington, who puts Virgil’s fifteen hexameters into twenty of his short lines as opposed to fifteen of Morris’ long ones. Virgil has nothing of Morris’ “iron harvest”; here—

“Tum late ferreus hastisHorret ager, campique armis sublimibus ardent”—

“Tum late ferreus hastis

Horret ager, campique armis sublimibus ardent”—

we should give Conington the preference, while Morris excels in rendering the verse:

“Adventusque virum fremitusque ardescit equorum.”

In Morris’ version four words are to be specially noted:folk,dukes,maid, andvery. They contain the key to his method, and we shall recur to them again.

Our American’s blank-verse here helps him to no greater degree of fidelity than either of his rivals, while even patriotism must own his version, as compared with theirs, a trifle tame:

“Meanwhile, the Trojan troops, the Etruscan chiefs,And all the cavalry approach the walls,In order ranged. The coursers leap and neighAlong the fields, and fight against the curb,And wheel about. An iron field of spearsBristles afar, and lifted weapons blaze.Upon the other side the Latins swift,Messapus, Coras, and his brother come,Also Camilla’s wing; in hostile ranksThey threaten with their lances backward drawn,And shake their javelins. On the warriors press,And fierce and fiercer neigh the battle steeds.Advancing now within a javelin’s throw,Each army halted; then, with sudden shouts,They cheer and spur their fiery horses on.From all sides now the spears fly thick and fastAs showers of sleet, and darken all the sky.”

“Meanwhile, the Trojan troops, the Etruscan chiefs,

And all the cavalry approach the walls,

In order ranged. The coursers leap and neigh

Along the fields, and fight against the curb,

And wheel about. An iron field of spears

Bristles afar, and lifted weapons blaze.

Upon the other side the Latins swift,

Messapus, Coras, and his brother come,

Also Camilla’s wing; in hostile ranks

They threaten with their lances backward drawn,

And shake their javelins. On the warriors press,

And fierce and fiercer neigh the battle steeds.

Advancing now within a javelin’s throw,

Each army halted; then, with sudden shouts,

They cheer and spur their fiery horses on.

From all sides now the spears fly thick and fast

As showers of sleet, and darken all the sky.”

The word “cavalry” here is too modern in its associations to suit us entirely, nor strikes us as highly poetical.

“Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thychivalry,”

“Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thychivalry,”

is the way Campbell put it. Again, the rendering of the lineAdventusque virum fremitusque ardescit equorumis less exact than Morris’, if not than Conington’s, and much less poetical than either; and were it not for the printer’s aid, we should be unable to tell such blank-verse as “Messapus, Coras, and his brother come, also Camilla’s wing,” from the very prosiest of prose. Mr. Cranch, like Prof. Conington, omits Camilla’s attribute ofvirginis—though that is, perhaps, better than to call her, as Dryden does, a “virago”—and turns Virgil’ssnow into sleet, no doubt having in mind Gray’s

“Iron sleet of arrowy showerHurtles in the darkened air,”

“Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darkened air,”

or the “sharp sleet of arrowy shower” inParadise Regained.

It may be of interest to set side by side with these English translations the French version of Delille. It will show us, at least, where Mr. Morris went, perhaps, for his “iron harvest”:

“Mais déjà les Troyens, déjà les fiers ToscansPour attaquer vers Lausente ont déployé leurs rangs;Ils marchent; le coursier de sa tête hautaineBat l’air, ronge le frein, et bondit dans la plaine;Les champs sont hérissés d’une moisson de fer,Et chaque javelot fait partir un éclair.Et Messape, et Coras et son valeureux frère,Et la chaste Camille et sa troupe légère,Se présentent ensemble. On voit de toutes partsEt s’alonger la lance et s’agiter les dards.Sous les pas des guerriers les champs poudreux gémissent;Et soldats et coursiers de colère frémissent.Enfin, à la distance où le trait peut porter,Les partis ennemis viennent de s’arrêter:On s’écrie, on s’élance, et d’un essor rapide.Chacun pousse en avant son coursier intrépide.Plus pressés que la neige au retour des hiversDes nuages de traits en obscurci les airs.”

“Mais déjà les Troyens, déjà les fiers Toscans

Pour attaquer vers Lausente ont déployé leurs rangs;

Ils marchent; le coursier de sa tête hautaine

Bat l’air, ronge le frein, et bondit dans la plaine;

Les champs sont hérissés d’une moisson de fer,

Et chaque javelot fait partir un éclair.

Et Messape, et Coras et son valeureux frère,

Et la chaste Camille et sa troupe légère,

Se présentent ensemble. On voit de toutes parts

Et s’alonger la lance et s’agiter les dards.

Sous les pas des guerriers les champs poudreux gémissent;

Et soldats et coursiers de colère frémissent.

Enfin, à la distance où le trait peut porter,

Les partis ennemis viennent de s’arrêter:

On s’écrie, on s’élance, et d’un essor rapide.

Chacun pousse en avant son coursier intrépide.

Plus pressés que la neige au retour des hivers

Des nuages de traits en obscurci les airs.”

In a future number we purpose concluding our present examination and taking a final leave of the translators.

THE HOME-RULE CANDIDATE.

A STORY OF “NEW IRELAND.”BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC.CHAPTER II.NEW IRELAND AND YOUNG ENGLAND.

A STORY OF “NEW IRELAND.”

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC.

CHAPTER II.

NEW IRELAND AND YOUNG ENGLAND.

How glad I felt when morning came, as it brought me nearer to seeing our fair guest! I gathered a bouquet for her, wet with the kisses of the lingering night-dew. I flatter myself that my bouquets are constructed with a tender regard for tone. I have sat for hours in Paris, upon an upturned empty basket in the Marché aux Fleurs, watching thefleuristesdeftly composing those exquisite poems in color which serve to render flowers a charming necessity. Upon this occasion I selected blood-red geraniums as the outer edge, with narrowing circlets of stefanotis and mignonette, the whole enshrined in a bower of maiden-hair fern. How lovely she looked when I presented them to her at breakfast; how enchanting her transparent complexion, that flushed as she spoke, and crimsoned when she was spoken to! Alphonse Karr speaks of a similar indefinable charm in his own delightful way: “Elle avait ce charme poétiquement virginal, qui est la plus grande beauté de la femme.” Alas! my bouquet had been forestalled by the gift of a veritable last rose of summer which Harry Welstone had culled while I was engaged in imparting some finishing touches to my rather bristly hair. The words “too late” to meet me on the very threshold of my new career! It was truly disheartening.

She was attired in a tightly-fittingdress of pure white, adorned by a series of coquettish blue ribbons, the edgings being of the same color. Her cavalier collar and gauntlet cuffs finished a toilette which almost recalled my Virgil, as I could hardly refrain from exclaiming “O Dea certe!”

“Might I ask, if it is not an unparliamentary question, Mr. Ormonde, at what hour you allowed poor papa to retire to his bed? Was it late last night or early this morning?” she asked with a droll archness.

“Well, itwasrather late, Miss Hawthorne; but as your father was good enough to favor me with some exceedingly interesting passages in his senatorial career, the time galloped by at a break-neck pace and we took no note of it.”

I had already learned to play the hypocrite. O Master Cupid! and this was thy first lesson.

“Is my memory mocking me, or did I hear awful mention of Irish whisky?” she laughed.

This enabled me to explain the blunder of my retainer in his desire to uphold the honor of the family, and to exonerate myself from thesoupçonof having neglected her society for that of the bottle. Peter’s ideas upon the familystatusseemed to afford her the liveliest merriment, and she laughed the silvery laugh with which, old playgoers tell me, Mme. Vestris used to bring down the house.

“Peter is a character, then?”

“You will find that out before very long, Miss Hawthorne.”

“I dosolove characters!”

I ran over my characteristics like a flash, and found them of the baldest and mildest nature. Not a single strong point came to the rescue, not a liking or a disliking. Pah! what a dull, drowsy weed; what a prosy, colorless nobody.

“Peter is a great admirer of the fair sex,” said my mother. “You must see him on Sunday standing at the chapel gate ‘discoorsin’’ the pretty girls as they pass in to last Mass.”

“Is he a bachelor?”

“Oh! yes. I have often asked him why he doesn’t marry, and his invariable reply is, ‘I’d rayther keep looking at them.’”

“Perhaps I might have a chance,” said Miss Hawthorne, with a delicious coquetry in her manner.

“Not a bit of it, my dear; he would not ally himself to a Saxon for a crock of gold.”

“He is a hard-hearted wretch, then,” laughed our guest, “and I shall not endeavor to make a conquest.”

Little did she imagine that she might have utteredVeni, vidi, viciat that particular moment. A poor triumph, though—a paltry victory. I did not feel myself worthy of powder and shot.

Harry Welstone kept gazing at Miss Hawthorne from out his supremely handsome eyes. How I envied him those deep, dark, corsair-like organs of vision, inwardly railing against my own heavy blues! He chatted with her upon every conceivable topic, planning excursions, arranging her boating, riding, walking, and even the songs she was to sing, disposing of her time to his own especial advantage,and leaving me helplessly out in the cold with the prosy member for Doodleshire. I could not find a solitary topic to speak upon; at least, just as I had summoned up courage to “cut in,” as they say at whist, the wind had shifted and the current of the conversation had taken another turn, leaving my disabled argosy high and dry. I had spent my most recent years in the secluded valley of Kilkenley with my mother, my horses, and my dogs. I had seen little or nothing of the whirl of the world, and was so purely, so essentially local as to be almost ignorant of what was going on in the outer circle of life. Of course I read theFreeman’s Journal—generally two days old when it reached us—and then I merely glanced at the hunting fixtures or the sales of thoroughbreds at Farrell’s or Sewell’s. Of course I had done some reading; and of a lighter kind the Waverley Novels and Dickens, the Titanic Thackeray and a few unwholesome French effusions; but of late I had read nothing, and, as a consequence, was local to a contemptuous degree. In what did Peter, my own servant, differ from me? Merely in the perusal of a few books. He was a better judge of a horse and—but why proceed? My reflections were all of this melancholy cast as I listened to dissertations upon Chopin, Schubert, and Wagner, upon the novelists and poets of the period, upon Gainsborough hats and Pompadour flounces, upon the relative merits of Rève d’Amour and Ess’ bouquet. Harry and our fair young guest kept the shuttlecock going between them, and I was forced to bear the burden of my own ignorance in a stolid, stupid silence. One chance was offered me whichI took as I would a six-foot wall—flying. The question of horses came upon thetapis, and I vaulted into the saddle. I rode down Harry and scarcely spared Miss Hawthorne; nor did I draw rein until I had describedtherun of last season, from meet to death, winding a “View-halloo!” that actually caused the teacups to ring upon their saucers. This blew off my compressed excitement, and, although very much ashamed, I felt all the better for it. My foot was on my native heath, and I showedherthat my name was McGregor.

“What are you going to do with Mr. Hawthorne to-day?” asked my mother.

“What areyougoing to do with Miss Hawthorne, mother?” I retorted.

“Oh! Harry Welstone and I have arranged all that.Youare not in the baby-house.”

This was gratifying intelligence with a vengeance. I was told off as bear-leader to the prosy Parliament man, while Harry was to revel in the radiance of Miss Hawthorne’s presence. This was grilling. And yet what could I do or say? My hands were tied behind my back. I was host, and should pay deference to the respected rites of bread and salt, the sacred laws of hospitality. A sacrifice was demanded, and in me was found the victim.

“Could we not manage to unite our forces?” I suggested, in the faint, flickering hope that a compromise might be effected.

“Impossible!” said Harry.

I could have flung my teacup at his head.

“And why not, pray?” I asked in a short, testy way.

“Because you are to take Mr. Hawthorne over to Clonacooney,and to talk tenant-right and landlord-wrong with old Mr. Cassidy; then, when exhausted there, you are bound for the model farm at Rouserstown, and any amount of steam-ploughing and top-dressing; then you can pay a flying visit to Phil Dempsey’s hundred-acre field, and show the Saxon the richness of the land he has invaded; then you are to call for Father O’Dowd, where you can coal and do Home Rule; and then you may come home to dinner, whereweshall be very happy to receive you.” And Harry laughed loudly and long at my utter discomfiture—a discomfiture written in my rueful countenance in lines as heavy as those laid on the grim visage of Don Quixote by Gustave Doré.

“You are very kind, Welstone—a most considerate fellow. Why not have arranged for Knobber, or the other side of the Shannon—say Ballybawn, or Curlagh Island?”

The iron had entered my soul.

“Is not this arrangement a very heavy tax upon Mr. Ormonde’s good-nature?” exclaimed our fair guest, graciously coming to the rescue, addressing my mother, who,par parenthèse, expressed herself perfectly charmed with Miss Hawthorne.

“Tax! my dear child? On the contrary, it is just the sort of day my son will thoroughly enjoy: going about the country, talking second crops, turnips, and the price of hay and oats. He is devoted to all that sort of thing, and I doubt if even his duties of gallantry to you, Mabel, would get the better of his devotion to Mme. Ceres.”

I was about to blurt out something that might possibly have compromised me on all sides, when, as luck would have it, the M.P. entered.

He stalked into the room as if the division-bell were ringing, and took his seat as though below the gangway, bowing gravely to the assembled House. He lifted his cup as he would a blue-book, and handled his knife as an act of Parliament.

“You will—ahem!—I’m sure excuse my being a little late”—with a preparatory cough—“but the late sittings of last session have totally unfitted me for bed until the wee sma’ hours.”

“Surely, papa, you are not going to carry the House of Commons hours into the romantic glens of Kilkenly?”

“I admit that I ought not to do so, my dear, but, as a great statesman once observed—I, ahem! quite forget his name at this particular moment—habit is second nature; and were I to retire early, it would—ha! ha!—be only for the purpose of quarrelling with one of my best friends, mybestfriend—Morpheus.”

“You must find the fatigues of Parliament very great,” said my mother.

“Herculean, madam. My correspondence, before I go down to the House at all, is a herculean task, and one in which I am very considerably aided by my daughter.”

“Oh! yes,” she laughed; “I can write such diplomatic letters as ‘I beg to acknowledge receipt of your communication of the blank instant, which shall have my very best attention.’ Papa’s constituents invariably hear from me in that exact phraseology by return of post. I have a whole lot of such letters, as the Americans say, ‘on hand.’”

“If it were not for the off-nights, madam,” continued the member for Doodleshire, “Wednesdays and Saturdays, I should seriously thinkof accepting the Chiltern Hundreds, which is a gentlemanlike way of resigning a seat in the House.”

“And on the off-nights poor papa devotes himself tome,” exclaimed Mabel; “and I always accept invitations for those nights, so the only chance he has for sleep is during the recess.”

I wondered who her friends might be, what they were like, where they resided, and if the men were all in love with her. She had upon three distinct occasions referred to a Mr. Melton, and somehow the mention of this man filled me with a grim foreboding.

“We take too much sleep. We should do with as little as possible, and divide that by three. Sleep is waste of time. Sleep is a sad nuisance, a bore. It is born in a yawn and dies in imbecility,” cried Harry, suddenly bursting into vitality.

“Is it thus you would designate Nature’s soft nurse, sir?” demanded Mr. Hawthorne in a severe tone.

“This comes very badly from Mr. Welstone,” said my mother, “who requires to be called about ten times before he will deign to leave off sleeping.”

“You should see the panels of his door—actually worn away with knuckle-knocking,” I added.

“In the country I sleep because there’s nothing else to do. I get up early! What for? To see the same mist on the same mountains, and the same cows in the same field, and the same birds in the same trees; though,mot d’honneur, I was up and out this morning at eight o’clock, and played Romeo to Miss Hawthorne’s Juliet—at least, so far as a garden and a balcony could do it.”

“Who ever heard of a Romeo by daylight?” I exclaimed sarcastically.

“Let’s see what that love-stricken wretch does ‘neath the sun’s rays. We all know what he says and does in the pale moonlight.”

“He kills Tybalt,” I interposed, not utterly displeased in being able to show Mabel that I was on intimate terms with the Bard of Avon.

“And buys a penn’orth of strychnine,” added Harry with a grin.

“We know a gentleman who plays Romeo to perfection,” observed Mabel. “Such a handsome fellow! And the dress suits him charmingly.”

How I hated this Romeo!

“A Mr. Wynwood Melton.”

I knew it before she had uttered the words.

“An actor?” I drawled in a careless sort of way.

“Oh! dear, no; he’s in the Foreign Office, and a swell. He is nephew or cousin—I don’t know which—to Mr. Gladstone or some other great chief.” This with an animation that sent a thrill of despairing jealousy to my very soul.

“He is—ahem!—a very promising young man, a great favorite of ours, and will make his mark. He is destined for the House. You’ll meet him, Mr. Ormonde, when you come over. He is—ha! ha! ha!—rather a constant visitor,” with a significant glance in the direction of his daughter.

She flushed crimson. The deep scarlet glowed all over her like a rosy veil. That blush tolled the death-knell of my hopes. Our eyes met; she withdrew her glance, as I haughtily outstared her.

“He is a great favorite of papa’s,” she murmured, almost apologetically.

“And how about papa’s only daughter?” laughed my mother.

“Papa’s only daughter admireshim very much—thinks him very handsome, very nice, very cultivated, very clever,et voilà tout.”

“What more would papa’s only daughter have?”

A quaint little shrug, and a dainty laugh.

“A thousand things,” she said. From that moment I marked down Melton as my foe—as the man who had dared to cross my path. Not that I hoped for success, or could ever hope for it; yet to him she had evidently surrendered her heart, andhemust reckon withme. Meet him! Rather! I would now accept the invitation to London for the sole purpose of falling foul of Melton. It would be such exquisite torture to see them together; such racking bliss to behold them pressing hands and looking into each other’s eyes. What pleasurable agony to look calmly on while those nameless frivolities and gentle dalliances by which lovers bridge the conventionalities were being performed beneath my very nose! Ha! ha! I would close with Mr. Hawthorne’s offer and make arrangements for proceeding to ‘town,’ as he would persist in calling the English metropolis, at the earliest possible opportunity consistent with his, and Melton’s, convenience.

“Miss Hawthorne,” suddenly exclaimed Harry, “dotell us something more about this Romeo. You have only given us enough to make us wish for more. What is he like?”

“Will you have his portrait in oil or a twopenny photo?” she laughed.

“Let us strike ‘ile’ by all means.”

“Imprimis—that’s a good word to begin with—he is tall.”

“Good!”

“Graceful.”

“Good again!”

“Dignified-looking.”

“Bravissimo!”

“Parts his hair in the centre.”

“I don’t care for that,” said Harry.

“It becomeshim.”

“Possibly. Pray proceed. His eyes?”

“Gray.”

“Nose?”

“Aquiline.”

“Beard?—men parting their hair in the centre wear beards.”

“Henri Quatre.”

“Hands?”

“Small and white.”

I threw a hasty glance at mine; they were of the same hue as the leg of the mahogany breakfast-table at which we were seated. Sun and saddle had done their work effectually.

“Does he smile?”

“Why,of coursehe does.”

“Now,” said Harry, “upon your description of his smile a good deal may depend.”

“I object to this line of cross-examination,” said my mother.

“I consider the subject has been sufficiently thrashed already,” I added. Truly, I was sick of it.

“I shall throw up my brief, if I do not get an answer to my question.”

“I shall tell you by and by, Mr. Welstone.”

“By and by will not do.”

“Well, then, Mr. Melton’s smile is like a sunbeam. Are you satisfiednow?”

“Mr. Hawthorne,” said Harry, turning to the M.P., “this is a very bad case.”

“I’m afraid—ha! ha! ha!—that it looks somewhat suspicious,” was the significant reply.

“If you mean—” Mabel began.

“I don’t mean whatyoumean,” laughed Harry.

“Whatdoyou mean?” she asked.

“What doyoumean?” he playfully retorted.

At this juncture Peter O’Brien’s shock head appeared at the open window, through which he unceremoniously thrust it, announcing, in no very delicate accents:

“The yokes isconvaynient.”

“That’s a fine morning, Peter,” exclaimed Miss Hawthorne, rising and approaching the window.

“Troth, it’s that same, miss, glory be to God! It’s iligant weather intirely for the craps.”

“We’ve cut all our corn in England, Peter.”

“See that, now,” gloomily; but, brightening up, he added: “Sorra a haporth to hindherusfrom cuttin’ it long ago, av it was only ripe enough.”

“An Irish peasant will never admit Saxon superiority in anything,” said my mother, placing her arm about Mabel’s waist. “What ‘yokes’ have you out to-day, Peter?”

“The shay for you, ma’am, and the young leddy there; though I’m afeared it’s not as nate as it ought for to be, be raisin av a rogue av a hin—a red wan, full av consait an’ impidence—makin’ her nest right—”

“Here, Peter,” I cried, to put a stop to these hideous revelations, “get my car round at once.” I could have strangled him.

As all English visitors to Ireland are possessed of a frantic desire to experience the jolting of an Irish jaunting-car, I ordered my own special conveyance round, also from the workshop of Bates—a low, rakish-looking craft, with a very deep well for the dogs when going out shooting, and bright yellow corduroy cushions; an idea of my own, and upon which I rather piquedmyself. Harry Welstone and the ladies came to the doorsteps to see us off, and while he explained the beauties of the chariot to Miss Hawthorne I endeavored to initiate her father into the mysteries of clinging on, advising him not to clutch the front and back rail so convulsively, but rather to allow his body to swing with every motion of the vehicle, and above all things to trust to luck.

“Lave yourself as if ye wor a sack o’ male, sir,” suggested Peter, who was charioteer, “or as if ye had a sup in. Sorra a man that was full ever dhropped off av a car, barrin’ Murty Flinn; an’ shure that was not his fault aither, for it was intirely be raisin av a bargain he med wud a lump av a mare he was dhrivin’ at that time.”

“Who was Murty Flinn, Peter?” asked Miss Hawthorne.

“A dacent boy, miss, that lives beyant at the crass-roads—a rale hayro for sperits,” was the prompt response, accompanied by a semi-military salute.

“And how did he fall off the car?”

“Troth, thin,mavourneen, it wasn’t Murty that fell aff av the car, so much as that the car fell aff av Murty; an’ this is how it happened: Murty was comin’ from the fair av Bohernacopple, where he wint for to sell a little slip av a calf, an’ afore he left the fair he tuk several gollioges av sperits, an’ had a cupple uv haits wud Phil Clancy, the red-hedded wan—not Phil av Tubbermory—an’ he was bet up intirely betune the whiskey an’ the rounds wud red Clancy, so that whin he cum for to make for home he was hard set for to yoke the mare, an’ harder set agin for to mount to his sate on the car. But Murty is the persevarionist man yeever laid yer two purty eyes on, miss, an’ he ruz himself into the sate afther a tremendjus battle; and th’ ould mare, whin she seen that he was comfortable, tuk the road like a Christian mare. Well, Murty rowled backwards an’ forwards, an’ every joult av the car ye’d think wud sind him on the crown av hiscaubeen; but, be me song, he was as secure as a prisner in Botany Bay, an’ it’s a sailor he thought he was, up in a hammock no less. Well, miss, the night was a little dark an’ the road was shaded wud threes, an’ whin they cum to th’ ould graveyard at Killencanick never a fut the mare ‘ud go farther.

“‘What’s the matther wud ye?’ axed Murty; but sorra an answer she med him.

“‘Are ye bet,’ sez he, ‘an’ you so far from home?’ She riz a cupple av kicks, as much as to say, ‘Ye hit it off that time, anyhow, Misther Flinn!’

“‘Did ye get a dhrink at the fair beyant, Moria?’—the little mare’s name, miss. She shuk her hed in a way that tould him that she was as dhry as a cuckoo.

“‘Musha, musha, but that was cruel thratemint,’ sez he. ‘What’s to be done at all, at all?’

“Well, miss, he thought for a minit, an’ he sez: ‘Moria, we’re only two mile from the Cock an’ Blackberry, an’ I’ll tell ye what I’ll do wud ye: you carry me wan mile, sez he, ‘an’ I’ll carry you th’ other.’”

This proposition on the part of Murty Flinn was received with a peal of ringing laughter from Miss Hawthorne, who, with flashing eyes and an eager expression of delighted curiosity, begged of Peter to proceed.

“Av coorse, miss,” replied the gratified Jehu. “Well, ye see the words was hardly acrass his mouthwhin, cockin’ her ears an’ her tail, th’ ould mare darted aff as if she was runnin’ for the Cunningham Coop at Punchestown, an’ Murty swingin’ like a log round a dog’s neck all the voyage; an’ the minnit she come to the milestone undher Headford demesne she stopped like a dead rabbit.

“‘Where are we now?’ axed Murty.

“She sed nothin’, but rouled the car up to the milestone an’ grazed it wud the step.

“‘Well, yer the cutest little crayture,’ sez Murty, ‘that ever wore shoes,’ sez he; ‘an’, be the powers, as ye kept yer word wud me, I’ll keep me word wud you.’ And he rouled aff av the car into the middle o’ the road, while th’ ould mare unyoked herself as aisy as if it was aitin’ hay she was insted av undoin’ buckles that riz many a blisther on Murty’s fingers; for the harness wascontrairy, and more betoken as rusty as a Hessian’s baggonet. When Murty seen the mare stannin’ naked in the road, he med an offer for to get up, but he was bet intirely be raisin av the sup he tuk, an’ he cudn’t stir more nor his arms; but the ould mare wasn’t goin’ for to be done out av her jaunt in that way, so she cum over, an’ sazin’ him—savin’ yer presence, miss—be the sate av his small-clothes, riz him to his feet, an’, wud a cupple av twists, dhruv him betune the shafts av the car, an’ in a brace av shakes had him harnessed like a racer.

“‘I’m reddy now, ma’am,’ sez Murty, mighty polite, for he seen the whip in one av her forepaws—‘I’m reddy now, ma’am; so up wud ye, an’ I’ll go bail we’ll not be long coverin’ the road betune this an’ the Cock an’ Blackberry.’

“Well, miss, th’ ould mare mountedthe car, an’ Murty started aff as well as he cud; but he was bet up afther runnin’ a few yards, an’ he dhropped into a walk, but no sooner he done it than he got a welt av the whip that med him hop.

“‘What are ye doin?’ sez he, an’ down cums the lash agin be way av an answer.

“‘How dare ye raise yer hand to a Christian?’ sez he. A cupple av welts follied this.

“‘I’ll not stan’ it!’ he bawled; but the more he roared an’ bawled the heavier th’ ould mare welted, an’ he might as well be spakin’ to the Rock o’ Cashel.

“‘Hould yer hand!’ he roared, thryin to soothe her—‘hould yer hand, an’ ye’ll have a bellyful av the finest oats in the barony—ould Tim Collins’ best crap. Dhrop the whip, an’ sorra a taste av work ye’ll do till next Michaelmas. I can’t thravel faster, Moria, be raisin av a corn,’ and the like; but the mare had him, an’ she ped off ould scores, an’ be the time they kem to the Cock an’ Blackberry poor Murty was bet like an ould carpet, an’ he wasn’t fit for to frighten the crows out av an oat-field. An’ that’s how it all happened, miss.”

“And did he give Moria the drink?” asked Miss Hawthorne.

“He sez he did,” replied Peter, with a peculiar grin; “but the people that owns the public-house sez that he niver darkened their doore, an’ that he was found lying undher the yoke near the crass-roads, wud th’ ould mare grazin’ about a half a mile down the road. But it’s a thrue story,” he added with somewhat of solemn emphasis.

“Si non e vero e ben trovato,” laughed our guest, as she waved us a graceful adieu.

It was one of those lovely mornings nowhere to be found but inIreland: the dim, half-gray light, the heavily-perfumed air, the stillness that imparted a sort of sad solemnity to the scene, the glorious tints of green on hill and hollow that mellowed themselves with the sombre sky, a something that inspires a silence that is at once a resource and a regret. I became wrapped up in my own thoughts—so much so that, although I held the “ribbons” I was scarcely aware of the fact, and it was only the exclamation from Peter: “Blur an’ ages! Masther Fred, luk out for the brudge”—a narrow structure, across which it was possible to pass without grazing the parapet walls, and nothing more—that brought me to my senses. My guest, in spite of the earnest instructions of Peter, was clinging frantically to the rails at either end of the seat, and, instead of allowing his body to swing with the motion of the vehicle, was endeavoring to sit bolt upright, as though he were in the House of Commons and in anxious expectation of catching the Speaker’s eye. Upon arriving at the foot of Ballymacrow hill Peter sprang to the ground—an example followed by myself; but Mr. Hawthorne retained his seat, as there was plenty of walking in store for him, and my horse could well endure the weight of one, when the weight of three would make a very essential difference in so steep a climb.

Peter, reins in hand, walked beside the “mimber,” and in a few minutes was engaged in “discoorsin’” him.

“Home Rule? Sorra a wan o’ me cares a thraneen for it, thin.”

“What is a thraneen?” asked Mr. Hawthorne, eager for information all along the line.

“A thraneen is what the boysreddies their dhudeens wud,” was the response to the query.

“I am still in ignorance.”

“Wisha, wisha! an’ this is a mimber av Parliamint,” muttered Peter, “an’ he doesn’t know what a thraneen manes, an’ the littlest gossoon out av Father Finnerty’s school beyant cud tell him”; adding aloud: “A thraneen is a blade av grass that sheeps nor cows won’t ait, an’ it sticks up in a field; there’s wan,” suiting the action to the word, plucking it from a bank on the side of the road, and presenting it to the member for Doodleshire.

“And so you are not a Home-Ruler, my man?”

“Sorra a bit, sir.”

“Then what are you?”

“I am a repayler. I’m for teetotal separation; that’s what Dan O’Connell sed to Drizzlyeye.”

“What did Mr. O’Connell say to Mr. Disraeli?” asked my guest in very Parliamentary phraseology.

“I’ll tell ye. ‘What is it yez want at all, at all, over beyant in Hibernium?’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez are always wantin’ somethin,’ sez he, ‘an’ what the dickens do yez want now?’

“‘I’ll tell ye what we want,’ says Dan, as bould as a ram.

“‘What is it, Dan?’ sez Drizzlyeye.

“‘We want teetotal separation,’ sez Dan.

“‘Arrah, ge lang ou’ a that,’ sez Drizzlyeye. ‘Yez cudn’t get along wudout us,’ sez he.

“‘Cudn’t we?’ sez Dan. ‘Thry us, Drizzlyeye,’ sez he. ‘How did we get on afore?’

“‘Bad enuff,’ sez Drizzlyeye—‘bad enuff, Dan. Yez were always batin’ aich other and divartin’ yerselves, and, barrin’ the weltin’ Brian Boru gev the Danes at Clontarf,bad cess to the haporth yez ever done, Dan. England is yer best frind. We always play fair,’ sez he.

“‘How dar ye say that to me?’ sez Dan, takin’ the Traity av Limerick out av his pocketbuke. ‘Luk at that documint,’ sez he, firin’ up; ‘there’s some av yer dirty work; an’ I ax ye square an’ fair,’ sez Dan, in a hait, for he was riz, ‘if the brakin’ av that wasn’t as bad as anything yer notorious ancesthor ever done?’ alludin’ to Drizzlyeye’s ancesthor, the impenitint thief.

“‘That’s none of my doin’, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye, turnin’ white as a banshee.

“‘I know it’s not,’ sez Dan; ‘but ye’d do it to-morrow mornin’,’ sez he, ‘an’ that’s why I demand the repale an’ a teetotal separation.’

“‘Begorra, but I think yer right, Dan,’ sez Drizzlyeye.”

“Such an interview could not possibly have occurred,” observed the practical Englishman.

“Cudn’t it?” with an indignant toss of the head. “I had it from Lanty Finnegan, who heerd it from the bishop’s own body-man.” And Peter, giving the horse a lash of the whip, dashed into the laurestine-bordered avenue leading up to the cosey cottage wherein resided the “darlintest priest outside av Room,” Father Myles O’Dowd.

Father O’Dowd’s residence was a long, single-storied house, whitewashed to a dazzling whiteness, and thatched with straw the color of the amber wept by the sorrowing seabird. A border of blood-red geraniums ran along the entirefaçade, and the gable ends were embowered in honeysuckle and clematis. A rustic porch entwined with Virginia creeper jealously guarded the entrance, boldly backed up by the “iligantest ratter in the barony”in the shape of a bandy-legged terrier, who winked a sort of facetious welcome at Peter and bestowed a cough-like bark of recognition upon me. The parlor was a genuine snuggery, “papered with books,” all of which, from St. Thomas of Aquinas to Father Perrone, were of the rarest and choicest theological reading. Nor were the secular authors left out in the cold, to which the well-thumbed volumes of the Waverley Novels and the immortalfacetiæof Dickens bore ample testimony. A charming copy of Raphael’s masterpiece stood opposite the door, the glorious eyes of the Virgin Mother lighting the apartment with a soft and holy radiance, while the fresh and rosy flesh-tints of the divine Infant bespoke the workmanship as being that of amaestro. A portrait of Henry Grattan hung over the chimney-piece, and facing it, between the windows, a print of the review of the volunteers in College Green, while some dozen valuable engravings, all of a sacred character, adorned the walls in graceful profusion. A statuette of the Holy Father occupied a niche specially prepared for it, and an old brass-bound rosewood bureau, black as ebony from age, sternly asserted itself in defiance of a hustling crowd of horse-hair-seated chairs; a shining sofa a little the worse for the wear, and presenting a series of comfortless ridges to the unwary sitter, and a genuine Domingo mahogany table bearing an honest corned beef and cabbage and “boiled leg with” completed a picture that was at once refreshing and invigorating to behold.

“Shure he’s only acrass the bog, Masther Fred,” exclaimed Biddy Finnegan, the housekeeper, with a joyous smile illuminating the veryfrills of her old-world white cap, “an’ I’ll send wan av the boys for him. He’d be sore an’ sorry for to miss ye, sir. An’ how’s the misthress—God be good to her!—an’ the major, whin ye heerd av him? It’s himself that’s kindly and dhroll.” And Biddy, dusting the sofa, requested the member for Doodleshire to take a “sate.”

“Won’t ye have a sup o’ somethin’ afther yer jaunt, Masther Fred, or this gintleman? Och! but here’s himself now.”

Father O’Dowd had been attached to Imogeela since his ordination—a period of thirty years, during twenty-five of which he was its devoted parish priest. Respectfully declining the promotion in the church which his piety, erudition, and talents claimed for him as their natural heritage, he clung with paternal fondness to his little parish, ministering to the spiritual wants of his flock with an earnest and holy watchfulness that was repaid to the uttermost by a childlike and truthful obedience. To his parishioners he was all, everything—guide, philosopher, friend. He shared their joys and their sorrows, their hopes and their fears. He whispered hope when the sky was overcast, urging moderation when the sun was at its brightest. He had christened every child and married every adult in the parish; and those, alas! so many, lying beneath the green grass in the churchyard of Imogeela had been soothed to their long, long rest by the words of heavenly consolation from his pious lips. Ever at his post, the cold, bleak nights of winter would find him wending his way through rugged mountain-passes, fording swollen streams, or wading treacherous bogs to attend to the wants of the sick and dying, whilea granite boulder or the stump of a felled tree, the blue canopy of heaven overhead, has upon many memorable occasions constituted his confessional. A profound scholar, a finished gentleman, and, despite his surroundings, a good deal a man of the world, I was proud, exceedingly proud, to be enabled to present to Mr. Hawthorne so true a specimen of that order which Lord John Russell had been pleased to describe as “surpliced ruffians.”

The priest entered, a smile illuminating his expressive face like a ray of sunlight. Stretching forth both hands, he bade me welcome, exclaiming: “Ah! you have made your pilgrimage at last; you come, as old Horace hath it,inter silvas Academi quærere verum. How is your excellent mother? I received your joint epistle, and I hope you got my promissory note, due almost at sight.”

Father O’Dowd was about fifty-five or fifty-six; hale, handsome, and muscular; his silken, snow-white hair and ruddy complexion, with his lustrous, dark blue eyes and glittering teeth, giving him an air of genial cordiality pronounceable at a single glance. Tall, sunburnt, and powerfully built, he carried that solidity of gesture and firmness of tread sometimes so marked in muscular Christianity. I saw with feelings of intense pleasure that my guest was both pleased and impressed—an impression strengthened by the cordial greeting which the worthy priest extended to him.

“Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Hawthorne. It’s about the best thing Strongbow ever did for me—the pleasure of seeing a friend of my dear young friend’s here. Collectively you Saxons hate us; individuallyyou find us not quite the lawless savages thePall Mall GazetteandSpectatorwould make us.”

“We want to know you better,” said the M.P.

“Ah! that’s the rub. You don’t know us, and never will know us; butweknowyou. Englishmen come over to Ireland, believing that a real knowledge of the country is not to be acquired from newspapers, but that a man must see Ireland for himself. They come; they go; and all they pick up is a little of our brogue. We never can hope for much more than what Lucan callsconcordia discors.”

“I believe if Ireland were to take the same stand as Scotland—”

“Scotland me no Scotland,” laughed Father O’Dowd.

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