Manners Volume Iii Part 1

Manners.

Vol 3.

by Frances Brooke.

CHAPTER I.

----Whose birth beyond all question springs From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings.

oeCHURCHILL.oe

The lady who did the honours of Mr. O'Sullivan's house to our English travellers, on the night of their arrival at Ballinamoyle, Miss Fitzcarril by name, was in person extremely tall; and a carriage of extraordinary uprightness gave her, with a stiffness, a dignity also of appearance. Her face, though good natured in expression, was, at that period, rather plain; but yet sufficient evidence remained to corroborate her own frequent a.s.sertion, that "she had once been a fine woman;" in making which she flattered herself her auditors would imply, that she took the same license which the structure of a venerable language sometimes permits, of understanding, at pleasure, different tenses by the same word; and that they would from the past infer the present. In dress and manner she was old fas.h.i.+oned, but stately, generally wearing garments made of the antique tabinets and satins she inherited from her grandmother, and which, from the unbending nature of the material, would have stood alone, nearly in as erect a posture as that they maintained when encompa.s.sing her perpendicular figure; a double clear starched handkerchief, which Mr. Desmond wickedly called her transparency, enveloped her neck; and the costume of her person was completed by a fine muslin ap.r.o.n of curious work, derived from her own, or her progenitors' industry. Her headdress was the only part of her attire which was ever varied, and in this she was fantastic in the extreme, composing it of the most showy materials, and wearing in her caps and turbans colours only fit for the young and beautiful. Every acquaintance who visited Galway, Limerick, or Clare, was sure to have a commission to buy a cap or bonnet for Miss Fitzcarril; and the more _outre_ in form and colour, the better pleased she was with their purchase. She was, in mind, the most singular mixture of pride and parsimony that was perhaps ever compounded; the one she derived from her highly valued ancestry, the other from her own peculiar fate, and a mistaken idea of principle; and she reconciled her frugality and her dignity, by declaring that "the Fitzcarrils and O'Sullivans needn't trouble their heads about what any one said of them; _every body_ knew they were come of the kings of Connaught, and had a good right to do as they pleased." In early life she had lived in extreme poverty, and then had learned the ideas of management she afterwards laboured to enforce at Ballinamoyle. Mr. O'Sullivan had been deprived of his wife a few years before he had also the misfortune to lose his only child; and on the death of this beloved daughter, he chose Theresa Fitzcarril from amongst his female relatives, to superintend his establishment, at the same time settling a comfortable provision on her, in case she should survive himself; which he considered a mere act of justice, for he foresaw that the retirement of his residence would condemn her to a life of solitude and celibacy, the two precise circ.u.mstances which least accorded with her own wishes. Theresa, on her part, actuated by an excess of pride, resolved she would cancel her pecuniary obligations, not only to her original benefactor, but to his heir, by saving for the family a sum more than equivalent to all she should ever receive from it. She therefore endeavoured (though without much success) to introduce a system of penury at Ballinamoyle, that, had its owner been aware of her proceedings, he would not have suffered, as it was diametrically opposite to his wishes; he seldom however inquired into the _minutiae_ of his household; and indifferent to every thing, after the loss of his daughter, he permitted Theresa to do nearly as she pleased; and when he did object to any of her practices, she was so obstinate, that he found he must, to get rid of them, get rid of herself also with them, and this he never could resolve on; but consoled himself with the usual reflection of his countrymen, when trouble is necessary to avoid any thing unpleasant, "It will do well enough, my time won't be long." Miss Fitzcarril sought to relieve the monotony of her life by indulging in constant speculation. In every lottery she had a sixteenth share of a ticket; and to ascertain what she might possess in the _matrimonial lottery_, had frequent and protracted conferences with all the tribes of cup-t.o.s.s.e.rs, card-cutters, and deaf and dumb men and women, who infested the country as fortune-tellers,--"Who blind could every thing foresee"--"Who dumb could every thing foretell." This pleasure however Miss Fitzcarril was obliged to indulge in secret, as Mr. O'Sullivan and the worthy priest, who was his domestic pastor, used their best endeavours to banish this race of vagabonds from every place they had influence in; so that when she consulted any of these oracles, she was obliged to conceal herself and them in some remote cabin; but perhaps the impediment thus thrown in the way of this favourite indulgence made her but the more keenly enjoy and still more pertinaciously persist in the practice, notwithstanding the reiterated penances imposed for this offence by the good father Dermoody, which, though she ventured to commit, she did not dare to suppress at confessional. A family of the name of Stewart wandered about the country, presenting papers signed by respectable names, setting forth, that "their progenitors had been s.h.i.+pwrecked on the coast of Ireland, about a century ago--that the whole race were deaf and dumb--but that Providence, in compensation, had bestowed on them the gift of second sight." To the predictions of a dumb woman, who claimed this name, and proved she was deaf, by showing that nature had left her unprovided with ears[1], Theresa gave the most implicit credit. This Pythoness had learned to write the printed character, and to draw rude representations of s.h.i.+ps, trees, men, and animals, which she described on a board with a piece of white chalk; and of these hieroglyphics those who consulted her made what sense best pleased them. A sharp boy, who had all his senses in full activity, never failed to accompany her; apparently to a.s.sist in expounding her text, but, in reality, to collect information, which, by the language of signs, he certainly conveyed to his fellow conjuror, at the most _a-propos_ moment, as no body concealed from him the information she was supposed to be (humanly speaking) ignorant of;

"Tout cela bien souvent faisoit crier miracle!

Enfin quoique ignorant a vingt et trois carats, Elle pa.s.soit pour un oracle!"

[Footnote 1: This account of the Stewart family is not fict.i.tious, either as to name or circ.u.mstance.]

In their last conference Judy Stewart had given Miss Fitzcarril the following enigma:--A rose rudely drawn, followed by the words "of vargins,"--then, a s.h.i.+p in full sail--then, three suns--and lastly, a man, four times as big as the s.h.i.+p, holding a candle in one hand, and a ring in the other. The exposition Barny and the curious spinster gave of this was as follows:--"The flower of virgins," that is, the eldest daughter of the direct branch of the O'Sullivan family, was coming from beyond sea, and would arrive at Ballinamoyle, as soon as the sun had risen three times, bringing in her train a great personage (expressed by his extraordinary size,) who would, in winter, designated by the candle, bestow the wedding ring on the fair Theresa Fitzcarril. Judy Stewart's credit was luckily saved by the horses, which our travellers so unexpectedly procured at Tuberdonny, fulfilling the first part of the prediction; and in Mr. Webberly the credulous maiden saw the hero, who was to accomplish that part which related to herself.

Extremes are popularly said to meet, which, we suppose, may naturally account for the Connaught sibyls' most zealous friend and powerful enemy residing at Ballinamoyle. The latter was the reverend father Dermoody, who filled the office of spiritual guide to its owner. He was well informed in mind, and gentlemanly in manners; two circ.u.mstances but rarely united in the Irish priests, who are generally taken from a low order in society, and do not usually carry an appearance impressive of the respect, to which most of them are ent.i.tled by their real worth. Mr.

Dermoody was a relation of the late Mrs. O'Sullivan, and had embraced the priesthood from the influence of early disappointment, which had disgusted him with the world, and led him to devote himself to a religious life for consolation. He pursued his theological studies in one of the French colleges, and was deliberating on entering into a monastic order of great austerity, when he received a letter from his present patron, acquainting him with his marriage, and offering him the situation of chaplain to his family, which Dermoody's better stars induced him to accept. For many years he bestowed on the education of his relative's lovely daughter all of his time and thoughts, which were not devoted to his sacred functions; and, since her death, he had been the consolation of her desolate father, and a blessing to the poor of the vicinity. As he however avoided society in general, he was not introduced to our travellers on the night of their arrival, but they then made acquaintance with Miss Fitzcarril's constant and obsequious attendant, Captain Cormac, so called by common consent, though he had never risen in the army higher than a lieutenant, the half pay of which rank was his only subsistence, independent of Mr. O'Sullivan's bounty.

Though of a different religious persuasion, his family had long been tenants and retainers of that at Ballinamoyle; and this member of it, on the strength of his red coat, was considered a gentleman, and, as such, was every day admitted to Mr. O'Sullivan's table, and made up his card party in the winter's evenings, generally returning at night to the house of a better sort of steward, living on the demesne, who managed the Ballinamoyle property, its owner charging himself with the expenses there incurred by Captain Cormac.

This son of Mars, conscious of the deficiency of his pedigree, very unknowingly endeavoured to prove his t.i.tle to the character of a gentleman, by paying the most anxious and unremitting attention to the fair s.e.x in general, and to Miss Fitzcarril in particular; for, in consequence of his living in this sequestered situation, he was totally unsuspicious of the improvements in modern manners, which lead so many of our youth to suppose, that a neglect of the ladies they a.s.sociate with, not unfrequently amounting almost to rudeness, is an indispensable requisite in the deportment of every fas.h.i.+onable beau; but perhaps some of our readers will suggest an excuse for Captain Cormac's ignorant simplicity, by acknowledging that beau and gentleman are not always synonymous terms. Mr. O'Sullivan for instance, was certainly no beau, though perfectly a gentleman. As this word, in our humble opinion, conveys a character that is almost all "that the eye looks for," or "the heart desires" in man, we will not weaken its inexpressible worth by paraphrase, but hope the actions of the person it has here been applied to will establish his claim to the most n.o.ble appellation the English language boasts of.

CHAPTER II.

O! live--and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past; Rely on Heav'n's unchanging will For peace at last!

oeMONTGOMERY.oe

On the morning after her arrival at Ballinamoyle, Adelaide was forcibly struck with the strange coincidence of circ.u.mstances that had conducted her to this place, so remote from the scenes in which she had once expected to have pa.s.sed her life. That day two years, she had no expectation of becoming an inhabitant of the British isles; and one fortnight had just elapsed since she received Mrs. O'Sullivan's letter, announcing her intention of undertaking the journey they had accomplished. Her meeting with Colonel Desmond seemed like seeing an inhabitant of another world, who could dive into thoughts, and was acquainted with occurrences unknown to those she was surrounded by.

Though but four years had revolved since they last met, from the unexpected nature of the events that had marked them, they seemed, to memory, longer in duration than all those which had smoothly rolled away, ere their giant days rose on the wheel of fate, robed in the strongest hues of joy or sorrow. She felt grieved her journey was now at an end, as she had derived much amus.e.m.e.nt from it, and knew she should, in future, a.s.sociate much less with Colonel Desmond. "I wonder, (thought she,) what description of being this Mr. O'Sullivan is, we have come so far to see--Poor little Caroline! I hope he will be more affectionate to her than her mother and sisters are."

When Adelaide repaired to the breakfast room, and proceeded to open the door, her hand trembled on the lock, for she heard Caroline's joyous voice within, followed by an expression of fondness; and recollected, with bitterness of heart, that in that room was no relative, who would greet her entrance with a face of gladness.--She could not go in at that moment, and retreated a few steps. "Why am I so overpowered this morning? (thought she,) I ought to be more than usually happy, in reflecting, that dearest Caroline is this day introduced to her father's family; the happy one will soon arrive, when I shall be restored to mine, so _cote qui cote_, I go in." Armed with this magnanimous resolution, she entered the room, and her eyes were instantly attracted by one of the most venerable figures she had ever beheld. An old gentleman, dressed in mourning, was sitting with little Caroline on his knee; his face, as he bent his gray head to gaze on her infant beauties, was expressive of every benevolent feeling, whilst his dignified figure impressed the beholder with an awe, which was tempered, but not entirely removed, by the benignity of his countenance. In him was seen all that was reverend in age--in the cherub he caressed all that was blooming in youth. Her silken hair hung, in waving ringlets, on a cheek that mocked the rose's hue; her transparent skin showed the blue veins, that meandered on a brow as spotless as the mountain snow. The dark blue eye, that threw its melting ray on his, seemed to call forth fires that long had slept beneath those silver brows; and as her ivory arm hung round his neck, the youthful softness of her hand was more than usually apparent from the contrast it formed with the withered cheek it pressed.

"Dearest Caroline! may he prove a fond parent to you!" was the ardent wish of Adelaide's heart, as she gazed on the happy child, and her venerable relative. Mr. O'Sullivan, looking up, rose to receive her; and the little girl, springing gaily forward, took her hand, saying, "This is my own dear Adele Wildenheim, I told you about, uncle; I love her better than any body in the world; if you will let me live with you, and will keep her too, I shall be so happy!" Whilst Caroline looked inquiringly up in his face to read the success of her proposition; the old man smiled on the lovely girl thus introduced to him, and holding out his hand cordially to her, said, "Your name is well known to me, Miss Wildenheim. Baron Wildenheim was the friend and benefactor of my deceased brother, and his child is truly welcome to my roof." Adelaide's cheek glowed with the most vivid blushes as she felt a tear trickle down; the accents faltered on her lips when she attempted to speak, and a deep sigh burst from Mr. O'Sullivan's breast as he recollected, that the daughter he had lost in the bloom of youth was, in his eyes at least, as lovely as the beautiful girl they now rested on.

At this moment Miss Fitzcarril and Mrs. O'Sullivan entered the room; the latter acting the amicable, aspired to rest her fat hand on the bony arm of the stately Theresa, who, with smiles of unconscious exultation at her own towering height, and with an air of condescension, bent her long neck over her right shoulder, towards her rotund companion, as if the words she addressed to her would not otherwise be within hearing distance. The one stalked forward, sweeping after her a long train of the thickest tabinet; the other (though certainly not a figure for a Zephyr) fluttered in gauze, whose transparent texture a Roman would have compared to "the woven wind," her habiliment being about as long as that of the sapient dame well known in nursery history, after her unfortunate rencontre with the mischievous pedler.

When Mrs. O'Sullivan espied her brother-in-law, she bustled up to him with an appearance of lively pleasure; but an observer, with half the penetration of Adelaide, might have seen a temporary expression of disappointment cloud his features, as from his brother he had never received the slightest hint, that might lead him to form an idea of what she really was, either in manner or appearance; and the beauty of her daughter and elegance of her ward had made him expect to find her far different in both; however, this expression was but transient, and he received her with his usual hospitality, and told her with much warmth and sincerity, how much he admired the charming little Caroline. The Miss Webberlys and their brother made their appearance shortly after Mrs. O'Sullivan's entrance; and the groupe were all a.s.sembled round the breakfast-table when Father Dermoody came into the room, whom Miss Fitzcarril and the master of the house rose to receive with the utmost respect, whilst his manner united the humility he felt as a man with the dignity he derived from his sacred office. When he approached them, the motion of his hand, and the raised expression of his countenance, told Adelaide that he pa.s.sed that silent benediction she had so often witnessed abroad. His benevolent looks seemed to extend it to all, though a slight tinge on his cheek, and a half mournful glance of his eye, betrayed that he felt it would be scorned by some. A reverential bend of Adelaide's graceful figure, and the mild seriousness that chastened her smile of acknowledgement as her eye met his, conveyed to the venerable priest that she at least understood him, and thankfully received his pious aspirations. He looked in vain for the sign, that should have marked their conformity of faith, and sighed deeply, then muttered half under his breath, "In all else how like!"

The English ladies soon found Miss Fitzcarril's gunpowder tea quite too potent for their nerves, and diluted it in a manner that astonished her; for this good lady, in her extensive patronage of vagrants, included smugglers and pedlers, from whom she procured the finest teas and brandies, for to these articles her ideas of parsimony did not extend; and as she kept the latter entirely for her male friends, she thought the former in their utmost strength the peculiar beverage of the fair s.e.x, and now wondered where these ladies could have been brought up, not to understand the merits of gunpowder tea at a guinea a pound!

In the course of the morning Mr. O'Sullivan took his usual promenade in front of his house; and here he appeared in all his glory. In one promiscuous groupe were a.s.sembled the heads of the families his tenantry comprised, with every other man, woman, or child, that could leave home to get a peep at the newly-arrived guests, whose appearance at Ballinamoyle had been looked for with more curiosity than pleasure. For Mr. O'Sullivan was universally beloved, and the superst.i.tious ideas of his tenantry made them regard the arrival of his heiress as an omen of his own death; besides they very naturally dreaded this property being given to people unattached to them, and unacquainted with their customs.

As the ladies stood at the open windows in front of the house to gaze at the strange a.s.semblage, many were the remarks their appearance called forth. According to custom, every domestic went out in turn to "collogue," as they call it, with their favourite Judy or Barny; and as Caroline stood on the window-seat with Adelaide's protecting arm round her waist, she was repeatedly pointed out to the inquirers. But as the Irish seldom have patience to listen to more than half a sentence, when their minds are intent on any new subject, Caroline's companion was by most of the crowd taken for the object of their search. "She is a beautiful young lady, and looks loving and kind." "She's about the height of poor Miss Rose." "Ochone, she was the darling! Sun or moon will ne'er s.h.i.+ne on the likes of her again; and while gra.s.s grows and water runs, she'll ne'er be forgot out of Ballinamoyle!" These and many similar expressions proceeded from the lips of the elder part of the a.s.sembly, whilst the unconscious object of their remarks entertained herself in viewing the various groupes it consisted of.

Close after Mr. O'Sullivan walked his steward, hat in hand, to receive his orders, or answer his questions respecting the numerous pet.i.tioners who from time to time approached him. Whenever he turned towards the crowd, every man's hat was instantaneously taken off in the most respectful manner--every woman's petticoat, however short, touched the ground in her curtsy. Sundry st.u.r.dy little urchins were thumped on the back for being rather tardy in paying his honour proper respect; and a sulky reverence brought more than one little girl to the ground, as her mother used no very gentle means to expedite her motions; whilst many a rosy child had its plump cheek or white head stroked for being "mannerly." When Mr. O'Sullivan's levee had lasted as long as he wished, and when he had granted potato ground, and grazing ground, and firing ground, and had remitted fines for trespa.s.ses innumerable, his steward gave the usual signal, and the crowd dispersed to idle away the rest of the morning:--an idle evening was a thing of course.

Miss Fitzcarril now proceeded to perform that ceremony always observed in a country house--of showing it, however unworthy it may be of exhibition. This old-fas.h.i.+oned edifice had been built by the present proprietor's grandfather with the materials of an ancient monastery, which had fallen to ruin on its site, which was made choice of for the convenience of communicating by a covered pa.s.sage with the remaining chapel--a venerable and beautiful structure, that had been preserved in perfect repair. Over the hall door, at the top of the house, appeared the family arms cut in stone, and underneath the name of the builder and the date of the year when it was finished, in order, as Miss Webberly wittily remarked, "to claim the stolen goods by, should any one take it up on their backs and run away with it." The rooms were large and well built, and as uniformly square as a bricklayer's line could make them.

The furniture was substantial, and, like Miss Fitzcarril, had been handsome in its day; but it survived its contemporaries, and the present race thought it heavy and sombre. The house had altogether a desolate appearance, and, like the Ca.n.a.l Inn, could rarely boast of a perfect bell or lock. In the part of the house which adjoined the chapel, Mrs.

O'Sullivan frequently turned the lock of a door she pa.s.sed by in traversing the various pa.s.sages; and her guide always said with unusual seriousness, "You can't go in there, madam;" at last the question was asked "Why?" and was answered, with a deep sigh, "That was _poor Rose's_ apartment; n.o.body has ever been in it since she died but her father and poor nurse." "Then what a pity," rejoined Mrs. O'Sullivan, "not to block up the windows; let me see, three rooms back to the chapel, one, two, three, four, five, six windows--all that much taxes for nothing!" "Block up the windows of poor Rose's apartment! Blessed powers defend me!--Child!" said the angry Theresa turning to Caroline, with a vehemence of gesture and sternness of aspect that made the trembling infant, while she looked fearfully up in her face, tightly clasp her arms round Adelaide, "if you ever own this place, take care that you pay respect to every relict of your cousin; it would be as much as any one's life's worth to put an affront upon her memory."

Though Mrs. O'Sullivan could not see this apartment, she was resolved to inspect every other nook of the house, kitchens and store-rooms inclusive. In the latter she was surprised to see huge barrels of oaten meal and dried fish, with numerous casks of whisky. Suspended over head hung the cured carcases of three cows and five pigs, ready to supply the place of their fellows in the princ.i.p.al kitchen. As they pa.s.sed down one of the back stair-cases, they saw in the court yard a number of men and boys, waiting for the chance of casual employment about the house. The men were m.u.f.fled up in great coats, b.u.t.toned about their necks, the empty sleeves hanging at their sides; some leaning against the walls, some lying on their stomachs basking in the sun; others asleep in various postures; the boys dancing, or playing backgammon, which they managed by squares traced on the ground, whilst one called out the numbers at random, which answered the purpose of dice; others wrestling, sometimes throwing each other down on the sleepers, who just raised their heads to give a volley of oaths, and turned to sleep again. The unexpected entrance of the ladies into the kitchen put to flight a covey of char-women, who seemed to think they had all the business of the world on their hands. As strange servants were in the house, they had determined to keep up the "dacency of Ballinamoyle," by dressing themselves in their best; but being now at their work (that is, running in each other's way, at the same time talking unceasingly) all their petticoats were pinned up about their middle, except a very short d.i.c.ky; their shoes and stockings were--not on their feet and legs, but on the kitchen tables and hot hearths, and the ears of their mob caps were pinned over the crowns of their heads to keep them clean and the wearers cool. There was a constant shouting to the boys in the yard to run incessant messages. At the moment of Mrs. O'Sullivan's first appearance, the cook called out of the kitchen window, "Do you hear, Barny, make aff to Jarge Quin for a slip of parsley:--do you mind, be back in a crack." No sooner was Barny dispatched than she shouted again: "Jimmy! Jimmy Maloony I say, rin for your life, and make ould Jarge sind the fruit for the pies." When the ladies proceeded to the servants'

hall, there was an old piper playing, and three girls dancing, that Miss Fitzcarril thought were busy spinning and sewing. "Get along, you incorrigibly idle s.l.u.ts," said she, and they were off in a trice; but it was out of Scylla into Charybdis, for two or three of the "cutty sarks,"

who had been muddling in the kitchen, met them in the pa.s.sage, where they had been drawn by hearing "the mistress spaking mad angry;" and each seizing her own daughter, and thumping her well, said, "I'll pay you for your jigging, indeed my lady!" Close to the servants' hall was a man cleaning knives; he had taken off his coat and waistcoat, one shoulder appeared through a great hole in the back of his s.h.i.+rt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to the elbow, and it was open down to the waist. He had neither shoes nor stockings on, and thus his legs and arms, with the greater part of his back and breast, were naked; the skin that covered them was nearly of a copper colour; his head was crowned with thick, short, curly, black hair, and his unshaved face presented a luxuriant crop of the same sable material. "What a number of men servants you keep! pray what compacity does that one fill?" inquired Mrs. O'Sullivan. "Madam," replied her _cicerone_ (all her pride colouring her face) "since the world was a world, no such sarving man as that ever belonged to the name of O'Sullivan! That's Black Frank, the fool, who comes in to do odd jobs now and again." Black Frank was an itinerant "innocent," who scoured knives, cleared out ashes, or did any job the servants of the houses he frequented were too lazy to perform themselves. He was capricious in his fancies, and never staid long in any one place, but blessed all his acquaintance in turn. As Mrs.

O'Sullivan went up stairs, she said to herself, "It will be another guess matter when Caroline rules the roast; I'll soon pack off all these here wagabonds and ramscallions about their business; she'd be a sight the richer if these warlets didn't eat up her uncle's fortin. There's one comfort, he can't live long; when he dies, I'll make this stately madam and all take to their heels!"

Mrs. O'Sullivan, however, was aware of but a small part of what she considered her daughter's wrongs; for her brother-in-law, though he had renounced all society himself, except that of a few distant relatives, and his friends the Desmonds, authorized his servants to bring their kindred and "cronies" to his servants' hall, to eat, drink, and be merry. From twenty to thirty people sat down to dinner there every day, and on Sat.u.r.days and holydays a great many more. And the song and the jest went round amongst the careless crew, accompanied by the boisterous laugh of rustic mirth. The young men and women amused themselves of a winter's evening dancing jigs, whilst their elders "kept the fire warm,"

telling stories of the days of old, superst.i.tious legends, or recounting the omens each had observed previous to the death of the ever lamented Miss Rose.

CHAPTER III.

When wilt thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids?

Thy sleep is long in the tomb, and the morning distant far.

The Sun shall not come to thy bed and say, "Awake, Darthula!

Awake, thou first of women!"

oeDARTHULA.oe

When the ladies retired to the drawing-room after dinner, Miss Fitzcarril proposed walking. Mrs. O'Sullivan was anxious that Adelaide and Caroline should study the good of their health by this exercise, but pleaded fatigue as an excuse for declining the promenade herself, wis.h.i.+ng to profit by the opportunity their absence would afford, to interrogate Theresa as to the nature and extent of the Ballinamoyle property, and a thousand other _et cetera_. Her two elder daughters, to whom she had before dinner mentioned her distress at having her anxiety for information on this subject so _long_ unsatisfied, understood her manoeuvre, and remained to a.s.sist in the gratification of their mutual curiosity. Adelaide and Caroline accordingly set out on their ramble.

Miss Fitzcarril, in her anxious civility, attended them as far as the hall door; she had scarcely reached it, when a voice accosted her with "I want to spake a word to you, Miss Teree--za." "Well, nurse!" "Will you be plased to give me some whisky for Jimmy Maloony--the paltry fellow! he let the dinner fall bringing it up, and the spalpeen has cut his leg very bad; but it was G.o.d saved the puddin, Miss!" Adelaide's eyes were attracted towards the speaker, and she saw a fresh coloured old woman, dressed in a rich flowered silk gown, underneath which appeared a pair of coa.r.s.e shoes and worsted stockings. The gown was open before, and would have trailed on the ground, had it not been turned back and pinned up behind, just to touch the edge of a striped green stuff petticoat, which was surmounted in front with a fine linen ap.r.o.n as white as snow. Her gray hair was rolled back over a cus.h.i.+on, and a mob cap was pinned under her chin, the head piece ornamented with a cherry coloured riband put once round her head, the ends turned back again just to the ears, and a flat bow pinned on in front. It was not surprising that the silk gown, which nurse wore in honour of the strangers' arrival, should be old fas.h.i.+oned in make and texture, as she had received it, according to custom, on the day Mr. O'Sullivan's daughter had cut her first tooth. Miss Fitzcarril, before she complied with the old woman's demands, directed Adelaide how best to proceed from the hall door, to the following effect: "Do you see that walk to the right? well, then you're not to go down that, only just as far as the old oak, and then there is another to the left, mind you don't take that, it leads to the shaking bog, but keep strait forward, and that will bring you round and round to the back of the house." From which it appeared that they were neither to turn to the right nor the left, but to proceed in a strait line, which would conduct them home in a circle from the front to the back of the house!

When the two young ladies set off, Miss Fitzcarril returned to nurse; and while she felt for a key, amongst its numerous fellows at the bottom of a pocket long enough to cover _her_ arm up to the elbow, shaking it two or three times in a manner that showed what metal she carried; the ancient dame said to her, "Our young lady that is to be, is the making of a pretty girl, G.o.d bless her! But I'd rather it was her comrade, she has more of the portly air and jaunteel walk of the O'Sullivans than any of them. The others are no great shakes of ladies. But it's none of them all would be a patch upon my sweet Rose if she was alive! Och Rose dear, why did you lave your ould mammy to go wid a foreigner? Wouldn't his honour have given ye gould to eat if ye chose it, and weren't you as merry as a grig the live long day? It's but little you're happier, now you're a blessed angel in Heaven, for you lament ye for your poor father and ould nurse; and you're not a whit beautifuller or better than you were here. Many's the ma.s.s we say for your sowl; but ye're fitter to pray for us poor sinful craturs than we for you. Weary on ye, Limerick, that ever ye rose on the face of G.o.d's earth, for ye lost me my sweet child." The poor old woman beat her breast as this burst of sorrow escaped her lips, and the tears rolled down the furrows of her aged cheeks in torrents. "Nurse! nurse!" said Theresa, sobbing, "don't take on so; if your master sees or hears you, you'll make him ill again: you know what trouble he was in this morning, and that he wouldn't have the first sight of the little girl before mortal breathing, but sent for her to his own room." "Well, well, I'll soon lay my gray head in under the sod; it isn't fit a poor cratur like me should mislist his honour." When Miss Fitzcarril had composed herself, and dispatched nurse with a "drap of comfort" to the kitchen, she returned to the drawing-room, and then answered the interrogatories her visitors put to her in such a manner, as much to strengthen the favourable impression, which the marshalling of the tenantry had made on their minds in the morning; and, without giving any one direct answer, managed to exalt her own and her cousin's consequence considerably in their estimation.

Theresa, keeping ever in mind the fortune-teller's prediction, which she graciously interpreted in young Webberly's favour, was extremely anxious to ingratiate herself with his mother and sisters, and therefore had by this time almost forgiven the former her proposition of blocking up the windows of the revered apartment, as well as the affronting supposition, that Black Frank appertained to the regular establishment of Ballinamoyle; and the wheedling civility Mrs. O'Sullivan showed her, encouraged her hopes and her efforts; more especially as Jack, in compliance with his parent's wishes, had been particularly attentive to her in the course of the day. Mrs. O'Sullivan had that morning convinced her children it was for their interest, that Caroline should be her uncle's heiress, as she promised in that case not to leave her any of her own riches. She had been induced to hold out this bribe to them, from perceiving the extreme rudeness with which they were inclined to treat all around them, which she feared would disgust their host, whose uniform urbanity was not less conspicuous.

With the Miss Webberlys, interest was scarcely a counterpoise to ill temper, conceit, and _ennui_; and therefore their deportment varied every half hour, according to the feeling of the moment. But in the composition of their brother, ill nature had not been added to folly and presumption; he was therefore constant in his endeavours to please, in which he was also encouraged by the hopes, that the success of this scheme might "put the old lady in a good humour, and make her come down handsomely when he married Miss Wildenheim, which he would as soon as they returned to England, please the pigs." Of the young lady's being pleased he had little doubt; "her being so confoundedly shy was all a sham."

Whilst Miss Fitzcarril and Mrs. O'Sullivan were playing against each other, in the conversation which took place between them in the drawing-room, Adelaide and Caroline pursued their ramble. At a little distance from the house, one of the most beautiful scenes in nature presented itself to their view.--A lake, of considerable extent, rose from the bosom of rocky hills, whose bold forms were reflected in its pellucid waters. It contained several islands, some with fine trees, some grazed by cattle, and covered with the most brilliant verdure. On the centre island stood the ruins of an old castle half covered with ivy. To the south of the lake was a fine champaign country, and behind the house rose a beautiful hill of great height, covered from the base to the summit with an indigenous wood. To the right a narrow defile opened into a wild and romantic country, showing mountains of the most picturesque forms. The varied lights, which the declining sun threw on this enchanting scene, gave it every beauty of exquisite colouring. "Oh!

look there, Adele!" said Caroline, "doesn't the lake and its islands look as if it was let down from Heaven by that beautiful rainbow that touches it at both sides? Oh, how I should like to walk up it!" "And then," thought Adelaide, as she looked at the lovely child, "you might join the company of the sylphs, whilst they 'pleas'd untwist the sevenfold threads of light.'" Just at this moment an odd looking man came close up, and taking off an old regimental cap, said, "I see you're some of the strange quality ladies; you're quite out of the right track,"--(rather surprising after Miss Fitzcarril's explicit directions.) "I'll show ye'z round the place, and take ye'z to the garden, if you're agreeable." "Thank you, my good man, I shall be much obliged to you: pray may I ask your name?"--"They call me Jarge Quin at the big house, Miss, because I was so long at the wars, where I lost my right eye. I'm his honour's gardiner; and a brave kind master he is til me, the Lord love him!" Jarge proceeded to do the honours; and delighted by the questions Adelaide asked, became more than usually loquacious.

"Thon mountain that's foreninst ye, Miss, (said he,) is Croagh Patrick; on the top of it is an altar, where many a good Christian goes to tell their padereenes, on Patricksmas day. It's the very self same spot where St. Patrick stood, when he called all the snakes and toads, and varmint of all sorts, up the one side, and bid them, and their heirs for ever, go down the t'other intil the sea, and be aff till Inglant; and that's the rason the folks over the water have been so hard with us, ever since that blessed day, no blame to you, Miss." "And what's that mountain, shaped like a sugar loaf, more to the south?" "I don't know what name the quality give it, Miss; but we semples call it, _Altoir na Griene_[2], the name they say it had in ould times, afore St. Patrick stood on the other mountain."

[Footnote 2: "The altar of the sun." Grieneus was one of the names of Apollo in the Grecian temples.]

"Do you see that ould castle there, over aginst ye, in the lake? That's where the family used to live, afore the new house was built, seventy year agone next Hollontide; and now the good people dance in it every moonlight night." "And, pray, who are the good people?" "The little people, Miss, the fairies.--Many's the time Judy Maloony sees them chasing each other, when they slide down the moon beams, to play swing sw.a.n.g on the stalks of the ivy leaves.--And, she says, they sail across the lake in b.u.t.ter cups, to the lavender hedge in the garden, when it's in flower, to make themselves caps and jackets; and she gathers the thistle's beard, to sarve them for threads, afore the sun sets, and as sure as you live, there's never a bit of it there in the morning.

"Do you see that big stone, Miss, a little up the mountain there? That by the side of the stream they call the goulden river; and that's the place the boys and girls sit, of a summer's evening, to steal unknownst upon the Loughrie men--ould men, about as big as my hand, looking as sour as you plase; but if you'll thrape it out to them, ye won't let them aff when ye catch them--they'll show you a power of gould they've hid in under the earth."