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CHAPTER XXVI. “THE CORVY.”

If the painter’s license enables him to arrange the elements of scenery into new combinations, disposing and grouping anew, as taste or fancy may dictate, the novelist enjoys the lesser privilege of conveying his reader at will from place to place, and thus, by varying the point of view, procuring new aspects to his picture; less in virtue of this privilege than from sheer necessity, we will now ask our readers to accompany us on our journey northward.

Whether it be the necessary condition of that profusion of nature’s gifts, so evident in certain places, or a mere accident, certain it is there is scarcely any one spot remarkable for great picturesque beauty to arrive at which some bleak and uninteresting tract must not be traversed. To this rule, if it be such, the northern coast of Ireland offers no exception.

The country, as you approach “the Causeway,” has an aspect of dreary desolation that only needs the leaden sky and the drifting storm of winter to make it the most melancholy of all landscapes. A slightly undulating surface extends for miles on every side, scarcely a house to be seen, and save where the dip of the ground affords shelter, not a tree of any kind. A small isolated spot of oats, green even in the late autumn, is here and there to be descried, or a flock of black sheep wandering half wild o’er these savage wastes; vast masses of cloud, dark and lowering as rain and thunder can make them, hang gloomily overhead, for the tableland is still a lofty one, and the horizon is formed by the edge of those giant cliffs that stand the barriers of the western ocean, and against whose rocky sides the waves beat with the booming of distant artillery.

It was in one of those natural hollows of the soil, whose frequency seems to acknowledge a diluvian origin, that the little cottage which Sandy once owned stood. Sheltered on the south and east by rising banks, it was open on the other sides, and afforded a view seaward which extended from the rocky promontory of Port Rush to the great bluff of Fairhead, whose summit is nigh one thousand seven hundred feet above the sea.

Perhaps in all the sea-board of the empire, nothing of the same extent can vie in awful sublimity with this iron-bound coast. Gigantic cliffs of four and five hundred feet, straight as a wall, are seen perforated beneath by lofty tunnels, through which the wild waters plunge madly. Fragments of basalt, large enough to be called islands, are studded along the shore, the outlines fanciful and strange as beating waves and winds can make them, while, here and there, in some deep-creviced bay, the water flows in with long and measured sweep, and, at each moment retiring, leaves a trace upon the strand, fleeting as the blush upon the cheek of beauty; and here a little group of fisher children may be seen at play, while the nets are drying on the beach, the only sight or sound of human life, save that dark moving speck, alternately seen as the great waves roll on, be such, and, while tossing to and fro, seems by some charmed influence fettered to the spot. Yes, it is a fishing-boat that has ventured out at the half ebb, with the wind off shore, – hazardous exploit, that only poverty suggests the courage to encounter!

In front of one of these little natural bays stood “the Corvy;” and the situation might have been chosen by a painter, for, while combining every grand feature of the nearer landscape, the Scottish coast and even Staffa might be seen of a clear evening; while westward, the rich sunsets were descried in all their golden glory, tipping the rolling waves with freckled lustre, and throwing a haze of violet-colored light over the white rocks. And who is to say that, while the great gifts of the artist are not his who dwells in some rude cot like this, yet the heart is not sensitively alive to all the influences of such a scene, – its lonely grandeur, its tranquil beauty, or its fearful sublimity, – and that the peasant, whose associations from infancy to age are linked with every barren rock and fissured crag around, has not created for himself his own store of fancied images, whose power is not less deeply felt that it has asked for no voice to tell its workings.

“The Corvy” was a strange specimen of architecture, and scarcely capable of being classified in any of the existing orders. Originally, the hut was formed of the stern of the corvette, which, built of timbers of great size and strength, alone of all the vessel resisted the waves. This, being placed keel uppermost, as most consisting with terrestrial notions of building, and accommodated with a door and two windows, the latter being filled with two ship-lenses, comprised the entire edifice. Rude and uncouth as it unquestionably was, it was regarded with mingled feelings of envy and admiration by all the fishermen for miles round, for while they had contributed their tackle and their personal aid to place the mass where it stood, they never contemplated its becoming the comfortable dwelling they soon beheld, nor were these jealous murmurings allayed by the assumption of a lofty flagstaff, which, in the pride of conquest, old M’Grane displayed above his castle, little wotting that the banner that floated overhead waved with the lilies of France, and not the Union Jack of England.

Sandy’s father, however, possessed those traits of character which confer ascendency, whether a man’s lot be cast among the great or the humble; and he soon not only subdued those ungenerous sentiments, but even induced his neighbors to assist him in placing a small brass carronade on the keel, or, as he now termed it, the ridge of his dwelling, where, however little serviceable for warlike purposes, it made a very specious and imposing ornament.

Such was the inheritance to which Sandy succeeded, and such the possession he ceded for a consideration to Bagenal Daly, on that eventful morning their acquaintance began. In course of time, however, it fell to ruin, and lay untenanted and uncared for, when Miss Daly, in one of her rambling excursions, chanced to hear of it, and, being struck by the beauty of the situation, resolved to refit it as a summer residence. Her first intentions on this head were humble enough; two small chambers at either side of the original edifice – now converted into a species of hall and a kitchen – comprised the whole, and thither she betook herself, with that strange secret pleasure a life of perfect solitude possesses for certain minds. For a year she endured the inconveniences of her narrow dwelling tolerably well; but as she grew more attached to the spot, she determined on making it more comfortable; and, communicating the resolve to her brother, he not only concurred in the notion, but half anticipated his assent by despatching an architect to the spot, under whose direction a cottage containing several comfortable rooms was added, and with such attention to the circumstances of the ground, and such regard for the ancient character of the building, that the traces of its origin could still be discovered, and its old name of “the Corvy,” be, even yet, not altogether inapplicable. The rude hulk was now, however, the centre of a long cottage, the timbers, partly covered by the small-leaved ivy, partly concealed by a rustic porch, displaying overhead the great keel and the flagstaff, – an ornament which no remonstrance of the unhappy architect could succeed in removing. As a sort of compromise, indeed, the carronade was dismounted, and placed beside the hall-door. This was the extreme stretch of compliance to which Daly assented.

The hall, which was spacious and lofty in proportion with other parts of the building, was fitted with weapons of war and the chase, brought from many a far-off land, and assembled with an incongruity that was no mean type of the owner. Turkish scimitars and lances, yataghans, and Malay creeses were grouped with Indian bows, tomahawks, and whale harpoons, while richly embroidered pelisses hung beside coats of Esquimaux seal, of boots made from the dried skin of the sun-fish. A long Swiss rifle was suspended by a blue silk scarf from one wall, and, over it, a damp, discolored parchment bore testimony, to its being won as a prize in the great shooting match of the Oberland, nearly forty years before. Beneath these, and stretching away into a nook contrived for the purpose, was the bark canoe in which Daly and Sandy made their escape from the tribe of the Sioux, by whom they were held in captivity for six years. Two very unprepossessing figures, costumed as savages, sat in this frail bark, paddle in hand, and to all seeming resolutely intent on their purpose of evasion. It would have been pardonable, however, for the observer not to have identified in these tattooed and wild-looking personages a member of Parliament and his valet, even though assisted to the discovery by their Indian names, which, with a laudable care for public convenience, had been written on a card, and suspended round the neck of each. Opposite to them, and in the corner of the hall, stood a large black bear, with fiery eyeballs and snow-white teeth, so admirably counterfeiting life as almost to startle the beholder; while over his head was a fearful, misshapen figure, whose malignant look and distorted proportions at once proclaimed it an Indian idol. But why enumerate the strange and curious objects which, notwithstanding their seeming incongruity, were yet all connected with Daly’s history, and formed, in fact, a kind of pictorial narrative of his life? Here stood the cup, – a splendid specimen of Benvenuto’s chisel, given him by the Doge of Venice, – and there was the embossed dagger presented by a King of Spain, with a patent of Grandee of the first class; while in a small glass case, covered with dust, and scarce noticeable, was a small and beautifully shaped satin slipper, with a rosette of now faded silver. But of this only one knew the story, and he never revealed it.

If we have taken an unwarrantable liberty with our reader by this too prolix description, our excuse is, that we might have been far more tiresome had we been so disposed, leaving, as we have, the greater part of this singular chamber unnoticed; while our amende is ready, and we will spare any further detail of the rest of the cottage, merely observing that it was both commodious and well arranged, and furnished not only with taste, but even elegance. And now to resume our long-neglected story.

It was about eight o’clock of a cold, raw February night, with occasional showers of sleet and sudden gusts of fitful wind, – that happy combination which makes up the climate of the north of Ireland, and, with a trifling abatement of severity, constitutes its summer as well as its winter, – that Miss Daly sat reading in that strange apartment we have just mentioned, and which, from motives of economy, she occupied frequently during the rainy season, as the necessity of keeping it aired required constant fires, not so necessary in the other chambers.

A large hearth displayed the cheerful blaze of burning bog-deal, and an old Roman lamp, an ancient patern, threw its lustre on the many curious and uncouth objects on every side. If the flashing jets of light that broke from the dry wood gave at times a false air of vitality to the stuffed figures around, in compensation it made the only living thing there seem as unreal as the rest.

Wrapped up in the great folds of a wide Greek capote she had taken from the wall, and the hood of which she had drawn over her head, Miss Daly bent over the yellow pages of an old quarto volume. Of her figure no trace could be marked, nor any guess concerning it, save that she was extremely tall. Her features were bold and commanding, and in youth must have been eminently handsome. The eyebrows were large and arched, the eyes dark and piercing, and the whole contour of the face had that character of thoughtful beauty so often seen in the Jewish race. Age and solitude, perhaps, had deepened the lines around the angles of the mouth and brought down the brows, so as to give a look of severity to features which, from this cause, became strikingly resembling her brother’s. If time had made its sad inroad on those lineaments once so lovely, it seemed to spare even the slightest touch to that small white hand, which, escaping from the folds of her mantle, was laid upon the volume before her. The taper fingers were covered with rings, and more than one bracelet of great price glittered upon her wrist; nor did this taste seem limited to these displays, for in the gold combs that fastened, on either temple, her masses of gray hair, rich gems were set profusely, forming the strangest contrast to the coarse folds of that red-brown cloak in which she was enveloped.

However disposed to profit by her studies, Miss Daly was occasionally broken in upon by the sound of voices from the kitchen, which, by an unlucky arrangement of the architect, was merely separated from the hall by a narrow corridor. Sometimes the sound was of laughter and merriment; far oftener, however, the noises betokened strife; for so it is, in the very smallest household – there were but two in the present case – unanimity will not always prevail. The contention was no less a one than that great national dispute which has separated the island into two wide and opposing parties; Miss Daly’s butler, or man of all work, being a stout representative of southern Ireland; her cook an equally rigid upholder of the northern province. If little Dan Nelligan had the broader cause, he was the smaller advocate, being scarcely four feet in height; while Mrs. M’Kerrigan was fifteen stone of honest weight, and with a torso to rival the Farnese Hercules. Their altercations were daily, almost hourly; for, living in a remote, unvisited spot, they seemed to console themselves for want of collision with the world by mutual disputes and disagreements.

To these family jars, habit had so reconciled Miss Daly that she seldom noticed them; indeed, the probability is that, like the miller who wakes up when the mill ceases its clamors, she might have felt a kind of shock had matters taken a quieter course. People who employ precisely the same weapons cannot long continue a warfare without the superiority of one or the other being sure to evince itself. The diversity of the forces, on the contrary, suggests new combinations, and with dissimilar armor the combat may be prolonged to any extent. Thus was it here; Dan’s forte was aggravation, – that peculiarly Irish talent which makes much out of little, and, when cultivated with the advantages of natural gifts, enables a man to assume the proud political position of an Agitator, and in time a Liberator.

Mrs. M’Kerrigan, slow of thought, and slower of speech, was ill-suited to repel the assaults of so wily and constant a foe; she consequently fell back on the prerogatives of her office in the household, and repaid all Dan’s declamation by changes in his diet, – a species of retribution the heaviest she could have hit upon.

Such was the present cause of disturbance, and such the reason for Dan’s loud denunciations on the “black north,” uttered with a volubility and vehemence that pertain to a very different portion of the empire. Twice had Miss Daly rung the little hand-bell that stood beside her to enforce order, but it was unnoticed in the clamor of the fray, while louder and louder grew the angry voice of Dan Nelligan, which at length was plainly audible in the hall.

“Look now, see then, may the divil howld a looking-glass to your sins, but I ‘ll show it to the mistress! I may, may I? That ‘s what you ‘re grumbling, ye ould black-mouthed Prasbytarien! ‘T is the fine supper to put before a crayture wet to the skin!”

“Dinna ye hear the bell, Nelly?” This was an epithet of insult the little man could not endure. “Ye ‘d ken the tinkle o’ that, av ye heard it at the mass.”

“Oh, listen to the ould heretic! Oh, holy Joseph! there ‘s the way to talk of the blessed ould ancient religion! Give me the dish; I ‘ll bring it into the parlor this minit, I will. I ‘ll lave the place, – my time’s up in March. I would n’t live in the house wid you for a mine of goold!”

“Are ye no goin’ to show the fish to the leddy?” growled out the cook, in her quiet barytone.

At this moment Miss Daly’s bell announced that endurance had reached its limit, and Dan, without waiting to return the fire, hastened to the hall, muttering as he went, loud enough to be heard, “There, now, that’s the mistress ringing, I ‘m sure; but sorra bit one can hear wid your noise and ballyragging!”

“What is the meaning of this uproar?” said Miss Daly, as the little man entered, with a very different aspect from what he wore in the kitchen.

“‘Tis Mrs. M’Kerrigan, my Lady; she was abusin’ the ould families in the county Mayo, and I could n’t bear it; and because I would n’t hear the master trated that way, she gives me nothing but fish the day after a black fast, though she does be ating beef under my nose when I darn’t touch meat, and it’s what, she put an ould baste of a cod before me this evening for my supper, and here ‘s Lent will be on us in a few days more.”

“How often have I told you,” said Miss Daly, sternly, “that I ‘ll not suffer these petty, miserable squabbles to reach me? Go back to the kitchen; and, mark me, if I hear a whisper, or muttering ever so low in your voice, I ‘ll put you to spend the night upon the rocks.”

Dan skulked from the room like a culprit remanded to jail; but no sooner had he reached the kitchen than, assuming a martial air and bearing, he strutted up to the fire and turned his back to it.

“Ay,” said he, in a stage soliloquy, “it was what it must come to sooner or later; and now she may go on her knees, and divil a foot I ‘ll stay! It’s not like the last time, sorra bit! I know what she ‘s at – ’ ‘T is my way, Danny, you must have a pound at Avster ‘ – bother! I ‘m used to that now.”

“There’s the bell again, ye auld blethering deevil.”

But Mrs. M’Kerrigan ran no risk of a reply now, for at the first tinkle Dan was back in the hall.

“There is some one knocking at the wicket without; see who it may be at this late hour of the night,” said Miss Daly, without raising her head from the book, for, strange as were such sounds in that solitary place, her attention was too deeply fixed on the page before her to admit of even a momentary distraction of thought. Dan left the room with becoming alacrity, but in reality bent on anything rather than the performance of his errand. Of all the traits of his southern origin, none had the same predominance in his nature as a superstitious fear of spirits and goblins, – a circumstance not likely to be mitigated by his present lonely abode, independently of the fact that more than one popular belief attributed certain unearthly sights and sounds to the old timbers of “the Corvy,” whose wreck was associated with tales of horror sufficient to shake stouter nerves than “Danny’s.”

When he received this order from his mistress, he heard it pretty much as a command to lead a forlorn hope, and sat himself down at the outside of the door to consider what course to take. While he was thus meditating, the sounds became plainly audible, a loud and distinct knocking was heard high above the whistling wind and drifting rain, accompanied from time to time by a kind of shout, or, as it seemed to Dan’s ears, a scream like the cry of a drowning man.

“Dinna ye hear that, ye auld daft body?” said Nancy, as, pale with fear, and trembling in every limb, Dan entered the kitchen.

“I do indeed, Mrs. Mac,” – this was the peace appellation he always conferred on Nancy, – “I hear it, and my heart ‘s beatin’ for every stroke I listen to; ‘t is n’t afeard I am, but a kind of a notion I have, like a dhrame, you know “ – (here he gave a sort of hysterical giggle) – “as if the ould French Captain was coming to look after his hand, that was chopped off with the hatchet when he grasped hold of the rock.”

“He canna hae muckle use for it noo,” responded Nancy, dryly, as she smoked away as unconcerned as possible.

“Or the mate!” said Dan, giving full vent to his store of horrors; “they say, when he got hold of the rope, that they gave it out so fast as he hauled on it, till he grew faint, and sank under the waves.”

“He’s no likely to want a piece of spunyarn at this time o’ day,” rejoined Nancy again. “He’s knocking brawly, whoever he be; had ye no better do the leddy’s bidding, and see who ‘s there?”

“Would it be plazing to you, Mrs. Mac,” said Dan, in his most melting accents, “to come as far as the little grass-plot, just out of curiosity, ye know, to say ye seen it?”

“Na, na, my bra’ wee mon, ye maun ee’n gae by your-sel’; I dinna ken mickle about sperits and ghaists, but I hae a gude knowledge of the rheumatiz without seekin’ it on a night like this. There’s the leddy’s bell again, she ‘s no pleased wi’ yer delay.”

“Say I was puttin’ on my shoes, Nancy,” said Dan, as his teeth chattered with fear, while he took down an old blunderbuss from its place above the fire, and which had never been stirred for years past.

“Lay her back agen where ye found her,” said Nancy, dryly; “is na every fule kens the like o’ them! Take your mass-book, and the gimcracks ye hae ower your bed, but dinna try mortal weapons with them creatures.”

Ironical as the tone of this counsel unquestionably was, Dan was in no mood to reject it altogether, and he slipped from its place within his breast to a more ostensible position a small blessed token, or “gospel,” as it is called, which he always wore round his neck. By this time the clank of the bell kept pace with the knocking sounds without, and poor Dan was fairly at his wits’ end which enemy to face. Some vague philosophy about the “devil you know, and the devil you don’t,” seemed to decide his course, for he rushed from the kitchen in a state of frenzied desperation, and, with the blunderbuss at full cock, took the way towards the gate.

The wicket, as it was termed, was in reality a strong oak gate, garnished at top with a row of very formidable iron spikes, and as it was hung between two jagged and abrupt masses of rock, formed a very sufficient outwork, though a very needless one, since the slightest turn to either side would have led to the cottage without any intervening barrier to pass. This fact it was which now increased Dan Nelligan’s terrors, as he reasoned that nobody but a ghost or evil spirit would be bothering himself at the wicket, when there was a neat footpath close by.

“Who’s there?” cried Dan, with a voice that all his efforts could not render steady.

“Come out and open the gate,” shouted a deep voice in return.

“Not till you tell me where you come from, and who you are, if you are ‘lucky.’”

“That I ‘m not,” cried the other, with something very like a deep groan; “if I were, I ‘d scarce be here now.”

“That’s honest? anyhow,” muttered Dan, who interpreted the phrase in its popular acceptation among the southern peasantry. “And what are you come back for, alanah?” continued he, in a most conciliating tone.

“Open the gate, and don’t keep me here answering your stupid questions.”

Though these words were uttered with a round, strong intonation that sounded very like the present world, Dan made no other reply than an endeavor to repeat a Latin prayer against evil spirits, when suddenly, and with a loud malediction on his obstinacy, Dan saw “the thing,” as he afterwards described it, take a flying leap over the gate, at least ten feet high, and come with a bang on the grass, not far from where he stood. To fire off his blunderbuss straight at the drifting clouds over his head, and to take to flight was Dan’s only impulse, screaming out, “the Captain ‘s come! he’s come!” at the very top of his lungs. The little strength he possessed only carried him to the kitchen door, where, completely overcome with terror, he dropped senseless on the ground.

While this was occurring, Miss Daly, alarmed by the report of fire-arms, but without any personal fears of danger, threw open the hall door and called out, “Who is there?” and as the dark shadow of a figure came nearer, “Who are you, sir?”

“My name is Forester, madam, – a friend of your brother’s; for I perceive I have the honor to address Miss Daly.”

By this time the stranger had advanced into the full light of the lamp within, where his appearance, tired and travel-stained as he was, corroborated his words.

“You have had a very uncourteous welcome, sir,” said Miss Daly, extending her hand and leading him within the cottage.

“The reception was near being a warm one, I fear,” said Forester, smiling; “for as I unfortunately, growing rather impatient, threw my carpet bag over the gate, intending to climb it afterwards, some one fired at me, – not with a good aim, however; for I heard the slugs rattling on a high cliff behind me.”

“Old Dan, I am certain, mistook you for a ghost or a goblin,” said Miss Daly, laughing, as if the affair were an excellent joke devoid of all hazard; “we have few visitors down here from either world.”

“Really, madam, I will confess it, if the roads are only as impassable for ghosts as for men of mortal mould, I ‘m not surprised at it. I left Coleraine at three o’clock to-day, where I was obliged to exchange my travelling carriage for a car, and I have been travelling ever since, sometimes on what seemed a highway, far oftener, however, across fields with now and then an intervening wall to throw down, – which we did, I own, unceremoniously; while lifting the horse twice out of deep holes, mending a shaft, and splicing the traces, lost some time. The driver, too, was once missing, – a fact I only discovered after leaving him half a mile behind. In fact, the whole journey was full of small adventures up to the moment when we came to a dead stand at the foot of a high cliff, where the driver told me the road stopped, and that the rest of my way must be accomplished on foot; and on my asking what direction to take, he brought me some distance off to the top of a rock, whence I could perceive the twinkling of a light, and said, ‘That’s the Corvy.’ I did my best to secure his services as a guide, but no offer of money nor persuasions could induce him to leave his horse and come any further; and now, perhaps, I can guess the reason, – there is some superstition about the place at nightfall.”

“No, no, you ‘re mistaken there, sir; few of these people, however they may credit such tales, are terrified by them. It was the northern spirit dictated the refusal: his contract was to go so far, it would have ‘put him out of his way’ to go further, and his calculation was that all the profit he could fairly derive – and he never speculated on anything unfair – would not repay him. Such are the people of this province.”

“The trait is honest, I ‘ve no doubt, but it can scarcely be the source of many amiable ones,” said Forester, smarting under the recent inconvenience.

“We ‘ll talk of that after supper,” said Miss Daly, rising, “and I leave you to make a good fire while I go to give some orders.”

“May I not have the honor to present my credentials first?” said Forester, handing Bagenal Daly’s letter to her.

“My brother is quite well, is he not?”

“In excellent health; I left him but two days since.”

“The despatch will keep, then,” said she, thrusting it into a letter-rack over the chimney-piece, while she left the room to make the arrangement she spoke of.

Miss Daly’s absence was not of long duration, but, brief as it was, it afforded Forester time enough to look around at the many strange and incongruous decorations of the apartment, nor had he ceased his wonderment when Dan, pale and trembling in every limb, entered, tray in hand, to lay the supper-table.

With many a sidelong, stealthy look, Dan performed his duties, as it was easy to see that however disposed to regard the individual before him as of this world’s company, “the thing that jumped out of the sky,” as he called it, was yet an unexplained phenomenon.

“I see you are surprised by the motley companionship that surrounds me,” said Miss Daly; “but, as a friend of Bagenal’s, and acquainted, doubtless, with his eccentric habits, they will astonish you less. Come, let me hear about him, – is he going to pay me a visit down here?”

“I fear not, at this moment,” said Forester, with an accent of melancholy; “his friendship is heavily taxed at the present juncture. You have heard, perhaps, of the unhappy event which has spread such dismay in Dublin?”

“No! what is it? I hear of nothing, and see nobody here.”

“A certain Mr. Gleeson, the trusted agent of many country gentlemen, has suddenly fled – ”

Before Forester could continue, Miss Daly arose, and tore open her brother’s letter. For a few seconds Forester was struck with the wonderful resemblance to her brother, as, with indrawn breath and compressed lips, she read; but gradually her color faded away, her hands trembled, and the paper fell from them, while, with a voice scarcely audible, she whispered: “And it has come to this!” Covering her face with the folds of her cloak, she sat for some minutes buried in deep sorrow; and when she again looked up, years seemed to have passed over, and left their trace upon her countenance: it was pale and haggard, and a braid of gray hair, escaping beneath her cap, had fallen across her cheek, and increased the sad expression.

“So is it,” said she, aloud, but speaking as though to herself, – “so is it: the heavy hand is laid on all in turn; happier they who meet misfortune early in life, when the courage is high and the heart unshrinking: if the struggle be life-long, the victory is certain; but after years of all the world can give of enjoyment – You know Maurice? – you know the Knight, sir?”

“Yes, madam, slightly; but with Lady Eleanor and her daughter I have the honor of intimate acquaintance.”

“I will not ask how he bears up against a blow like this. If his own fate only hung in the balance, I could tell that myself; but for his wife, to whom they say he is so devotedly attached – you know it was a love-match, so they called it in England, because the daughter of an Earl married the first Commoner in Ireland. And Bagenal advises their coming here! Well, perhaps he is right; they will at least escape the insolence of pity in this lonely spot. Oh! sir, believe me, there is a weighty load of responsibility on those who rule us; these things are less the faults of individuals than of a system. You began here by confiscation, you would finish by corruption. Stimulating to excesses of every kind a people ten times more excitable than your own, – now flattering, now goading, – teaching them to vie with you in display while you mocked the recklessness of their living, you chafed them into excesses of alternate loyalty or rebellion.”