The Burtons of Dunroe

Front matter

THE BURTONS OF DUNROE. BY M. W. BREW. They are but phantoms now ; their day is doile. They lived, and loved, and died, and now are dust. Shadows, and passed into that shadowy land Whence there is no return. This is long past. Yet not so very long, but that a breath, A dreamy memory of them lingers still On the air that once they breathed. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. gCffrtbon : SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO.. SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 3« 1880. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTER PAGE I. ON THE SHANNON ----- 1 II. THE RECRUITING SERGEANT - - -13 III. ON THE ROAD - - - - 26 IV. ARRIVAL IN DUBLIN - - - - 39 V. BACK TO DUNROE - - - - 56 VI. SERVED WITH 'NOTICE TO QUIT' - - 72 VII. NELLY MAC GOES OUT VISITING - - - 84 VIII. NELLY MAC DELIVERS HER MESSAGE - - 102 IX. ' SOGGARTH AROON' - - - - 116 X. THE PRIEST LAYS THE LASH (METAPHORICALLY) ON JACK - - - - - - 132 XI.

THE LAST APPEAL - - 145 XII. WAITING FOR THE SHERIFF - - - 164 XIII. ROSE GOES TO CHURCH - - - 176 XIV. THE MOUNTAIN CHAPEL - - - - 191 XV. A COUNTRY BREAKFAST - - - - 205 XVI. ON THE ROAD TO KNOCKBUIE - - - 221 XVII. THE EVICTION - 235 XVIII. FAREWELL TO KNOCKBUIE - 252 XIX. AFTER THE EVICTION - 260 XX. MRS. BURTON GOES TO SEE ROSE - - - 271 XXI. THE DEATH OF ROSE ... -

Chapter I. On The Shannon

' It is, it is the Shannon's stream, Brightly glancing, brightly glancing ; See, oh see, the ruddy beam, Upon its waters dancing. On thy bosom, deep and wide, Noble river ! lordly river ! Royal navies safe might ride. Green Erin's lovely river ! Proud upon thy banks to dwell, Let me ring ambition's knell, Lured by hope's delusive spell, Again to wander never.' Gerald Griffin. Our voyagers had now lost sight of Inniscathy, and only the summit of its round tower was visible in the far distance. They were entering the Race of Tar bert, where, even in the calmest days of summer, there is always a heavy swell on the water and a stiff breeze coming up from the Atlantic. But the Lady Frances made very little of either, and with wind and tide in her favour, gallantly held on her way, leaving a long track behind her like a silver thread spread out over the blue water.

The little villages of Tarbert and Glin, which last is famous as being the place where was vol. II. composed the fine old Irish air known as ' The Humours of Glin ' were soon passed by, and in a short time they got out of the heavy swell of 'the Race.' Once more they were in water as smooth and glassy as a mirror, and the river broadening as they sailed on, began to realise Spenser's description of 'Spacious Shenan spreading like a sea.' The shore at either side had neither strand nor shingle, but the land, covered Avith short grass and green moss, sloped down to the water's edge, while the sheep and black cattle, scattered here and there like dots, gave a sweet pastoral aspect to the scene. Now and then they passed by a small white cottage nestling under the shelter of a hill, or the more imposing residence of a country gentleman built so as to command a good view of the river, with a back ground of trees fallen into the 'sere and yellow leaf of early winter.

Nor were all the buildings that they passed built in modern style, or suited for the peaceful purposes of modern times. Many an old castle and feudal stronghold stood upon the banks on either side, in grim and solitary ruin, telling in their rude strength and stately proportions — strong and stately even in decay — of the fierce and often-renewed conflicts that raged in times past betAveen the haughty Normans and the 'mere Irish,' who, with desperate though ineffectual valour, chafed and struggled against the iron rule of their hard-handed conquerors. The Norman and the Celt have passed away, and their cris de guerre are no more heard on 'the green banks of Shannon;' the proud chivalry of the Fitzgeralds and De Veres, and the rude royalty and burning patriotism of the O'Briens and Mac Carthys have no longer any existence but in story and song ; but here in visible presence were the fortresses and grey old strongholds that they built, standing in their lone desolation, the sole links between the present and the past.

Many spear-heads, battle-axes, and other warlike weapons have been dug up from time to time along the banks of the river, proving how jealously guarded on one side, and how desperately assailed on the other, were the fords of the Shannon. There were also numerous Danish forts and raths, showing how the restless Vikings and the plun dering Northmen had penetrated to the beautiful river, in quest of the spoils that they exacted with lawless hands from every land where the prows of their boats could touch. Although well accustomed from his boy hood to the scenery of the Shannon, never had it seemed to Burton so varied or lovely as on this day, when he was leaving it behind him for a long time, perhaps for ever. He looked Avith affectionate and re gretful eyes on the beetling crag, on the ivy-covered ruin, on the softer attractions of wood and water, sloping bank, and green-clad isle, each lighted up by the full blaze of the midday sun, and all blended together in one harmonious and enchanting picture.

As they sailed on, he called to mind Spencer's de scription of Ireland, which had never to him seemed so appropriate or so true as it did then. ' And sure, it is a most beautiful and sweet country as any under heaven; being stored throughout with many goodly rivers, sprinkled with many very sweet islands, and goodly lakes, like little inland seas.' There Avas noAV the beautiful scene spread out all before him, the same that it was when the fine eye and inspired heart of the great poet drank in all its loveliness nearly three centuries ago. Like a living panorama, the landscape varied with every bend of the river: it was now bleak and bare, now wild and lonely, while farther on, the water flowed between green banks or gentle hills, that combined all that was beautiful, picturesque and 23 — peaceful.

It is no matter of surprise that the old Norman adventurers, who had no other heritage than their swords, should have coveted with admiring eyes and longing hearts such fair resting places — have won them bravely and defended them stoutly, with foot in the stirrup and harness on the back, by night as well as by day. Neither is it a matter of surprise that the unfortunate Irish could not tamely endure to surrender their inheritance to the strong grasp of the stranger, but fought for it hard and long, with that desperate tenacity Avith which the Irish in every age, and under all circumstances, have struggled for the possession of the land that gave them birth, and with whose earth was mingled the dust of their kindred. Not with the poor tameness of Esau did those fierce and warlike tribes surrender their birthright, but they contested every inch of ground with an unsleeping energy and a brave despair that have even after the lapse of centuries won pity and admiration from the descendants of their invaders.

According to the prediction of the experienced skipper, the wind fell away soon after noontide, and consequently the speed of the Lady Frances was very considerably abated. Every sail was spread to catch the dying breeze, but all in vain, for every moment the packet made less and less speed. They Avere finally completely becalmed, and lay motionless on the water, that sparkled and shone in the sunshine like molten glass. However, there was no help or remedy but to be patient, and hope that with the approach of evening the breeze would spring up again, and theLady Frances be able by increased speed to make up for the present delay. The former quick, exhilarating motion of the boat had made the skipper and his passenger very lively and talkative; but when the wind died away, and they were lying motionless under a hot sun they became grave and silent, and wrapped up in their own thoughts.

The two men who composed the ' crew ' smoked their pipes with great energy and per severance, and when weary of this great solace, lounged over the sides, or lay flat on their backs in slumberous idleness. The skipper also was lying down on an old sail, singing now and then in a full rich voice, that had very little of the hoarseness that was so perceptible when he was speaking, and had been acquired by his long acquaintance with the damp fogs of the river, as well as his habit of shouting and bawling to his men at every conceivable opportunity. He had his brother Condy's love of music, and could sing a good song, and what his voice wanted in clear ness and sweetness was made up in feeling and ex pression. And this love of music and good A'oice were A-ery pleasant companions to Lanty, who solaced himself in many a lonely and anxious hour by singing songs and ballads set in the sweet music of his native land.

On another sail lay William Burton, rather pleased, if the truth must be told, that, notwithstanding all his haste, the voyage on his beautiful and beloved river was lengthened out somewhat. For the young man's heart clung with tender and yearning love to the well-known scenes of his boyhood, that happy time when care and grief were things that, though he had heard and read of, he had never known by per sonal experience. Now that happy boj'hood rose up before his mental vision, with all its pleasant days and peaceful nights, its wanderings over hill and moorland, its scenes of reckless daring and wild ad venture, in which he had basked in the sunshine of the Shannon or boldly confronted its storms. All this was over now, and he must turn over a new leaf in the book of life, and one on which he could not expect much sunshine would rest.

The future lay before him all unknown, as it must ever be to all on earth, and he had a moral certainty that it would be indeed very unlike the past. It would be hard and dreary, shorn of all the soft illusions and passionate dreams which had hitherto coloured his life ; but not like a whining boy did William Burton look his future in the face. He was a man now, with all a man's obligations and responsibilities. He had brought his fate upon himself, and he accepted it calmly and reso lutely — with a firm will and a stout heart, that might yet win from fortune what he could no longer com mand. Still, it was not strange that he should feel some natural regrets — that, his young heart should yearn a little over the old glad life that had just passed away for ever, and the dear familiar ties that had been so rudely broken, never to be joined together again.

As Burton listened to the songs of the skipper, the melancholy of the words, combined with the tender pathos of the old Irish airs, to which they were sung, made him feel very depressed and sad, in spite of all his efforts to keep up his spirits. He had heard those songs often before with the greatest admiration, but now, for the first time, they went straight to his heart, which, in his present mood, was in unison with everything that was tender and sad. One of these songs made a peculiar impression on him, for which reason I shall give it a place here. The words were English, and sung to the sweet old air of ' Eilleen a Roon' — ' The night is lone and dreary, Eilleen a roon !* And we are sad and weary, Eilleen a roon ! * Eilleen a roon — Ellen, my dear. Our hearth has no more light, For she who made it bright,; Is on the sea to-night, Eilleen a roon !

She was our only one, Eilleen a roon ! And now we are alone, Eilleen a roon ! Our daughter and our pride Is now a happy bride, And we must stand aside, Eilleen a roon ! ' Together, hand in hand, Eilleen a roon ! They have left their native land, Eilleen a roon ! Too well her love she proved, From home and friends removed. Ah ! will he love her as we loved, Eilleen a roon ! ' They have gone to seek for gold, Eilleen a roon ! To a country strange and cold, Eilleen a roon ; But though they toil and grind, They never there will rind, The love they left behind, Eilleen a roon ! ' And from that distant shore, Eilleen a roon ! They may return once more, Eilleen a roon ! After years of toil and pain, Our child may come again ; Ah ! where shall you and I be then ? Eilleen a roon !' The skipper's next song was in Irish, and affected Burton still more.

The air was very beautiful, and the words most pathetic, and in latter times have been most felicitously translated into English by Mr. Fox. It reminded William forcibly of his own altered pro spects, and the inexpressible tenderness and pathos both of words and air, made him feel as if his heart would burst with sorrow. The song is too long to insert here, but two verses of Fox's translation, which, though extremely good, is necessarily much inferior to the original, will still serve to give the reader an idea of its rude and plaintive beauty : ' On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in wof ul plight, With sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night ; Were it not that from my people in sorrow forth I go, By the blessed sun 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo ! ' 'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still, And that Bryan Duff no longer rules as lord upon the hill, And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady is lying cold and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the County of Mayo !' The air of this fine old Irish song was very tender and mournful, but the words went straight to Burton's heart.

He, too, Avas ' sailing, sailing swiftly ' away from all those he loved, and all who loved him in return ; it was not surprising then, that the skipper's song, given with real though untaught musical feeling, and, besides, so very appropriate to his own actual posi tion, should have found an echo in his heart, and roused some tender memories there. He thought of his wife, the soft fair child, the bride of a few months, whom he had been obliged to leave behind him. He remembered no more her great ignorance and the mean sordid home out of which, with his eyes open, he had deliberately chosen her for the companion of his future life, in the headlong rush of his youthful selfishness and folly. He remembered only the exceeding charm of her youth and beauty, and her great love for him — a love so great that it had made an idol of him, and of herself his abject slave and adorer.

He now pictured her waiting sadly and patiently in that lonely farm house for the hour of her trial, the greatest that can await a woman. Not as the wife of Burton of Dunroe would that hour of sorrow and suffering find her, but as the stepdaughter of John Maguire, lonely, desolate, and in comparative want, and he who should be by her side to encourage and comfort her, would be far away. He remembered his sweet gentle mother, who in all his life had never looked on him but with eyes of love — who had Avept such bitter tears over him, as she bent over his bed in the silent night — who was breaking her loving mother's heart because of her fair-haired son. He remembered Isabel, who had ever been to him as a sister, bearing with all his boyish petulance, ever on the watch to hide his boyish delinquencies, or to make excuses for them, Avhen they could be no longer concealed.

How gentle and patient she had always been with him, and how often he had tried those good qualities, in the thoughtless vivacity of his youthful spirits ! These Avere all very sad thoughts, and his ■eyes, ' albeit unmused to the melting mood,' filled with tears, and his heart swelled with painful feelings, that for a few moments were more than he could bear. But from this depression his mind recoiled with that happy elasticity which is the privilege of youth, as well as its chief characteristic. It is not easy to vanquish alto gether the heart and the hope of two and tAventy, especially when they are accompanied bya sanguine temperament and robust health. It takes a great many fierce blasts to bring down to the earth the stately oak of the forest, and a great deal of adversity to humble the proud crest of Youth, to dim the light of his eye, and tear up by the roots the hope that is always springing up in his breast, unchangeable, im mortal, that no disappointment can wither, and neither sorrow nor suffering can kill.

It is only when youth is gone that hope can wither, and the heart ptows hard and cold. Then love becomes the illusion, and life the reality. We cannot shake off the heavy burden that weighs us down, as we did in that other golden and happy time that is now so far away. We awake from our dreams wise indeed, but oh ! so poor, for we have lost that which we can possess but once in all our lives, and which all the gold that was ever brought from Australia can never buy back for us any more. When the skipper called William to dinner, the young man had regained all his usual serenity and cheerfulness, and thanks to the bracing air of the Shannon, he did ample justice to the homely viands that Avere placed before him, a second edition of what they had had for breakfast. Neither the skipper's dismal songs, nor the gloomy thoughts they had called up, impaired his appetite in the least degree, and he wondered why it was that he had never before set the proper value on fried bacon, or enjoyed a glass of Avhisky and water with such an exquisite relish.

When dinner was over, which was very soon, for the smoky cabin of the Lady Frances was not the place to linger in, nor was her commander one who understood more of forms than consisted in making his ffuest feel that he was thoroughly welcome, they returned again to the deck. Here they were most agreeably surprised to hear that the breeze was rising again ; and Lanty declared that, if it continued, it was more than pro bable they would arrive in Limerick early in the evening. No longer now a log upon the water, the Lady Frances dashed on her way with a speed that was delightful to all on board, but particularly to Burton, who anticipated a night spent in the cabin Avith anything but pleasurable feelings, and was, besides, most anxious to arrive at his destination. The young fellow had had quite enough of sorrowful musings and enforced idleness during the long day spent in the boat, and he now longed for motion and action to dissipate the gloom of his thoughts and bring him nearer to his goal, even if it were to be but one step.

That goal was the prospect of independence — of being able to earn his own living and push himself on in the world, no matter how slight might be the chance he would get, or how small the opening. Anything or everything would be welcome that would enable him to eat bread for which he need not be indebted to any man, and to send for his wife and take her out of a position that must be painful to herself and was inexpressibly galling and mortifying to him. To do him only justice, his first thought was for his Avise, and to have her with him, his most ardent desire. Still, he thought of himself too, and he longed, with a strong man's longing, to eat the bread of independence — the bread that would be sweet because it would be his own, earned by his own labour, eaten in peace and not poisoned by either the freezing coldness or grudging frowns of any one.

He had not forgiven his father, nor was he likely to do so ; for with the hot-blooded arrogance of youth, he imagined himself the injured person, and his father a persecutor and a tyrant. He made no allowance for the peculiarities of his father's temper and disposition, for his grievous disappointment, for his very natural resentment at the disobedience and defiance of his only child, in whom he had garnered all his earthly hopes. He did not remember all the years of love and indulgence in which the old man had wholly forgotten himself and thought only of his son; of his incessant toil and care, cheerfully undertaken and uncomplainingly performed. The young man ignored all these things, there was no softening of his heart and no moistening of his eye when his father's image rose up before him.

The bright sun that had shone on them so brightly and constantly through that autumnal day, now began to decline, but the light Avas so subdued and tender, and the air so genial, that they hardly regretted the loss. Swiftly they passed through the noble roadstead of Foynes — ' where royal navies safe might ride,' and which may yet be the chief packet station connecting the old and the new worlds. Many miles before they arrived at Limerick they caught sight of the tall spire of the old cathedral of St. Mary's, built several centuries ago by the O'Briens, when they were lords of Thomond and kings in Kincora, and which they dedicated to ' the glory of Ged and the patronage of the Blessed Virgin.' On they sailed, past the majestic ruins of Carrig Ogunnil, grand even in decay, past the ancient mill of Corrigour, that told them that the men of old were not all steel-clad warriors, not always those who shaped their lives by — ' The good old rule, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.' As the gloom of evening began to surround them, they entered the muddy-looking, discoloured waters of the Pool of Limerick ; the lights of the distant city seemed to come closer and closer every moment, and the number of vessels of large burden, chiefly merchant men, surrounded by smaller craft, such as pleasure yachts, lighters, and turf-boats moving about or lying at anchor, all betokened the neighbourhood of a laro-e maritime town.

In another half-hour, the Lady Frances drew up beside one of the quays of ' the city of the violated treaty.' Leaving his host, Lanty, and his crew to look after their cargo, and make all taut and snug for the night, William Burton, gun in hand, leaped lightly on shore. Before he did so, he pressed into the hard horny hand of the skipper half of what money he had, not so much in payment of his fare as for the sake of old times. He also gave him two letters, which he had written during the day, one for his wife and one for his mother, which Lanty pro mised to deliver safely as soon as he returned home. As we have seen, he kept his promise by sending Mrs. Burton's letter to her by Nelly MacMahon, and that to Bose he gave into her own hand, somewhat about the same time.

Chapter II. The Recruiting Sergeant

' This soldier is a strange compound, for he can lie, and cheat, and cozen men's hearts away, and yet do it with such a good humoured face, and such a plausible manner, that you cannot chose but like the knave, even though his villainy be so palp able.' THE first thing William Burton did on getting into the city was to go to a gunsmith's shop for the purpose of selling his fowling-piece, for which he expected a good price, even if he had to give it for much less than he had paid for it at this same shop not many months ago. But to his great disappointment and vexation, he found that it was one thing to buy an article new, and quite another thing to sell the same, even though it was just as good as when it was bought. The gunsmith offered him a price so absurdly low, as compared with the original cost, that William did not know whether he was more amused or angry at the manifest dishonesty of the man who had made him pay five times as much for that very gun as he was now willing to give for it.

But this man was the only gunsmith in the city, and as he had no rival to compete with him in his trade, he treated his customers very imperiously, carrying on a profitable business with a high hand and very little scruple. Burton was not in a position to dispute his demands, extortionate though they were, for his pocket was empty, and his situation so desperate that he had no option but to give the piece for whatever he could get for it. He turned awav from the counter with a sigh, for on reckoning the money, he found that he had but a few shillings more than would suffice to pay his fare next morning on the roof of the coach to Dublin. However, he knew that when he arrived at his destination, and saw Mr. Nugent, his troubles Avould be at an end, and that he would be put in a way, not only of recruiting his exhausted finances, but of obtaining permanent employment.

So putting the money, wrapped up in paper — he had given his purse to Rose — in his breast-pocket, and buttoning his coat tightly over it, he began whistling a lively air to show his indifference, and conceal from the gunsmith the disappointment he felt at the unprofitable sale of his fowling-piece. When he came to the door of the shop, he found that he could not pass out of it as quickly or as easily as he had anticipated. A recruiting sergeant with his aides— looking very smart indeed in their scarlet uniforms, with long bunches of many-coloured ribbons streaming from their caps and shining in the lio-ht of the street lamps — stood on the flagway outside the shop, surrounded by a crowd of gaping idlers who blocked up the way, preventing anyone from leaving the shop, or going into it. The sergeant, a fine-looking, handsome man in the prime of life, who became his uniform extremely well, was declaiming in the most voluble style on the happiness that attended the career of a soldier, and the glory of serA'ing the king and fighting his battles.

The crowd around listened to him Avith attention, some of them grinning from ear to ear, while their faces were lighted up with irrepressible fun ; others were apparently quite dazzled by the splendid picture drawn for them in glowing language, one half of Avhich they did not understand. Apparently they were all persons of the very lowest class, ill-fed, and certainly very ill-dressed — hatless, shoeless, ragged — in short, the usual band of ragamuffins that swarm in the lanes and alleys of every large town. But whether they listened Avith bated breath and admiring wonder to the eloquence of the man of war, or shouted and laughed Avith ironical applause at his flowery speeches, they all looked enviously at his manly figure, martial air and gaudy dress, thinking, doubtless, that if all Avho enlisted Avere as wellfed, as Avell-dressed, and as happy -looking, the life of a soldier must indeed be a very pleasant one.

On his side, the sergeant was very Avell calculated by the blandishments of a good-humoured, genial manner and an oily tongue to strengthen the favourable impression that his appearance had made on the crowd that stood open-mouthed, listening to his marvellous stories and brilliant promises. Though a stranger in the city, he was undoubtedly an Irishman, and well acquainted with eArery topic and argument that would be at all likely to have an effect on their excitable and credulous natures. He had a pretty good accent, derived partly from associating with strangers, and partly from long residence in foreign lands, but still the rich mellow sound that the Irish man can never Avholly discard from his voice clung to the sergeant's tongue, and proclaimed him to be un mistakably ' a son of the sod.' It was not that he had what is called a brogue — that had long since disappeared, if he had ever had it — his words were well chosen, and his speech free from all provincialisms, yet there lingered through it all a shade of the 'pure Doric,' a faint soupcon of his native tongue that gave richness, fulness, and humour to every word he uttered. ' What a great pity it is,' he said, in his blandest tone and most alluring manner, ' that such a fine set of young men as I see here about me should be living at home ir_ idleness and poverty, when they could so easily acquire both fortune and distinction by serving the king.