Chapter I. The Homestead And Its Inhabitants
The country lying round the hamlet of Clonderry was as beautiful as it was possible for mere pastoral scenery to be ; there were neither rocks, nor woods, nor waterfalls ; yet he should be indeed hard to please, who would not, on beholding it for the first time, say it was beautiful. There were not many gentlemen's seats near Clonderry, and consequently no great abundance of high stone walls, which make a demesne look like a fortified town, and which strongly impress one with the idea that these gentlemen wish to turn their properties into something like miniature Sebastopols. In lieu of stone walls there were plenty of ditches, which in themselves are, it must be confessed, not much of an improvement on stone walls ; but when these ditches were covered with a majestic growth of hawthorns, rivalling in their size forest trees, and interspersed here and there with a sturdy crab-tree, — then it will at once appear that the ditches have greatly the advantage.
It was so with Clonderry; those great hawthorns had B been planted by some real improver centuries before, and were permitted to grow untrimmed and uncared for ; but notwithstanding, their unhindered growth was the glory of the whole neighbourhood. In the long days of summer one might see the cattle seeking their grateful shade from the heat of the sun,— stretching themselves in luxurious listlessness under their spreading branches, and impressing one with the idea that the man that would attempt to cut or clip the great hawthorns of Clonderry wouldn't be much better than a second Attila. And then the delicious walks that were on the tops of those ditches, with the light of day nearly excluded by the branches, must not be forgotten. There was a well beaten path on almost every one of them, for the boys and girls of the neighbourhood delighted to take a stroll there on Sunday evenings ; sometimes plucking the bitter crab-apples, which to their simple taste were no doubt delicious; but which would not be very acceptable to any one used to real apples, unless he wanted to get into "the melting mood;" for the very bitterness of those crab-apples was enough to make even stalwart men shed tears.
Sometimes they would break off great limbs from the bushes when loaded down with blossoms, and carrying them home to their less fortunate abodes, where there were no hawthorns, would plant them in their gardens, satisfied with theh short-lived bloom of a day or two; — or sometimes form impromptu pic-nics under their fragrant shade, and most likely wind up with a dance, or a game of football, and unfortunately sometimes with a fight. The tract of country boasting this luxuriant growth of hawthorns was not in the possession of one person ; but was rented by three or four easy-going farmers, who would as soon have thought of damming the Shannon as attempting to put a stop to the inhabitants of the country round wandering as often as they liked through their fields ; and surely it was not to be wondered at, that even the untutored peasants found a nameless kind of joy in spending the long evenings in summer beneath those glorious old thorns; for there is always something in beauty that charms the unlettered and the humble as well as the educated and the highborn ; and there is not the least doubt but many an aching heart and many a care-worn spirit found both " rest and refreshment" in wandering about those beautiful fields, drinking in the sweet air of June, loaded as though with incense by the fragrance of the old hawthorns of Clonderry.
To the north of the principal group of houses forming the hamlet of Clonderry, lay a low tract of land, called by the country people " Callows," through which wound a little nameless river ; but which the unsophisticated inhabitants called the " Big River," perhaps because it was so small ; or perhaps the person who first gave it that name saw it when it was really " big;" that is, after two or three winter days' rain ; for it then scorned its natural banks, only six or eight feet apart, and flowed far and wide over the adjacent fields or " Callows," and appeared, as far as breadth was concerned, quite as respectable a river as the Shannon, into which it flowed after passing behind the rounded hills that formed the northern boundary of the tract of country we have just described. It must not be supposed, however, that this land, over flowed in winter, was useless ; on the contrary, it produced most luxuriant crops of grass, and of excellent quality too ; the only difficulty was, that if the " Big River" took a notion to disdain its narrow and tortuous channel, at hay making time instead of at Cliristmas, and flow over the meadows, then indeed there would be, most likely, a great scarcity of hay the ensuing spring ; and the unfortunate cattle would be compelled to subsist, as best they might, on grass alone: and such a catastrophe often happened.
Notwithstanding, the small farmers and cottiers used to come from a great distance to take " conacre" meadow from the fortunate owners of the Clonderry callows ; con sequently there would be, in summer, a great gathering of haymakers, enlivening, by their songs and jokes, the low banks of the sluggish stream, which was as much feared by them as the Nile was loved by the Egyptians ; and not without reason either; for often, when the taker of an acre or so of meadow would go out in the morning to " ted" his newly mown hay, he would find it all afloat, making very decided and unmistakeable progress towards the Shannon instead of towards his haggard. The Widow Conroy owned, or rather farmed, about sixty acres of the " prime" of Clonderry; not one foot of waste land was there on it; and right well and carefully was it farmed too.
Although having had the misfortune to lose her husband many years before, when her only daughter was a mere baby, she nevertheless worked reso lutely on, and from being only in middling circumstances at his death, she was, at the time our tale opens, a " snug woman ;" that is to say, she had her farm well stocked and well tilled ; had a good house, although it was thatched instead of slated ; and besides, had some spare hundreds laid by for any unforeseen calamity that might arrive, even supposing that it should be no less than Norah taking it into her head to marry, which the Widow Conroy con sidered one of the greatest misfortunes that could befall her ; but as there was not much sign of Norah taking to matrimony for the present, her fears on that subject seemed not to have much foundation.
The house appeared, at first sight, not much better than the largest of the many humble dwellings scattered around ; its walls were threefourths of mud (neatly white washed, however), and its roof thatched ; but the moment you entered and stood by the spacious hearth, on which a full " cleeve" of turf was nearly always burning, and saw the trim and clean look of everything — the symmetrical way in which the plates and dishes were placed on the dresser — the well-polished noaeins — the white walls; and better still, the kitchen roof festooned with flitches of bacon, so thick that one might imagine they had grown on a hippopotamus instead of a pig; — then indeed you might say, "There is plenty here;" but when you looked at the mild expression, full blue eyes, though not hand some face, of Dame Conroy herself welcoming you and inviting you to take a seat at her blazing fire, — then you might with justice say, " There is peace here;" and lastly, when you saw the graceful figure, innocent frankness, and sunny brow of Noi*ah, — then, reader, might you say in truthfulness, " There is happiness here."
And so there was ; there were plenty, peace, and hap piness there. You might search in vain for so much of any of the above three good things in the more stately mansions of the surrounding gentry, where, in most cases, it might be well said, "all was not gold that glittered." There was not much glitter about Widow Conroy's unpretending abode; but instead of that there were real, sub stantial comforts. Time, however, was rapidly bringing round an event, which must cause at least an interruption in the smooth stream of prosperity which had so long blest both mother and daughter. Their lease was well nigh expired ; and their landlord was not on the best of terms with the Conroys. Theirs was what was called an old take ; the farm which they had at the time we are writing about had been in the possession of the family for centuries ; it had descended from father to son for so long a time that there was not even a tradition amongst the pea santry of a day when there was not a Conroy in Clonderry.
The only guarantee that was now left them was the life of a broken down old man, brother to the deceased Mi chael Conroy, at whose death the lease expired; he was not likely to survive through the ensuing winter. To make matters still worse, this old man, John Conroy by name, was not, and never had been, anything but an enemy to Mrs. Conroy and her husband. He lived in very poor circumstances on a few acres, not far from Clonderry, which were all he possessed of a once considerable farm left him by his father, and which was quite as good as that inherited by his brother Michael ; but being early a slave to whiskey, he was led into all kinds of follies and misfortunes, and managed to sublet and otherwise dispose of all his farm, with the exception of a piece of " carragh," so poor that no one would give him anything for his " good will" of it, and on which he managed to eke out a miserable existence.
Indeed the people used to say that he more than once offered it, when in his " cups," and not having the means of procuring more drink, to any one that would give him a " cropper " of whiskey ; but whe ther it was through compassion for his wretchedness, or fear lest it was unlucky to take advantage of the offers of a drunken man, he never met any one that took him at his word. It was said by some of his neighbours, that he was not like any of the Conroys ; others said he had been " overlooked" by a fairy woman, whom his father, when John was an infant, had brought to cure a sick cow. At all events he was quite a disgrace to the decent and sober Con roys ; and the widow and daughter felt the blood mounting to theh* cheeks whenever his name was mentioned. At the close of a glorious harvest day, when the neat and bustling Norah had, with the assistance of her ser vant girl, milked the cows and given the reapers their supper of stirabout and milk, her mother came to her and called her aside into the room off the kitchen, dignified by the name of parlour ; and certainly it merited the appella tion if it were no more than by its cleanliness and cheer fulness, although there was a bed in it.
" Norah, alanna," said her mother, now for the first time, in Norah's eyes at least, looking troubled; " Norah, alanna, I have bad news for ye, my child !" " Bad news !" responded Norah with surprise, for it was nearly as strange to her to see her mother's face wearing a sorrowful look, as it would have been to see nothing green around Clonderry. " Yes, Norah, darlin', bad news, and no mistake. God help you, aroon ! you won't know how to take it, I'm afraid, for you never knew what trouble or grief was yet." " But tell us what it is, mother," asked Norah eagerly, and with a look of extreme agitation at seeing her mother so sorrow-stricken. " Well, darlin', it's just this ; your uncle, may the Lord have mercy on him ! is dead." " Dead !" gasped Norah ; that was enough ; the whole state of the case flashed on her mind in an instant.
Clon derry was out of lease. Nathaniel Bolingbroke Parsons, their landlord, was an old and deadly enemy of the Con roys for more reasons than one ; first, because theirs was a cheap farm, in his estimation at least ; secondly, because Michael Conroy, the year he died, had voted against him at a contested election; and thirdly, because the widow, one day she was paying him rent, and goaded by his insolence on her i*efusing to give up the lease, and take out a new one as he wished, gave what the tyrant considered an impertinent answer, which called from him a severe repri mand; he told her that a low-born person like her should not, on any account, speak in such a manner to him, where upon the widow waxed angry, and defied him, and his " seed, breed, and generation ;" telling him that there was not a day for hundreds of years when there was not a Con roy in Clonderry; and that there would be, when there was not a Parsons in the universe.
There was much to fear from such a man; he was one of those that never forgave an injury, even if it were only an imaginary one. He was proud, haughty, and imperious to the last degree ; one of those little things in the shape of a man who thought to be great by being feared and hated; and that the only way to make himself repsected by his " stupid, clownish tenantry," as he called them, was to be unbending and severe. " Who brought you the news, mother?" asked Norah. " A boy of the Nolans that was passing by this way comin' home from the market. Your uncle John has been dead since Tuesday mornin', an' is to be buried to-morrow ; his wife, God help her ! an' all dhrunkard's wives ! hasn't the manes o' buryin' him, and I suppose we must sind her over a few pounds in ordher that one o' the name mayn't be put in the clay like a beggar; though he was bad and a disgrace to us all, you know, acushla, we musn't remimber that now."
" No, indeed," responded Norah. " Don't you think, mother, but I had better put on my mantle, and go over, takin' the money along wid me; and sit and talk to the poor woman, and stay until he's buried?" "Do, aroon; Peggy will go along wid you; here's the kay o' the big chust ; bring whatever money you think fit." Away went the gentle Norah on her mission of mercy and love; the looming fear of the calamity that was hang ing over them was driven away for the present by the happy thought, that she had it in her power to show the world that it was possible for the wronged to forgive the wronger; and that however her uncle John might have injured and disgraced them in his life, now that he was dead, all his faults were forgotten — all the bitter pangs he had caused them forgiven freely.
Chapter II. Belville And Its Inhabitants
About a mile from Clonderry was a stately mansion belonging to a gentleman called Massey. He was de scended from an old English family; and inherited a large estate, containing within its ample bounds some of the best land in the country. The property was not such as would entitle him to rank amongst the aristo cracy ; but it was considered quite sufficient to make him be thought a very respectable country gentleman. He also held two or three large farms in the neighbourhood at a cheap rent, which not only gave employment to his two sons, but brought him in a very handsome profit. At the time we refer to, namely, that most terrible time for poor Ireland, the year of grace one thousand eight hundred and forty-five, the very year of the commencement of the potato blight, his family consisted of the two sons already mentioned, and two daughters.
The eldest of the familv, William, was the exact specimen of a rollicking, dashing fellow; full of life and spirits, and passionately fond of field sports. The youngest, Richard, now going on twenty, sometimes attended to farming operations, and sometimes amused himself with the country boys ; and this latter occupation seemed decidedly his forte, for there would not be a football or hurling match within ten miles of Clonderry at which Dick Massey would not attend; and if there was any dispute about the issue of the games, he was always appealed to as an umpire whose decision would be admitted at once. Indeed young Dick Massey seemed just the kind of person formed by nature to enjoy athletic sports. Standing six feet one in his socks, possessing almost the strength of a lion and the agility of an antelope, it will at once appear why he had such a taste for manly exercises.
Still, with all his strength, Dick was the most peaceable of men; many a deadly fray he prevented ; and many bitter enemies by his instrumentality were turned into friends. Often used the " boys" say that before Dick was old enough to take part in, or to attend their hurling matches and stone throwing parties, there was always sure to be a " scrimmage" at the winding up ; but since his coming amongst them, he taught them how to amuse themselves otherwise than by blackening each other's eyes. It was the more to be wondered at how Dick Massey managed to exert such an influence over the peasantry, when it is taken into consideration that he did not come of the " ould stock," and was moreover the son of a man, who, though not hated, was rather disliked by them ; but when he approached manhood, and as soon as his frank and manly character became known, all remembrance of his descent and creed were forgotten, and he was as universally beloved as if he could trace his genealogy direct from Conn of the Hundred Battles, or was as devout a Catholic as ever entered a chapel; for there is no one on earth that observes more accurately and judges more justly than Paddy of the frieze coat and corduroys.
And it must be confessed that in the matter of Dick Massey the judg ment was as just as ever judgment was; he was loved and honoured not without cause ; for with his many faults he was, after all, just the kind of person the peasantry attach themselves to — " gentle, strong and valiant." It was rather curious, however, that with all Dick's good qualities, he made very few friends amongst his equals, or the class with whom his father and brother used to asso ciate. Old Gerald Massey was wont to see a great deal of company; for though there were not many resident gentry in the neighbourhood, he had a great many acquaintances and friends in Dublin that used often take advantage of his hospitality and spend weeks together at Belville. He had made friends also with some of the officers of the garrison at A ; so that between them and the neighbouring gentlemen, his house was very seldom without company.
It was also hinted that Mrs. Massey had some thing to do in bringing the crowd of visitors that used to be in those days at Belville ; and certainly when we come to consider that her two daughters were marriageable, and considered rather handsome; andalso that by far the greater part of the visitors were of the masculine gender, it appears exceedingly probable that such was the case. With those gentlemen Dick had very little in common, and cared little how long or how short they stayed at his father's house, or when they intended paying their next visit. He was of course compelled to meet them at meal times and in the evenings ; but it was very easy to see how irksome such society was to him. His mother and sisters used to be con tinually at him on account of the " low company" he was in the habit of keeping, telling him how disgraceful it was for a gentleman to be spending his evenings, and especially his Sunday evenings, at footballs or hurling matches, when he might pass them so much more advantageously amongst his equals at home, and be improved and edified by the conversation of their numerous guests.
But Dick had al ways an answer ready at once; — " Conversation, indeed ! I never heard such silly rubbish talked by any one high or low as them chaps you do be regaling with roast beef and plum-pudding indulge in ! There isn't one of them has half an idea, letting alone a whole one, in his stupid noddle ; and as for them officers, hang me if they can speak Eng lish. [Dick himself did not always speak it grammatically.] It almost made me sick to hear that sprisawn of a Dickson trying to make love to Harriett there; indeed I shouldn't have said ' heard,' for devil an articulate sound did I hear out of the fellow's mouth, it was all ' aivs' and ' yaw's ;' egad may be it was German he was trying to talk ! Do you know what it is, — I despise such puppies ; and look here, Hany, you must be hard set for something to do when you consented even to talk to such a jackanapes."
" Now I declare, Richard, this is too bad ! you ought to be ashamed to talk in such a manner !" both mother and daughter would exclaim at once. " Indeed and I'm not ashamed; and I hope I never will be afraid or ashamed to speak truth. I'd twenty times rather pass an hour with Paddy Mulligan, or go down to Clonderry and have a chat with Widow Conroy or her daughter, that would speak naturally and sensibly, than lose my time with such fiddle-faddle humbugs." " Don't reply to him, Harriett, dear ; he's only fit to mix with such low people as those he speaks of." So the conversation would end. It must not be supposed that Dick was uneducated ; on the contrary, he really knew more than his elder brother, and was a good deal of a reader ; better still, he was a good deal of a thinker, and was gifted with a most retentive memory ; what he read once did not require to be read again.
Sometimes when the conversation would turn on any subject interesting to Dick, which amongst people of such opposite tastes very seldom happened, he would suddenly take part in it, and by the soundness and shrewdness of his remarks astonish the guests, who for the most part looked upon him as knowing very little about even the most commonplace things. And such nervous and well adapted language would he use, that if he undertook an argument with any of the company he was almost certain to come off victorious. But Dick had qualities better still; he had a tender heart ; sometimes he would be rough in his language, but never in his acts. Often and often would his father wonder how he could now and then get through the price of a heifer or half a score of sheep so quickly ; but there was many a lonely hearth filled with a blazing fire, and many a shivering frame clothed in warm frieze, out of Dick's pocket money, for there were some poor even in Clonderry in those good days; although it must be con fessed that their poverty was nearly always caused by sickness or accident.
However, he always managed to find out those poor people; and often did he deny himself clothes and other necessaries in order that he might minister to their wants. What did Dick Massey get from his own family for all this? That is a question that may be very fairly asked He got contempt, hatred. Aye, but what did he get from those outside his family ? what did he get from the poor, from the lowly ? He got love — love as pure as ever mor tal got from mortals; prayers were breathed for him as deep and as earnest as ever yet knocked on behalf of sinners at heaven's portal. Who uttered those prayers? The poverty-stricken and unfortunate denizens of smoky cabins, whose very names are now forgotten ; who have left no more trace of having occupied the spots they died in, than if they had been masses of vapour, that are " con sumed and vanish away."
The famine came the year after. With all Dick's good qualities he was not leading a happy life. How could he? He was too unlike those of his own kindred; he had no sympathy with them; he cared not for what they cared for; they cared not for what he cared for. Hardly ever at his father's fireside did he hear one kindly word bestowed on the countrv people, by either his own family or any of their numerous guests ; they seemed to look on their tenantry and labourers as though they were an entirely different race of beings ; there was as great a social barrier between them as between the coloured population of the Southern States and their white masters. Dick saw all this, and lamented it deeply ; he knew it was an unnatural state of things ; it grieved him to hear the dainty jackanapes that his father thought it an honour to entertain, call the peasantry lazy, mischief-plotting, good-for-nothing-but-landlord-shooting ruffians.
But what could the half educated boy do ? If he took their part in a gentle way, most likely he woidd have been told he knew nothing about the matter, and that he was far too young and inexperienced to pass an opinion on such a grave subject. He used often take their part in for mer years, and blaze up into indignation on hearing such unjust remarks passed on those whose every thought and crotchet he knew from his infancy ; but he only got him self into domestic rows and quarrels by so doing ; till at last he came to the wise determination of letting such tirades pass by entirely unnoticed. The consequence was that he was every day getting more and more estranged from his own immediate relations, and from their acquaintances. Often, instead of sitting over his wine with his father's guests after dinner, would he stroll out, followed by his two favourite dogs, rather than be compelled to listen to their, to him, most stupid conversation ; or often, if it happened to be winter, would he shut himself up in his library, and read or write for the rest of the evening; for Dick, though passionately fond of athletic sports, had a' cultivated and refined taste, and was much better read than most young men of his years in English literature.
With his father, mother and sisters he had but little sympathy ; and the only relative he cared much about was his brother William, who being an excellent horseman and a capital shot, won thereby a little of Dick's admiration. But then William hated the " boys," and it must be confessed the boys did not care a great deal about William ; for with all his " noble horse manship" he invariably treated them with contempt, and never had a kind word or friendly look for one of them. Often indeed was he told that " if it wasn't in the regard of hein' a brother of Misther Dick's, he'd get many a fine weltin' for his behaviour." But all was of no use to William; he went on in his usual tyrannical and cruel manner; continually getting himself into unpleasantness with his labourers and cottiers ; for one of his father's largest farms was left entirely to his management.
Dick had also charge of one of the farms, which he managed skilfully enough ; but his father was for ever scolding him for his laxity in dealing with the tenants and labourers ; but all the fathers in the world could not make Dick Massey do anything that was ever so faint a resemblance of injustice or harshness. And if the boys didn't like to work for him no matter ! His brother William's farm was a couple of miles or more from his, and it often happened that labourers living close by the former farm would consent to walk from it to work for Dick, and for not one penny higher wages. Old Gerald Massey used often wonder how Dick would be invariably in advance of William with his farming operations; but as he had been bed-ridden for some years he had very little opportunity of knowing the cause of the difference in the management of the farms.
Wasn't poor Dick to be pitied, without one soul with whom he could hold communion save the unlettered peasants around, who, though they might do well enough to throw the stone, or wrestle with, were nevertheless insufficiently educated to be meet companions in quieter moments for one like him? Often did he think seriously of asking his father, as the prodigal son did of old, for his part of the inheritance, and seek in some foreign soil, in America, or Australia, for new friends and more con genial society ; but then there were the old hills on which he had gazed from childhood; and the smooth sunny lawns where he first learned the art of walking ; and the quiet, nameless rividet in which he learned to swim, and felt prouder of the feat of being able to cross the " deep hole," which was said to be so deep that it had no bottom, than ever admiral felt at taking a three-decker from the enemy.
The opening of the book is shown; the full text loads in the reader.
Loading the full text…
The end
You’ve reached the end of The Struggles of Dick Massey; or, the Battles of a Boy.