The husband-hunter; or, "Das schiksal".

Front matter

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CHAPTER I. Now westlin’ winds and slaughtering guns

Bring autumn’s pleasant weather;

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,

Among the blooming heather ;

Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,

' Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,

To muse upon my charmer.

Bun ns.

It was late in the autumn of 1832 that a traveler slowly paced his horse through the glen of Lisnadinish, in the southern province of this wild, half-cultivated kingdom of Ireland. From his gentleman-like appearance and equipments, and the aristocratic blood which his noble steed displayed, as well as the easy rate at which he advanced, he bore no resemblance to the class of tourists yclept “ commercial travelers,” w r ho usually speed along “ summa diligentia that is, to borrow the translation of a college wit, on the top of a mail-coach, or diligence. Our hero, on the contrary, had none of the dapper, business-like air, which in general distinguishes that erratic and useful community ; his appearance seemed to indicate the gentleman, traveling solely for his own proper gratification. A servant rode behind him, on a stout, well-built hackney.

The southern verge of the road overhung, in many parts, a rugged and precipitous bank, at whose foot

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brawled a rapid sparkling mountain stream ; on the other side of which arose the broad shaggy breast of Lisnadinish hill, completely covered with dark purple heath. The road, on emerging from this noble gorge, gradually ascended for upwards of two miles through a bleak, yet not uninteresting district ; until it reached the eminence which commands the rough valley of Glen Minnis.

Here our traveler involuntarily paused, in admiration of the striking scene that was stretched before him. Trees there were none in the district, and the heathy covering of the hills betrayed no marks of the advancing season. In the centre of the vale stood the tall castellated tower of Glen Minnis : the yellow moss and lichen that covered its walls, gleamed warmly in the ray of the bright autumn sun. The appearance of the ruin invited the horseman, whose taste was somewhat antiquarian, to explore it. Deeming it improbable that either his horses or the servant partook of his passion for scenery, he indulged them in such rest and refreshment as were afforded by a whitewashed carman’s stage on the summit of the eminence, and proceeded alone on his ramble through the valley.

He soon discovered that the castle, or fortalice, was much farther off than he had at first imagined ; and the distance was unexpectedly increased by the intervention of two brooks, much swoln from the recent rains, along the banks of which he was compelled to make a considerable detour , before he found the fords, whose stepping stones enabled him to cross their angry streams in safety. These obstacles surmounted, he explored the ruined tower, and finding his curiosity excited by the picturesque mountain of Mullaugh, he crossed a marshy meadow at the trifling expense of wet feet, and ascended its steep elevation.

The ascent was toilsome enough, from the alternations of almost perpendicular rocks and slimy marshes which the eastern side of the mountain presented ; but our hero was young, athletic, and inured to active exercise. Having gained the summit, the view well repaid the labor of the ascent. To the west was indeed a noble prospect. The wide blue waters of the glorious bay of antry, their eastern verge still gleaming brightly in tiie ^ening sun, while the western side was darkly shrouded • the shadow of the mountains, lay stretched at the stance of some miles from the hill on which he stood, though by a singular visual deception he could almost have imagined that they washed its base. He gazed at the gigantic mountain barrier that guards the bay from the western storms, and contains within its recesses the enchanting valley of GlengarrifF ; Hungarie Hill, with its broad, bare head ; Ghoul Mountain, with its narrow, splintered peak ; and all the bold eminences receding in disjointed ranks to the distant bay and river of Kenmare.

As he stood on the wide heathy summit of Mullaugn, his attention was suddenly arrested by two white dogs, which gamboled at a little distance. One of them was a pointer; the other a diminutive and silky King Charles, only fit for a lady’s warm hearth-rug, so that his appearance in a scene so wild naturally excited some surprise, especially as both he and his larger companion seemed perfectly the masters of their own motions. The wide summit of the mountain was unbroken and unsheltered for a considerable extent, so that had the dogs been accompanied by any human associate, our hero thought that he must certainly have seen him.

The playful animals appeared anxious tp provoke a pursuit ; they suffered him to approach them so nearly that they were almost within his reach ; and as often as he extended his hand to caress them, the tantalizing creatures would utter a short, quick, playful bark, and scamper out of reach in a moment.

This game of pursuit and escape was continued for some minutes, until it led our hero to the brink of a very small lake, whose black waves seemed astonishingly rough, considering the smallness of its extent and the calmness of the day. Here the dogs appeared suddenly to vanish, leaving their pursuer gaping in silent wonderment. In the spirit of idle frolic, he continued his search for the wayward animals along the banks of a larger lake, which lay within thirty paces of the other little sheet of water. The chase, however, was a vain one ; and our tourist began to remark that the sun was fast sinking be- 1 *

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hind Ghoul Mountain, and that wholly unacquainted as he was with the locality, he had better lose no time in retracing his steps while light remained, to his quarters for the night in the lonely inn where he had left his servant.

While these reflections passed through his mind, he returned to the smaller lake, when incautiously advancing to the verge of the bank, he fell through a matted canopy of heath and gorse into a little natural chasm in the ground, on the very brink of the lake, in which was a turf seat occupied by as strange a looking mortal as he ever had beheld. His person was spare, wiry, and muscular ; his legs, bare from the knee to the foot, were mottled red and blue, by the influence of air, fire, wind, and rain, to all which, the luckless shins had been alternately exposed from infancy upwards. His face was dark and swarthy ; its expression half sinister, half humorous. His dress was as singular as his person. It consisted of a high peaked hat, without a brim ; a blue jacket, with faded scarlet seams, and tarnished gold buttons ; short breeches of strong pilot cloth, and a leather belt in which was stuck a broad, sharp knife. The two dogs which had baffled their pursuer, lay panting at the feet of this personage ; at his side was a large basket of provisions. He did not testify either surprise or alarm at our hero’s unceremonious entrance, but said in Irish, with the most philosophic calmness,

“ That ’s a queer way you thought proper to come in, Sir. Now if I was you , I ’d rather walk in easy at the door of a house than jump down through the chimney.”

“ Really, my friend,” replied the intruder, in the same language, “ I had not the slightest intention of making so abrupt an entrance — I thought I was standing on firm ground, and your treacherous furze gave way beneath my feet.”

“ And you nearly came down on my head,” replied the guardian of the provision basket.

“ Sir, I did not mean to make so free with your head, I assure you.”

“ You might have knocked my brains out,” said he of the mottled shins.

THE HUSBAND-HUNTER.

“ I protest,” said our hero, “ I should have been exceedingly sorry had I done so.”

“ But that would not have been the least satisfaction in life to me for the loss of my brains,” replied this singular « genius, tapping his forehead ; “ and I ’ll engage you would have been picking them up for the sake of the lading that ’s in them, and glad to get them too. But since they had the luck to escape, and are still in my brainpan, what say you to a glass of grog ?”

The traveler gratefully accepted the offer, for the heat of the day, and his pedestrian exertions, rendered the refreshment very acceptable.

Suddenly two shots from a double-barreled gun were heard in quick succession.

“ Well banged, ould Father Jack,” exclaimed Padhre, (the strangely dressed peasant,) “ I ’ll warrant there ’s a brace of grouse down, at any rate.”

“ Father Jack ?” repeated the traveler, “ pray who is that ?”

“ My master, Sir,” replied Padhre ; “ where did you come from at all at all, that you haven ’t heard of him 1”

“ Heard of whom, my friend ? I do not know your master’s surname yet.”

“ Father John O 1 Connor, Sir, parish priest of Lisnadinish ; the best brother, the best friend, the best man, the best priest of a parish, and,” continued Padhre, approaching the climax with increasing enthusiasm, “ better than all put together, the best sportsman in all Ireland : and now, in arnest, did you never hear tell of him ?”

“ No, indeed, 1 am ashamed to say.”

“ Why then, ashamed you may well be ! are you Turk, Jew, or Connaughtman, never to have heard tell of ould Father John, the best friend of sowls , and the bitterest enemy of grouse and patricks — Pop ! there goes another bang at the grouse, I ’ll engage he ’ll have his game-bag full to-night.”

“ Has he any sportsmen along with him V y

“ Not a Christian,” answered Padhre, “ barring a couple of foreigners — Englishers, they are, I think — one of them ’s a donny little crature, that would start at his sha-

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dow — got tired of walking before they got up to Cnocnabruish — he ’s gone back to Tom Howlaghan’s cabin, the poor devil, to wait for his comrade and the priest — I never yet seen such a pair of uncivilized legs as he had — they would n ’t carry him five miles.”

“ And are your legs civilized ?” demanded the traveler, laughing at this estimate of civilization, and looking at Padhre’s uncouth, uncovered limbs.

“Civilized? yeh ! to be sure and they are 1 These are the legs,” and he slapped his muscular thigh with an air of triumph ; “ these are the legs that would trot twenty miles without stopping to take breath. But the other Englisher, to give the devil his due, is a smart, supple chap enough, and wonderful handy at his gun.”

“ What are the names of these Englishmen ?”

“ Mordaunt, Sir — they’re brothers.”

“The night is approaching, my good fellow,” said the traveler, “ and I am a stranger in this place : will you tell me the nearest way to Beamish’s inn, where I left my horse and servant ; I think I came a considerable round.”

“ Your shortest way is by the ould castle of Glen Minnis, and keep to the left up the little bohereen, and you ’ll pass both the streams at the stepping stones. — But, bluranagers ! don ’t go till father John and the Englisher come back — they must be here now in no time — and his reverence will give you a bed with all the pleasure in life, and keadh mhilef aultha*. You ’d be a fool, Sir, saving your presence, to put up with no great things of a bed at the Shebeen f, when his reverence will give you sheets as white as snow, and a welcome as large as a horse.”

But our traveler felt scarcely inclined fo depend on the second-hand invitation of Padhre. whom he deemed a sort of crackbrained humorist ; and as the shades of night at length began to close around, he hastened down the mountain, in the hope of reaching the bohereen beyond the castle with the aid of the remaining light. He was, however, mistaken, as his utmost exertions only brought him to the mountain’s base, exactly as the night set in.

* Keadh mhile faultha — A hundred thousand welcomes.] | Shebeen — public-house.

THE HUSBAND-HUNTER.

The day had been warm, and the evening clear and fine ; but as he re-entered the large marshy meadow already mentioned, black, ominous clouds quickly chased each other over the hill tops, large rain-drops fell at intervals, the wind began to rise, and in less than half an hour he found himself in the centre of the marshy plain, in total darkness, wholly unacquainted with the neighborhood, and exposed to a drenching hurricane of rain and ! storm. This, indeed, was no formidable penalty for a seasoned sportsman ; but his total ignorance of the locality rendered his situation extremely embarrassing. There was nothing, however, to be gained by remaining stationary; so he walked quickly onward, although he knew not in what direction he was moving.

At length he reached a tall crag at the foot of a mountain, and casting his eyes earnestly around, he could not discern the slightest spark of light in any quarter. Not a dog barked — not a sound was heard, save the howling of the wind, and the heavy patter of the rain. The mountain was a formidable barrier to any farther progress in that direction ; so he faced about, and again pursued his way across the marsh, until he suddenly plunged up to his middle in a slow, muddy stream, which soaked its oozy way through long sedgy grass and flaggers. Scrambling from this Stygian pool, he found himself among low, ruined walls ; and advancing a few paces farther, he discerned in the gloom the tall tower of Glen Minnis. Never sailor entered harbor with more joy than he felt on entering this old, dark, ruined, fortalice : all it afforded, no doubt, was shelter; but shelter was extremely welcome upon such an occasion.

Our hero was dripping wet, and, notwithstanding his constitutional strength, he soon began to experience a cold shivering ; the consequence, in part, perhaps, of his being rather lightly clad. But ere many minutes had elapsed, his attention was diverted from the personal inconvenience he sustained, by the sound of voices approaching the building. They ceased ; and steps, as of several persons, were heard ascending the steep rocky bank to the door of the castle. They entered the apartment in

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which he had taken shelter ; and he presently became sensible that they ranged themselves along the wall against which he was leaning. Some moments of silence ensued. At length one of the party asked :

“ What sort of looking fellow was that stranger?”

“ Troth, a good-looking fellow enough — he had as keen a pair of black piercing eyes as ever I seen — eyes, now, that would run in at one end of you and out through the other.”

“ A pair of piercers, truly. Had he much the appearance of a gentleman !”

“ A gentleman every inch, I ’ll go bail for him.”

At this moment the querist, who stood next our hero, happened, in changing his posture, to become aware that he occupied a corner of the building. Instantly his shoulders were enclosed in a grasp of herculean strength, and a rough voice exclaimed :

“ Who is lurking here ?”

“ A traveler,” he answered, “ who entered this ruin to take shelter from the storm.”

“ Then,” returned the voice, while the iron grasp was clutched still deeper in his shoulders, “ whoever you are, you shall pay dearly for this intrusion.”

Our traveler struggled to release himself, but he was as a child in the powerful gripe of the Unknown.

“Padhre,” he exclaimed in Irish, “ strike a light.”

A ligiit was soon struck from a gun-flint in some tinder ; a bit of gewsh , which lay in a corner of the ruin, was lighted, and disclosed the figure of a tall, patriarchal personage, with a long blue cloak, two gentlemen in shooting frocks, the eccentric and strangely dressed Padhre, and a couple of boys, who carried game bags.

“Oh!” exclaimed Padhre, recognising our hero, “ there’s the gentleman himself, your reverence ; — scold him now, as he well desarves, for cutting off in such a hurry before you came up.”

“ Sir,” said the blue-cloaked personage, “ all waifs and strays appertain to the lord of the manor, and in that capacity I seize upon you. You shall spend the night with me. As soon as the rain subsides, you accompany

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me home, and I think you will do me the justice to say that I provided a better lodging for you than you did for yourself . 55

The person addressed was at no loss to guess that his peremptory friend was “ Father John ; 55 he thanked him for his kindness, and frankly accepted his hospitality*.

* This chapter, and one or two other portions of this work, have already been printed, with Mr. Moriarty’s permission, as detached descriptive sketches, in an Irish literary periodical, now extinct. The scenic descriptions are correct delineations of actual localities ; of which some of the real names have been retained.

CHAPTER II. Who are you ?•

Samuel Lover.

“ May I beg to ask , 55 said father O’Connor, “ to whom I have the happiness of speaking V’

The traveler presented the priest with his card — “ Mr. O’Sullivan . 55

“Mr. O’Sullivan ?’ 5 repeated O’Connor, “O’Sullivan Bear, or O’Sullivan Reagh ? or O’Sullivan Spaniah V *

“To none of those families was he allied,” the traveler replied ; “ his ancestors had long been settled in a distant part of the kingdom . 55

“O’Sullivan Lyra, perhaps V’ inquired O’Connor.

Mr. O’Sullivan bowed assent.

“ Then, Sir, allow me to assure you, I feel particularly happy at the pleasure of knowing you ; I was extremely intimate, for many years, with a very near relative of your’s — an uncle probably — who held a commission in the Austrian service.”

“ I am equally happy to know you,” said O’Sullivan ; “ I have often heard my uncle mention'you in terms of the warmest affection.”

“Poor fellow !” said O’Connor, “ requiescat in pace. But permit me — Mr. Mordaunt — Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt —Mr. O’Sullivan . 55

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The gentlemen bowed.

“ Padhre,” said O’Connor, “ look out at the night, and see if the storm is clearing off.”

Padhre obeyed, and the English gentlemen, anxious, 1 no doubt, to repair to more comfortable quarters, accompanied Padhre to the door, to examine the state of the night.

“ Are you long acquainted with the Mordaunts ?” asked O’Sullivan.

“ Not I — I never saw them till last week ; — they did not like the inn, so they beat up my quarters a few days since, with their writing boxes, portfolios, pencils, pallettes, and double-barreled- guns ; — they were quite made up for writing books, taking views, and knocking down grouse and partridge. So they graciously solicited my poor aid in both their literary and sporting capacities ; and you know it would not have given them a favorable impression of Irish hospitality and courtesy, to refuse their request. I accordingly escorted them to Mullaugh, Oulteen, Cnocnabruish, Wheeough, and all our euphonious hills and eminences.”

At this moment the Englishmen and Padhre re-entered, with a dismal account of the night. “ The rain is dreadfully heavy,” said the elder Mordaunt, “ it would be utterly impossible to return to your house at present.”

“ Could we not procure good quarters in some neighboring farm-house?” suggested O’Sullivan.

“Aye,” said Padhre, “in Bonaparte Hovvlaghan’s cabin.”

“ Nonsense!” cried the priest, “ we are famously off where we are. The old castle is far better quarters than poor Bonaparte’s tenement, whose broken thatch admits the rain ; — this vault is dry enough for sportsmen, in all conscience.”

Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt did not seem to relish the prospect of spending the night in the ruin ; his thoughts turned anxiously towards his comfortable quarters at Dwyer’s-Gift (O’Connor’s cottage).

“How far are we from Dwyer’s-Gift?” said he to Bonaparte Howlaghan, a wild-looking, athletic peasant, who had attended the shooting party during the day, and who now entered, dripping wet, with a large bundle under his cota-mhor.

“ How far from Dwyer’s-Gift repeated Bonaparte, u why, let us see, your honor — it's six mountains off.”

“ But pray how many miles ?” persisted the Englishman.

“ Ogh,” replied Bonaparte, throwing down his bundle on the floor, “ we knows nothing about miles in Glen Minnis. We always reckons distance by the rocks and the bogs. We say such or such a place is three rocks away, or haulf-a-dozen bogs, or six mountains off, or something of that sort. Miles ! J pon my conscience a man would be kicked that talked about miles in Glen Minnis, and it ’s very well for yous , a pair of foreign jantlemen, that you had the luck to ax a man of my edication and jintility. Miles ! arrah sure we have neither miles nor milestones here, but the rocks and the mountains, which are Heaven’s own fingerposts and landmarks, planted by the hand of nathur.”

After such a sublime declaration, Fitzroy Mordaunt did not feel much inclined to pursue his topographical inquiries. But he clasped his hands, as if in admiration, and exclaiming, “ Poetry ! rude poetry, but genuine !” he proceeded to minute in a pocket-book the effusions of Bonaparte, whose shrewdness enabled him to guess that the English tourist was taking down his words, and who looked prodigiously important thereupon. When Fitzroy closed the book, he turned to O’Connor, and asked him if he liked poetry.

“ No — certainly not,” replied the priest.

“ No ? Are not you ashamed to confess your want of taste ?”

“ Why, in fact,” said O’Connor, “ I do not think that any idea, or sentiment, or narrative, worth being preserved, has ever been written in poetry, which might not have been much better expressed in unpretending prose. Poetry may do very well for a song, or a sonnet, or some . trifle of that sort — but for any lengthened production, j the unmerciful shackles of metre, or the constant clink of rhyme, always give me a headache.”

“ Why, Sir,” replied Fitzroy, looking shocked, and

VOL. i. 2

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contorting his brows into a fine expression of poetic ecstacy ; “ there are some ideas so ethereal, so sublime, that you cannot possibly give them utterance in prose.”

“ Then what is your definition of poetry ?” demanded O’Connor.

“ Poetry, like wit,” replied the poet, “ is exceedingly hard to define — but I think 1 may say that every strong emotion, every overwhelming sensation, is poetry.”

“ Then hunger is poetry,” said the priest, “ for it is a pretty overwhelming sensation — and I am a poet at present, for I wish I had my dinner.”

“ Hunger is cursed bad poetry,” said Bonaparte ; “ I ’d rather have a pratee and salt herring than as much of that sort o’ poetry as ever you could give* me.”

“ I wish we were snugly housed at Dwyer’s Gift,” said the elder Mordaunt.

“ I wish so too,” echoed his brother, shivering, and looking perished.

“Pooh ! we shall all do very well where we are, in a very few minutes,” said the priest ; “ Boney, where ? s the gevvsh ?”

“ The boy ’s bringing it, your reverence,” answered the gigantic peasant.

And presently a ragged urchin made his appearance, bearing a large bundle of gevvsh, or bogvvood, on his back, which in less than five minutes was ignited into a blazing mass of light and heat, that diffused its cheerful warmth through the ruinous old * vault. Bonaparte untied his bundle, containing some cloaks of comfortable frieze, which the sportsmen wrapped around them while they dried their garments at the gewsh fire : the clothes w r ere soon dried, and resumed by the party, who immediately turned their attention to the cravings of appetite, which the labors of the day had rendered pretty keen.

Meanwhile the wind howled, the rain resembled a waterspout, intermingled with occasional volleys of hailshot : as the storm raged without, the Mordaunts appeared to enjoy the increasing comforts of the vault ; and while Fitzroy became again busily engaged with his pocket-book, his wiser brother, and the priest, undertook

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to cook for the party. The game-bags were full, and the other provender was excellent and plentiful. Father John washed and dried the ^grouse. He produced his sporting stewpan, and placed on the bottom of it some slices of his own Glen Minnis bacon, half fat, half lean, the fat as transparent as mother-o 5 -pearl. Upon this foundation he deposited his grouse, breast upwards, sprinkled them with flour from his dredging box, threw in a few shredded shalots, along with three tablespoonfuls of mushroom catsup, and half a tablespoonful of walnut catsup, he added a wineglassful of port, a pinch of red pepper, and some salt. Mordaunt eyed his preparations with manifest delight and admiration.

“ Oh, Sir/’ said the priest, interpreting his looks, “ I am perfectly au fait , I assure you, in the sporting cuisine.”

Mordaunt, emulous of Father John’s skill, manufactured a brace of hares in glorious style ; he cooked away with his little apparatus in a manner which no novice could have imitated, and the two stewpans simmered, sputtered, and hissed upon the fire in merry rivalry.

Bonaparte’s mouth watered, and his jaws expanded into a grin, at all this goodly whizzing and sputtering — at length his feelings found utterance.

“ That ’s the real music !” he exclaimed , — e: hunger may be poethry, but give me the chirruping of the pot. — By gosh, Mr. Poet, my music is betther than your poethry.”

Fitzroy felt angry at this uncouth familiarity ; but he shrank from exhibiting his displeasure, when he looked at the mighty bone and muscle, thew and sinew, of the colossal speaker. In truth a lurking expression of subdued ferocity about Boney’s eye, induced Fitzroy to court his good opinion ; for which purpose he commenced, while arranging some sketches in his little portfolio, a song about Daniel O’Connell, to the tune of Patrick’s Day in the Morning : —

“ Come gather around, while I sing you the praises Of one who is dear to each Irish heart,

O’Connell, whose native nobility raises

Qne light in our land, though all else depart-”

He continued to mince out two or three verses, and then stopped, from failure of memory. “ Ogh,” exclaimed Howlaghan, “ your cramped English throat was niver made for Irish music — yout can’t drive out the keol*, in the slashing, dashing, tearaway, burn-the-world style that a song about Daniel O’Connell ought to be drove out ;” and forthwith Boney proceeded to exemplify his lesson with a stentorian strength of lungs that astonished his auditors. The musician seemed strongly excited by the spirit of his melody, for towards the close of his song he assumed an attitude of bold defiance, and menacingly shook a huge oak stick, which was loaded at the end with a knob of lead.

“ Come, come, Boney,” said Father John, laughing, “ you must not shake Bam gaun Saggart at us — I never like to see you wheeling it about ; it looks as if mischief was brewing.”

Fitzroy Mordaunt, struck with the formidable appearance of the weapon, inquired its name and use, with the purpose of transferring to his book a drawing and description of it, “ under the head of Irish weapons .”

“ Pray, Mr. Awlegan,” said he to Boney, “ what is the use of your large stick, may I ask ?”

“To thrash rapscallions wid,and smash their skulls 1” roared out the giant Boney — (I should rather say the Boney giant) — and he spoke with the zest of an Ideal slaughtering match.

“ Bless me !” ejaculated the soft voice of the little Englishman, “ what a formidable purpose ! Now, ow do you use this heavy stick, Mr. Awlegan ? I can ardly lift it.”

“This way!” shouted Boney, whirling the stick a dozen times round the querist’s head, with such force as to whirr through the air like a whole covey of partridges rising. Fitzroy’s terror was excessively diverting. He crouched and cowered, and at last exclaimed, — “ I request you may not smash my skull, Mr. Awlegan.”

“ Niver fear,” responded Boney, flinging down the stick ; “ I only thought you ’d like a thrifle of instruction, my boy.”

* Music.

TTEfH HUSBAND-HUNTER.

“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Awlegan — I ’m sure I am much obliged — much obliged, indeed. What do you call the weapon, Mr. Awlegan ?”

“ Is it the stick ?” answered Boney ; “ why I calls it “ Bans gaun Soggarth” (with a most ferocious expression and attitude), “ which means, d ’ye see, death without clargy.”