Buch lesen: «Bits of Blarney», Seite 12

"Incredible as it may appear – but I perceive that you have already heard something of this affair – Spranger remained in the court-house during the whole day, while a strict out-of-doors' search was made for him, and finally walked into the street, unchallenged, with the rest of the crowd, when the trials ended. He was literally alone, unfriended, penniless, in a strange country. The men who had supplied him, on the impulse of the moment, with the means of baffling detection, kept their eyes upon, and speedily came in his way, giving him the further aid of shelter and food. What need I more say than that those men, who lived against the law, succeeded in enrolling their guest among them. Recklessness and utter want, in the first instance, and the fear of being given up to the Government in the other, were his motives. Coupled with this, too, was a strong sense of injury at having been convicted, without crime, upon appearances. Not then, but many times afterwards, did he feel convinced that the Executive had brought him to trial only upon obvious and palpable facts. But, long before he came to take this view of the question, he had become leader of the band – now avowedly associated for plunder, smuggling having been broken up, and the name and the daring of Captain Spranger are sufficiently notorious throughout the country now.

"When he had completely identified himself with them, so as to obtain their unquestioning obedience, Spranger availed himself of the privilege of sometimes leaving them for a short time – continuing, however, to regulate their movements, and participate in their gains – one of them always remaining with him to act as his servant, but actually as an unsuspected channel of communication with the band. Thus this captain of men beyond the pale of the law, has resided, at different times, in the principal cities in the South of Ireland. His last resting-place was here in Cork, where, under a name rather given to him by common consent than assumed by him, and with ample pecuniary means at his command, he contrived to be received into the best society. But he had tired, long since, of the ruffianly association which he headed. One hope remained – that of offering his sword to one of the foreign States with whom he had formerly performed military service, and thus resuming the condition to which he was born. But, while taking measures to do this, he met, and became deeply enamoured of the loveliest and most engaging of her sex, and delayed his departure – his exile – from a reluctance to quit the heaven of her smiles. Perhaps he even presumed to hope – to trust – that, under better circumstances, he might even have ventured to hope that his suit would not have failed."

Here he paused, to mark how Mary had borne this relation. Her face was covered with her hands – but he could hear that she was sobbing. He continued: —

"You know, Mary, I perceive, that he who relates this story is the same Spranger whose name has made many a cheek pale, many a bold heart tremble. D'Arcy Mahon was one of the counsel employed against me at Clonmel, and he knows every feature of mine so well that he could not fail to recognize me. He would identify me, also, as Captain Spranger. If I remain, he meets me to-morrow. Shame, disgrace, perhaps even death would follow. 'Tis true that circumstances have made me what I am, but there is a Future, in action, for all who are willing to atone for past misconduct. I go forth to try and regain the position I have forfeited. Not in this country, nor yet in my own, can I hope to do this. But there other lands where Reputation and Fortune may be won, and in one of them I shall make the effort. To have known you– to find this wasted heart capable, even yet, of appreciating the beauty and purity of your mind, will console me in my long and distant exile. Farewell!"

He bent on his knee to take and kiss that delicate hand. Did it really linger in his? He looked upon that face of beauty. Did those violet eyes smile upon him through the dew which diamonded their long, dark fringes? He heard a low, earnest whisper. Did it tell him to retrieve the past, nor doubt, while doing so, of the due reward a loving heart will bestow? Did it softly say that he, and none but he, should hold that hand in marriage? Did it entreat him to write often – always hopingly? A long, long kiss on those ripe lips, on that damasked cheek, on that fair brow, and Buck English was away, as suddenly as he had come.

How improbable! How unfeminine! How utterly at variance with all the conventionalities of society! No doubt. But it is true.

As for Mary's avowed love for such a person as – even on his own showing – English was, why seek to put it to the test of every-day thought?

 
"Why did she love him! Curious fool, be still;
Is human love the growth of human will?"
 

The morning after the interview between Mary and her lover, considerable anxiety was caused in the minds of his acquaintance by the fact of his disappearance, and the report that he had met with some fatal accident. His horse had returned home riderless, and a hat and glove, known to have been worn by him, were found on the banks of the Lee, about two miles from Cork, a place where he was fond of riding at all hours. It was believed that he had been drowned. The authorities took possession of and examined his effects, which were never claimed. There was not one line of writing among them, giving the slightest clue to his station in life, family, or identity. In a short time, he passed out of the memory of most of those who had known him.

It was noticed that Mary Penrose appeared very much unconcerned at the loss of one for whom she was believed to have felt some partiality. She was abused, of course, by her own sex, (and the more so, as she was very handsome,) for being a heartless coquette." A few months later, when she had attained her legal majority, and with it full possession of her property, she unequivocally astonished her cousin Frank, by declining his proffered hand. Ere the year was ended, her estates were in the market, and their purchase-money invested in foreign securities. This done, Mary bade a long farewell to the land of her nativity and the friends of her youth. Nor did any definite account of her subsequent life ever reach Ireland.

In the fulness of time, there came rumours (which were credited) that somebody very like Buck English had obtained rank and reputation in the German service, and that, eventually retiring to a distant province of the Empire, he had turned his sword into a ploughshare, and cultivated, with much success, a large estate which he had purchased there. It was added that a lady, whose personal description tallied with Mary Penrose's appearance, was the wife of this person; that they lived very happily with their numerous children around them; that their retainers and dependents almost adored them for their constant and considerate kindness; and that, though they ever condemned crime, they united in questioning whether he who committed it might not have been led into it by Circumstance rather than Desire.

ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS

THE BARD O'KELLY

For many years, an individual, calling himself "The Bard O'Kelly," wandered through the South of Ireland, subsisting on the exacted hospitality and the enforced contributions of such as happened to be so weak as to dread being put by him into a couplet of satirical doggerel, and thus held up to public scorn as wanting in liberality. An Irishman, be it known, will not submit to an imputation upon his generosity; rather than have that questioned, he will give away his last sixpence, though the gift leave him without food. O'Kelly was shrewd enough to know this, and like the ale which Boniface so much praises in Farquhar's comedy, he "fed purely upon it" – in fact, it was meat, drink, clothing and lodging to him.

Until he published his "poems," no one knew on what very slight grounds his Bardship rested. His book – a thin, ill-printed octavo, called "The Hippocrene," – appeared, with a dedication, by permission, to "the most noble and warlike Marquis of Anglesea," and underneath the inscription is the quatrain,

 
"O dulce decus! thou art mine,
What can I more or less say?
Presidium! pillar of the Nine,
Illustrious chief Anglesea!!"
 

In order, also, that the world might know what manner of man his bardling was, he had put his portrait as a frontispiece, and, with that characteristic modesty which indicated that he certainly had kissed the Blarney Stone, had engraved beneath it, —

 
"Sweet bard! sweet lake! congenial shall your fame
The rays of genius and of beauty claim;
Nor vainly claim: for who can read and view,
And not confess O'Kelly's pencil true?"
 

The lake here alluded to, is that of Killarney. In the year 1791, O'Kelly wrote what he called "a Poem" on the romantic scenery of Killarney. It was written, but not published – recited by the bard, as the Iliad and Odyssey are said to have been by "the blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," – handed about in manuscript among friends, like much of the verse of the present day, when (because every third man is an author) hard-hearted booksellers refuse to purchase valueless copyrights, or even to publish them, save at the sole expense and risk of the writers.

So, in 1791, was written, not published, the Bard's "Killarney," – a poem which (as he was wont to speak of it) "has all the depth of the lake it immortalizes, with the clearness, freshness, and sparkling flow of its waters!" It may be thought a little egotistical for O'Kelly thus to praise his own writings – but, surely, a man is the best judge of his own merit, and best acquainted with his own talents. I put it to every man of sense – that is, to every person who completely coincides with my opinion, – whether, if a man does not think and speak well of himself, it can possibly be expected that any one else will? No; O'Kelly's self-praise was only a flourish to remind people what a genius they had among them – a Laputan flap to make the Irish world quite aware of the fact of his immeasurable merit.

There was a rumour – but I hate scandal – that the Bard (being a poet, and lame to boot, like the Grecian) had an ambition to be the new Tyrtæus of the Irish Rebels, in 1798. He has been seen to smile, rather assentingly, at "the soft impeachment," although, no doubt, while the insurgents were liable to punishment, he had very capital reasons for denying it. While the Civil War was raging, he went to the north-east of Ireland, and, his enemies say, with rebellious designs. But his own assertion,

("And truths divine came mended from his lips,")

was, that the sole object of his tour was to compose a poem on the sublimities of the Giant's Causeway. Such a composition was written – for I have read it. But the greatest and best of men – from Socrates down to O'Kelly – have been subjected to suspicion and persecution, and it happened that when the Bard showed himself in the north, he was taken up by the King's forces, and summarily committed to prison on suspicion that his visit was occasioned by a desire to discover a snug landing-place, on the Antrim coast, for the French – who, at that time, were about invading Ireland.

Bad news travels very quickly. It soon was noised about Kerry, that the Bard had been taken up. As a story, like a snow-ball, increases as it travels, it was even added that the Bard had been —hanged!

On this, a wretch named Michael M'Carthy – a Macroom man was this Bathyllus to the Hibernian Maro – constituted himself heir-at-law and residuary legatee to the Bard's poetical effects, and, not having the fear of Apollo's vengeance before his eyes, had the barefaced audacity to publish eight hundred and forty lines of "Killarney," mixed up with certain versicles of his own, under the imposing name of "Lacus Delectabilis."

The Bard O'Kelly heard of this audacious appropriation at the very hour when his trial was coming on, and it took such effect upon his spirits that, to use his own figurative language, he "did not know at the time, whether he was standing on his head or his heels."

Brought for trial before a military tribunal, quick in decision and sharp in execution, there was so much presumptive evidence against him, that he was convicted without much delay, (his judges were in a hurry to dine,) and sentenced to be hanged early the next day.

The emergency of the case restrung his shattered energies. Recovering the use of his tongue, he made a heart-rending appeal to the Court Martial; narrated the vile plagiarism which had been committed on his beautiful and beloved Killarney; recited a hundred lines of that sonorous composition, and concluded a very energetic harangue, by requesting "leave of absence," for a few weeks, in order that he might proceed to Kerry, there to punish M'Carthy, for his dire offence against all the recognized rules of authorship. He even tendered his own bail for his reappearance to be hanged, as soon as, by performing an act of signal justice towards the plagiarist, he had vindicated that fame which, he said, was of more value to him than life.

The manner and matter of this extraordinary address – such as never, before nor since, was spoken in a Court of Justice – were so extraordinary that the execution of the sentence was postponed. When the Civil War was over, the Bard was liberated. "It was a great triumph for my eloquence," was his usual self-complacent expression, in after life, when speaking of this hair-breadth escape. To this day, however, there are some who hint that the Court considered him non compos mentis– too much of a fool to be a traitor and conspirator – and were merciful accordingly.

When O'Kelly returned home, he did not annihilate M'Carthy in the body – he did so in spirit: he lampooned him. Finally, the plagiarist made a public apology; and an armistice was effected by the aid of copious libations of the "mountain-dew," the favourite Hippocrene of Irishmen.

The Bard's trip to the Giant's Causeway gave him a wonderful inclination for travelling. As itinerary rhyme-spinner, he continued to keep body and soul together ever since, in a manner which nothing but the brilliant invention of a verse-making Milesian could have dreamed of. Under the face of the sun no people so keenly appreciate, and so undeniably dread, satire as the Irish do. Few, it may be added, have greater powers in that line – and this without being imbued with less good-nature or more malice than other people. They particularly shrink from any imputation on their open-handed and open-hearted hospitality. The Bard O'Kelly knew that this sensitive feeling was the blot which he was to hit. And on the results of this knowledge, he contrived to live well – to obtain raiment, money, lodging, food, and drink, during the vicissitudes of about forty years.

He committed himself to a pilgrimage from place to place, through Ireland, always fixing his headquarters at the residence of some country gentleman. Here he would abide for a week – a fortnight – or even a month, if he liked his quarters, and thought his intrusion would be tolerated so long. During his stay, his two horses, his son (for, being Irish, he had got married very soon), and himself, always lived "in clover." His valedictory acknowledgment, by which he considered that he repaid the hospitality extended to him, was a laudatory couplet! If there were, or if there seemed to be, the slightest want of cordiality in his reception or entertainment, he would immediately depart, giving the delinquent to immortal infamy in a stinging couplet. When he had written a few score of these rhymes he used to get them printed (ballad-wise) on octavo slips of whity-brown paper, and each new page was added to its predecessor, by being pasted into a sort of scrap-book. This collection he called his "Poetic Tour," and he had only a single copy of it; and to this, which he promised to have printed in a regular book, at some future period, every one who entertained him was expected to subscribe from a crown to a guinea —subscriptions payable in advance. To this rule he had permitted only one exception. This was early in the present century, when the Chevalier Ruspini, (a tooth and corn extractor,) who travelled in Ireland as "Dentist to the Prince of Wales," subscribed, in the name of his Royal master, for fifty copies of the work; and, on the strength of this, managed to dine, on three several occasions, with O'Kelly – being the only instance on record of his Bardship having ever played the host.

I knew O'Kelly personally, when I was a lad, having met him, for the first time, at Drewscourt, in the county of Limerick, whither he came, purposely, to remain one day en passant, but did us the honour of staying for a fortnight. He made his first appearance at dinner-time, and his knife and fork were wielded as effectively as if he had not used them during the preceding month. Until I saw O'Kelly feed, I had never realized the description of Major Dalgetty's laying in "provend" not only to make good the dinner he should have eaten yesterday, but to provide for the wants of to-day and to-morrow. In the course of the evening he exhibited other manifestations of industry and genius. He complained of labouring under a cold, which he undertook to cure by a peculiar process. This was no less than by imbibing about a dozen tumblers of hot and strong whiskey-punch, without moving from his seat. This, he assured us, was "a famous remedy for all distempers; good," added he, "for a cure, and magnificent as a preventive." He condescended to inform us that, well or sick, this quantity was his regular allowance after dinner – when he could get it.

He was loquacious in his cups. The subject of the Royal visit to Ireland, in 1821, having been broached, O'Kelly produced a printed account of his own interview with the monarch. This, he told us, had appeared in a newspaper called the Roscommon Gazette, and it was not difficult to guess at whose instance it had gained publicity. The account which he read for us was rather an improved edition, he said, as his friend, the Roscommon editor, had ruthlessly cut out some of the adjectives and superlatives. What he read was to this effect, accompanied with his own running commentary of explanation and remark: —

"'THE BARD O'KELLY AND THE KING.'"

"You see, gentlemen, that I put myself first. Genius (he pronounced it janius) before greatness any day!

"When his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth – whom God and Saint Patrick preserve! – paid his loving subjects a visit in August, 1821, the most eminent men of Ireland resorted to the metropolis to do him honour. Among them, was our distinguished and illustrious countryman, the Bard O'Kelly. Without his presence, where would have been the crowning rose of the wreath of Erin's glory? And it is very creditable to His Majesty's taste, that his very first inquiry, on entering the Vice-regal lodge, in Phœnix Park, was after that honour to our country, our renowned Bard, to whose beautiful productions he had subscribed, for fifty copies, many years ago.

"Yes, gentlemen, he knew all about me. As he had inquired for me, I thought I could not do less, in course of common civility, than indulge him with the pleasure of a visit. But you shall hear: —

"When the Bard reached Dublin, and heard of His Majesty's most kind and friendly inquiries, he sent a most polite autograph note, written with his own hand, to Sir Benjamin Bloomfield, announcing his own arrival, wishing His Majesty joy on his, and requesting Sir Benjamin to appoint a day, mutually convenient to the many important engagements of the Poet and the Monarch, when an interview between these distinguished personages should take place. With that true politeness and chivalrous courtesy which adorn and distinguish the Bard, he notified that, the King being a stranger, the Bard was willing to waive ceremony, and wait upon him, to present a copy of his highly poetical poems, for fifty copies of which the Chevalier Ruspini had subscribed, on behalf of His Majesty, when Prince of Wales.

"Indeed, they were to have been dedicated to him, but, as yet, I have not had but the one copy, which I have made up from the slips which have been separately printed, from time to time. Kind gentlemen, reading always makes me drouthy; – may-be, one of ye will mix a tumbler for me? – not too strong of the water; – christen the spirit, but don't drown it. Ah, that will do! What a flavor it has!

"An answer was immediately sent by three servants in royal livery, requesting, if perfectly agreeable to O'Kelly, that he would do His Majesty the favour of a friendly visit, the next day at four o'clock.

"So I sent word to say that I'd be with him punctual. The next day I dressed myself very neat, put on my other shirt, gave my coat a brushing (a thing I don't often do, as it takes the nap off the cloth), brightened the brass buttons with a bit of chamois leather, went over the seams with a little vinegar and ink, polished my boots, so that you'd see your likeness in them like a looking-glass, had myself elegantly shaved, and to the King I went. But you shall hear:

"To this proposition the Bard politely assented, and went to the Castle of Dublin, at the appointed hour, the next day. There he sent his card to the King, with his compliments; and Sir Benjamin Bloomfield immediately came down the Grand Staircase, and, with a most gracious message from His Majesty, handed him a fifty-pound bank-note, as the royal subscription to his admirable poems.

"I won't deny that the sight and touch of the money were mighty pleasant; but I said nothing. It was a larger sum than ever I had at any one time before, for my riches have always been of the head, rather than of the purse. I put the bank-note into my waistcoat-pocket, fastened it safely there with a pin I took out of my cuff, and then – mind, not until then– I told Sir Benjamin – But I'll read it:

"O'Kelly (with that noble disregard for lucre which always distinguished our eminently patriotic, poetic, high-minded, much accomplished, and generous-hearted countryman) immediately told Sir Benjamin, that he would rather relinquish the money than abandon the anticipated pleasure of a personal interview with his Sovereign.

"Mind – I had the fifty pounds snug in my pocket all the while. You may be certain that I wouldn't have spoken that way before fingering the cash.

"On this most disinterested and loyal determination having been mentioned to His Majesty, he was so delighted with it, that he desired the Bard to be ushered instantly into the Grand Hall of Audience. This was done, and there the Most Noble the Marquis of Conyngham had the honour of introducing His Majesty to the Poet.

"Wasn't it a grand sight! There was the King on his throne, and all the great officers of State standing around him. In one hand the King held a sceptre of pure gold, and the other was stretched out to receive my book. On his head he wore a crown of gold, studded all over with jewels, and weighing half a hundred weight, at the very least. On his breast, in the place where a diamond star is usually represented in the portraits, His Majesty wore a bunch of shamrock, the size of a cauliflower. Now you'll hear what occurred: —

"Compliments being exchanged, the King descended from his throne, and had the pleasure of introducing the Marchioness of Conyngham, and all the other Ladies of the Bedchamber, to the Bard. His Majesty, then – returning to his throne, and insisting that the Bard should occupy an arm-chair by his right side – said, "Mr. O'Kelly" – "O'Kelly, without the Mister, if you please," said the Bard, "Your Majesty would not say Mr. Shakspeare or Mr. Milton." "True enough," said the King, "I sit corrected: I b?eg your pardon, O'Kelly. I should have known better. Well, then, O'Kelly, I am quite sure that I shall be delighted with your beautiful poems, when I've time to read them." To this the Bard replied, "Your Majesty never spoke a truer word. I believe they'd delight and instruct any one." At this intelligent, and most correct observation, his Majesty was pleased to smile. He then added, "I'm sorry to see, by your iron leg, that you are lame." O'Kelly, with that ready wit for which he is as remarkable as he is for his modesty, instantly replied, "If I halt in my leg, I don't in my verses, for

 
"If God one member has oppressed,
He's made more perfect all the rest."
 

It is impossible for words to describe the thunders of applause by which this beautiful extempore impromptu was followed.

"I knew, well enough, that something smart would be expected from a man like me; so I went prepared with several impromptus, to be introduced when the occasion would allow.

"His Majesty then said, "It is really remarkable that you, and my friend Walter Scott, should both be lame." The Bard replied, "And Lord Byron also." His Majesty then observed, "It is a wonderful coincidence – the three great poets of the three kingdoms." At the request of the Marquis of Conyngham, the Bard then made the following extemporaneous epigram on the spot, off hand, on this interesting subject:

 
'Three poets for three sister kingdoms born,
 

"That's England, Ireland, and Scotland: —

 
'One for the rose, another for the thorn,
 

"You know that the rose and thistle are the national emblems of England and Scotland:

 
'One for the shamrock,
 

"That's poor old Ireland, —

 
'which shall ne'er decay,
While rose and thorn must yearly die away.'
 

"His Majesty was quite electrified at the ready wit displayed in this beautiful impromptu, and took leave of the Bard in the most affectionate and gracious manner. It is whispered among the fashionable circles, that O'Kelly has declined the offer of a Baronetcy, made to him by command of the Sovereign."

"Indeed," said the Bard, in conclusion, "the King and me were mutually pleased with each other. I'd have had myself made a Baronet, like Scott, but I have not the dirty acres to keep up the dignity. 'Tis my private notion, if the King had seen me first, I'd have had ten times the money he sent me. Well, he's every inch a King, and here's his health."

You may judge, from what he printed and what he spoke, whether the modesty of the Bard was not equal to his genius. It is a fact, I understand, that he actually made his way to an audience with George the Fourth; he must have rather astonished his Majesty. In his later years the Bard fluctuated between Cork and Limerick (in the last-named city of "beautiful lasses," he had a daughter very well married),¹⁰ and, wherever he might be, was open to algebraic donations of strong drink – that is, "any given quantity."

Such a fungus as the Bard O'Kelly could only have been produced in and tolerated by a very peculiar state of society. Out of Ireland he would have starved – unless he followed a different vocation. He was partly laughed at, partly feared. Satire was his weapon. His manners, attire, and conversation, would scarcely be endured now in the servants' hall; yet, even as lately as twenty years ago, he forced his way into the company of respectable people – aye, and got not only hospitality from them, but douceurs of wearing apparel and money. One comfort is, such a person would have little chance in Ireland now.

The Bard O'Kelly died about fifteen years ago, having lived in clover for more than forty years, by the fears of those whom he made his tributaries. Until he published, in 1831, the world took it for granted, that even as he said, he had some poetic talent. The list of subscribers to his volume had between seven and eight hundred names, including ladies, peers of the realm, and members of Parliament. The "Bard's" want of ability was companioned by want of principle – for two, at least, of the poems which he published as his own, were written by others. One, commencing, "My life is like the summer rose," is the composition of R. H. Wilde, a distinguished American man of letters; and another, beginning "On beds of snow the moonbeams slept," has been conveyed from the early poems of a writer named – Thomas Moore. There is cool intrepidity in pilfering from a poet so universally known as Moore. When Scott visited Ireland, he was waited on by O'Kelly with the same "extempore impromptu" he had inflicted on George IV., years before, and (Lockhart relates) compelled the Ariosto of the North to pay the usual tribute – by subscribing to his poems.

There are scores of Irishmen now in New York, who were personally acquainted with O'Kelly, and can testify to the accuracy – I might even say the moderation, of my description of him.