Chapter II

---- In the turmoils of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Toss'd up and down, with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.

FORDE'S "_Lover's Melancholy_."

About two months had now passed over, which had been occupied in travelling to their long-wished for home, since the departure of the duke and his family from Brussels, the journey having commenced towards the close of August, and now had arrived the last week in October, which witnessed the due accomplishment and end of their travels, by their welcome return to their ancient and magnificent castle.

No occurrences whatever worthy of record having happened during the continental journey, the passage of two seas, or while occupied in their travels through England, Wales, and Ireland, all of which were performed in perfect safety; and moreover, the weather proved propitiously mild and serene.

While the travellers continued their route homeward, the duke thus expressed his sentiments to the duchess:--"My love, I am fully resolved for ever to abandon politics and party, to burn my grey goose quill of diplomacy; I am determined too to relinquish the ways and woes of war for the cultivation of the happy arts of peace; to desert a city life for a country life; to arise with the lark, and plough my paternal lands; to transmute my sword into a ploughshare, and my spear into a reaping-hook. My firm, fixed intention being decided for ever tranquilly to abide within my own domains, to pass our time in classic ease within the venerable towers of Tyrconnel Castle, and there eke out the remnant of my days until summoned by the cold and chilling call of death!"

The duchess said: "My Lord, I most highly approve of your wise determination, and trust that we yet have many years of happiness before us."

With these fixed resolves impressed upon his mind, the duke proceeded on his way. His journey was now nearly at an end, when the towers of his lordly, but long unfrequented castle, which bounded the horizon, arose to view, rich and red, glowing beneath the brilliant beams of the setting sun, and struck his vision with delight as gladly he approached his long deserted hereditary halls.

This long wished return was joyously and generously hailed by all ranks and descriptions of persons, from the proud peer down to the lowly peasant; bonfires crowned every surrounding mountain height, hill, peninsula, and promontory, while they beamed forth a brilliant welcome to the returned wanderer; the lofty windows of the wealthy, and the lowly lattices of the cottier, in the town of Tyrconnel, bespoke the general joy that burst around, and conjointly the wax taper and rush-light commingled their rays to manifest the heart-yearning welcome that the duke's happy return had inspired.

The welcoming notes of the merry pipe and the national harp resounded blithely over hill and vale. Meanwhile the peasantry were all collected, and clad in their best and gayest attire; their honest, grateful, and joyful countenances bearing the impress of their gladdened hearts, told forth a welcome that was not to be mistaken nor misunderstood, for it affectionately hailed the much desired return of their beloved and long exiled benefactor! It was evening when this interesting scene took place, but all meet preparation had previously been arranged,--torch, flambeau, and fire-works, had been prepared, and blazed forth in all becoming brilliancy.

A triumphal arch, tastefully adorned with appropriate armorial escutcheons, emblems, and trophies, and crowned with wreaths and festoons of living shrubs and flowers, adorned the pass which led to the castellated gateway. Bouquets and coronals of flowers were flung along the way, while grateful shouts made the welkin ring as the ducal train passed along. Groups of lovely damsels united their welcome song, and soon joined hands with the manly peasants in the national Irish dance of the _Rinceadh-Fada_.[1]

Once more the ducal standard floated on "the Raven Tower," the cannon on the terrace thundered forth a princely _salvo_, which boomed upon the buoyant waves of the deep Atlantic, and was re-echoed by the castle walls, while the loud continued shouts of a grateful and happy tenantry bore burden to the burst of joy.

It would be difficult to express the exultation and gladness that pervaded all ranks, and which the old domestics in particular displayed in no common way; Mrs. Judith Brangwain, the venerable old nurse of Lady Adelaide, seemed nearly crazed with joy at the long wished, but unhoped return of her dear Mavourneen, her best beloved young lady:--"Oh," she exclaimed, "at last have I survived, with these mine aged eyes, to witness this happy, happy day! Oh, never, never, did I expect so great a blessing; I am stricken in years, and nearly blind, yet the Lord be praised for these and all his mercies!"

[Footnote 1: This dance has been already described in note to
chapter xv. vol. I. It only is necessary here to observe, that the
popular dance at present prevalent in Ireland is called the _long
dance_; it is similar to that of the Danes in Holstein, and other
parts of Denmark, which they term _de lange danz_, or "the long
dance." This dance still continues up to the present period to be
performed in the country parts of Ireland, upon the occurrence of
a young heir arriving at the bright and sunny epoch of twenty-one;
and likewise upon the event of his marriage, or upon any other
happy and unexpected occasion of rejoicing.]

Next the old crone sung with joy and delight, held up her garments in jig attitude, and capered about as if actually bitten by a tarantula; then seized and led out, _per_ force, old Sandy Rakeweel, the Scotch gardener, with whom she danced an Irish reel, and that too with so much _qui vive_, as to demonstrate that the joys of her dancing days had not passed over. This frolic was performed on the green sward, and honest old Sandy, when the reel was completed, which, sooth to say, he had undertaken _nolens volens_, vehemently exclaimed, "'Fore Saint Aundrewe, Mrs. Judith, wi' a' her whigmaleeries was ower pauky, to hap, step, an' loup wi' me; the gude woman is a' fou' and sae daft she ha' geck'd a' her wits into a creel, aiblins she hae been bit by a bogle. Ise naer be so jundied in a jig again; yet I'm not meikle fashed--nae, nae!"

There was, exclusive of the ancient Mrs. Judith, another venerable follower of this noble family, in whom the general joy, so conspicuous amongst all ranks, was not the less sincere and ardent, and this was the aged and sightless minstrel, old Cormac, whose best suit was duly assumed upon this happy occasion, to welcome home his kind and generous master; his harp was newly strung, and carefully tuned aright; and patiently, but anxiously, in the baronial hall he awaited the entrance of the duke and family, upon whose welcome approach he thus poured forth his strains of gratitude and affection upon his noble Lord's return.

OLD CORMAC'S WELCOME.

Returned once more from foreign lands,
Behold the noble exile stands
Within his lordly hall!

His faulchion smote his country's foes,
His king's defeat hath caused these woes,
Which his brave breast inthrall.

Oh, welcome to thy lordly towers,
Thy princely seat, thy happy bowers,
A grateful welcome all!

Now never more to roam afar,
Nor plunge 'mid tide of crimson war,
Shall fate thy arms recall!

But here in tranquil rural ease,
Such as a soul like thine can please,
May never grief appal!

In virtue long, and years to shine,
Be each domestic blessing thine!
And ev'ry boon that heaven can give,
When thy poor bard hath ceased to live!

When the ancient and sightless bard had concluded this, his _improviso_ welcome, he appeared absolutely overpowered, and shed a copious torrent of tears, which flowed from eyes long indeed closed to the light, but not to intensity of feeling! But these were not tears of sorrow, they were effusions of grateful affection, that often speak the joyful feelings of the heart, while the tongue remains wholly silent. His was the unspeakable joy at his noble benefactor's happy return in health and peace, after so long an absence, to his ancient towers. The duke, duchess, Lady Adelaide, &c. &c. &c. in succession approached the aged minstrel to express severally their approbation of his song, and thanks for the feeling manner in which his welcome had been expressed. The duke obligingly and condescendingly said to him:--"My friend Cormac, although thy locks are more blenched and snowy than they were when last we parted, yet I am glad to find that your heart is not chilled by the frost of age, and that the chords of thy harp so sweetly still respond to a master's touch!"

Then addressing one of his pages, his Grace said, "Fill, fill the goblet high to the very brim, and present it to the bard!"

In sooth we need not say that sightless, honest Cormac retired to rest that night the happiest old man in the province of Ulster; his slumbers were sound and serene, and his dreams flattering as ever youthful poet dreamt.

The next morning, when breakfast was concluded, the duke said in a lively way:--"Come, come, Sir David, you have not travelled here for nothing, we must e'en show you the curiosities of the country. There lives, or rather vegetates, not far hence, a wight, the most eccentric being perhaps that ever existed--I pray you go see him. This personage is Squire Cornelius Kiltipper, of Crownagalera Castle, once the mighty Nimrod of these parts. You must, moreover, know, that from Squire Kiltipper's determined addiction to strong liquors, and likewise from the fatal consequence of a far-bruited boozing bout, in which he actually out-drank and out-lived his opponent in a long continued contest; (the defunct had been a gauger who thus succumbed in death, even at the base of the Squire's dinner-table;) in consequence of which Kiltipper was ever afterwards called, in popular parlance, _Squire Kil-Toper_! For, Sir David, you must know that the lower class of my countrymen are feelingly sensible of the ridiculous, and extremely fond of _soubriquets_, or nick-names.--Indeed they are curious bodies! So I pray you proceed to see this curiosity, and my kind Sir Patricius Placebo shall, upon this occasion, be your _conduttóre_."

Acceding to this recommendation of the duke, Sir David Bruce, accompanied by Sir Patricius Placebo, proceeded onward in their walk; and, as a _prétexte par hazard_, they carried with them their fowling-pieces, and were accompanied with a couple of pointers, and an attendant terrier. They set out, and walked across the field-paths, in due direction for the castle of Crownagela, which was distant about two miles.

Upon their arrival they stoutly knocked at the hall-door, but the servant refused admittance. However, after some parlance, and the rank of the visitors having been announced, they were admitted. Here a loud and general exclamation vociferated from the parlour, struck the ears of the visitors--"A song, a song!" The servant upon this observed, "Gentlemen, yees must have the goodness to wait just a bit till this same song is over, and then I will show yees to my master. If I dare go in now, to transdispose their musicals, the penalty would be, that I should be flung flat out of the window, and that, I am sartin, would not quite plaze yees."

While the visitors waited with what patience they might, before they were admitted to an audience with the original whom they had come to visit, the following bacchanalian song was conjointly sung; and which rumour likewise reported to have been composed by the vocal triumvirate, namely, Mr. Barrabbas Tithestang, the proctor, Mr. Simon Swigg, the gauger, and Mr. Stephen Stavespoil, the parish clerk and sexton: but the latter personage was strongly suspected to have had the principal hand, or pen, in the precious composition.

SONG.

I.

When first the day-star gems the sky,
When flickering swallows upward fly;
While shrill the matin-herald crows,
And thrifty Joan to spin hath rose,
Then only, brave boys, it is day!

II.

Our cup let's drink, we will not slink,
We leave to those, who wish, to think!
Can't ye stand, while the world rolls round?
Then, merry blades, sprawl on the ground!
And drink on, brave boys, until day!

III.

Who joins not in our jovial bout,
Drink, meat, and fire, should do without;
Soon let this stout _magnum_ be quaffed,
He says nay, shall surely be laughed.
Then only, brave boys, it will be day!

IV.

The dawn hath past, the sun at last
Round our revels his beams has cast;
Yet ere we go a parting glass,
Our toast a sprightly, buxom lass.
My brave boys only now it is day!
Only now, my brave boys, it is day!

Squire Kiltipper, somewhat pleased, sung a semi-stave of the song:--

"Can't ye stand, while the world rolls round?
Then, merry blades, sprawl on the ground!
Ha, ha, ha!

A very plain and palpable alternative truly, the drunkard fairly caught on the horns of the mathematician's dire dilemma, and then to flounder on the floor--ha, ha! Oh, lame and lamentable conclusion! Come lads, the health of the composer; hip, hip,--hurrah!"

This toast drank at mid-noon, however strange to tell, was loudly chorussed, with various manual accompaniments inflicted on the table, until the window panes and the very drinking-glasses again returned the echo; and amid this uproar the door was opened, and the visitors introduced, their names being duly announced. Squire Kiltipper was discovered seated in his bed, holding in his hand the MS. of the precious rant which had just been sung; he wore spectacles; his dark beard was unshorn; he wore on his head a cap made of otter skin; he was habited in a scarlet waistcoat trimmed with rabbit skin, over which he wore a dressing-gown of purple camlet; his small clothes, which had been once white, but now stained with claret, reminded one rudely of the union of the rival roses of York and Lancaster! The Squire arose to receive his guests, but was preceded by his prime minister, Bounce, his favourite greyhound, who had been also snugly reposing under cover of the counterpane, which now rising to a portentous height, he and his master were safely delivered from the thraldom of the bed-clothes, and the Squire politely advancing, paid obeisance to his visitors, and invited them to luncheon.

The guests were, Mr. Simon Swigg, the gauger, Mr. Stephen Stavespoil, the parish clerk and sexton, and Mr. Barabbas Tithestang, the proctor, who began the world a beggar's brat, and barefooted withal; _sans_ shoe, _sans_ stocking, _sans_ every thing, save a large and inexhaustible stock of confidence; but was now metamorphosed into a country justice; and this squire of mean degree enjoying the _otium cum dignitate_ of four hundred pounds per annum, besides the important privilege of daily _entrè_ to the dinner-table of Squire Kiltipper, _alias_ Kill-Toper!

These gentry were the squire's led captains, his most abject vassals, whose presence at his table contributed, by their native gross humour, to divert the tedious hours of the squire, and whose society had now become quite necessary to his existence. He had been well educated, and was not deficient in mental ability; but his sad propensity to the worship of Bacchus had nearly hebetated the powers of his mind, and had nearly likewise debilitated his powers of loco-motion by frequent confirmed attacks of gout, which had much undermined his constitution.

In the centre of the room was stationed a table, on which still stood some stout cheer, the remains of last night's banquet; here were to be seen the remnant of a huge venison pasty, cold roast beef, pickled oysters, cold roasted fowls, tongues, &c., and relics of exhausted bottles reposing like dead men upon the carpet. Upon the approach of the strangers, Vulcan and Hecate, his two favourite cats, that had been busily employed in subdividing the venison pasty, at sight of the visitor's dogs most incontinently abandoned their plunder, loudly yelling, and retreating with precipitation, they scampered up the chimney; while the general panic, with effect of electricity, communicating its fearful effects to his favourite pigeons, who had been peaceably reposing, with their gentle heads under their wings, upon the tester of the bed; but now they sprang up in affright, as if pursued by falcon or eagle, and dashed themselves suddenly against the window-casement; the poor pigeons received some slight hurts, and the Squire was evidently discomfited. "D----n, I say, to Vulcan and Hecate; but I am indeed sorry for my pretty pets--my dear pigeons. You know, my worthy and venerated Sir Patricius, how much I am obligated to my late dear, dear, dear uncle Commodore Pigeon, of Capstern Hall in Yorkshire, who bequeathed me an estate to the tune of nearly two thousand pounds per annum; and therefore you can fully account for my warm attachment to the pretty bird that bears his honoured name! I am now waxing old, and peradventure am not exempt from the follies of old age; I have long since become tired of the chace, my bugle-horn hangs silent in my hall, and my unkennelled hounds wander forth, to my cost, committing petty larcenies amid the peaceably disposed ducks and turkeys of the vicinage; my hunters I have turned abroad to increase and multiply exceedingly, and cats daily kitten in my quondam boots of the chase! But I have dwelt too long on myself and mine own concern--I give you a hearty congratulation upon your safe return to these parts, and also at the happy return of the duke to his ancient towers. I pray you that you both stop and dine with me; I can only promise you a yeoman's fare, but indeed you shall likewise have a friend's welcome! For, Sir Patricius, I do esteem thee, and I do consider thee, by yea and nay, a man of the most recondite taste and parlous judgment that I ever have encountered; withal resembling, methinks, most accurately what old Flaccus terms '_Homo ad unguem factus_.'"

Sir Patricius politely thanked him for his too good opinion of him, which he feared was rather overrated, and apologized for the next to impossibility of accepting of his friendly invitation, which they begged to postpone to some more opportune time. And now having quite sufficiently amused themselves with the eccentric Squire of Crownagelera Castle, Sir David Bruce and Sir Patricius Placebo again returned thanks for the proffered hospitality of Squire Kiltoper, and having bade him good morning, set out on their return, "_Non sine multo risu_," as Sir Patricius expressed himself, for Tyrconnel Castle.