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CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LANDING

With the crew of the cutter I had little intercourse. They were Jerseymen, – that hybrid race, neither French nor English, – who followed the trade of spies and smugglers, and were true to nothing save their own interests. The skipper, a coarse, ill-featured fellow, in no respect superior to the others, leisurely perused the letter De Beauvais gave me on my departure; then, tearing it slowly, threw the pieces into the fire.

“What, then, is this?” said he, taking up a sealed packet, which I now for the first time perceived was fastened to my knapsack. “It seems meant for me; look at the address, ‘Jacques Oloquette, on board the “Rouge Galant."’” And so saying, he broke the seal, and bent over the contents.

“Oh,” cried he, in a voice of triumphant delight, “this is a prize worth having, – the English signal-book!” And he held up the little volume which Paul Dupont had rescued from the “Fawn.”

“How came it here?” said I, horror-struck at the loss the poor sailor had sustained.

“Old Martin, of the ‘Star,’ tells me he stole it from a marine of the Guard, and that it cost him twenty-four flasks of his best Pomard before the fellow and his companions were drunk enough to make the theft practicable.”

I remembered at once the eagerness of the landlord for my departure, and the hurried anxiety of his wish that morning might find me miles off on my journey, as well as the care he bestowed on strapping my knapsack, and saw how all had occurred.

“I knew most of them already,” continued the skipper. “But here is one will serve our turn well now, – the very thing we wanted, for it saves all delay and stoppage. That flag is the signal for Admiralty despatches, which are often brought by small craft like ours when they can’t spare cruisers. We ‘ll soon rig it out, you ‘ll see, and run down Channel with all our canvas set.”

He went aft as he spoke; and in a few seconds the cutter’s head was directed straight towards the English coast, while, crowding on more sail, she seemed to fly through the water.

The cheering freshness of the sea-breeze, the sense of danger past, the hope of escape, all combining, raised my spirits and elevated my courage; but through all, I felt grieved beyond measure at the loss of poor Paul Dupont, – the prize the honest fellow valued next to life itself, if not above it, taken from him in the very moment of his exultation! Besides, I could not help feeling that suspicion must light on me from my sudden disappearance; and my indignation was deep, to think how such an imputation would tarnish the honor of that service I gloried in so much. “How far may such a calumny spread?” thought I. “How many lips may repeat the tale, and none be able to deny it?” Deep as was my regret at the brave Breton’s loss, my anger for its consequences was still deeper; and I would willingly have perilled all my hope of reaching England to have been able to restore the book into Paul’s own hand.

These feelings did not tend to draw me closer in intimacy with the skipper; whose pleasure at the acquisition was only heightened by the subtlety of its accomplishment, and who seemed never so happy as when repeating some fragment of the landlord’s letter, and rejoicing at the discomfiture the brave sailor must have experienced on discovering his loss. To witness the gratification a coarse nature feels in some unworthy but successful action, is the heaviest penalty an honorable mind can experience when unhappily its possessor has been in any way accessory to the result. With these reflections I fell off to sleep, and never woke till the bright sun was shining over the white-crested water, and the craft breasting the waves with a strong breeze upon her canvas.

As we held on down Channel, we passed several ships of war beating up for Spithead; but our blue bunting, curiously streaked with white, was a signal which all acknowledged, and none ventured to retard. Thus passed the first day: as night was falling, we beheld the Needles on our lee, and with a freshening breeze, held on our course.

A second morning broke. And now the sea was covered with the white sails of a magnificent fleet, bound for the West Indies; at least, so the skipper pronounced it. It was indeed a glorious sight to see the mighty vessels obeying the signals of the flag-ship, and shaping their course through the blue water as if instinct with life and reason. They were far seaward of us, however; for now we hugged the land, as the skipper was only desirous of an opportunity to land me unobserved before he proceeded on his own more immediate enterprise, – the smuggling of some hogsheads of brandy on the coasts of Ireland.

Left to my own thoughts, – the memories of my past life, – I dreamed away the hours unconsciously, and as the time sped on, I knew not of its flight. Some strange sail, seen from afar off, would for an instant arouse my attention; but it was a mere momentary effect, and I fell back into my musings, as though they had never been interrupted. As I look back upon that voyage now, and think of the dreamy listlessness in which its hours were passed, I can half fancy that certain periods of our lives are destined to sustain the part which night performs in our daily existence, and by their monotony contribute to that renewal of energy and vigor so essential after times of labor and exertion. It seemed to me as though, the period of exertion past, I was regaining in rest and repose the power for future action; and I canvassed every act of the past to teach me more of my own heart, and to instruct me for my guidance in life after.

“You can land now, whenever you please,” said the skipper to me, as by a faint moonlight we moved along the waveless sea. “We can put you ashore at any moment here.”

I started with as much surprise as though the thought had never occurred to me; and without replying, I leaned over the bulwark, and gazed at the faint shadows of tall headlands about three miles distant.

“How do you call that bluff yonder?” said I, carelessly.

“Wicklow Head.”

“Wicklow Head! Ireland!” cried I, with a thrill of ecstasy my heart had never felt for many a day before. “Yes, yes; land me there, – now, at once!” said I, as a thousand thoughts came rushing to my mind, and hopes too vague for utterance, but palpable enough to cherish.

With the speed their calling teaches, the crew lowered the boat, and as I took my place in the stern, pulled vigorously towards the shore. As the swift bark glided along the shallow sea, I could scarce restrain my impatience from springing out and rushing on land. Without family or friend, without one to welcome or meet me, still it was home, – the only home I ever had.

The sharp keel grated on the beach; its sound vibrated within my heart. I jumped on shore; a few words of parting, and the men backed their oars; the boat slipped fast through the water. The cutter, too, got speedily under weigh again, and I was alone. Then the full torrent of my feelings found their channel, and I burst into tears. Oh! they were not tears of sorrow; neither were they the outpourings of excessive joy. They were the utterance of a heart loaded with its own unrelieved griefs, who now found sympathy on touching the very soil of home. I felt I was no longer friendless. Ireland, my own dear native country, would be to me a place of kindred and family, and I fell upon my knees, and blessed it.

Following a little path, which led slantingly up the cliff, I reached the top as day was beginning to break, and gained a view of the country. The range of swelling hills, dotted with cottages and waving with wood; the fields of that emerald green one sees not in other lands; the hedge-rows bounding the little farms, – all so unlike the spreading plains of France, – struck me with delight, and it was with a rapture of happiness I called the land my country.

Directing my steps towards Dublin, I set out at a good pace, but following a path which led near the cliffs, in preference to the highroad; for I was well aware that my appearance and dress would expose me to curiosity, and perhaps subject me to more serious annoyance. My first object was to learn some news of my brother; for although the ties of affection had been long since severed between us, those of blood still remained, and I wished to hear of, and it might be to see him, once more. For some miles I had kept my eyes directed towards a little cabin which crowned a cliff that hung over the sea; and this I reached at last, somewhat wearied and hungry.

As I followed a little footpath which conducted to the door, a fierce terrier rushed out as if to attack me, but was immediately restrained by the voice of a man within, calling, “Down, Vicksey! down, you baste!” and the same moment a stout, middle-aged man appeared at the door.

“Don’t be afeard, sir; she’s not wicked, but we’re unused to strangers down here.”

“I should think so, friend, from my path,” said I, throwing a glance at the narrow footway I had followed for some miles, over hill and precipice; “but I am unacquainted with the country, and was looking out for some house where I might obtain a breakfast.”

“There’s a town about three miles down yonder, and a fine inn, I ‘m tould, sir,” replied he, as he scrutinized my appearance with a shrewd eye; “but if I might make so bould, maybe you ‘d as lief not go there, and perhaps you ‘d take share of what we have here?”

“Willingly,” said I, accepting the hospitable offer as freely as it was made, and entered the cabin at once.

A good-featured countrywoman and some young children were seated at the table, where a large dish of potatoes and some fresh fish were smoking, a huge jug of milk occupying the middle of the board. The woman blushed as she heard that her husband had invited a gentleman to partake of his humble meal; but the honest fellow cared little for the simple fare he offered with so good a grace, and placed my chair beside his own with the air of one who was more anxious for his guest’s comfort than caring what impression he himself might make upon him.

After some passing words about the season and the state of the tides, – for my host was a fisherman, – I turned the conversation on the political condition of the country, avowing frankly that I had been for some years absent, and was ignorant of what had occurred meantime.

“‘Twas that same I was thinking, sir,” said he, replying to the first and not the latter part of my remark. “When I saw your honor’s face, and the beard you wore, I said to myself you wor a Frenchman.”

“You mistook there, then; I am your countryman, but have passed a good many years in France.”

“Fighting for Boney?” said he, as his eyes opened wide with surprise to behold one actually before him who might have served under Napoleon.

“Yes, my good friend, even so; I was in the army of the Emperor.”

“Tare an ages! then, are they coming over here now?” cried he, almost gasping in his eagerness.

“No, no,” replied I, gravely; “and be thankful, too, for it, for your own and your children’s sakes, that you see not a war raging in the fields and cities of your native land. Be assured, whatever wrongs you suffer, – I will not dispute their existence, for, as I told you, I am ignorant of the condition of the country, – but whatever they may be, you can pay too dearly for their remedy.”

“But sure they ‘d be on our side, would n’t they?”

“Of course they would; but think you that they ‘d fight your battles without their price? Do you believe that Frenchmen so love you here that they would come to shed their blood in your cause without their own prospect of advantage?”

“They hate the English, I’m tould, as bad as we do ourselves.”

“They do so, and with more of justice for their hate. But that dislike might suffice to cause a war; it never would reward it. No, no; I know something of the spirit of French conquest. I glory in the bravery and the heroism that accomplished it; but I never wish to see my own country at the mercy of France. Whose soldier would you become if the Emperor Napoleon landed here to-morrow? – his. Whose uniform would you wear, whose musket carry, whose pay receive, whose orders obey? – his, and his only. And how long, think you, would your services be limited to home? What should prevent your being sent away to Egypt, to Poland, or to Russia? How much favor would an Irish deserter receive from a French court-martial, think you? No, good friend; while you have this warm roof to shelter you, and that broad sea is open for your industry and toil, never wish for foreign aid to assist you.”

I saw that the poor fellow was discouraged by my words, and gradually led him to speak of those evils for whose alleviation he looked to France. To my surprise, however, he descanted less on political grievances than those which affect the well-being of the country socially. It was not the severity of a Government, but the absence of encouragement to industry, – the neglect of the poor, – which afflicted him. England was no longer the tyrant; the landlord had taken her place. Still, with the pertinacity of ignorance, he visited all the wrongs on that land from which originally his first misfortunes came, and with perverse ingenuity would endeavor to trace out every hardship he suffered as arising from the ill-will and hatred the Saxon bore him.

It was easy to perceive that the arguments he used were not of his own devising; they had been supplied by others, in whose opinion he had confidence; and though valueless and weak in reality, to him they were all-convincing and unanswerable, – not the less, perhaps, that they offered that value to self-love which comes from attributing any evils we endure to causes outside and independent of ourselves. These, confronted with extravagant hopes of what would ensue should national independence be established, formed his code; and however refuted on each point, a certain conviction, too deeply laid to be disturbed by any opposing force, remained; and in his “Well, well, God knows best! and maybe we’ll have better luck yet,” you could perceive that he was inaccessible to any appeal except from the quarter which ministered to his discontent and disaffection.

One thing was clear to me from all he said, that if the spirit of open resistance no longer existed towards England, it was replaced by as determined and as rancorous hatred, – a brooding, ill-omened dislike had succeeded, to the full as hostile, and far less easily subdued. How it would end, – whether in the long-lingering fear which wastes the energies and saps the strength of a people, or in the conflict of a civil war, the prospect was equally ruinous.

Sadly pondering on these things, I parted with my humble host, and set out towards the capital. If my conversation with the Irishman had taught me somewhat of the state of feeling then current in Ireland, it also conveyed another and very different lesson; it enabled me to take some account of the change years had effected in my own sentiments. As a boy, high-flown, vague, and unsettled ideas of national liberty and independence had made me look to France as the emancipator of Europe. As a man, I knew that the lust of conquest had extinguished the love of freedom in Frenchmen; that they who trusted to her did but exchange the dominion of their old masters for the tyranny of a new one; while such as boldly stepped forward in defence of their liberties, found that there was neither mercy nor compassion for the conquered.

I had seen the Austrian prisoners and the Russian led captive through the streets of Paris; I had witnessed the great capital of Prussia in its day of mourning after Jena; and all my idolatry for the General scarce balanced my horror of the Emperor, whose vengeance had smitten two nations thus heavily: and I said within my heart, “May my countrymen, whatever be their day of need, never seek alliance with despotic France!”

CHAPTER XXXIV. A CHARACTER OF OLD DUBLIN

It was about nine o’clock of a calm summer evening as I entered Dublin, – nearly the same hour at which, some ten years before, I had approached that city, poor, houseless, friendless; and still was I the same. In that great capital of my country I had not one to welcome me; not one who would rejoice at my coming, or feel any interest in my fortunes. This indeed was loneliness, – utter solitude. Still, if there be something which weighs heavily on the heart in the isolation of one like me, there is a proportionate sense of independence of his fellow-man that sustains the courage and gives energy to the will. I felt this as I mixed with the crowds that thronged the streets, and shrank not from the inquisitive glances which my questionable appearance excited as I passed.

Though considerable changes had taken place in the outskirts of the capital since I had seen it last, the leading thoroughfares were just as I remembered them; and as I walked along Dame Street, and one by one each familiar object caught my eye, I could almost have fancied the long interval since I had been there before like a mere dream. National physiognomy, too, has a strange effect on him who has been long absent from his country. Each face you meet seems well known. The traits of features, to which the eye was once so well accustomed, awake a memory of individuals, and it is sometimes a moat difficult task to distinguish between the acquaintance and the passing stranger.

This I experienced at every moment; and at length, as I stood gazing on the space before the Bank, and calling to mind the last scene I witnessed there, a tall, strongly-built man brushed close past me, and then turning round, fixed a steady and searching look on me. As I returned his stare, a sudden thought flashed upon me that I had seen the face before; but where, how, and when, I could not call to mind. And thus we stood silently confronting each other for some minutes.

“I see you are a stranger here, sir,” said he, touching his hat courteously; “can I be of service to you with any information as to the city?”

“I was curious to know, sir,” said I, still more puzzled by the voice than I had been by the features of the stranger, “if Miley’s Hotel, which was somewhere in the neighborhood, exists still?”

“It does, sir; but it has changed proprietors several times since you knew it,” replied he, significantly. “The house is yonder, where you see that large lamp. I perceive, sir, I was mistaken in supposing you a foreigner. I wish you good-evening.” And again saluting me, he resumed his way.

As I crossed the street towards the hotel, I remarked that he turned as if to watch me, and became more than ever embarrassed as to who he might be.

The doorway of the hotel was crowded with loungers and idlers of every class, from the loitering man about town to the ragged newsvendor, between whom, whatever disparity of condition existed, a tone of the most free-and-easy condition prevailed; the newsmen interpolating, amid the loud announcements of the latest intelligence, the reply to the observation beside him.

One figure was conspicuous in the group. He was a short, dwarfish creature, with an enormous head, covered with a fell of black hair, falling in masses down his back and on his shoulders. A pair of fierce, fiery black eyes glared beneath his heavy brows; and a large, thick-lipped mouth moved with all the glib eloquence of his class and calling. Fearfully distorted legs and club feet gave to his gait a rolling motion, which added to the singularity of his whole appearance.

Terry Regan was then at the head of his walk in Dublin; and to his capacious lungs and voluble tongue were committed the announcement of those great events which, from time to time, were given to the Irish public through the columns of the “Correspondent” and the “Dublin Journal.”

I soon found myself in the crowd around this celebrated character, who was, as usual, extolling the great value of that night’s paper by certain brief suggestions regarding its contents.

“Here’s the whole, full, and true account (bad luck to the less!) of the great and sanguinary battle between Boney and the Roosians; with all the particklars about the killed, wounded, and missing; with what Boney said when it was over.”

“What was that, Terry?”

“Hould yer peace, ye spalpeen! Is it to the likes of yez I ‘d be telling cabinet sacrets? (Here, yer honor), – ‘Falkner,’ is it, or ‘The Saunders’. With the report of Mr. O’Gogorman’s grand speech in Ennis on the Catholic claims. There’s, yer sowl, there’s fippence worth any day ay the week. More be token, the letter from Jemmy O’Brien to his wife, wid an elegant epic poem called ‘The Gauger.’ Bloody news, gentlemen! bloody news! Won’t yez sport a tester for a sight of a real battle, and ten thousand kilt; with ‘The Whole Duty of an Informer, in two easy lessons.’ The price of stocks and shares – Ay, Mr. O’Hara, and what boroughs is bringing in the market.”

This last sally was directed towards a large, red-faced man, who good-humoredly joined in the laugh against himself.

“And who’s this, boys?” cried the fellow, turning suddenly his piercing eyes on me, as I endeavored, step by step, to reach the door of the hotel. “Hurrool look at his beard, acushla! On my conscience, I wouldn’t wonder if it was General Hoche himself. ‘Tis late yer come, sir,” said he, addressing me directly; “there’s no fun here now at all, barrin’ what Beresford has in the riding-house.”

“Get away, you ruffian!” said a well-dressed and respectable-looking man, somewhat past the middle of life; “how dare you permit your tongue to take liberties with a stranger? Allow me to make room for you, sir,” continued he, as he politely made an opening in the crowd, and suffered me to enter the house.

“Ah, counsellor, dear, don’t be cross,” whined out the newsvendor; “sure, isn’t it wid the bad tongue we both make our bread. And here,” vociferated he once more, – “and here ye have the grand dinner at the Lord Mayor’s, wid all the speeches and toasts; wid the glorious, pious, and immortial memory of King William, who delivered us from Popery (by pitched caps), from slavery (by whipping), from brass money (by bad ha’pence), and from wooden shoes (by bare feet). Haven’t we reason to bless his – ? Ay, the heavens be his bed! ‘Tis like Molly Crownahon’s husband he was.”

“How was that, Terry?” asked a gentleman near.

“Take a ‘Saunders,’ yer honor, and I ‘ll tell you.”

“Here, then, here’s fippence; and now for the explanation.”

“Molly Crownahon, yer honor, was, like us poor craytures, always grateful and contented wid the Lord’s goodness to us, even in taking away our chief comfort and blessing, – the darling up there on the horse! (Ah, ‘tis an elegant sate ye have, without stirrups!) And she went one day to say a handful of prayers oyer his grave, – the husband’s, ye mind, – and sure if she did, when she knelt down on the grass she sprung up again as quick as she went down, for the nettles was all over the place entirely. ‘Bad scran to ye, Peter!’ says she, as she rubbed her legs, – ‘bad scran to ye! living or dead, there was always a sting in ye.’”

As the latter part of this speech was addressed in a tone of apostrophe to the statue of King William, it was received by the assembled crowd with a roar of laughter.

By this time I had entered the house, and only bethought me how little suited was the great hotel of the city to pretensions as humble as mine. It was now, however, too late to retreat, and I entered the coffee-room, carrying my knapsack in my hand. As I passed up the room in search of a vacant table, the looks of astonishment my appearance excited on each side were most palpable evidences that the company considered me as an interloper. While some contented themselves with a stare of steady surprise, others, less guarded in their impertinence, whispered with, and even winked at their neighbors, to attract attention towards me.

Offensive as this unquestionably was, it amazed even more than it annoyed me. In France, such a display of feeling would have been impossible; and the humblest soldier of the army would not have been so received had he deemed fit to enter Beauvilliers’ or Véry’s.

Whether hurt at this conduct, and consequently more alive to affront from any quarter, or that the waiters participated in the sentiments of their betters, I cannot exactly say; but I certainly thought their manner even less equivocally betrayed the same desire of impertinence. This was not long a mere suspicion on my part; for on inquiring whether I could have a room for the night, the waiter, touching my knapsack, which lay on the ground beside me, with his foot, replied, —

“Is this your luggage, sir?”

Amazement so completely mastered my indignation at this insolence, that I could make no answer but by a look. This had its effect, however; and the fellow, without further delay, bustled off to make the inquiry. He returned in a few minutes with a civil message, that I could be accommodated, and having placed before me the simple meal I ordered, retired.

As I sat over my supper, I could not help feeling that unless memory played me false, the company were little like the former frequenters of this house. I remembered it of old, when Bubbleton and his brother officers came there; and when the rooms were thronged with members of both Houses of Parliament, – when peers and gentlemen of the first families were grouped about the windows and fireplaces, and the highest names of the land were heard in the din of recognition; handsome equipages and led horses stood before the doors. But now the ragged mob without was scarce a less worthy successor to the brilliant display than were the company within to the former visitants. A tone of pretentious impertinence, an air of swagger and mock defiance, – the most opposite to the polished urbanity which once prevailed, – was now conspicuous; and in their loud speech and violent gesticulation, it was easy to mark how they had degenerated from that high standard which made the Irish gentleman of his day the most polished man of Europe.

If in appearance and manner they fell far short of those my memory recalled, their conversation more markedly still displayed the long interval between them. Here, of old, were retailed the latest news of the debate, – the last brilliant thing of Grattan, or the last biting retort of Flood; here came, hot from debate, the great champions of either party to relax and recruit for fresh efforts; and in the groups that gathered around them you might learn how great genius can diffuse its influence and scatter intelligence around it, – as the Nile waters spread plenty and abundance wherever they flow: high and noble sentiments, holy aspirations and eloquent thoughts, made an atmosphere, to breathe which was to feel an altered nature. But now a vapid mixture of conceit and slang had usurped the place of these, and a tone of vulgar self-sufficiency unhappily too much in keeping with the externals of those who displayed it: the miserable contentions of different factions had replaced the bolder strife of opposite parties, and provincialism had put its stamp on everything. The nation, too, if I might trust my ears with what fell around me, had lost all memory of its once great names, and new candidates for popular favor figured in their places.

Such were some of the changes I could mark, even as I sat. But my attention was speedily drawn from them by a circumstance more nearly concerning myself. This was the appearance in the coffee-room of the gentleman who first addressed me in the street.

As he passed round the room, followed by a person whose inferiority was evident, he was recognized by most of those present, many of whom shook him warmly by the hand, and pressed him to join their parties. But this he declined, as he continued to walk slowly on, scrutinizing each face as he went. At last I saw his eyes turn towards me. It was scarcely a glance, so rapid was it, and so quickly were his looks directed to a different quarter; but I could mark that he whispered something to a person who followed, and then, after carelessly turning over a newspaper on the table, sauntered from the room. As he did so, the shaggy head of the dwarf newsvendor peeped in, and the great black eyes took a survey of the coffee-room, till finally they settled on me.

“Ah!” cried the fellow, with a strange blending of irony and compassion in his voice; “be gorra, I knew how it would be, – the major has ye!” At this a general laugh broke out from all present, and every eye was fixed on me.

Meanwhile the follower had taken his place nearly opposite me at the table, and was busily engaged examining a paper which he had taken from his pocket.

“May I ask, sir, if your name be Burke?” said he, in a low voice, across the table.

I started with amazement to hear my name pronounced where I believed myself so completely a stranger, and in my astonishment, forgot to answer.

“I was asking, sir – ” repeated he.

“Yes, you are quite correct,” interrupted I; “that is my name. May I beg to know, in return, for what purpose you make the inquiry?”

“Thomas Burke, sir?” continued he, inattentive to my observation, and apparently about to write the name on the paper before him.

I nodded, and he wrote down the words.

“That saves a deal of trouble to all of us, sir,” said he, as he finished writing. “This is a warrant for your arrest; but the major is quite satisfied if you can give bail for your appearance.”

“Arrest!” repeated I; “on what charge am I arrested?”

“You’ll hear in the morning, I suppose,” said he, quietly. “What shall we say about the bail? Have you any acquaintance or friend in town?”

“Neither; I am a perfect stranger here. But if you are authorized to arrest me, I here surrender myself at once.”

By this time, several persons of the coffee-room had approached the table, and among the rest the gentleman who so politely made way for me in the crowd to reach the door.

“What is it, Roche?” said he, addressing the man at the table; “a warrant?”