Meanwhile, in the back lanes and by-streets, the savoury steam of “cussamuck” and broth, the tempting pyramids of gingerbread and oaten cakes, and no less tempting pennyworths of tobacco, in countless profusion, along with casks of ale, and plentiful store of spirits and uskeabagh, allured the senses of hundreds of weary loungers, and pleasantly engaged the energies of many a crowded group.
The chamber which old Sir Hugh occupied commanded a full view up and down the broad street, glittering with its double files of musketeers, and all the blazonry of decoration. Its long perspective of crowded balconies, and windows, and gables, hung with cloths and tapestries of a thousand various hues, shone in the clear March sun; and these, with all the gay flags, small and great, fluttering and floating in the air, and the dark continuous masses of closely wedged men, women, and boys, extending as far as the eye could reach, showed more like some vast theatric pageant, some fantastic and gorgeous scenic structure, than a solid and substantial town, built and peopled for the sober purposes of thrift and business, and capable of standing the wind and rain of centuries. With many a “pish!” and “pshaw!” and many a muttered ejaculation of bitter contempt, and many a darker expression of indignant and gloomy despondency, did Sir Hugh that morning pace the floor of his apartment, betraying, spite of all his professions of contempt and derision, by many a long pause of deep and intense observation, as he passed and repassed the casement, the deep and momentous interest with which the scene going on without was fraught to him. It was not until the hour of noon had come and gone, that the distant shouting of the multitude, sustained, and swelling, and gathering in wild and exciting volume, every moment, rose sternly to the ear of old Sir Hugh, and down the long crowded line of street, the cry came speeding like the roll of a hedge fire— “the King — the King!” Grace Willoughby looked in her father’s face, and thought she saw his colour come and go in sudden alternation, as breathless and stern he arrested his pace at the window, and looked gloomily up the street as far as its winding line would allow. And now swelling and sinking, burst after burst, but still in one continuous roar of acclamation, rolled on the gathering chorus of thousands and tens of thousands of human voices. The squadrons of cavalry clattered in quick succession along the open way, to and fro, with drawn sabres, keeping the passage clear.
CHAPTER XX.
THE KING ENJOYS HIS OWN AGAIN.
MINUTE after minute elapsed, and as yet no harbinger of the approaching procession had reached them, but the swelling acclamation which rose and pealed louder and nearer every moment; and it was not until fully a quarter of an hour had elapsed, that the front of the cortege appeared: at length it came; a gorgeous coach, with six horses and outriders and grooms in the royal livery, rolled slowly along at a stately walk; then came another, and another after that, and so on until six of equal splendour had passed. Then followed a close wagon guarded by a party of French dragoons in green uniform and with drawn swords. These, again, were succeeded by a brilliant cavalcade of about two hundred gentlemen of the city, all gaily dressed, and handsomely mounted. Then, after a short interval came Barker, the major of the royal regiment, in his splendid uniform of scarlet and gold, surmounted by a burnished cuirass, bareheaded, and with his left hand controlling his fiery black charger, while his right arm extended enforced the orders which, from time to time, he reiterated as he advanced, with all the flurry of excited importance, and which the officers in command of the double line of musketeers took up and vociferously repeated— “dress up — shoulder your arms — keep the middle of the street clear — keep back the crowd” — which latter mandate had become the more necessary as the mob were now, in proportion as the interest of the exhibition increased, pressing more and more urgently and curiously torward. Then followed twenty-nine gentlemen, nobly mounted and richly dressed, also bareheaded, and cheering and waving their cocked hats before a coach and six horses (one of Tyrconnell’s), in which was seated Fitz James, the younger brother of the Duke of Berwick — it is scarcely necessary to add, the illegitimate offspring of the king.
This equipage was closely succeeded by three officers of the guard, in their gorgeous uniforms, curbing their mettled steeds to a prancing walk, also bareheaded, and carrying their white-plumed cocked hats in their right hands. These were attended each by a led horse; next followed a body of mounted military officers of rank, among whom the crowd seemed particularly to distinguish two — the one a tall, athletic, dashing dragoon, with a bold, frank face, but withal commanding, prompt, and sagacious — and an easy and manly carriage — whose smile, as he returned the greeting of the multitude, with many a wave of his military hat, hovered between amusement and a prouder emotion — something of excited gratification and kindling triumph. The cries of “Sarsfield! Sarsfield! — more power to you! — Sarsfield for ever! — long life to you!” and soforth, the greater part thundered forth in the genuine fervour of the native Irish tongue, sufficiently indicated the individuality of the stalworth soldier. The other object of popular recognition presented a striking, and a very unfavourable contrast to the bold and handsome figure we have just described. This was a diminutive old hunchback, enveloped in a huge scarlet military cloak, which had obviously seen hard service. He bestrode a gigantic black horse, rawboned and vicious; his features were sharp and shrewd, and red as a brick from hard weather and brandy, but the twinkle of his eye, spite of the sarcastic stamp of his other features, had in it a character of dry humour and jollity which qualified the grotesque acerbity of their expression — a fixed and cynical smile, half goodhumoured, half derisive, exhibiting his only acknowledgment of the enthusiastic recognition with which the multitude greeted his appearance. The oddity of this deformed and singular figure was still further enhanced by a huge wig, in a state of the wildest dishevelment and neglect, straggling in tangled wisps about his sharp and elevated shoulders, and surmounted by a broadleafed white hat and an enormous plume. This grotesque and neglected figure was no other than the celebrated veteran, Teigue O’Regan, then full seventy years of age, and who was destined, in the coming struggle, to outdo in skill, fortitude, and daring, all that he had heretofore achieved. Ere this could be written, however, the group in which they moved had passed on, and was succeeded closely by the five trumpets and kettledrums of state in their liveries — after whom there moved some twenty of the gentlemen at large on horseback; next succeeded the messengers and pursuivants — then came the Ulster king-at-arms and the herald in all his gorgeous blazonry; — and now approached the object on whom the thoughts and hopes of so many thousands were centred — that being whose name had for so long acted like a talisman upon all Ireland — the exiled king — the champion and martyr of the ancient faith — the friend of the native people and their old aristocracy, covered with calamities, come among them to head his brave Irish army, and in the field of battle, to hazard one bold cast for his faith and fortunes, and their own. The cries of “The King! the King!” came faster and shriller, until, preceded by the full and stately form of the haughty Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnell, bareheaded, and bearing the sword of state, as he rode singly in front, and flanked at either side, but a little in advance of them, by the Duke of Berwick and Lords Granard, Powis, and Melfort, there appeared, in a slouching hat and sooty-black peruke, in a plain suit of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with a george hung over his shoulder by a blue ribbon, the form of a man of strong and rather massive build, somewhat stricken in years, with a large face and heavy features, whose rigid and strongly-marked lines were impressed with a character of dignity, qualified, however, by something like the melancholy of discontent, which an occasional smile of gracious suavity relieved only for a moment. Dark-complexioned and haughty, the countenance was striking at once from its coarseness and inflexibility, and its stately and formal character was improved and confirmed by the sombre accompaniment of his huge coal-black peruke. Such, in aspect and equipment, did James advance, sitting his steed with more of formal adjustment and precision than elegance or grace; and as
this figure, so strikingly contrasted in its extreme plainness of attire with the splendid forms which preceded and attended him, came slowly onward, returning with stately and gracious courtesy, from time to time, the enthusiastic greetings of his people, a burst of wild and tumultuous acclamation ran and rose around and before him, so stupendous, that air and earth rang with its vibrations. Fierce and wild was the rushing and crushing of the serried multitude; blessings, gratulations, welcomes, in English and in Irish, swelled in wild Babel-chorus; a tossing, tumbling sea of waving hats, and plumes, and handkerchiefs, and, answered at every window, and balcony, and housetop, with kindred enthusiasm, dazzled the eye with its giddy multitudinous whirl. Some wept, some laughed, in the thrilling excitement of that memorable scene; and, never since the island rose from the waves of the Atlantic, did its echoes ring with such a wild, passionate, and heartfelt burst of sympathy, devotion, and welcome, as thundered in that sustained and reiterated acclamation. Personal claims, individual intrigues, private schemes of advancement — all lesser feelings — were for the moment lost in the grand and paramount consciousness, that in the unpretending figure before them were centred interests so great, so stupendous, and so dear to them all their ancient grandeur, their old religion, their long hoped-for ascendancy, the movements and the power of mighty armies, the fortunes of kingdoms and people; the heart-stirring and awful consciousness of all these things filled that rapturous welcome with such an inspiring sublimity of enthusiasm, as Dublin will, in all probability, never see more.
Thus, burst after burst of welcome pealed after and before him, as he moved onward toward the Castle-gate, and a troop of the French guard, riding four abreast and close behind, soon screened the King from view. We need not wait for the long train which followed, including cavalcades of gentlemen and troops of buff-coated dragoons, with their broadleafed hats and tossing plumes, and the line of noblemen’s coaches, with six horses each, and the coach and four which bears Judge Keating in his scarlet and ermine, and all the other coaches and six, and cavalcades of gentlemen, and troops of soldiery, until at last there remained behind but the confused rabble-rout, who bring up the rear on foot, with wands, and streamers, and banners displayed, and cockades in their hats, shouting and huzzaing in rivalry with their motley brethren, who stand in dense array, and cheering from ten thousand throats at either side. Nor need we follow King James through all his progress to the castle-gate. There, as from Castle-street, the royal cavalcade wheeled upon the ancicnt drawbridge, under the shadow of the two grim flanking towers, a striking and a solemn pageant awaited his arrival. The Titular Primate crowned with a triple tiara, to represent the pope, and followed by the other prelates of his Church — plenis pontificalibus — in all the gorgeous and solemn array of the splendid ecclesiastical wardrobe of the ancient Church, stood marshalled to receive him. Before this impressive and magnificent spectacle, King James reined in his horse, dismounted,- and reverently doffing his plain black hat, advanced across the drawbridge, threw himself upon his knees before the lordly impersonation of the see of Rome, and amid an absolute frenzy of acclamation from the now more than ever enraptured multitude, received the benediction of mother Church. Under such auspices, amid music, and acclamations, and blessings, and all the pageantry of splendid ecclesiastical and military and civil pomp, “suitable,” as he himself says, “to the most solemn ceremony of the kind, and performed with the greatest order and decency imaginable,” did James enter, for the first time, the precincts of the Irish capital.
While all this pageant was passing through the street with wild hubbub, Sir Hugh stood at the casement which commanded the scene, and from time to time pointed out to his daughter by his side, those whom he thought most worthy of remark, coupling the indication of each individual, with such suitable commentary as this: —
“See you that fellow in the crimson velvet and gold, a fellow with long light-coloured moustaches and eyebrows, a nose like a vulture’s beak, and a small, sleepy, grey eye — that is one of the bloodiest miscreants among them. Look at him — mark him well — that is my Lord Galmoy. And there rides another wretch, as execrable in his own way; an intriguing, heartless, sensual ruffian — that bull-fronted, bloated gentleman in black — that is Thomas Talbot — the lay priest, as they call him; my Lord Tyrconnell’s precious brother.”
Thus the old knight pursued his commentaries, as the various personages, presented in succession, challenged his criticism. But poor Grace no longer heeded or heard him; her thoughts were wandering far away — fondly and unconsciously pursuing the cherished image of one whom her quick eye had instantly discerned, as for a moment he passed amid a crowd of others in the long procession. Need we say it was the form of Torlogh O’Brien which had lured her thoughts away, far into the fairy regions of romantic hope and fancy; and it was not until Sir Hugh, stamping vehemently upon the floor, exclaimed in the startling accents of surprise, anger, and alarm, “the scoundrel — what then has brought Aim hither?” that she was suddenly recalled to the present scene, and following the direction of her father’s fiery gaze, she beheld the lank, athletic form of Miles Garrett, looking, it seemed to her, if possible, more ugly, sinister, and repulsive than ever, in the rich magnificence of his courtly attire, and riding slowly forward among a group of others.
“The villain has dogged me hither,” he cried, in extreme agitation, “lest chance, or mercy should deliver me — dogged me, to insure my destruction — the malignant villain — I feel it — I know it — may God defend me. It needed no further craft, intrigue, or perjury, to aggravate my danger in this dire extremity. Villain — persevering malignant villain!”
The old man turned almost frantically from the window, walked to the far end of the room, and threw himself into a chair.
Startled at the extreme agitation and almost horror with which this apparition had filled the mind of the old man, his daughter fearfully and tenderly approached him, her own heart oppressed with dire misgivings, and throwing her arms around his neck, she covered his cheeks with her kisses.
*
Night now covered the ancient city of Dublin. Bonfires blazed at every corner; squibs bounced and rattled in mad horse-play among the shins of the multitude, and rockets soared gloriously aloft into the pitchy void; pipers played “the King enjoys his own again,” and other loyal airs; the crowd lounged this way and that, in laughing noisy groups; from the windows, gleaming with lights, and chequered with flitting shadows, were heard the merry scraping of fiddlers, and pounding of dancing feet, along with all manner of jolly and uproarious sounds; the streets resounded with shouting, and buzz, and clatter: here the cheering, groans, and hooting of a mock procession, consigning, in effigy, the usurping Prince of Orange to the flames of a bonfire; there the drunken oratory of some tipsy royalist, mounted upon a cart, or haranging from a tavern window, and sometimes too the angrier sounds of fierce disputation and quarrelling — these sounds, mingled with the occasional reverberating report of fireworks and the constant hum of music, filled all the town with such a buzz of excitement, as few but those whom weighty anxieties depressed, could listen to without a feeling of corresponding restlessness and hilarity.
It was upon this evening that old Jeremiah Tisdal sate morosely by the hearth of the public room of the great old inn which occupied the centre of “the Carbrie this chamber had once been the hall of the noble mansion which fortune, in her wayward caprices, had degraded to the vile and vulgar uses of a common hostelry; two mighty hearths at either end confronted one another gloriously, and sent their hospitable warmth through every nook of the vast old reeking chamber. The place was filled with noise and clatter enough of its ow’n, and presented as motley a gathering of guests as ever yet a tavern chamber contained: some stood by the fire discussing the exciting events of the day, and the angry politics which agitated men’s minds; others drank together, or played at backgammon, while listless loungers overlooked the game; some came in, while others went out, keeping up a constant double current of h
ospitable traffic. Here might be seen samples of many a strangely contrasted class; burly, comfortable citizens eagerly listening to the latest news of Londonderry and the Enniskilleners, retailed by some raw militia officer in all the conscious importance of his new blue uniform and brigadier wig, and seasoned with many a threat and thundering oath. In another place might be seen the boor who scarce could muster so much English as to call for his liquor and tobacco, swaggering along in the brand-new gaudy suit, to purchase which he had sold off his pigs and his cows, and come up to Dublin to seek his fortune in the character of a gentleman; and near him, perchance, with martial strut, and staring about with a bold gaze of curiosity, appeared one of the newly-arrived French troopers, affecting a sublime unconsciousness of the interest with which he was obviously observed; while in a dusky corner, two or three friars, in the peculiar habits of their orders, conversed in subdued but eager whispers over their homely supper.
Tisdal sate gloomily by the fire, smoking his pipe, and inly ruminating upon the events of the day — a contemplation by no means calculated to sweeten the natural moroseness of his temper, while he listened from time to time with growing impatience to the conversation which proceeded immediately beside him. While thus employed, he observed a pale young man, with a sweet, but melancholy countenance, and a pair of fiery dark eyes, gazing upon him with a degree of attention, under which he felt himself, spite of his phlegmatic temperament, singularly restless and uncomfortable. The form of the stranger was slight and graceful, and he was attired in a plain suit of black; he stood quite alone, and at a distance of some ten or twelve feet from the spot occupied by the puritan, so that his gaze was frequently interrupted by interposing groups. Once or twice Tisdal, returning his glance with angry impatience, succeeded in catching his eye, which, however, was instantaneously averted. Again, and again, this was repeated — and again, and again the puritan felt that he was still the object of the same vigilant and disconcerting observation. Once or twice he was on the point of going up to the pale gentleman in black and accosting him, but prudence told him that in such a place, and on such a night, a person of his faith and politics would best consult his safety by avoiding remark, and resisting every temptation to enter into discussion with strangers. Impressed with the obvious expediency of this latter course, the puritan availed himself of the first opportunity to withdraw himself unobserved to another part of the chamber. Gliding behind the crowded knots of guests who filled the room, he seated himself at a remote and unoccupied table at the furthest extremity of the large apartment; from this position, he looked in vain among the crowd, for the form which had caused him, in spite of himself, the uneasy and unpleasant feelings, inseparable from the idea of being watched. No longer under the eye of this unknown personage, he felt himself once more at ease, and smoked his pipe in calm and contemplative serenity, or something as nearly akin to it as his gloomy and unquiet temperament was capable of enjoying.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 68