The O'Donoghue - Tale Of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Charles James Lever

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• Publié par: vimas
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 29
• Langue: English

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Charles James Lever
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Title: The O'Donoghue
Tale Of Ireland Fifty Years Ago
Author: Charles James Lever
Release Date: May 11, 2010 [EBook #32340]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
THE O'DONOGHUE ***
Produced by David WidgerTHE O'DONOGHUE
TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
By Charles Lever
Dublin
William Curry, Jun. And Company.
William S. Orr And Co. London.
Fraser And Co. Edinburgh.
1845.
frontispiece (231K)
titlepage (27K)TO
JOHN WILSON, ESQ.,
Professor of Moral Philosophy In the University of
Edinburgh, &c.
Dear Sir,
It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedication can
give
the pleasure I now feel in availing myself of your kind
permission to inscribe this volume to you. As a boy,
the
greatest happiness of my life was in your writings; and
among all my faults and failures, I can trace not one to
your influence, while, if I have ever been momentarily
successful in upholding the right, and denouncing the
wrong,
I owe more of the spirit that suggested the effort to
yourself than to any other man breathing.
With my sincerest respects, and, if I dared, I should
say,
with my warmest regards,
I am, yours truly,CHARLES LEVER.
Carlsruhe, October 18th, 1845.
Contents
THE O'DONOGHUE
CHAPTER I. GLENFLESK
CHAPTER II. THE WAYSIDE INN
CHAPTER III. THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE."
CHAPTER IV. KERRY O'LEARY
CHAPTER V. IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND
CHAPTER VI. THE BLACK VALLEY
CHAPTER VII. SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED
CHAPTER VIII. THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS
CHAPTER IX. A DOCTOR'S VISIT
CHAPTER X. AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY's
CHAPTER XI. MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES
CHAPTER XII. THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER XIII. THE GUARDSMAN
THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED D
CHAPTER XIV.
EPARTURE
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PR
CHAPTER XV.
OPERTY
CHAPTER XVI. THE FOREIGN LETTERCHAPTER XVI. THE FOREIGN LETTER
CHAPTER XVII
KATE O'DONOGHUE
.
CHAPTER XVII
A HASTY PLEDGE
I.
CHAPTER XIX. A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED
CHAPTER XX. TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR
CHAPTER XXI. THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY
CHAPTER XXII
A MORNING VISIT
.
CHAPTER XXII SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHAR
I. ACTER
CHAPTER XXI
A WALK BY MOONLIGHT
V.
CHAPTER XX A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOCIATIO
V. NS
CHAPTER XX
A LAST EVENING AT HOME
VI.
CHAPTER XX
A SUPPER PARTY
VII.
CHAPTER XX
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES
VIII.
CHAPTER XXI
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
X.
CHAPTER XX OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FAC
X. ES
CHAPTER XX SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALB
XI. OT
CHAPTER XX
A PRESAGE OF DANGER
XII.
CHAPTER XX
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL
XIII.CHAPTER XX
THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND
XIV.
CHAPTER XX
THE WANDERER'S RETURN
XV.
CHAPTER XX
SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE
XVI.
CHAPTER XX
HEMSWORTH'S LETTER
XVII.
CHAPTER XX
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING
XVIII.
CHAPTER XX
THE BROTHERS
XIX.
CHAPTER XL. THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM
CHAPTER XLI. A DISCOVERY
CHAPTER XLII
THE SHEALING
.
CHAPTER XLII
THE CONFEDERATES
I.
CHAPTER XLI
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE
V.
CHAPTER XLV
THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY
.
CHAPTER XLV
THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE
I.
CHAPTER XLV
THE DAY OF RECKONING
II.
CHAPTER XLV
THE GLEN AND THE BAY
III.
CHAPTER XLI
THE END
X.List of Illustrations
Frontispiece
038 127 209 304 404
55 132 221 326 411
079 151 259 334 462
088 193 265 353 467
119 199 284 378 480
THE O'DONOGHUE;A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
CHAPTER I. GLENFLESK.
In that wild and picturesque valley which winds its way
between the town of Macroom and Bantry Bay, and
goes by the name of Glenflesk, the character of Irish
scenery is perhaps more perfectly displayed than in
any other tract of the same extent in the island. The
mountains, rugged and broken, are singularly fanciful
in their outline; their sides a mingled mass of granite
and straggling herbage, where the deepest green and
the red purple of the heath-bell are blended
harmoniously together. The valley beneath, alternately
widening and narrowing, presents one rich meadow
tract, watered by a deep and rapid stream, fed by a
thousand rills that come tumbling, and foaming down
the mountain sides, and to the traveller are seen like
white streaks marking the dark surface of the
precipice. Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles of this
lonely glen, and save for the herds of cattle and the
flocks of sheep here and there to be descried, it would
seem as if the spot had been forgotten by man, and
left to sleep in its own gloomy desolation. The river
itself has a character of wildness all its own-now,
brawling over rugged rocks-now foaming between high
and narrow sides, abrupt as walls, sometimes, flowing
over a ledge of granite, without a ripple on thesurface-then plunging madly into some dark abyss, to
emerge again, lower down the valley, in one troubled
sea of foam and spray: its dull roar the only voice that
echoes in the mountain gorge. Even where the humble
roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the aspect of
habitation rather heightens than diminishes the feeling
of loneliness and desolation around. The thought of
poverty enduring its privations unseen and unknown,
without an eye to mark its struggles, or a heart to
console its griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, and
one wonders what manner of man he can be, who has
fixed his dwelling in such solitude.
In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human
being, save that dark speck be such which crowns the
cliff, and stands out from the clear sky behind. Yes, it
is a child watching the goats that are browsing along
the mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has
hidden him from your view. Life of dreariness and
gloom! What sad and melancholy thoughts must be
his companions, who spends the live-long day on
these wild heaths, his eye resting on the trackless
waste where no fellow-creature moves! how many a
mournful dream will pass over his mind! what fearful
superstitions will creep in upon his imagination, giving
form and shape to the flitting clouds, and making the
dark shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and
substance.
Poor child of sorrow! How destiny has marked you for
misery! For you no childish gambols in the sun—no
gay playfellow—no paddling in the running stream,
that steals along bright and glittering, like happy
infancy—no budding sense of a fair world, opening in