The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd
He could always tell. He himself didn’t always know how he did it. But Tidy usually needed only a few seconds, or at most a minute or two, with any man to sniff him out. And if that man was putting on airs and graces, but he didn’t really belong to the gintry, Tidy would know it. He’d be civil enough, usually; he mightn’t say anything. But he’d let that man know by subtle means that, even if the Duke of Ormond or the Lord Lieutenant had taken him for a gentleman, he, Isaac Tidy, knew him for the impostor he really was. Under his seemingly subservient gaze, even the boldest intruder began to feel awkward.
As the new arrivals approached Quilca now, Tidy’s attention was fixed upon the dark-haired young man who was riding beside Fortunatus. His clothes were carelessly worn. You couldn’t tell by that, though. He also was wearing an old three-cornered hat. But where did he get it? Was it his own, or had Fortunatus lent it to him? The strangest thing, though, was that while Fortunatus looked perfectly happy, this young man appeared to be paying him no attention at all. For while his horse walked beside Walsh’s, he himself was busy reading a book. Now, would a member of the gintry do that? For once, Tidy wasn’t sure.
As they came to Quilca, Fortunatus felt rather pleased with himself. He knew very well that, before going to France, Terence had impressed upon young Smith the need to behave himself. But it had been a stroke of genius on his own part, he considered, to keep the young man occupied with a book.
Having discovered that Garret was not yet acquainted with them, he had brought two small volumes from his own collection of the plays of Shakespeare, thinking that if the young man got bored during his time at Quilca, nobody in that household would be offended if he sat down in a corner to read. Garret, however, had begun the process a little earlier than he had intended. They had ridden quietly enough on the first day of their journey; but when they had stopped at an inn last night and sat down for supper, Garret, after allowing Fortunatus to engage him in conversation for a while, had not considered it necessary to continue their talk, but had taken out King Lear and proceeded to read it for the rest of the meal, remarking only at the end of that silent repast, “This is very good, you know.”
He had finished it that night. This morning he had enquired if there would be books at Quilca, and when Walsh had answered, “Undoubtedly,” he had nodded, then taken out and proceeded to read that play during their journey. He had just come to the end of the third act when they arrived.
If some people might have thought Garret a little rude for so entirely ignoring the kindly gentleman who had brought him there, Fortunatus, on the contrary, was delighted. For if the young man had such a thirst for literature, he thought, no matter what his views, he would be welcomed, and enjoy himself at Quilca.
“Put up your book now, young Garret,” he cried happily. “For you are at the gates of heaven.”
Quilca: the country retreat of Doctor Thomas Sheridan, Church of Ireland clergyman, friend of Dean Swift, Irishman, and the greatest educator in all Ireland.
It lay beside still waters. A habitation had existed there a long time, for the grass-covered circle of an ancient rath still occupied the site, and was used by Sheridan as an outdoor theatre. But at some time more recently, a modest gentleman’s house had been constructed next to the rath, with a commodious stone-walled garden down to the water, where you might almost have supposed yourself at the house of some scholarly canon in one of the great cathedral closes of England, rather than in County Cavan, surrounded by miles of bog land. This was Sheridan’s temple of the muses.
It was not in good repair. The roof was missing several slates, the gaps having been obligingly filled by the birds with what appeared to be permanent nests. On the walls, ivy had hastened to make good the many deficiencies of the masonry, covering the crevices which, it was clear, Sheridan himself was never going to trouble about. Whether his head was too full of the classics of Greece and Rome, or whether he had inherited a fine carelessness as to small things from the Irish chieftains from whom he was descended, it would probably never have occurred to Sheridan to dislodge the birds from the roof, which, he doubtless considered, was as much theirs as his own.
And it was Sheridan now, accompanied by the Dean of Saint Patrick’s, who came out to greet them.
They were a striking pair. Swift was the older man by twenty years, in his midfifties now. His face, which had once been round with a jaunty chin, had been drawn down to a longer, graver repose. His mouth, once puckish, was thin and ironic; his eyes, still humorous but somewhat sad. Something in his manner indicated that, though disappointed in his hopes of higher English office, he was still Dean of Saint Patrick’s, and conscious of the dignity of his office.
Sheridan, beside him, though a person of some consequence himself, was too vague to remember it, and so full of good humour that you suspected he might dig the Dean in the ribs at any moment— which would cause the Dean affectionately to reprove him—or at least attack the older man with an outrageous Latin pun, at which the dean’s gravity would probably collapse. With bright eyes and a broad brow, he looked what he was, a merry scholar.
“Who’s this, O Fortunate?” he cried, indicating young Smith.
“A kinsman of mine,” replied Fortunatus cheerfully, and introduced young Garret to the company.
“He reads while he rides,” said Sheridan. “But what, when he rides, does he read?”
“Macbeth, today,” said Walsh after Garret had failed to answer.
“Indeed?” Doctor Sheridan turned his kindly eyes upon Garret so that he could not escape them. “I have never known anyone to read Macbeth on a horse before, Mr. Smith. The sonnets perhaps, but never Macbeth. Might I enquire if you like it?”
Garret eyed him warily. He wasn’t going to be patronised into any kind of submission.
“It’s English, but it’s good enough to be Irish,” he said quietly. His even gaze offered neither respect nor friendship.
Swift gave Walsh a bleak look. But Sheridan seemed delighted.
“It is,” he cried. “It is. Spoken like a true Irishman.” He turned to the others. “It really ought to be translated into Irish, you know.” He turned back to Garret. “Are your own abilities enough, do you think,” he asked him seriously, “to attempt such a task yourself?”
“Perhaps,” allowed Garret. “I suppose I might try.”
“Capital!” cried Doctor Sheridan. “A young Irish scholar. Welcome, my dear Mr. Smith, to Quilca. Let us go in.”
As the party entered the house, only Isaac Tidy remained outside. He had been observing the young man closely.
With his sallow face and his mass of dark hair, this young fellow had not impressed him at all. He must be about twenty, but he had no manners at all. He might be related to Walsh, but even a fine gentleman like that could possess a kinsman without quality. Besides, he’d seen through the young man easily enough. Why was he rude? Because he was defensive. Always a giveaway, that. No, Tidy gathered his observations together, totalled them, arranged them in order, and, in his mind, put young Smith in a box and closed the lid. He was not a gentleman. Never was and never would be. There was something else he didn’t like about him, too. He had strange green eyes.
And he’d bear watching. Like as not, Tidy thought, he’ll try to steal the silver.
Fortunatus was watching him, too.
As soon as they had been shown their chamber, with an oak bed for himself and a couch on which Garret could perfectly well sleep, it was clear that Sheridan was anxious to take them round his domain, and so they soon gathered outside again with Sheridan and the Dean, and proceeded into the walled garden. As they walked down to the water’s edge, Sheridan was in a bubbling mood.
“Those roses, Walsh, are new since your last visit. The lavender has a powerful scent, does it not? I had it from a gentleman in London. Over there, Mr. Smith, I mean to plant a cedar of Lebanon, when I can get one.”
Indicating the landscape of woods, drumlins, and bogs all around, he informed Garret:
“I can’t see how, when you’re a Protestant,” said Garret Smith rudely.
Fortunatus was ready to intervene and rebuke the young man, but Sheridan waved him back.
“You are right. It is strange, for most of the Sheridans are Catholic. But I’ll tell you how it came about. More than a century ago, my ancestor Donnchaid O’Sioradain was orphaned and taken in by a kindly English clergyman who brought him up in his own religion. My forbear became a clergyman himself, and a close associate of Bishop Bedell of Kilmore.” He was in full flood now. “Did you hear of Bedell? He was the only English bishop who preached in the Irish tongue, and even translated the Old Testament into Irish as well. He was a good man, and well loved in Cavan. So much so that when the great rebellion came in ’41, not a hair of his head was touched. When the rebels came to his house, they told him he had nothing to fear and that he should be the last Englishman ever put out of Ireland. When he died, half of those who walked beside his coffin were Catholic Irish chiefs.” He smiled. “Our history, you see, Garret, since it is the story of people, is not always as simple as we might suppose it to be. And it was inspired by him that my Protestant branch of the Sheridans, which has included several clergymen, tried to make the Church of Ireland a Gaelic church here in Cavan.” He sighed. “But circumstances were against us.”
Garret said nothing, and Fortunatus had no idea what he thought of the Sheridan family history.
“Come,” said Sheridan, “let me show you the rath.”
Garret seemed to like the rath. Sheridan’s enthusiasm for the theatrical possibilities of the old earthwork was infectious, and he even managed to draw the young man out a little.
“Come, Garret, stand by me here, and let us recite the great speech from Macbeth. No need for the book. I’ll teach it to you. ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’” And he proceeded to recite the next thirty-three lines from memory—a feat which quite impressed the young man. “Shakespeare’s very well,” he announced after they had finished, “but it’s Greek drama that should be performed in a circular space like this. So you know Sophocles, Euripides? No? Read them. I’ll lend them to you. They say the ancient Irish were a Mediterranean people,” he went on, “and I believe it to be so. Look out at the waters of Dublin Bay, Garret, look south down the coast past those volcanic hills, and whom do you see arising from the soft waters? Manannan mac Lir, our Irish sea god. And who is he, if not Poseidon himself, sea god of the Greeks, under another name? We are Greeks, Garret, Greeks,” he cried, adding in a lower voice, “taken over by Jesuits.” He gave the young man a sly glance when he said this. “I suspect you are a Jesuit in spirit, Garret,” he said, gently teasing. “You have a mind like a knife.”
Though Fortunatus watched a little anxiously, Garret did not seem to take offence at this banter or the shrewd perception that lay behind it. He merely inclined his head silently, which seemed to satisfy Sheridan.
As they went back to the house, Garret and Sheridan went side by side, talking quietly now, while Fortunatus walked beside the Dean.
Swift had remained half smiling but taciturn during most of this performance. As they strolled, Walsh engaged him in conversation.
“I’ve admired Sheridan for so many years,” he remarked. “He seems to me the best sort of clergyman—and he has the finest school in Ireland. I send my son to him. His school plays are famous. But I never realised until today what a passion for the theatre he has. He’d make a fine actor.”
“True.” Swift gave a wry smile. “The pulpit and the theatre, Walsh, are never far apart.”
“It’s clear he loves Quilca. I never saw a man so obviously delight in his house.”
“So do I, Walsh. ’Tis a pity,” Swift raised his voice just enough to carry, “that the place is falling down. Last time I was here, there was a crack in the wall of my room that let in such a draught I had to stuff it with my coat. The roof leaks abominably, too.”
“I heard that,” called out Sheridan. “There is nothing wrong with the roof.”
“You wouldn’t notice if it was off,” retorted Swift.
“Occasionally,” the Irishman replied airily, “it flies away like a bird to visit an uncle in Cork, but it always returns. It only complains,” he added with a certain emphasis, “if swifts nest beneath it.”
“Ha.”
“Besides, you’ve been perfectly dry.”
“It has not been raining.”
Entering the house, Sheridan led them to a large, long room. The shutters were nearly closed, so that the room was in deep shadow, but Fortunatus could see the central fireplace, in front of which stood a large upholstered bench, a pair of tattered wing chairs, and a small table covered with papers. At the far end of the room, against the wall, stood a refectory table, doubtless taken from some monastery in Tudor times; and it was only when he noticed young Garret staring at it that Walsh realised, with a start, that it was occupied by what appeared to be a long, thin corpse, as though laid out for a wake. Sheridan glanced at it.
“That’s O’Toole,” he remarked. And he opened one of the shutters. Then, turning to Swift and indicating the papers, “Come, Jonathan,” he said, “let us resume. Perhaps our friends can help us.”
Earlier, it seemed, the two men had been busy with a composition that the Dean was preparing—not a sermon or a religious tract, they learned, but a literary composition. Walsh had explained to Garret that, before taking up his position in Ireland, Swift had already made a reputation for himself in London as an editor and writer of powerful poems and satires. “He’s a close friend of the great poet Alexander Pope, you know,” he had told him. Swift liked to write up at Quilca, Fortunatus knew, because he found his friend Sheridan’s fanciful flights of language and imagination a useful foil to his own mordant irony. And the work upon which he was engaged was a strange one indeed.
It seemed to be a satire on the popular travel books—a curious tale of a man named Gulliver, who would make a series of voyages to imaginary lands—one island inhabited by tiny folk, another by giants, yet another ruled by rational horses; he even had a series of sketches about a visit to a flying island.
“We were choosing names for some of the curious places and creatures encountered in these travels,” Sheridan explained. “For names are important. We already have, for instance, Lilliput as the island where the little people dwell; and our rational horses are called Houyhnhnms—doesn’t that sound just like a horse’s neigh? But come, Jonathan, set us some more challenges.”
Encouraged by his friend’s enthusiasm, Swift obligingly read out a few passages, and the company set their minds to work.
“We should ransack every corner of our imaginations,” Sheridan declared. “Words from English and French, Latin or Greek, onomatopoeia, even Irish. Did you know that Dean Swift has some Gaelic, Garret? He does not speak it so well as you or I, but he has studied our native tongue, to his credit.”
The flying island Walsh and Swift thought should be Laputa. They also prevailed when, for the loutish creatures who annoy the rational horses, they chose the name of Yahoo. Sheridan, however, came into his own when a name was required for the small, mouse-like creatures that the Yahoos like to eat.”
“The Latin for mouse is mus, and the Irish word is luc. Therefore, I propose that these unfortunate little fellows be called luhimuhs. Can’t you just see the poor things?”
“There is a land which Gulliver visits,” he explained, “where all those who wish to be received by the king must not only, in an oriental fashion, prostrate themselves, but must crawl towards him as he sits upon his throne, licking the dirt from the floor as they do so. What are we to call that?”
This was followed by a profound silence. Walsh knitted his brows; Sheridan gazed into space, lost in thought. Finally, Garret Smith spoke.
“The Irish for slave—and any man who does such a thing is a slave—is triall, and the Irish for evil and dirt is droch and drib. So you could call it Trildrogdrib.”
They all looked at each other. It was brilliant.
Then, at the far end of the room, a sudden chuckle came from the table by the wall, and the corpse sat up. “Excellent!” said the corpse.
“By God,” cried Sheridan, “you’ve woken O’Toole.”
When Sheridan had told Garret that he was in the very heart and soul of ancient Ireland, he had not entirely misspoken. It was a genial party that sat down to eat that evening. The talk, admittedly, was carried on mainly in English, but if O’Toole, for instance, quoted some Irish verses, Sheridan would like as not join in, with Dean Swift and Walsh nodding approval; and for a few minutes thereafter, the conversation of the whole table might transfer into Gaelic, during which the two women who had appeared with the meal from the kitchen would like as not join in. Only Tidy, who had been deputed to act as butler, would remain silent, as he himself had never wished to speak the Irish language and could never understand why the Dean troubled to do so. He also managed to give Garret a few contemptuous looks, which clearly conveyed his opinion that the young man should be waiting at the table, not sitting at it—and which nobody noticed except Garret himself.