BOOKS.
THE QUEEN OF CONNAUGHT.'"
A VERY new subject is treated in this story with great freshness and vivacity. The tale may be said to be a study, very far from favourable, and on the whole, we believe, not even sufficiently favourable, of the Irish character and temperament, but certainly a study impartial and thoughtful in its intention, and cleverly executed though the author's contempt for the class of characters chiefly described is visible enough. What we miss intellectually in the work,—what is artistically deficient, if we measure by that high standard which, considering the ability evinced, we feel the author might have reached, —is a power of painting the deeper and less superficial moods and passions with more approach to the power displayed in touching off those lighter characteristics which one's first acquaintance with men at once discovers. Nothing can be happier or more graphic than the author's description of the kind of society which frequents O'Mara Castle, as soon as Kathleen restores the glories of its ancient hospitality. The humours of the society which flocks there, from Timothy Linney, the stately old man who displaces the master of the house from his own chair because he takes a fancy to it, to Biddy Crardey, the poor crazy woman who starves herself in both the senses of the word, to feed and. clothe her children, are painted with a picturesque breadth and liveliness that adds sensibly to one's knowledge of human nature itself. But when we come to the delineation of the deeper char- acters of the story, we are disappointed. Kathleen herself, the • The Queen of Connaught A Story. 3 vole. London: Richard Bentley and Sons. heroine, with her idealist conception of her countrymen and of her own position in relation to them, as lineal descendant of their last Queen, is never made very living to us. The picture of her English husband, Darlington, who furnishes all the money for this revival of O'Mara splendour, and suffers more than half the misery in which it results, also wants a great deal of being a really powerful portrait. Nor are the relations between the two painted in a manner that is consistent with the depth of his passion for her, and the impatience of anything like petty suspicion and distrust which is of the very essence of Kathleen's character. The long misunderstanding, which would only have been possible at all between persons in one of whom, at least, timidity had been a leading characteristic, strikes us as in the highest degree unnatural. Such a man as Darlington must have seen that it was his duty to open Kathleen's eyes, as far as he could do so consistently with tenderness to her, to the hopelessness and danger of the dreams she was indulging. Again, such a woman as Kathleen would never have trusted a man of whose treachery she had had absolute experience, when he brought serious moral charges against her husband,—least of all without even showing her confidence in the man she had deliberately chosen, by informing him of the accusations brought against him. It is not a natural result of the idealist dreams of pride and glory in which Kathleen indulges, to make her suspicious and reserved towards her own husband ; and it is only the necessities of the story which cause this unnatural alienation to be grafted on to it. Then, again, there is a want of force in the description of Darlington's and Kathleen's own hearts. There is much more room and occasion for power than there is display of power. We are always disappointed in those portions of the story where the inner scenery of the heart is of the first im- portance. Kathleen's death is pathetic, but even there the pathos is not of the deepest kind. Darlington's loneliness and restlessness are drawn finely, but not in a way to sink deep into the memory, as the occasion requires. In short, the defect of the story is want of passion in all the higher scenes. There is an episode in it which strongly reminds us of the scene in that powerful tale, The Collegians, where Eily O'Connor is put to death owing to the treachery of Hardress Cregan ; but the reminder is greatly to the disadvantage of our present author. Where Mr. Griffin displayed tragic power of a very high kind, the present writer shows only a very moderate skill. Again, the portrait of the bad priest, Father Flyn, is by no means a powerful one, and had hardly, we suspect, been duly thought out by the author. At least, we have no in- sight given us into his reasons for acting or not acting as he does, and his duplicity is clearly of a very stupid and superficial kind.
But if the finer situations and stronger passions of the story had been painted with anything like the skill with which the minor characters are touched off, the Queen of Connaught would have been a tale of very rare and most exceptional interest. As it is, it is a most charming study of a subject full of colour, light, and shadow, and one that rises steadily in interest up to the close. The third volume is decidedly the best of the three, and the scene which comes most nearly up to the ideal point, in power, is the critical scene of the book, where Kathleen, drenched by the storm and alone, faces the conspirators against her husband's life, in the dreary solitude of their mountain hiding-place. This is a scene of very considerable force, though even here one feels the want of some touch or other which a true genius would have given to it. Situations of less intensity are often painted with consummate skill; for instance, nothing can be better than the scene in which Kathleen extracts from Shawn O'Kelly the information which enables her to go to the rendezvous of the conspirators on the evening following. Before quoting this passage, however, we must give our readers the sketch of Shawn O'Kelly himself, as he is first introduced to us, before Darlington has become Kathleen O'Mara's husband, and while Shawn is still acting as Darlington's servant :— "The aspect of Shawn O'Kelly was unlikely to awaken much con- fidence in the mind of the beholder. He was about six feet high, broad- shouldered and strongly built, his features coarse and irregular, and a dark, scowling expression brooding on his face ; his hair was cropped close to his bead, as close as it could well be cut without the aid of a sharp razor, and a narrow fringe was left around his face. He had a sly, slouching air, his eyes and ears being constantly on the alert for hidden sights and sounds. Nor was he improved by his toilet. His trousers, which were secured around his waist by a limp and faded bandana and reached nearly to his ankles, were torn and frayed out along the bottoms, the shreds waving about his bare legs like tassels in the wind. Coat and waistcoat he had none; in summer and winter alike he bared his breast to the elements, defying the powers of wind, rain, or snow, to have any effect upon his iron constitution. When he
walked he looked like a very bad sort of marionette, for it seemed that the wires by which he moved had got rusted, working with a series of jerks which sent his arms and legs flying in all directions. His con- versation mainly consisted of strong expletives, which he uttered with a force and power which were truly thrilling. His knowledge of Eng- lish was so slight that he had not a correct idea of the phrases he used, and he would therefore deliver, with a perfectly innocent expression on his face, the most frightful language. Having been born and brought up among the mountains, ho knew by heart almost every bunch of heather on the hills, could find his way blindfolded along the moat intricate paths, and cleverly avoided the dangerous bogs and morasses which are so abundantly scattered about this part of the country."
This Celtic giant, who talks, when he talks English at all, in English oaths, the force of which he does not in the least under- stand, is the man from whom subsequently Kathleen extracts the story of the conspiracy against her husband's life ; and it is im- possible to conceive a livelier piece of portraiture than the dialogue in which this takes place. It is too long for complete quotation, but we will give the opening of it, from which the reader will easily gather how vivid and skilful is the dole :—
" One evening, when she was returning home after a long and solitary walk, and when she was still some distance from the Castle, and descend- ing the craggy slopes of Corrybrae (one of the highest of the O'Mara Mountains), her eye suddenly fell upon a man who seemed to have emerged from the inmost recesses of the earth, and who was only some yards before her.. Kathleen's heart gave a great bound of joy as she gazed upon the herculean frame and jerky limbs. The man whom she had been searching for was now within her reach—the man who could tell her all, and possibly be the means of saving her husband's life. In the very exuberance of her joy she paused, while the man quickened his steps, and hurriedly increased the distance between them. The next moment she ran forward, and seizing him by the shoulder, turned him sharply round ; and the two stood face to face. In her ideas of Shawn O'Kelly Kathleen was not inaccurate, nor had she over-estimated the influence which she possessed over him. From her childhood she had been wont to exert her power in no very laudable manner over the juvenile population of O'Mara; and more than once during his boyhood Shawn had received most substantial proofs of her supremacy. Although latterly this kind of government had been less stringent, the mighty- limbed Shawn continued to regard the passionate girl with mortal dread. When, therefore, Kathleen thus suddenly confronted him alone on the lonely hills of O'Mara, and questioned him, in a voice trembling with passion, concerning the late conspiracy, the great coarse-looking fellow positively shrank away in fear. He hung his head in guilty shame, and would have slunk away without a word had not Kathleen retained a firm hold of him, as she continued to pour her wild words into his car. Tell me all,' she exclaimed. • You shall tell me all. I have you now, and you shall not stir a foot until I am satisfied. You have plotted against me, and you shall suffer. Remember, Shawn O'Kelly, what I did to you when a child ; remember how I took my revenge on you, when you failed in your allegiance to me. I am a woman now, and your fault is greater. I have you in my power, and you know that I would not hesitate to use my power, even although it sent you to the gallows-tree.' Shawn O'Kelly looked into her face in terror—his huge form trembled from head to foot, and his face went pale as death. Had he known the real extent of Kathleen's information he might have exhibited a braver spirit, but judging from her words, and being moreover overpowered by a guilty conscience, he believed that she was thoroughly acquainted with the whole facts of the con- spiracy, and with his own prominent share in the crime. Terrified at the discovery, he exploded into a few round genuine oaths, and wildly implored her mercy. Begod. misthress, 'twas no fault of mine. Sure the boys was mad and would have killed me outright if 'twas for going against them I was at all, and ether all 'tis not kilt the mashter was entirely but only grazed, and blasht me, mistbress, if I'd lifted the old gun agin the mashter at all, only the boys was threatenin'Ine, and—' He paused suddenly and looked at Kathleen in real alarm. The colour faded from her cheeks, her lips. were parted, her right hand clenched, and her eyes fixed wildly upon his face. As she gradually came to fully comprehend the fact that she stood before the very man who had attempted to take away her husband's life, her emotion became intense ; passion within her arose like a consuming fire and gained the mastery. For the time being her nature was transformed—she had no control over her thoughts, her actions. In another moment she would have struck the giant full in the face. Shawn shrank away. She seized him by the collar, and shook him with all her strength. 'Wretch,' she cried, 'miserable wretch l If I had only known this before, you should never have lived to boast to me of your crime.' Shawn's face became paler still ; his legs trembled beneath him, as he saw that, in his terror, he had revealed the truth, and put himself entirely in Kathleen's power. Inwardly cursing the evil genius which had led him thus to betray himself, Shawn drew back, and tried by a medley of curiously assorted excuses to deny his guilt. But Kathleen laughed scornfully in his face. ''Tis useless to deny it now,' she said. You have con- fessed, and unless you tell me all I want to know, I will give informa- tion against you.' Shawn was perfectly overpowered, for he fully believed that Kathleen was quite capable of doing all that she said. He glanced despairingly around—there was no one near, and the darkness of approaching night was fast enveloping the mountain tops. With a sidelong look into her face the huge giant, who had he been so willed could have crushed her like a fly with one blow of his hand, stood quivering before her."
Of a piece with the sketch of Shawn O'Kelly is the picture of the better-born, but hardly more cultivated, bangers-on to whom Kathleen delights to dispense hospitality in O'Mara Castle, under the notion that she is restoring the ancient usages of her queenly ancestor, that Queen of Connaught who was a contemporary of Elizabeth's. Timothy Linney, who will have All the comforts the
Castle contains, even at the expense of its master ; Anthony Dunbeg, the pugilist and homicide, whom Kathleen tries to force as a suitor on her sister Oona, only because "he is descended by the mother's side from the Black Dunbegs, Princes of Ulster ;" Shamus, the Fool, who entertains so deep a conviction that whiskey is the only cure for the colic, and that whenever he is conscious of discomfort, that discomfort is a fit of the colic ; and Patsey McKey, the descendant of "the mighty McKey" of Ulver, who pipes out his few interjections in a tone, so very unlike that of his imperious ancestor, are all etched with a most faithful and skilful hand. Nor can we deny that the picture of the revived glory of Celtic society
J thus presented to Darlington was one to test very severely his love for his Celtic bride.
However, as we have already observed, it is not very easy to believe that this picture has been drawn by one who can see all the higher, as well as the lower characteristics of the Celtic character. It is true that Kathleen O'Mara herself is meant to be admired and admirable,—so far as idealists who dream dreams, and will not see the light of day shining through their dreams, even when it shines through them almost in a flood, ever can be admirable. Again, in Nancy and Michael Croghan, Biddy Cranley, and one or two other characters, the author gives us some of the better features of the Irish peasant. But on the whole, the pic- ture certainly impresses us as a caricature of Irish faults and vices, not by virtue of exaggeration in any one particular, but through the exclusion of figures which would be needed to make the picture in any sense a true picture even of such Irish society as this story is intended to delineate. To select, for instance, a thoroughly wicked and thoroughly sensual priest as the only re- presentative of his class whom the novelist chooses to introduce, is to place a glaring exception in a position where one naturally looks for a typical figure. And not to introduce a single noble figure among the revellers who throng O'Mara Castle,—noble at least in some respects, for of course one does not expect amidst a crowd of revellers any great sobriety of character,—was some- thing more than a merely artistic mistake. Irish gentlemen of this class have no doubt in them much that is tawdry, much that is silly, much that is base, but they have also much that is generous, magnanimous, and noble, and yet the only approach to anything magnanimous here is the magnanimity of a homicide who is on the point of sparing his foe when he grovels at his feet, and is only turned aside from his magnanimous intent when he fancies—in this case mistakenly—that he sees evidence that that foe has for the second time set the police upon his track. The picture of the riotous life at O'Mara Castle is a very vivid, and in many details a very truthful picture. But it is a caricature and a satire, be- cause it omits so much that would be necessary to reproduce fairly the sort of life which it is intended to show up. Clearly the Queen of Connaught is written by one who, with much know- ledge of the Celtic Irish, has but little sympathy with them.
Still, with all its defects, this tale is full of life, skill, and in- sight. What it wants to make it a story of the first order of power is more true pasSion, a broader delineation of the good as well as the evil in the Celtic character, and perhaps a somewhat higher key of feeling in painting the pathetic picture of a true idealist clinging in vain to the shattered fabric of a radically distorted dream.
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