Castle Richmond | Page 2

Breakfast at Hap House
XXV. A Muddy Walk on a Wet Morning
XXVI. Comfortless
XXVII. Comforted
XXVIII. For a' that and a' that
XXIX. Ill News flies Fast
XXX. Pallida Mors
XXXI. The First Month
XXXII. Preparations for Going
XXXIII. The Last Stage
XXXIV. Farewell
XXXV. Herbert Fitzgerald in London
XXXVI. How the Earl was won
XXXVII. A Tale of a Turbot
XXXVIII. Condemned
XXXIX. Fox-hunting in Spinny Lane
XL. The Fox in his Earth
XLI. The Lobby of the House of Commons
XLII. Another Journey
XLIII. Playing Rounders
XLIV. Conclusion

CHAPTER I
THE BARONY OF DESMOND

I wonder whether the novel-reading world--that part of it, at least,
which may honour my pages-will be offended if I lay the plot of this
story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against things Irish it is
impossible to deny. Irish servants need not apply; Irish acquaintances
are treated with limited confidence; Irish cousins are regarded as being
decidedly dangerous; and Irish stories are not popular with the
booksellers.
For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about any place,
I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do strongly protest
against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irish cousins I have none.
Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish friends, also, by twos
and threes, whom I can love and cherish--almost as well, perhaps, as
though they had been born in Middlesex. Irish servants I have had
some in my house for years, and never had one that was faithless,
dishonest, or intemperate. I have travelled all over Ireland, closely as
few other men can have done, and have never had my portmanteau
robbed or my pocket picked. At hotels I have seldom locked up my
belongings, and my carelessness has never been punished. I doubt
whether as much can be said for English inns.
Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion in novels,
as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear they are drugs in the
market. It is hard to say why a good story should not have a fair chance
of success whatever may be its bent; why it should not be reckoned to
be good by its own intrinsic merits alone; but such is by no means the
case. I was waiting once, when I was young at the work, in the back
parlour of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a small
matter of business touching a three--volumed manuscript which I held
in my hand. The eminent publisher, having probably larger fish to fry,
could not see me, but sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business.
"A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman.
"Yes," I answered; "a novel."
"It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with a
thoughtful and judicious frown--"upon the name, sir, and the
subject;--daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English life. Now,
your historical novel, sir. is not worth the paper it's written on."
I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as

unattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will make the
attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, and
would fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do not say that word now
it will never be said.
The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on its intrinsic
merit rather than on the site of its adventures. No one will think that
Hampshire is better for such a purpose than Cumberland, or Essex than
Leicestershire. What abstract objection can there then be to the county
Cork?
Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful part of
Ireland is that which lies down in the extreme south-west, with fingers
stretching far out into the Atlantic Ocean. This consists of the counties
Cork and Kerry, or a portion, rather, of those counties. It contains
Killarney, Glengarriffe, Bantry, and Inchigeela; and is watered by the
Lee, the Blackwater, and the Flesk. I know not where is to be found a
land more rich in all that constitutes the loveliness of scenery.
Within this district, but hardly within that portion of it which is most
attractive to tourists, is situated the house and domain of Castle
Richmond. The river Blackwater rises in the county Kerry, and running
from west to east through the northern part of the county Cork, enters
the county Waterford beyond Fermoy. In its course it passes near the
little town of Kanturk, and through the town of Mallow: Castle
Richmond stands close upon its banks, within the barony of Desmond,
and in that Kanturk region through which the Mallow and Killarney
railway now passes, but which some thirteen years since