Though it is clear the serious events in the O'Grady family had not altered Master Ratty's propensities in the least, the case was far different with Gustavus. In that one night of suffering which he had passed, the gulf was leaped that divides the boy from the man; and the extra frivolity and carelessness which clung from boyhood up to the age of fifteen was at once, by the sudden disrupture produced by events, thrown off, and as singular a ripening into manhood commenced.

Gustavus was of a generous nature; and even his faults belonged less to his organisation than to the devil-may-care sort of education he received, if education it might be called. Upon his generosity the conduct of Edward O'Connor beside the grave of the boy's father had worked strongly; and though Gustavus could not give his hand beside the grave to the man with whom his father had engaged in deadly quarrel, yet he quite exonerated Edward from any blame; and when, after a night more sleepless than Gustavus had ever known, he rose early on the ensuing morning, he determined to ride over to Edward O'Connor's house to breakfast, and commence that friendship which Edward had so solemnly promised to him, and with which the boy was pleased; for Gustavus was quite aware in what estimation Edward was held; and though the relative circumstances in which he and the late Squire stood prevented the boy from “caring a fig" for him, as he often said himself, yet he was not beyond the influence of that thing called “reputation,” which so powerfully attaches to and elevates the man who wins it; and the price at which Edward was held in the country influenced opinion even in Neck-or-Nothing Hall, albeit though “against the grain.” Gustavus had sometimes heard, from the lips of the idle and ignorant, Edward sneered at for being “cruel wise,” and “too much of a schoolmaster,” and fit for nothing but books or a boudoir, and called a “piano man,” with all the rest of the hackneyed dirt which jealous inferiority loves to fling at the heights it cannot occupy; for though—as it has been said—Edward, from his manly and sensible bearing, had escaped such sneers better than most men, still some few there were to whom his merit was offensive. Gustavus, however, though he sometimes heard such things, saw with his own eyes that Edward could back a horse with any man in the country—was always foremost in the chace—could bring down as many brace of birds as most men in a day—had saved one or two persons from drowning; and if he did all these things as well as other men, Gustavus (though hitherto too idle to learn much himself) did not see why a man should be sneered at for being an accomplished scholar as well. Therefore he had good foundation for being pleased at the proffered friendship of such a man, and remembering the poignancy of Edward's anguish on the foregoing eve, Gustavus generously resolved to see him at once and offer him the hand which a nice sense of feeling made him withhold the night before. Mounting his pony, an hour's smart riding brought him to Mount Eskar, for such was the name of Mr. O'Connor's residence.

It was breakfast-time when Gustavus arrived, but Edward had not yet left his room, and the servant went to call him. It need scarcely be said that Edward had passed a wretched night; reaching home, as he did, weary in mind and body, and with feelings and imagination both overwrought, it was long before he could sleep; and even then his slumber was disturbed by harassing visions and frightful images. Spectral shapes and things unimaginable to the waking senses danced and crawled and hissed about him. The torch flared above the grave, and that horrid coffin, with the name of the dead O'Grady upon it, “murdered sleep.” It was dawn before anything like refreshing slumber touched his feverish eyelids, and he had not enjoyed more than a couple of hours of what might be called sleep, when the servant called him; and then, after the brief oblivion he had obtained, one may fancy how he started when the first words he heard on waking were, “Mister O'Grady is below, sir.”

Edward started up from his bed and stared wildly on the man, as he exclaimed, with a look of alarm, “O'Grady! For God's sake, you don't say O'Grady?”

“'Tis Master Gustavus, sir,” said the man, wondering at the wildness of Edward's manner.

“Oh, the boy!—ay, ay, the boy!” repeated Edward, drawing his hands across his eyes and recovering his self-possession. “Say I will be down presently.”

The man retired, and Edward lay down again for some minutes to calm the heavy beating of his heart which the sudden mention of that name had produced; that name so linked with the mental agony of the past night; that name which had conjured up a waking horror of such might as to shake the sway of reason for a time, and which afterwards pursued its reign of terror through his sleep. After such a night, fancy poor Edward doomed to hear the name of O'Grady again the first thing in the morning, and we cannot wonder that he was startled.

A few minutes, however, served to restore his self-possession; and he arose, made his toilet in haste, and descended to the breakfast-parlour, where he was met by Gustavus with an open hand, which Edward clasped with fervour and held for some time as he looked on the handsome face of the boy, and saw in its frank expression all that his heart could desire. They spoke not a word, but they understood one another; and that moment commenced an attachment which increased with increasing intimacy, and became one of those steadfast friendships which are seldom met with.

After breakfast Edward brought Gustavus to his “den,” as he called a room which was appropriated to his own particular use, occupied with books and a small collection of national relics. Some long ranges of that peculiar calf binding, with its red label, declared at once the contents to be law and by the dry formal cut of the exterior gave little invitation to reading. The very outside of a law library is repulsive; the continuity of that eternal buff leather gives one a surfeit by anticipation, and makes one mentally exclaim in despair, “Heavens! how can any one hope to get all that into his head?” The only plain honest thing about law is the outside of the books where it is laid down—there all is simple; inside all is complex. The interlacing lines of the binder's patterns find no place on the covers; but intricacies abound inside, where any line is easier found than a straight one. Nor gold leaf nor tool is employed without, but within how many fallacies are enveloped in glozing words; the gold leaf has its representative in “legal fiction;” and as for “tooling” there's plenty of that!

Other books, also, bore external evidence of the nature of their contents. Some old parchment covers indicated the lore of past ages; amidst these the brightest names of Greece and Rome were to be found, as well as those who have adorned our own literature, and implied a cultivated taste on the part of the owner. But one portion of the library was particularly well stored. The works bearing on Irish history were numerous, and this might well account for the ardour of Edward's feelings in the cause of his country; for it is as impossible that a river should run backwards to its source, as that any Irishman of a generous nature can become acquainted with the real history of his country, and not feel that she has been an ill-used and neglected land, and not struggle in the cause of her being righted. Much has been done in the cause since the days of which this story treats, and Edward was amongst those who helped to achieve it; but much has still to be done, and there is glorious work in store for present and future Edward O'Connors.

Along with the books which spoke the cause of Ireland, the mute evidences, also, of her former glory and civilisation were scattered through the room. Various ornaments of elegant form, and wrought in the purest gold, were tastefully arranged over the mantel-piece; some, from their form, indicating their use, and others only affording matter of ingenious speculation to the antiquary, but all bearing evidence of early civilisation. The frontlet of gold indicated noble estate, and the long and tapering bodkin of the same metal, with its richly enchased knob or pendent crescent, implied the robe it once fastened could have been of no mean texture, and the wearer of no mean rank. Weapons were there, too, of elegant form and exquisite workmanship, wrought in that ancient bronze, of such wondrous temper that it carries effective edge and point. The sword was of exact Phoenician mould; the double-eyed spear-head, formed at once for strength and lightness, might have served as the model for a sculptor in arming the hand of Minerva. Could these be the work of an uncultivated people? Impossible! The harp, too, was there, that unfailing mark of polish and social elegance. The bard and barbarism could never be coeval. But a relic was there, exciting still deeper interest—an ancient crosier, of curious workmanship, wrought in the precious metals and partly studded with jewels; but few of the latter remained, though the empty collets showed it had once been costly in such ornaments. Could this be seen without remembering that the light of Christianity first dawned over the western isles in Ireland? that there the Gospel was first preached, there the work of salvation begun?

There be cold hearts to which these touching recollections do not pertain, and they heed them not; and some there are, who, with a callousness which shocks sensibility, have the ignorant effrontery to ask, “Of what use are such recollections?” With such frigid utilitarians it would be vain to argue; but this question, at least, may be put in return:—Why should the ancient glories of Greece and Rome form a large portion of the academic studies of our youth?—why should the evidences of their arts and their arms be held precious in museums, and similar evidences of ancient cultivation be despised because they pertain to another nation? Is it because they are Irish they are held in contempt? Alas! in many cases it is so—ay, and even (shame to say) within her own shores. But never may that day arrive when Ireland shall be without enough of true and fond hearts to cherish the memory of her ancient glories, to give to her future sons the evidences of her earliest western civilisation, proving that their forefathers were not (as those say who wronged and therefore would malign them) a rabble of rude barbarians, but that brave kings, and proud princes, and wise lawgivers, and just judges, and gallant chiefs, and chaste and lovely women were among them, and that inspired bards were there to perpetuate such memories!

Gustavus had never before seen a crosier, and asked what it was. On being informed of its name, he then said, “But what is a crosier?”

“A bishop's pastoral staff,” said Edward.

“And why have you a bishop's staff, and swords, and spears, hung up together?”

“That is not inappropriate,” said Edward. “Unfortunately, the sword and the crosier have been frequently but too intimate companions. Preaching the word of peace has been too often the pretext for war. The Spaniards, for instance, in the name of the gospel, committed the most fearful atrocities.”

“Oh, I know,” said Gustavus, “that was in the time of bloody Mary and the Armada.”

Edward wondered at the boy's ignorance, and saw in an instant the source of his false application of his allusion to the Spaniards. Gustavus had been taught to vaguely couple the name of “bloody Mary” with everything bad, and that of “good Queen Bess” with all that was glorious; and the word “Spanish,” in poor Gusty's head, had been hitherto connected with two ideas, namely, “liquorice” and the “Armada.”

Edward, without wounding the sensitive shame of ignorant youth, gently set him right, and made him aware he had alluded to the conduct of the Spaniards in America under Cortes and Pizarro.

For the first time in his life Gustavus was aware that Pizarro was a real character. He had heard his grandmamma speak of a play of that name, and how great Mr. Kemble was in Rollo, and how he saved a child; but as to its belonging to history, it was a new light—the utmost Gusty knew about America being that it was discovered by Columbus.

“But the crosier,” said Edward, “is amongst the most interesting of Irish antiquities, and especially belongs to an Irish collection, when you remember the earliest preaching of Christianity in the western isles was in Ireland.”

“I did only know that,” said the boy.

“Then you don't know why the shamrock is our national emblem?”

“No,” said Gustavus, “though I take care to mount one in my hat every Patrick's day.”

“Well,” said Edward, anxious to give Gustavus credit for any knowledge he possessed, “you know at least it is connected with the memory of St. Patrick, though you don't know why. I will tell you. When St. Patrick first preached the Christian faith in Ireland, before a powerful chief and his people, when he spoke of one God, and of the Trinity, the chief asked how one could be in three. St. Patrick, instead of attempting a theological definition of the faith, thought a simple image would best serve to enlighten a simple people, and stooping to the earth he plucked from the green sod a shamrock, and holding up the trefoil before them he bade them there behold one in three. The chief, struck by the illustration, asked at once to be baptised, and all his sept followed his example.”

“I never heard that before,” said Gusty. “'T is very beautiful.”

“I will tell you something else connected with it,” said Edward.

“After baptising the chief, St. Patrick made an eloquent exhortation to the assembled multitude, and in the course of his address, while enforcing his urgent appeal with appropriate gesture, as the hand which held his crosier, after being raised towards heaven, descended again towards the earth, the point of his staff, armed with metal, was driven through the foot of the chief, who, fancying it was part of the ceremony, and but a necessary testing of the firmness of his faith, never winced.”

“He was a fine fellow,” said Gusty. “And is that the crosier?” he added, alluding to the one in Edward's collection, and manifestly excited by what he had heard.

“No,” said Edward, “but one of early date, and belonging to some of the first preachers of the gospel amongst us.”

“And have you other things here with such beautiful stories belonging to them?” inquired Gusty, eager for more of that romantic lore which youth loves so passionately.

“Not that I know of,” answered Edward “but if these objects here had only tongues, if every sword, and belt, and spear-head, and golden bodkin, and other trinket could speak, no doubt we should hear stirring stories of gallant warriors and their ladye-loves.”

“Aye, that would be something to hear!” exclaimed Gusty.

“Well,” said Edward, “you may have many such stories by reading the history of your country; which if you have not read, I can lend you books enough.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Gusty; “I should like it so much.”

Edward approached the book-shelf and selected a volume he thought the most likely to interest so little practised a reader; and when he turned round he saw Gusty poising in his hand an antique Irish sword of bronze.

“Do you know what that is?” inquired Edward.

“I can't tell you the name of it,” answered Gusty, “but I suppose it was something to stick a fellow.”

Edward smiled at the characteristic reply, and told him it was an antique Irish sword.

“A sword?” he exclaimed. “Isn't it short for a sword?”

“All the swords of that day were short.”

“When was that?” inquired the boy.

“Somewhere about two thousand years ago.”

“Two thousand years,” exclaimed Gusty, in surprise. “How is it possible you can tell this is two thousand years old?”

“Because it is made of the same metal and of the same shape as the swords found at Cannae, where the Carthaginians fought the Romans.”

“I know the Roman history,” said Gusty, eager to display his little bit of knowledge; “I know the Roman history. Romulus and Remus were educated by a wolf.” Edward could not resist a smile, which he soon suppressed, and continued:—“Such works as you now hold in your hand are found in quantities in Ireland, and seldom anywhere else in Europe, except in Italy, particularly at Cannae, where some thousands of Carthaginians fell; and when we find the sword of the same make and metal in places so remote, it establishes a strong connecting link between the people of Carthage and of Ireland, and at once shows their date.”

“How curious that is!” exclaimed Gusty; “and how odd I never heard it before! Are there many such curious things you know?”

“Many,” said Edward.

“I wonder how people can find out such odd things,” said the boy.

“My dear boy,” said Edward, “after getting a certain amount of knowledge, other knowledge comes very fast; it gathers like a snowball—or perhaps it would be better to illustrate the fact by a milldam. You know, when the water is low in the milldam, the miller cannot drive his wheel; but the moment the water comes up to a certain level it has force to work the mill. And so it is with knowledge; when once you get it up to a certain level, you can 'work your mill,' with this great advantage over the milldam, that the stream of knowledge, once reaching the working level, never runs dry.”

“Oh, I wish I knew as much as you do,” exclaimed Gusty.

“And so you can if you wish it,” said Edward.

Gusty sighed heavily, and admitted he had been very idle. Edward told him he had plenty of time before him to repair the damage.

A conversation then ensued, perfectly frank on the part of the boy, and kind on Edward's side to all his deficiencies, which he found to be lamentable, as far as learning went. He had some small smattering of Latin; but Gustavus vowed steady attention to his tutor and his studies for the future. Edward, knowing what a miserable scholar the tutor himself was, offered to put Gustavus through his Latin and Greek himself. Gustavus accepted the offer with gratitude, and rode over every day to Mount Eskar for his lesson; and, under the intelligent explanations of Edward, the difficulties which had hitherto discouraged him disappeared, and it was surprising what progress he made. At the same time he devoured Irish history, and became rapidly tinctured with that enthusiastic love of all that belonged to his country which he found in his teacher; and Edward soon hailed, in the ardent neophyte, a noble and intelligent spirit redeemed from ignorance and rendered capable of higher enjoyments than those to be derived merely from field sports. Edward, however, did not confine his instructions to book-learning only; there is much to be learned by living with the educated, whose current conversation alone is instructive; and Edward had Gustavus with him as constantly as he could; and after some time, when the frequency of Gusty's visits to Mount Eskar ceased to excite any wonder at home, he sometimes spent several days together with Edward, to whom he became continually more and more attached. Edward showed great judgment in making his training attractive to his pupil: he did not attend merely to his head; he thought of other things as well; joined him in the sports and exercises he knew, and taught him those in which he was uninstructed. Fencing, for instance, was one of these; Edward was a tolerable master of his foil, and in a few months Gustavus, under his tuition, could parry a thrust and make no bad attempt at a hit himself. His improvement in every way was so remarkable, that it was noticed by all, and its cause did not long remain secret; and when it was known, Edward O'Connor's character stood higher than ever, and the whole country said it was a lucky day for Gusty O'Grady that he found such a friend. As the limits of our story would not permit the intercourse between Edward and Gustavus to be treated in detail, this general sketch of it has been given; and in stating its consequences so far, a peep into the future has been granted by the author, with a benevolence seldom belonging to his ill-natured and crafty tribe, who endeavour to hoodwink their docile followers as much as possible, and keep them in a state of ignorance as to coming events. But now, having been so indulgent, we must beg to lay hold of the skirts of our readers and pull them back again down the ladder into the private still, where Bridget pulled back Andy very much after the same fashion, and the results of which we must treat of in our next chapter.