The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-13 00:00:00

the subjoined introduction of that fat, little
rosy-faced personage—one whom Keeley viola

SAIL'

ales

LORD BROUGHTON, who has been indisposed ror
somo days past, is now much better,
FATAL COLLISION.—On Saturday afternoon the
barque Prince of the Seas, of Jersey, from Colombo
to London, put in at Falmouth, and reportedw that on Friday
night, when nearly five miles off Fowcy,
collisLin with a schooner (name unknown) which almost
she came into
immediately sank. All hands were lost, The Prince of
the SO fagf‘eligo7 402644"

Lloyd Pennant. A Tale of the West. By Ralph
Neville. Two vols. Chapman and Hall.
When William Carleton has (not to say this, of
course,in any way invidiously) become quite as much
shelved as Maria Edgeworth—when Charles Lever
contents himself with weaving a life's romance out
of the flimsy materials furnished to him by the in-
cidents of a Day's Ride—when the last scrapings
together of the feeblest fugitive pieces by the sole
surviving scion of the O'Hara Family, are being
issued from the press as a somewhat marvellous
attraction—it is nothing less than absolutely re-
freshing to encounter a new espirant to an honour-
able position in Irish Literature like the author of
this capital Tale of the West, this thoroughly
original story of " Lloyd Pennant." At once and
unhesitatingly we hold out the right hand of
welcome to Ralph Neville. Not only his story but
he himself we, upon the instant, recognize
as an—original. So completely and unmis-
takeably an original, that the English Critic
may be borne with if he manifests thus abruptly
the cordiality cf his greetiug to the Irish Novelist.
Having said which, we would at once premise,
however, that we don't feel in the least inclined to
hold up to the reader's attention, this same rollick-
ing, vivacious, and, for the most part, really ad-
mirable story of Lloyd Pennant as anything what-
ever of a luaus in literature—as, in the realms of
fiction, anything at all that can be defined as "one
entire and perfect chrysolite." Charmed, though
we have been by the narrative—when once we have
fairly got into it—we have not become, in its re-
gard, in the least, what you would call—infatuated !
Not a blemish in the work as a work of art, but
our eyes have been fully open to, even when we
have got to be the most enthralled. We have had,
throughout, moreover, a perfect consciousness
of the veriest slips of the pen or of the press as the
case may chance to be, of the merest incidental
defects, here and there, of rhetorical style, even be it
said, here and there, too, of grammatical construc-
tion. The harum-scarum, helter-skelter, dash and
vigour of the book, we have seen quite plainly have
led the writer now and then into the oddest
whimsicalities of manner—even in the matter of
his punctuation. Carrying him for example, at p.
290, vol. ii., careering down a very desert waste of
a sentence extending over a length of more than
one hundred and fifty words, words linked together
only by commas and dashes, without even one soli-
tary semicolon ; after the fashion almost of the
long-winded Patriarch's daughter in " Little
Dorrit." Another while, in the same vole ii., p. 299,
we stumble over a jolt in orthography, like the
reference to " a suppositious (sic) child," meaning
one, of course, that is supposititious: or we are winc-
ing, at p.97,v01. i., over an unrecognised aspirate like
that evidenced by the mention made there of " an
hostile population." We are thus captiously minute,
moreover, in particularising these little frivolous,
almost, we might call them, microscopic flaws and
blemishes, because we would have it understood
how thoroughly and searchingly we have scanned
this story of Lloyd Pennent, from beginning to end
before we have undertaken to write one syllable
about it. We don't know where, in truth, we have
anywhere met—for one thing—with a book that
more steadily, and at length (when the second
volume is arrived at) more rapidly improves
upon acquaintance. The interest of it is, it is
true, rather slowly worked up, at the
outset ; but, when once the author has fairly
warmed to his work, it increases and increases
as by a regular crescendo. The scene of the story,
it should also be said, is very various ; extending
over many picturesque localities in the West—of
Ireland ! Traversing a good part of Connaught—
often catching bold resounding glimpses of the
wild Atlantic ! Crossing St. George's Channel
the author, wanders at will, as one familiar with
the scenes depicted there, into that Garden of
England, Kent : or again into the streets of Lon-
don, as in another portion of his narrative he has
borne us away with him along the almost equally
well-remembered streets of Dublin. Crossing the
British Channel, moreover, at another time, we
are with him upon the trottoirs of Calais. The
backwoods of America, at another interval in
his story, being brilliantly, though rapidly and
lightly pencilled off, namely, where Lloyd
Pennant, the hero of the tale, is hiding his griefs
(under a mistaken sense of shame for his unhappy
but perfectly innocent father, Squire Ulick)
among the Red Indians and the White Canadian
population. Varied, however, and cleverly
realised though the chequered scenes and
localities are, over which the incidents of the
plot are scattered with the easy hand of
a master by Ralph Neville—they are as nothing,
either in diversity or in vividness of realisation, to
the 'characters introduced to the reader's intimate
knowledge in the course of the narrative. Although
Lloyd Pennant is himself, like so many other hand-
some gallant young heroes of romance, little more
than a better sort of a walking gentleman—he is
recognisable throughout as a fine fellow, never-
theless. But, around him are living and moving in
the mimic world of his romantic history, a delight-
ful variety of admirably well-drawn characters !
Many of these, if we mistake not, are from the life.
Take, for instance, that wonderful woman, the wife
of Captain Jack O'Mahony ! Here is the very
silhouette of her :
"Mrs. O'MAIioNY stood before the hall door, waiting to
receive, and delighted to see, her visitors; she was dressed
in a style so simple as to border on slovenliness, although
her personal appearance was by no means so prepossessing
as to counterbalance the deficiency of her toilette. The
good lady piqued herself on the plainness of her face as
well as the simplicity of her costume, and her family pride
led her to suppose that her station in society enabled her to
dispense with the all-improving adjuncts of ornaments and
dress. None of her features were regular or well formed ;
but there was the eye, flashing with natural wit, and ex •
pressive of no ordinary capacity, fine teeth, and splendid
hair, which, even at her advanced period of life, still re-
tained its glossy blackness, with a short 'retrousse' nose,
adding considerably to the drollery of her face when she
indulged in a rather coarse style of humour, which those
who were not its victims always considered as extremely
amusing. Her temper was jealous, and fickle ; she would
go any length to assist a friend in distress, and would
quarrel with the same person in prosperity for the slightest,
or no cause at all ; her hospitality and generosity made her
generally popular, but the unceasing perseverance with
which she sought out family secrets, and the merciless
manner in which she sometimes made use of her informa-
tion, rendered her the terror of her acquaintances as were
unfortunate enough to have blots upon their escutcheons,
or rather branches on their genealogical tree."
It is of her that we read in an earlier page—
" The second marriage of Mrs. O'Mahony was not
a happy one, for her present husband possessed a
very susceptible heart, and had unfortunately made
proposals of marriage, backed by vows of eternal
fidelity, to various ladies in the different English
towns at which he had been quartered,some of whom
hastened, after he had secured the wealthy widow,
to seek consolation for the loss of his love in the
substantial recompense of damages for breach of
promise of marriage ; so that after their union his
astonished wife found herself assailed on all sides
by her less fortunate rivals." Besides Mrs.
O'Mahony and Captain Jack, who do we not have
here in this " ower true" history of the Days of
the Irish Insurrection ? Besides historical charac-
ters like Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and Roche, and
Grouchy, and other somewhat minor celebrities—
Judge Blatherwell, and Pincher Martin, and Rory
Mahon the fosterer, and Roddy the Idiot, and
Johnson the sailor, and Mr. Sharp the agent, and
Lady Cifton, and her obese butler, Mr. Bush, and
Tim Nolan (in his way a fellow lo Mickey Free, or
to Cross Corney), and—best of all—the home group
of those true-born Irish gentlemen and ladies ! As a
specimen of a noble gentleman, indeed, commend
us to Colonel Blake. And as a specimen of a
refined and charming lady, commend us again
to his fair niece, Miss Bingham. Not but
what Master Mike gets nearer to our affections
somehow than either of them ! It is only
however, that we should give something
more here, by way of affording our readers
a taste of Ralph Neville's quality as—what
every true Irish novelist ought to be, needs must
be, in truth, to be of any worth at all—a racy
humourist ! As a bit of Cockney Fun, what can
be droller, nay, for that matter, what can be more
irresistibly ludicrous ruin lAughter-provoltiug;than

look to the very T—ycleped—

SKITTLES.
Very hot weather, air,' he remarked as he proceeded to
rub the closely-cut hair of his head with a piece of ice'
taken out of an oil-skin bag which:he drew from his:pocket;
when the operation was performed, would not take such 6
liberty, sir, if the young lady was with you, but the weather
is so hot.'
' It is fine and seasonable weather,' replied the colonel.
' Very bad, though, let me tell you, sir, for any one havicg
a tendency of blood to the head. You have not that Vie'

fortune, sir ?
' No; I am happy to say I have not.'
And I ant happy to hear you say so, sir,' replied bib
companion, for there cannot be a more unpleasant

as I know well.'
' I should not have supposed you were an invalid.
`Not supposed I was an invalid I' repeated the little wall;
Why, sir, I live, I may say, in death—my existence is b 1.15
momentary—there's not an office in London would do buss'
ness with me—Pm not insurable at no premium wbats(r
ever. I may drop herb there, anywhere, sir; but I 120'
as far as any man can do it, provided for the occasion.
may see by this, sir (holding out a small note taken /rein
his waistcoat pocket), that I'm fully prepared for the event*
There, sir, is my contract with Mr, Gleem, the undertaUef
(a first-rate man in his line) to bury me for the
au
of twenty guineas :—hearse, coaches, plumes, mutes, ,111°
attendants included, in good style you understand. Its!
enclosed in a note, requesting any person who may find I'
—(pointing significantly to his body)—to forward the attv'e
to the aforesaid Gleem, in Fleet-street. Carriage of (9/°1
than thirty miles to be an extra payment, for which
provision is made in my will. Not an invalid I WhY,
you yourself may have, before we part. the melancholy d"
of calling a coach to convey me to my destination.
But, better even than this, we take to be the f 0
lowing inimitably diverting record of the saying
and doings, once upon a time, of that preposterouS

fellow, Mrs. O'Mahony's
COACIIMAN JACK.
At length the carriage drew suddenly up and both Die,tl,
simultaneously tapped the window at Father Stepbeii"

back, who instantly let it down. a
' Beg your reverence's pardon,' said Jack, turning rotiti,
and stooping forward towards the window—Moore aesallo'
a similar position—' I jist want to say a word to the Pli6'

tress.'
Drive on you devil,' shouted Mrs. O'Mahony.'
I
You may talk as much as you like to me when eel ge,r
home--but it's growing late, and:the dinner will be (vie%
'Fair and easy,' replied Jack, now exhibiting indisput‘lt,
symptoms of drunkenness. Fair and easy goes far ill
day—and the divil an inch I'll stir, until I get an aneyiet',
' It's only a short question, ma'am, your honour,' 1U

posed Moore.
' It's just to know,' said Jack, ' whether Squire Mitred::
grandmother—l don't mean Torn Pincher, by course,
the real gentleman that's sitting beside you. I wait:
know whether his grandmother was a Mac earthy or
"
O'Connor.
Mac earthy I' shouted ' the mistress'—' drive on:
'A
' That's enough for you, now, I suppose,' cried gem
in triumph—' a real ould Mac earthy—a Mac 01r°'
More she was.
It's a d—d lie,' responded Jack, in a fury—' she Wed
O'Connor, and great granddaughter to Black Reddi'v
Ballentbubber—wasn't my grandfather his coachman ho
oughtn't I to know as well as any one in the world 11'
she
' I tell you again, she was better blood,' cried Dil I
' and sure I ought to know how it was, and my grandhle
her ladyship's waiting-maid.
' D'ye mean to tell me,' roared Jack, that the
Carthy's are better brought home than the ould °Togo'
of Ballenthubber ?'
' I do l' shouted Moore. Whip
' Then, by the mortial man said Jack, placing the i,t,
and reins under his foot, and proceeding to pull off hifl4
an operation as quickly performed by his companionlo
the mortial man! I'll not leave a whole bone in your
you lick-plate, that couldn't drive a wheelbarrow I' 480,
The two men deliberately tucked up their shirt 018%4
preparatory to commencing hostilities ; and Mrs. 0114:1-0,
had her head out of the window, shouting to the foet°4
who was dead drunk and fast asleep in the rumble—begird
him, for the love of Heaven, to separate them
assuming an attitude of attack, Jack shifted his foot'Ad
whip and reins fell upon the horses' backs, and awai L'iod
went at a thundering gallop—the combatants were eb;10
to suspend operations, and hold on by the box. 10
O'Mahony shrieked—but Jack seemed very indigo°
the uneasiness and alarm of the persons in the carried
Stay quiet, I tell you,' ho cried, addressing them tllll‘ 01l
the open window—' stay quiet, I tell you again---i_kt..o#
right—it's all right—they'll stop at the ford to
drink.' ,
Rory, at ' the Mistress's' instigation, endeavoureu -00
out—but he no sooner attempted to open the door', d
Jack, thrusting his arm through the open wind°'''
lared him from behind.
Tear-an-ounds, can't you be quiet, Mr. Mahon I,A°
the likes iv ye gets into a carriage with the raid 50r1,04
ought to learn to behave yerselves, and stay there Si'
as ye can ? tO
' The horse dashed on—and every group of pe°P- too
passed, instead of endeavouring to arrest their Pr°f4,
added to their speed, by waving their hats and shell°. or
Hurrah for Jack 1 he's the boy can make them g°
rah l' and, ' hurrah!' shouted Moore and Jack, frcu'A ase°
coach-box, in return—while they stamped their feet, 10'10
every effort to increase the rapidity of the Paee ; ojd
seemed now not only to forget their anger, but to
foi,
their perilous position. At length they reached the 'I the
where a bridgeless stream flowed across a hollow °oaf,
road, when the horses plunged their noses into the 41,0
and commenced drinking. The occupants of the 0,1041;
could not get out, for the river was fully three feet
and Mrs. O'Mahony, afraid to make any noise. was idol
tiently expecting relief, while Jack and Moore Or
amicable conversation on the box.
Well,' cried the former, looking down, with a11_6.10
delight and affection, on the near side horse, ' Well,
I'm blessed if there's such a bit of flesh in the county'

how.'
By gorra,' added Moore, he is great entirely. 00
I'll bet a gallon,' continued Jack, ' that I'll drife,wille
over Bar Creagh, the darkest night that ever shone'
out tipping a atone, if they war as big as bee hives:
"Pon my *owl, I don't doubt it,' responded 104/r,
°9
s 7, 011 r
,
All this time the 'mistress' had her head out of tc
dow, in the hope of espying assistance; at last, 804i:7d
boys at hand, she commenced crying out for their rw-00:i
Tear-an-ounds I ma'am,' said Gach—' can't 9°4 „ifs
yer tongue, and etey quiet—Dandy's nearly done, an A
any way disturbed, he'll be off agin. , trj
Fortunately, the horses, being blown, took long
they otherwise would have done to slake their theca tfr
a couple of barelegged gossoone, who ',addled throa
water like wild ducks, waded in to secure the reins' .001/$6
' Easy, Barney,' cried Jack; easy, Ahageee°ls);
quietly up till ye get hould iv them—Dandy's as Atitso,,2
rat-catcher's dog; and if ho smells what yer
" Rebus," he'll be off again ; an' it 'ill be clang ero°l). la
the short turn into the stableyard, for he'll go 10: 05:4
T(hsatt'hserigbhut,
handed up
uype
thew reereailnwsays handy ge°-:
a
) 111 give
Bpd
hap'orth of apples for this the next fair day.' Jac't:
When the carriage was clear of the watebr,led t° oift
Moore, amity, ti
now on terms of perfect alig
good defects—and the mistress' and her triends Oe o
l
The moment she felt herself on terra ,firma, hei.
rage broke forth.
Oh, you ungrateful monster,' addressing Jael;'' ,,,0
all I ever did for you, to behave in this sort of will. ,
By gorra,' replied Jack, deliberately knottiffi~ilh6
broken reins, ' by gorra, one 'ed think it was the
the like ever happend to your honour—don't ye °'
enough that from the mints Dandy get on tDB,,dt
Ii tt
Knockrory-hill, the divel out of hell couldn't pona 0/
until he finds his nose in the water—it's a WO' 1;010
be makin' such a fuss about—l'm ashamed iv Is• ,111
upon my soul, I am, before then strange gintleraell:o%;,'
I'll discharge you the moment I get horee--4135' s.i''d'
—if I never was to enter a carrego again,' 10°
O'Mahony. 1,00,4
il Jack paused—he was adjusting the thong of t-.oe
whip, which a • gaffer' had picked up and osrr. t 14001
him—then advancing near to where his mistress 13'1;0 ifs
a bank—and touching the handle of his whip' forgo
solemnly,—' By the blessed stick if ye do, I'll #l)°
ye, if ye were to cry for a week—so mind what 3101.-
now---that's all, 1„4:0
The night scene on the Kentish coast,
,; 0911041
Nolan and Mr. Bush the asthmatic Eng"4l- 0 ktioi
are out cooling themselves in the sea bre'ez4ol
boosing over mulled port ad libitum, is °lint ,m°o
in the highest vein of the humourous, of „ oft
essentially spontaneous, and therefore, prob;0081f
completely and hilariously entertaining• die de
however, if, without doinl
g more now t013.,00
touching thus upon what it is that COnstiti" Oros
charm of the ingenious and singohlr :004,
constructed plot,—viz., its probability
—enough if, in addition to what we I'll
already said in regard to the merits of 17,405
nant, we here obsiorve upon it, as Ralph lot of i
maiden work, in conclusion, that it is dbi rigdoo
f 7 4
freshness, its vivacity, of its fun an, vioe)
thoroughly exhilarating animatiOn, ta'°ost
of inaugurating—as we hope it will ilattu''
a new literary reputation.

r I
I - ,
------ , # fi;141;
ilfeadowleigh : Coto* ilo's
By the AuthorA.ofT4ehe°f Ladies-E'glios I;
Bed e r P.° i
tqf
Two Vols. Bentley. f ,Clie el
The authoress of " Mary Powell," and 0. ‘sotOd
and Violet," and of " The Old Chelsea 1310.,1 sh' et
it hap?
was a most charming waiter. Her 1031)4,";613, '4ll
sometimes quaint, her style was alw8.1" Ire 1,
writings were for the most pat t truly deiigbow
ens occasionally, howeversvoth 010