Hyacinth. George A. Birmingham
eminent, had set to a noble tune. It embodied an appeal for funds for purposes not clearly specified, and hazarded the experiment of rhyming ‘cook’s son’ with ‘Duke’s son,’ which in less fervent times might have provoked the criticism of the captious. It became the fashion in college to chant this martial ode whenever Hyacinth was seen approaching. It was thundered out by a choir who marched in step up and down his staircase. Bars of it were softly hummed in his ear while he tried to note the important truths which the lecturers impressed upon their classes. One night five musicians relieved each other at the task of playing the tune on a concertina outside his door. They commenced briskly at eight o’clock in the evening, and the final sleepy version only died away at six the next morning.
Dr. Henry, who either did not know or chose to ignore the state of the students’ feelings, advised Hyacinth to become a member of the Theological Debating Society. The election to membership, he said, was a mere form, and nobody was ever excluded. Hyacinth sent his name to the secretary, and was blackbeaned by an overwhelming majority of the members. Shortly afterwards the Lord-lieutenant paid a visit to the college, and the students seized the chance of displaying their loyalty to the Throne and Constitution. They assembled outside the library, which the representative of Queen Victoria was inspecting under the guidance of the Provost and two of the senior Fellows. It is the nature of the students of Trinity College to shout while they wait for the development of interesting events, and on this occasion even the library walls were insufficient to exclude the noise. The excellent nobleman inside found himself obliged to cast round for original remarks about the manuscript of the ‘Book of Kells,’ while the air was heavy with the verses which commemorate the departure of ‘fifty thousand fighting men’ to Table Bay. When at length he emerged on the library steps the tune changed, as was right and proper, to ‘God save the Queen.’ Strangely enough, Hyacinth had never before heard the national anthem. It is not played or sung often by the natives of Connemara, and although the ocean certainly forms part of the British Empire, the Atlantic waves have not yet learned to beat out this particular melody. So it happened that Hyacinth, without meaning to be offensive, omitted the ceremony of removing his hat. A neighbour, joyful at the opportunity, snatched the offending garment, and skimmed it far over the heads of the crowd. A few hard kicks awakened Hyacinth more effectually to a sense of his crime, and it was with a torn coat and many bruises that he escaped in the end to the shelter of his rooms, less inclined to be loyal than when he left them.
After a few weeks it became clear that the British armies in South Africa were not going to reap that rich and unvarying crop of victories which the valour of the soldiers and the ability of the generals deserved. The indomitable spirit of the great nation rose to the occasion, and the position of those who entertained doubts about the justice of the original quarrel became more than ever unbearable. Hyacinth took to wandering by himself through parts of the city in which he was unlikely to meet any of his fellow-students. His soul grew bitter within him. The course of petty persecution to which he was subjected hardened his original sentimental sympathy with the Boer cause into a clearly defined hatred of everything English. When he got clear of the college and the hateful sound of the ‘cook’s son, Duke’s son’ tune, he tramped along, gloating quietly over the news of the latest ‘regrettable incident.’
He was very lonely and friendless, for not even the discomfiture of his enemies can make up to a young man for the want of a friend to speak to. An inexpressible longing for home came over him. There was a shop in a by-street which exposed photographs of Galway scenery in its windows for a time. Hyacinth used to go day by day to gaze at them. The modest front of the Gaelic League Hyce was another haunt of his. He used to stand Debating his eyes on the Irish titles of the books in the window, and repeating the words he read aloud to himself until the passers-by turned to look at him. Once he entered a low-browed, dingy shop merely because the owner’s name was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It was one of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large towns which devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers, apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, already growing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted the interior of the shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-haired girl reading in a corner by the light of a candle. He asked her for cigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter. It was one of O’Growney’s Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth’s heart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying to learn the dear Irish which the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other as they dragged the seaweed up from the shore? Then from the far end of the shop he heard a man’s voice speaking Irish. It was not the soft liquid tongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular and formal. The man spoke it as if it were a language he had learned, comparatively slowly and with effort. Yet the sound of it seemed to Hyacinth one of the sweetest things he had ever heard. Not even the shrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbings and protracted ostracism could prevent him from making himself known to this stranger.
‘The blessing of God upon Ireland!’ he said.
There was not a moment’s hesitation on the part of the stranger. The sound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands to Hyacinth.
‘Is it that you also are one of us—one of the Gaels?’ he asked. Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feeling of offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow. He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a long Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neither the man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counter fully understood him, but they guessed at his feelings.
‘Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? What name is there on you?’
‘Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed and lonely too,’ said Hyacinth.
‘You are a stranger no longer, then. We are all of us friends with each other. You speak our own dear tongue, and that is enough to make us friends.’
The tobacconist, it appeared, also spoke Irish of a kind. He cast occasional remarks into the conversation which followed, less, it seemed to Hyacinth, with a view of giving expression to any thought than for the sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequately learned. Indeed, it struck Hyacinth very soon that his new friend was getting rather out of his depth in his ‘own dear tongue.’ At last the tobacconist said with a smile:
‘I’m afraid we must ask Mr. Conneally—didn’t you say that Conneally was your name?—to speak the Beurla. I’m clean beaten with the Gaelic, and you can’t go much further yourself, Cahal. Isn’t that the truth, now.’
‘And small blame to me,’ said Cahal—in English, Charles—Maguire. ‘After all, what am I but a learner? And it’s clear that Mr. Conneally has spoken it since ever he spoke at all.’
Hyacinth smiled and nodded. Maguire went on:
‘What are you doing this afternoon? What do you say to coming round with me to see Mary O’Dwyer? It’s her “at home” day, and I’m just on my way there.’
‘But,’ said Hyacinth, ‘I don’t know her. I can hardly go to her house, can I?’
‘Oh, I’ll introduce you,’ said Maguire cheerfully. ‘She allows me to bring anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who loves Ireland and speaks Gaelic. Perhaps we’ll meet Finola too; she’s often there.’
‘Meet who?’
‘Finola. That’s what we call Miss Goold—Augusta Goold, you know. We call her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under her wings when the Moyle gets tempestuous. You remember the story?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Hyacinth, who had learnt the tale of Lir’s daughter as other children do Jack the Giant-Killer. ‘And who is Miss O’Dwyer?’
‘Oh, she writes verses. Surely you know them?’
Hyacinth shook his head.
‘What a pity! We all admire them immensely. She has something nearly every week