The Fortunes Of Glencore
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Оглавление
Lever Charles James. The Fortunes Of Glencore
PREFACE
CHAPTER I. A LONELY LANDSCAPE
CHAPTER II. GLENCORE CASTLE
CHAPTER III. BILLY TRAYNOR – POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICIAN
CHAPTER IV. A VISITOR
CHAPTER V. COLONEL HARCOUUT’S LETTER
CHAPTER VI. QUEER COMPANIONSHIP
CHAPTER VII. A GREAT DIPLOMATIST
CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT MAN’S ARRIVAL
CHAPTER IX. A MEDICAL VISIT
CHAPTER X. A DISCLOSURE
CHAPTER XI. SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE
CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT AT SEA
CHAPTER XIII. A “VOW” ACCOMPLISHED
CHAPTER XIV. BILLY TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL
CHAPTER XV. A SICK BED
CHAPTER XVI. THE “PROJECT”
CHAPTER XVII. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE
CHAPTER XVIII. BILLY TRAYNOR AS ORATOR
CHAPTER XIX. THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE
CHAPTER XX. THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONI
CHAPTER XXI. SOME TRAITS OF LIFE
CHAPTER XXII. AN UPTONIAN DESPATCH
CHAPTER XXIII. THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL
CHAPTER XXIV. HOW A “RECEPTION” COMES TO ITS CLOSE
CHAPTER XXV. A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER
CHAPTER XXVI. ITALIAN TROUBLES
CHAPTER XXVII. CARRARA
CHAPTER XXVIII. A NIGHT SCENE
CHAPTER XXIX. A COUNCIL OF STATE
CHAPTER XXX. THE LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA
CHAPTER XXXI. AT MASSA
CHAPTER XXXII. THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN
CHAPTER XXXIII. NIGHT THOUGHTS
CHAPTER XXXIV. A MINISTER’S LETTER
CHAPTER XXXV. HARCOURT’S LODGINGS
CHAPTER XXXVI. A FEVERED MIND
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE VILLA AT SORRENTO
CHAPTER XXXVIII. A DIPLOMATIST’S DINNER
CHAPTER XXXIX. A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE
CHAPTER XL. UPTONISM
CHAPTER XLI. AN EVENING IN FLORENCE
CHAPTER XLIII. MADAME DE SABBLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING
CHAPTER XLIII. DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET
CHAPTER XLIV. THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT
CHAPTER XLV. SOME SAD REVERIES
CHAPTER XLVI. THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA
CHAPTER XLVII. A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER
CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER
CHAPTER XLIX. SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES
CHAPTER L. ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS
CHAPTER LI. CONFLICTING THOUGHTS
CHAPTER LII. MAJOR SCARESBY’S VISIT
CHAPTER LIII. A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME
CHAPTER LIV. THE END
Отрывок из книги
Where that singularly beautiful inlet of the sea known in the west of Ireland as the Killeries, after narrowing to a mere strait, expands into a bay, stands the ruin of the ancient Castle of Glencore. With the bold steep sides of Ben Creggan behind, and the broad blue Atlantic in front, the proud keep would seem to have occupied a spot that might have bid defiance to the boldest assailant. The estuary itself here seems entirely landlocked, and resembles, in the wild, fantastic outline of the mountains around, a Norwegian fiord, rather than a scene in our own tamer landscape. The small village of Leenane, which stands on the Galway shore, opposite to Glencore, presents the only trace of habitation in this wild and desolate district, for the country around is poor, and its soil offers little to repay the task of the husbandman. Fishing is then the chief, if not the sole, resource of those who pass their lives in this solitary region; and thus in every little creek or inlet of the shore may be seen the stout craft of some hardy venturer, and nets, and tackle, and such-like gear, lie drying on every rocky eminence. We have said that Glencore was a ruin; but still its vast proportions, yet traceable in massive fragments of masonry, displayed specimens of various eras of architecture, from the rudest tower of the twelfth century to the more ornate style of a later period; while artificial embankments and sloped sides of grass showed the remains of what once had been terrace and “parterre,” the successors, it might be presumed, of fosse and parapet. Many a tale of cruelty and oppression, many a story of suffering and sorrow, clung to those old walls, for they had formed the home of a haughty and a cruel race, the last descendant of which died at the close of the past century. The Castle of Glencore, with the title, had now descended to a distant relation of the house, who had repaired and so far restored the old residence as to make it habitable, – that is to say, four bleak and lofty chambers were rudely furnished, and about as many smaller ones fitted for servant accommodation; but no effort at embellishment, not even the commonest attempt at neatness, was bestowed on the grounds or the garden; and in this state it remained for some five-and-twenty or thirty years, when the tidings reached the little village of Leenane that his lordship was about to return to Glencore, and fix his residence there.
Such an event was of no small moment in such a locality, and many were the speculations as to what might be the consequence of his coming. Little, or indeed nothing, was known of Lord Glencore; his only visit to the neighborhood had occurred many years before, and lasted but for a day. He had arrived suddenly, and, taking a boat at the ferry, as it was called, crossed over to the Castle, whence he returned at nightfall, to depart as hurriedly as he came.
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“A bear!” exclaimed Craggs. “Yes, sir. It was an Italian – one Pipo Chiassi by name – that lost his beast at Manchester, and persuaded me, as I was about the same stature, to don the sable, and perform in his place. After that I took to writin’ for the papers – ‘The Skibbereen Celt’ – and supported myself very well till it broke. But here we are at the office, so I ‘ll step in, and get my fiddle, too, if you ‘ve no objection.”
The Corporal’s meditations scarcely were of a kind to reassure him, as he thought over the versatile character of his new friend; but the case offered no alternative – it was Billy or nothing – since to reach Clifden on foot would be the labor of many hours, and in the interval his master should be left utterly alone. While he was thus musing, Billy reappeared, with a violin under one arm and a much-worn quarto under the other.
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