OConors of Castle Conor, County Mayo | Page 4

cease to be grateful for the hospitality
which I received from the O'Conors of Castle Conor. My acquaintance
with the family was first made in the following manner. But before I
begin my story, let me inform my reader that my name is Archibald
Green.
I had been for a fortnight in Dublin, and was about to proceed into
county Mayo on business which would occupy me there for some
weeks. My head-quarters would, I found, be at the town of Ballyglass;
and I soon learned that Ballyglass was not a place in which I should
find hotel accommodation of a luxurious kind, or much congenial
society indigenous to the place itself.
"But you are a hunting man, you say," said old Sir P- C-; "and in that
case you will soon know Tom O'Conor. Tom won't let you be dull. I'd

write you a letter to Tom, only he'll certainly make you out without my
taking the trouble."
I did think at the time that the old baronet might have written the letter
for me, as he had been a friend of my father's in former days; but he did
not, and I started for Ballyglass with no other introduction to any one in
the county than that contained in Sir P-'s promise that I should soon
know Mr. Thomas O'Conor.
I had already provided myself with a horse, groom, saddle and bridle,
and these I sent down, en avant, that the Ballyglassians might know
that I was somebody. Perhaps, before I arrived Tom O'Conor might
learn that a hunting man was coming into the neighbourhood, and I
might find at the inn a polite note intimating that a bed was at my
service at Castle Conor. I had heard so much of the free hospitality of
the Irish gentry as to imagine that such a thing might be possible.
But I found nothing of the kind. Hunting gentlemen in those days were
very common in county Mayo, and one horse was no great evidence of
a man's standing in the world. Men there as I learnt afterwards, are
sought for themselves quite as much as they are elsewhere; and though
my groom's top-boots were neat, and my horse a very tidy animal, my
entry into Ballyglass created no sensation whatever.
In about four days after my arrival, when I was already infinitely
disgusted with the little Pot-house in which I was forced to stay, and
had made up my mind that the people in county Mayo were a churlish
set, I sent my horse on to a meet of the fox-hounds, and followed after
myself on an open car.
No one but an erratic fox-hunter such as I am,--a fox-hunter, I mean,
whose lot it has been to wander about from one pack of hounds to
another,--can understand the melancholy feeling which a man has when
he first intrudes himself, unknown by any one, among an entirely new
set of sportsmen. When a stranger falls thus as it were out of the moon
into a hunt, it is impossible that men should not stare at him and ask
who he is. And it is so disagreeable to be stared at, and to have such
questions asked! This feeling does not come upon a man in
Leicestershire or Gloucestershire where the numbers are large, and a
stranger or two will always be overlooked, but in small hunting fields it
is so painful that a man has to pluck up much courage before he
encounters it.

We met on the morning in question at Bingham's Grove. There were
not above twelve or fifteen men out, all of whom, or nearly all were
cousins to each other. They seemed to be all Toms, and Pats, and
Larrys, and Micks. I was done up very knowingly in pink, and thought
that I looked quite the thing, but for two or three hours nobody noticed
me.
I had my eyes about me, however, and soon found out which of them
was Tom O'Conor. He was a fine-looking fellow, thin and tall, but not
largely made, with a piercing gray eye, and a beautiful voice for
speaking to a hound. He had two sons there also, short, slight fellows,
but exquisite horsemen. I already felt that I had a kind of acquaintance
with the father, but I hardly knew on what ground to put in my claim.
We had no sport early in the morning. It was a cold bleak February day,
with occasional storms of sleet. We rode from cover to cover, but all in
vain. "I am sorry, sir, that we are to have such a bad day, as you are a
stranger here," said one gentleman to me. This was Jack O'Conor,
Tom's eldest son, my bosom friend for many a year after.