SALVE (Hail and Farewell Book 2)

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And if any doubt regarding the authorship still remains in his mind, it will be dispelled, I think, by the labours of Plunkett and Gill in Ireland during the ten years which Hail and Farewell chronicles. Yeats and dear Edward and AE are outside and beyond anything that has ever appeared before in print; there is no standard by which we can judge them; but in the case of Plunkett and Gill there is a standard, and a literary standard.

The reader has read or has heard of Flaubert's Bouvard and Pecuchet, two clerks whom a fortune beguiles from their offices and an evil spirit urges to experiment in all directions, one of which is horticulture, and their efforts produce a melon that has all the qualities a melon should have except one—the monstrous fruit is uneatable. France has laughed at the joke for forty years, appreciating the point of it: Whosoever doubts this I would invite to compare Flaubert's invention of the melon with some of the disasters that followed Plunkett's and Gill's philanthropic career in Ireland.

Some of these disasters the reader will discover in the book, succinctly related, but the crowning disaster is the one that I hope will engage his attention. Inspired by a very noble desire for the advancement of Banva, it occurred to them that the breed of Irish asses might be improved; and having sent to the library for all the books on the subject, the twain spent six days reading, with a view to avoiding the mistakes that had been made hitherto in the breeding of asses. On the seventh day several hundred pounds were sent to Alexandria for the purchase of sires—but no, I will not deflower the joke by reporting what happened to the unfortunate p.

A broad smile will illumine the face of the reader and the smile will wax broader till he bursts into laughter, and when he comes to the impotent jackass that brays at Foxrock, he will cry aloud: But I would not give a false impression of Banva's book. The reader will find many touching incidents in it. Tchekov should have written the story of the snow lion; he would have, had not Banva been busy dictating it to me. So far my task of introducing Hail and Farewell to the reader has been an easy one.

All the merits of the book belong to Banva, and the demerits, alas!

Hail and Farewell Series

In this new edition I have not, needless to say, meddled with Banva's inventions and with the characters that she brought into the book. For me to lay hands upon these would be as unseemly as if I were to undertake to rearrange, to emendate, to revise the work of some great author—more unseemly, perhaps, for Banva is a spiritual entity; the Irish themselves are always willing to strike a blow for Banva.

So my editing was limited to re-knitting and mending the literary texture, which seemed to me in many places loose and casual. I have done my best with it, and even now, despite all my stitching and unstitching, as Yeats would say, I have not woven a garment worthy of Banva.

At the time I was very poor and had to work for my living; all the hours of the day were spent writing some chapter of Esther Waters or of Modern Painting ; and after dinner I often returned to my work. But towards midnight a wish to go out to speak to somebody would come upon me: Edward returned about that time from his club, and I used to go to Pump Court, sure of finding him seated in his high, canonical chair, sheltered by a screen, reading his book, his glass of grog beside him, his long clay pipe in his hand; and we used to talk literature and drama until two or three in the morning.

I wish I knew enough Irish to write my plays in Irish, he said one night, speaking out of himself suddenly. You'd like to write your plays in Irish! I thought nobody did anything in Irish except bring turf from the bog and say prayers. I remember the boatmen speaking to each other in Irish on Lough Carra! But I've never heard of anybody wanting to write in it I said; and my brain fluttered with ideas regarding the relation of the poem to the language in which it is born. On the subject of nationality in art one can talk a long while, and it was past one o'clock when I groped my way down the rough-timbered staircase, lit by dusty lanterns, and wandered from Pump Court into the cloister, loitering by the wig-maker's shop in the dim corner, so like what London must have been once, some hundreds of years after the Templars.

On my way back to King's Bench Walk I passed their church! And, standing before the carven porch, I thought what a happy accident it p. One is making for the southern gate, hoping that the aged porter will pull the string and let her pass out without molesting her with observations, and, when the door closed behind her, there seemed to be nothing in the Temple but silence and moonlight: The tide is out, I said, and I wondered at the spots and gleams of light, amid the shrubs in the garden, till I began to wonder at my own wonderment, for, after all, this was not the first time the moon had sailed over Lambeth.

Even so the spectacle of the moonlit gardens and the river excited me to the point of making me forget my bed; and, watching the white torch of Jupiter and the red ember of Mars, I began to think of the soul which Edward Martyn had told me I had lost in Paris and in London, and if it were true that whoever casts off tradition is like a tree transplanted into uncongenial soil.

Turgenev was of that opinion: Russia can do without any one of us, but none of us can do without Russia—one of his sentimental homilies grown wearisome from constant repetition, true, perhaps, of Russia, but utterly untrue of Ireland.

Far more true would it be to say that an Irishman must fly from Ireland if he would be himself. Englishmen, Scotchmen, Jews, do well in Ireland—Irishmen never; even the patriot has to leave Ireland to get a hearing. We must leave Ireland; and I did well to listen in Montmartre. All the same, a remembrance of Edward Martyn's conversation could not be stifled. Had I not myself written, only half conscious of the truth, that art must be parochial in the beginning to become cosmopolitan in the end? And isn't a great deal of the savour of a poem owing to the language in which it is written?

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If Dante had continued his comedy in Latin! He wrote two cantos in Latin! Or was it two stanzas? So Ireland is awaking at last out of the great sleep of Catholicism! And I walked about the King's Bench Walk, thinking what a wonderful thing it would be to write a book in a new language or in an old language revived and sharpened to literary usage for the first time. We men of letters are always sad when we hear of a mode of literary expression not available to us, or a subject we cannot treat. After discussing the Humbert case for some time, Dujardin and a friend fell to talking of what a wonderful subject it would have been for Balzac, and I listened to them in sad silence.

Moore is sad, Dujardin said. The Humbert case being involved in such a mass of French jurisprudence that—And they laughed at me. But in the Temple, in Edward's rooms, I had heard that a new literature was springing up in my own parish, and forthwith began to doubt if the liberty my father's death had given me was an unmixed blessing. The talent I brought into the world might have produced rarer fruit if it had been cultivated less sedulously.

The bitterness of my meditation was relieved, somewhat, on remembering that those who had remained in Ireland had written nothing of any worth—miserable stuff, no narrative of any seriousness, only broad farce. Lever and Lover and a rudiment, a peasant whose works I had once looked into, and whose name it was impossible to remember. Strange that Ireland should have produced so little literature, for there is a pathos in Ireland, in its people, in its landscape, and in its ruins.

And that night I roamed in imagination from castle to castle, following them from hillside to hillside, along the edges of the lake, going up a staircase built between the thickness of the walls, and on to the ramparts, remembering that Castle Carra must have been a great place some four or five hundred years ago. Only the centre of the castle remains; the headland is covered with ruins, overgrown with thorn and hazel; but great men must have gone forth from Castle Carra; and Castle Island and Castle Hag were defended with battle-axe and sword, and these were wielded as tremendously, from island to island, and along the shores of my lake, as ever they were under the walls of Troy.

But of what use are such deeds if there be no chroniclers to relate them? Heroes are dependent upon chroniclers, and Ireland never produced any, only a few rather foolish bards, no one who could rank with Froissart; and I thought of my friend up in Pump Court writing by a window, deep set in a castle wall, a history of his times.

That was just the sort of thing he might do, and do very well, for he is painstaking. An heroic tale of robbers issuing from the keep of Castle Carra and returning with cattle and a beautiful woman would be more than he could accomplish. I had heard of Grania for the first time that night, and she might be written about; but not by me, for only what my eye has seen, and my heart has felt, interests me.

What of it as a subject for artistic treatment? And noiselessly, like a ghost, modern Ireland glided into my thoughts, ruinous as ancient Ireland, more so, for she is clothed not only with the p. In Ireland we have ruins of several centuries standing side by side, from the fifth to the eighteenth.

Hail and Farewell! Ave by George Moore

By the ruins of Castle Carra stand the ruins of a modern house, to which the chieftains of Castle Carra retired when brigandage declined; and the life that was lived there is evinced by the great stone fox standing in the middle of the courtyard—was evinced, for within the last few years the fox and the two hounds of gigantic stature on either side of the gateway have been overthrown. When I was a small child I used to go with my mother and governess to Castle Carra for goat's milk, and we picnicked in the great banqueting-hall overgrown with ivy.

If ever the novel I am dreaming is written, Ruin and Weed shall be its title—ruined castles in a weedy country.

In Ireland men and women die without realising any of the qualities they bring into the world, and I remembered those I had known long ago, dimly, and in fragments, as one remembers pictures—the colour of a young woman's hair, an old woman's stoop, a man's bulk; and then a group of peasants trooped past me—Mulhair recognised by his stubbly chin, Pat Plunket by his voice, Carabine by his eyes—and these were followed by recollection of an old servant, Appleby, his unstarched collar and the frock-coat too large for him which he wore always, and his covert dislike of the other servants in the house, especially the old housemaids.

All these people have gone to their rest; they are all happily forgotten, no one ever thinks of them; but to me they are clearer than they were in life, because the present changes so quickly that we are not aware of our life at the moment of living it. But the past never changes; it is like a long picture-gallery.

Many of the pictures are covered with grey cloths, as is usual in picture-galleries; but we can uncover any picture we wish to see, and not infrequently a cloth will fall as if by magic, revealing a forgotten one, and it is often as clear in outline and as fresh in paint as a Van der Meer. It was at the end of a long summer's day, five-and-twenty years ago, that I first saw her among some ruins in the Dublin mountains, and in her reappearance she seemed so startlingly like Ireland that I felt she formed part of the book I was dreaming, and that nothing of the circumstances in which I found her could be changed or altered.

And still in my Montmartrian p. And I had set out to look for one on a hot day in July, when the trees in Merrion Square seemed like painted trees, so still were they in the grey silence; the sparrows had ceased to twitter; the carmen spat without speaking, too weary to solicit my fare; and the horses continued to doze on the bridles.

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Even the red brick, I said, seems to weary in the heat. Too hot a day for walking, but I must walk if I'm to sleep tonight. My way led through Stephen's Green, and the long decay of Dublin that began with the Union engaged my thoughts, and I fared sighing for the old-time mansions that had been turned into colleges and presbyteries.

There were lodging-houses in Harcourt Street, and beyond Harcourt Street the town dwindled, first into small shops, then into shabby-genteel villas; at Terenure, I was among cottages, and within sight of purple hills, and when the Dodder was crossed, at the end of the village street, a great wall began, high as a prison wall; it might well have been mistaken for one, but the trees told it was a park wall, and the great ornamental gateway was a pleasant object. It came into sight suddenly—a great pointed edifice finely designed, and after admiring it I wandered on, crossing an old grey bridge.

The Dodder again, I said. And the beautiful green country unfolded, a little melancholy for lack of light and shade, for lack, I added, of a ray to gild the fields. A beautiful country falling into ruin. The beauty of neglect—yet there is none in thrift.

My eyes followed the long herds wandering knee-deep in succulent herbage, and I remembered that every other country I had seen was spoilt more or less by human beings, but this country was nearly empty, only an occasional herdsman to remind me of myself in this drift of ruined suburb, with a wistful line of mountains enclosing it, and one road curving among the hills, and everywhere high walls—parks, in the centre of which stand stately eighteenth-century mansions.

How the eighteenth century sought privacy! I said, and walked on dreaming of the lives that were lived in these sequestered domains. No road ever wound so beautifully, I cried, and there are no cottages, only an occasional ruin to make the road attractive. How much more attractive it is now, redeemed from its humanities—large families flowing over doorways, probably in and out of cesspools!

I had seen such cottages in the West, and had wished them in ruins, for ruins are wistful, especially when a foxglove finds root-hold in the crannies, and tall grasses flourish round the doorway, and withdrawing my eyes from the pretty cottage, I admired the spotted shade, and the road itself, now twisting abruptly, now winding leisurely up the hill, among woods ascending on my left and descending on my right. But what seemed p. All the same, the road ascends very steeply, I growled, beginning to doubt the veracity of the agent who had informed me that a house existed in the neighbourhood.

In the neighbourhood, I repeated, for the word appeared singularly inappropriate. In the solitude, he should have said. A little higher up in the hills a chance herdsman offered me some goat's milk; but it was like drinking Camembert cheese, and the least epicurean amongst us would prefer his milk and cheese separate. He had no other, and, in answer to my questions regarding a house to let, said there was one a mile up the road: The question brought all his stupidity into his face, and after a short talk with him about his goats, I said I must be getting on to Mount Venus Nothing in Ireland lasts long except the miles, and the last mile to Mount Venus is the longest mile in Ireland; and the road is the steepest.

It wound past another ruined cottage, and then a gateway appeared—heavy wrought-iron gates hanging between great stone pillars, the drive ascending through lonely grass-lands with no house in view, for the house lay on the farther side of the hill, a grove of beech trees reserving it as a surprise for the visitor. A more beautiful grove I have never seen, some two hundred years old, and the house as old as it—a long house built with picturesque chimney-stacks, well placed at each end, a resolute house, emphatic as an oath, with great steps before the door, and each made out of a single stone, a house at which one knocks timidly, lest mastiffs should rush out, eager for the strangling.

But no fierce voices answered my knocking, only a vague echo. Maybe I'll find somebody in the back premises, and wandering through a gateway, I came upon many ruins of barns and byres, and upon a heap of stones probably once used for the crushing of apples. No cow in the byre, nor pony in the stable, nor dog in the kennel, nor pig in the sty, nor gaunt Irish fowl stalking about what seemed to be the kitchen-door. An empty dovecot hung on the wall above it.

Mount Venus without doves, I said. And as no answer came to my knocking I wandered back to the front of the house to enjoy the view of the sea and the line of the shore, drawn as beautifully as if Corot had drawn it. Dublin City appeared in the distance a mere murky mass, with here and there a building, faintly indicated. Nearer still the suburbs came trickling into the fields, the very fields in which I had seen herds of cattle feeding. A scheme for the restoration of Mount Venus started up in my mind for about two thousand pounds. I should live in the most beautiful place in the world.

The Temple Church cannot compare with Chartres, nor Mount Venus with Windsor; a trifle, no doubt, in the world of art; but what a delicious trifle! My dream died suddenly in the reflection that one country-house is generally enough for an Irish landlord, and I walked seeking for a man who would spend two thousand pounds on Mount Venus, thereby giving me a house for which I would repay by dedicating all the books I should write inspired by the lovely lines of Howth afloat between sea and sky.

Men speculate in racehorses and hounds, yachts and Scottish moors, why is it there is no one who would restore Mount Venus sufficiently for the summer months, long enough for me to write my books and to acquire a permanent memory of a beautiful thing which the earth is claiming rapidly, and which, in a few years, will pass away. By standing on some loose stones it was possible to look into the first-floor rooms, and I could see marble chimney-pieces set in a long room, up and down which I could walk while arranging my ideas; and when ideas failed me I could suckle my imagination on the view.

This is the house I'm in search of, and there seems to be enough furniture for my wants. But my pleasure will be lost if I've to wait till tomorrow. Somebody must be here. The silence that answered my knocking strengthened my determination to see Mount Venus that night, and I returned to the empty yard, and peeped and pried through all the outhouses, discovering at last a pail of newly peeled potatoes. There must be somebody about, and I waited, peeling the potatoes that remained unpeeled to pass the time.

I'm afraid I'm wasting your potatoes, I said to the woman who appeared in the doorway—a peasant woman wearing a rough, dark grey petticoat and heavy boots, men's boots they were almost the first thing I noticed —just the woman who I expected would come, the caretaker. She spoke with her head turned aside, showing a thin well-cut face with a shapely forehead, iron-grey hair, a nose, long and thin, with fine nostrils, and a mouth a pretty line I think If you'll wait a minute I'll fetch the key.

Yes, there's that, and more than that, she answered, smiling. This is the kitchen, and she showed me into a vast stone room; and the passages leading from the kitchen were wide and high, and built in stone. The walls seemed of great thickness, and when we came to the staircase, she said: Mind you don't slip. The stairs are very slippery, but can easily be put right. The stonemason will only have to run his chisel over them. It's very beautiful, I answered, turning from the parti-coloured marbles to the pictures.

All the ordinary subjects of pictorial art lined the walls, but I passed on without noticing any, so poor and provincial was the painting, until I came suddenly upon the portrait of a young girl. The painting was hardly better than any I had already seen, but her natural gracefulness transpired in classical folds as she stood leaning on her bow, a Diana of the 'forties, looking across the greensward waiting to hear if the arrow had reached its mark.

Into what kind of old age has she drifted? I asked myself, and the recollection of the thin clear-cut eager face brought me back again to the portrait, and forgetful of the woman I had found in the outhouse peeling potatoes for her dinner, I studied the face, certain that I had seen it before. Several generations seem to be on these walls, and I asked the caretaker if she knew anything about the people who had lived in the house? It was built about two hundred years ago, I should say, and we wandered into another room.

Hail and Farewell! Ave

I should like to hear something about the girl whose portrait I've been looking at. There's nothing to conceal? There's nothing in her story that any one need be ashamed of. But why do you ask? And the manner in which she put the question still further excited my curiosity. Yes, she answered, you have. The portrait in the next room is my portrait But I didn't think that any one would see the likeness. Yes, I can see the likeness. And I heard her say under her breath that she had been through a great deal of trouble, and her face was again turned from me as we walked into another room.

In some ways it would suit me well enough. I'll write and let you know. And your portrait I shall always remember, I added, thinking to please her. But seeing that my remark failed to do so, I spoke of the water supply, and she told me there was another well: I let her go and wandered whither she had advised me—to the cromlech, one of the grandest in Ireland.

I could not miss it, she had said: I'd find it if I followed the path round the hill in the beech dell: Even Druid altars do not survive the nineteenth century in Ireland, I answered, and still lingering, detained by the ancient stones, my thoughts returned to her whom an artist had painted as Diana the Huntress. A man of some talent, for he had painted her in an attitude that atoned to some extent for the poverty of the painting. Or was it she who gave him the attitude leaning on her bow? Was it she who settled the folds about her limbs, and decided the turn of her head, the eyes looking across the greensward towards the target?

Had she fled with somebody whom she had loved dearly and been deserted and cast away on that hillside? Does the house belong to her? Or is she the caretaker? Does she live there with a servant? Or alone, cooking her own dinner? None of my questions would be answered, and I invented story after story to explain her as I returned through the grey evening in which no star appeared, only a red moon rising up through the woods like a fire in the branches.

My single meeting with this woman happened twenty-five years ago, and it is more than likely she is now dead, and the ruins among which she lived are probably a quarry whence the peasants go to fetch stones to build their cottages; many of the beech trees have been felled. Mount Venus has passed away, never to be revived again. But enough of its story is remembered to fill a corner of the book I am dreaming; no more than that, for the book I am dreaming is a man's book, and it should be made of the life that lingered in Mayo till the end of the 'sixties: At these words, in the middle of the Temple, a scene rose up before p.

And on and on came horse and rider, over stone wall after stone wall, till stopped by a wall so high that no horse could jump it, so I thought. The gate of the park was miles away, so the hounds had time, not only to devour the hare they had killed, but to eat many a rabbit. Surrounding the furze, they drove the rabbits this way and that, the whole pack working in concert, as wild dogs might, and the whip, all the while, talking to a group of countrymen, until the hunt began to appear.

I must be getting to my hounds now, and picking up the snaffle-rein, he drove the pony at the wall, who, to the admiration of the group, rose at it, kicking it with her hind hooves, landing in style among the hounds quarrelling over bits of skin and bone. The wild huntsman blew his horn and, gathering his hounds round him, said to me, before putting his pony again at the wall: A great little pony, isn't she? And what's half a dozen of rabbits between twenty-two couple of hounds? It'll only give them an appetite, though they've always that.

Bedad if they weren't the most intelligent hounds in the country it's dead long ago they'd be of hunger. Do you know of an old jackass? If you do you might have a shilling for bringing him. You can have the skin back if you like to come for it. By this time all the field were up, the master, florid and elderly, and a quarrel began between him and the huntsman, whom he threatened to sack in the morning for not being up with the hounds.

Well, Pat, you must be up in time to get the next hare from them, for if you don't, it's myself and Johnny Malone that will be drinking our punch on empty bellies, which isn't good for any man. And away went the master in search of his dinner over the grey plain, under rolling clouds threatening rain, the hounds trying the patches of furze for another hare, and the field—a dozen huntsmen with a lady amongst them—waiting, talking to each other about their horses.

I could see Pat pressing his wonderful pony forward, on the alert for stragglers, assuring Bell-Ringer with a terrific crack of his whip that he was not likely to find a hare where he was looking for one, and must get into the furze instantly; and then I caught a glimpse of the ragged peasantry following the hunt over the plains of Ballyglass, just as they used to follow it, p. A place must be found, I said to myself, in my story for that pack of hounds, for its master, for its whip, and for the marvellous pony, and for a race-meeting, whether at Ballinrobe or Breaghwy or Castlebar.

The horde of peasantry would look well amid the line of hills enclosing the plain: Of a sudden I could see a crowd gathered to watch a bucking chestnut, a sixteen-hands horse with a small boy in pink upon his back. Now the horse hunches himself up till he seems like a hillock; his head is down between his legs, his hind legs are in the air, but he doesn't rid himself of his burden.

He plunges forward, he rises—up, coming down again, his head between his legs; and the boy, still unstirred, recalls the ancient dream of the Centaur. So did I remember the scene as I walked about the Temple that moonlit night, the very words of the tinkers chiming in my head after many years: Isn't he a devil? Mickey was near off that time, cries another, and while the great fight was waged between horse and jockey, my father rode up, crying to the crowd to disperse, threatening that if the course was not cleared in a few minutes he would ride in amongst them, and he on a great bay stallion.

I'll ride in amongst you; you'll get kicked, you'll get kicked. Even at this distance of time I can feel the very pang of fear which I endured, lest the horse my father was riding should kick some peasant and kill him, for, even in those feudal days, a peasant's life was considered of some value, and the horse my father rode quivered with excitement and impatience. Get back or there'll be no racing today. And you, Mickey Ford, if you can't get that horse to the post, I'll start without you. Give him his head, put the spurs into him, thrash him! And taking my father at his word, Mickey raised his whip, and down it came sounding along the golden hide.

The horse bounded higher, but without getting any nearer to unseating his rider, and away they went towards the starting-point, my father crying to the jockeys that they must get into line, telling Mickey that if he didn't walk his horse to the post he would disqualify him, and Mickey swearing that his horse was unmanageable, and my father swearing that the jockey was touching him on p. It seemed to me my father was very cruel to the poor boy whose horse wouldn't keep quiet. A moment after they were galloping over the rough fields, bounding over the stone walls, the ragged peasantry rebuilding the walls for the next race, waving their sticks, running from one corner of the field to another, and no one thinking at all of the melancholy line of wandering hills enclosing the plain.

A scene to be included in the novel I was dreaming, and, for the moment, my father appeared to me as the principal character; but only for a moment. Something much rougher, more Irish, more uncouth, more Catholic, was required. My father was a Catholic, but only of one generation, and to produce the pure Catholic several are necessary. The hero of my novel must be sought and found among the Catholic end of my family, a combination of sportsman and cattle-dealer.

Andy on his grey mare careering after the Blazers, rolling about like a sack in the saddle, but always leading the field, tempted me, until my thoughts were suddenly diverted by a remembrance of a Curragh meeting, with Dan who had brought up a crack from Galway and was going to break the ring. Dan, aren't you going to see your horse run? He'll run the same whether I'm looking at him or not.

And Dan, in his long yellow mackintosh, hurrying through the bookies, rose up in my mind, as true and distinct and characteristic of Ireland as the poor woman I had discovered among the Dublin mountains. She had fixed herself on my mind as she was in a single moment. Dan I had seen many times, in all kinds of different circumstances; all the same, it is in his mackintosh at the Curragh meeting, on his way to the urinal, that I remember him—in his tall silk hat every one wore a tall silk hat at the Curragh in the 'seventies ; but Dan was only half himself in a hat, for whoever saw him remembers the long white skull over which he trailed a lock of black hair—the long skull which I have inherited from my mother's family—and the long pale face; and his hands were like mine, long, delicate, female hands; one of Dan's sisters had the most beautiful hands I ever saw.

He'll run the same whether I'm looking at him or not, and Dan laughed craftily, for craft and innocency were mingled strangely in his face. Dan had a sense of humour. Or did I mistake a certain naturalness for humour? Be that as it may, when I was in Galway I was often tempted to ride over to see him.

It will be difficult to get him on to paper, I reflected. His humour will not transpire if I'm not very careful, for, though I may transcribe the very words he uttered, they will mean little on paper unless I get his atmosphere: A four-year-old, with back sinews and suspensory ligaments sound, rarely stood in the Dunamon stables, a chaser or two perchance.

All the same Dan did not lose money on the turf; a stroke of luck kept him going for a long time, and these strokes of luck happened every five or six years. Every five or six years he would arrive at the Curragh with a two-year-old, which, on account of its predecessors' failures, would be quoted on the list at ten to one. Dan knew how to back him quietly; his backing was done surreptitiously, without taking any one into his confidence, not even his cousins. It was no use going to Dunamon to ask him questions; the only answer one ever got was:.

There he is, quite well, but whether he can gallop or not, I can't tell you. I've nothing to try him with. There he is; go and look at him. At the post he might advise us to put a fiver on him, if he wasn't in too great a hurry. This is a reproduction of a book published before This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into pri This is a reproduction of a book published before We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book. Paperback , pages. Hail and Farewell 2. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Hail and Farewell! SALVE , please sign up. Be the first to ask a question about Hail and Farewell!

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At first I had a little difficulty getting started with Hail and Farewell: Ave, but that didn't last long. Not only did I love this book, I lived this book. I couldn't totally get the prose out of my restless mind and would have dreams vacationing in Germany during the turn of the century taking in the medieval architecture and spending time in Ireland breathing in her sp At first I had a little difficulty getting started with Hail and Farewell: I couldn't totally get the prose out of my restless mind and would have dreams vacationing in Germany during the turn of the century taking in the medieval architecture and spending time in Ireland breathing in her splendor and charm that she had locked away tantalizing my wide open mind with her splendors and treasures.

Chofy y Marian rated it liked it Oct 06, Susie Compton rated it really liked it May 07, Mohsenfahmy Moussa rated it it was amazing Feb 26, Hector rated it it was amazing Aug 24, Melanie rated it really liked it Jul 29, Michael rated it it was amazing Jul 22, David marked it as to-read Mar 30, James Crusty marked it as to-read Sep 05, Julie Elliott marked it as to-read Jun 21, Victoria Berry Ripple marked it as to-read Jul 27, Michael marked it as to-read Mar 08, Mark marked it as to-read Mar 09, Kenneth marked it as to-read Mar 10, Eric marked it as to-read Mar 10, Brandon marked it as to-read Mar 14, Kati Stevens marked it as to-read Mar 14, Emma marked it as to-read Mar 16,

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