← catalogue

Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 3

by Various · English · Gutenberg #33694 · 436,534 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 3
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 3

Author: Various


        
Release date: September 10, 2010 [eBook #33694]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33694

Credits: Produced by D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 3 ***




Produced by D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









 TALES
 FROM
 "BLACKWOOD"

 Contents of this Volume

 _A Reading Party in the Long Vacation_

 _Father Tom and the Pope_

 _La Petite Madelaine. By Mrs Southey_

 _Bob Burke's Duel with Ensign Brady. By the late
 William Maginn, LL.D._

 _The Headsman: A Tale of Doom_

 _The Wearyful Woman. By John Galt_

 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON




TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD."




A READING PARTY IN THE LONG VACATION.

[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1843.]


CHAPTER I.

Every one who knows Oxford, and a good many besides, must have heard of
certain periodical migrations of the younger members of that learned
university into distant and retired parts of her Majesty's dominions,
which (on the "_lucus a non lucendo_" principle) are called and known by
the name of Reading Parties. Some half-dozen undergraduates, in peril of
the coming examination, form themselves into a joint-stock cramming
company; take L30 or L40 shares in a private tutor; pitch their camp
in some Dan or Beersheba which has a reputation for dulness; and,
like other joint-stock companies, humbug the public, and sometimes
themselves, into the belief that they are "doing business." For these
classical bubbles, the long vacation is the usual season, and Wales one
of the favourite localities; and certainly, putting "Reading" out of
the question, three fine summer months might be worse spent, than in
climbing the mountains, and whipping the trout-streams, of that romantic
land. Many a quiet sea-side town, or picturesque fishing-village, might
be mentioned, which owes no little of its summer gaiety, and perhaps
something of its prosperity, to the annual visit of "the Oxonians:"
many a fair girl has been indebted for the most piquant flirtation
of the season to the "gens togata," who were reading at the little
watering-place to which fate and papa had carried her for the race-week
or the hunt-ball: and whatever the effect of these voluntary
rustications upon the class lists in Oxford, they certainly have
procured for the parties occasionally a very high "provincial
celebrity." I know that when we beat our retreat from summer quarters
at Glyndewi in 18--, the sighs of our late partners were positively
heart-rending, and the blank faces of the deserted billiard-marker and
solitary livery-stable groom haunt me to this day.

I had been endeavouring, by hard reading for the last three months, to
work up the arrears of three years of college idleness, when my evil
genius himself, in the likeness of George Gordon of Trinity, persuaded
me to put the finishing-touch to my education, by joining a party who
were going down to Glyndewi, in ----shire, "really to read." In an
unguarded moment I consented; packed up books enough to last me for
five years, reading at the rate of twenty-four hours per day, wrote
to the governor announcing my virtuous intention, and was formally
introduced to the Rev. Mr Hanmer, Gordon's tutor, as one of his "cubs"
for the long vacation.

Six of us there were to be; a very mixed party, and not well mixed--a
social chaos. We had an exquisite from St Mary Hall, a pea-coated
Brazen-nose boatman, a philosophical water-drinker and union-debater
from Baliol, and a two-bottle man from Christ Church. When we first met,
it was like oil and water; it seemed as if we might be churned together
for a century, and never coalesce: but in time, like punch-making, it
turned out that the very heterogeneousness of the ingredients was the
zest of the compound.

I had never heard of such a place as Glyndewi, nor had I an idea how to
get there. Gordon and Hanmer were gone already; so I packed myself on
the top of the Shrewsbury mail, as the direct communication between
Oxford and North Wales, and there became acquainted with No. 2 of my
fellows in transportation (for, except Gordon and myself, we were all
utter strangers to each other). "I say, Hawkins, let's feel those
ribbons a bit, will you?" quoth the occupant of the box-seat to our
respectable Jehu. "Can't indeed, sir, with these hosses: it's as much as
ever I can do to hold this here near leader." This was satisfactory.
Risking one's neck in a tandem was all very well--a part of the regular
course of an Oxford education; but amateur drivers of stage coaches
I had always a prejudice against: let gentlemen keep their own
four-in-hands, and upset themselves and families, as they have an
undeniable right to do--but not the public. I looked at the first
speaker; at his pea-jacket, that is, which was all I could see of him:
Oxford decidedly. His cigar was Oxford too, by the villanous smell
of it. He took the coachman's implied distrust of his professional
experience good-humouredly enough, proffered him his cigar-case, and
entered into a discussion on the near leader's moral and physical
qualities. "I'll trouble you for a light, if you please," said I. He
turned round, we stuck the ends of our cigars together, and puffed into
each other's faces for about a minute (my cigars were dampish), as grave
as North American Indians. "Thank you," said I, as the interesting
ceremony was concluded, and our acquaintance begun. We got into
conversation, when it appeared that he too was bound for the
undiscovered shores of Glyndewi, and that we were therefore likely to be
companions for the next three months. He was an off-hand, good-humoured
fellow; drank brandy-and-water, treated the coachman, and professed an
acquaintance with bar-maids in general, and pretty ones in particular,
on our line of road. He was going up for a class, he supposed, he said;
the governor had taken a "second below the line" himself, and insisted
upon his emulating the paternal distinction; d----d nonsense, he said,
in his opinion: except that the governor had a couple of harriers with
Greek names, he did not see that his classics were of any use to him;
and no doubt but that Hylax and Phryne would run just as well if they
had been called Stormer and Merry Lass. However, he must rub up all his
old Eton books this "long," and get old Hanmer to lay it on thick. Such
was Mr Branling of Brazen-nose.

At Shrewsbury, we were saluted with the intelligence, "Coach dines here,
gentlemen." We found a couple of fowls that the coach might probably
have dined upon, and digested with other articles--in the hind boot; to
human stomachs they seemed impracticable. We employed the allotted ten
minutes upon a leg of mutton, and ascended again to our stations on the
roof; and here was an addition to our party. Externally, it consisted
of a mackintosh and a fur cap: in the very short interval between the
turned-down flap of the one and the turned-up collar of the other, were
a pair of grey glass spectacles, and part of a nose. So far we had no
very sufficient premises from which to draw conclusions, whether or not
he were "one of us." But there were internal evidences; an odour of
Bouquet de Roi, or some such villanous compound, nearly overpowering
the fragrance of some genuine weed which I had supplied my pea-coated
friend with in the place of his Oxford "Havannahs;" a short cough
occasionally, as though the smoke of the said weed were not altogether
"the perfume of the lips he loved;" and a resolute taciturnity. What was
he? It is a lamentable fact, that an Oxford undergraduate does not
invariably look the gentleman. He vibrates between the fashionable
assurance of a London swindler and the modest diffidence of an overgrown
schoolboy. There is usually a degree of unfinishedness about him. He
seems to be assuming a character: unlike the glorious Burschenschaft
of Germany, he has no character of his own. However, for want of more
profitable occupation, we set to work in earnest to discover who our
fellow-traveller really was; and by a series of somewhat American
conversational inquiries, we at last fished out that he was going into
----shire, like ourselves--nay, in answer to a direct question on the
subject, that he hoped to meet Hanmer of Trinity at Glyndewi. But no
further information could we get: our new friend was reserved. Mr
Branling and I had commenced intimacy already. "My name is Branling
of Brazen-nose;" "and mine Hawthorne of ----;" was our concise
introduction. But our companion was the pink of Oxford correctness on
this point. He thanked the porter for putting his luggage up; called me
"Sir," till he found I was an Oxford man; and had we travelled for a
month together, would rather have requested the coachman to introduce
us, than be guilty of any such barbarism as to introduce himself. So by
degrees our intimacy, instead of warming, waxed cold. As night drew on,
and the fire of cigars from Branling, self, and coachman became more
deadly, the fur cap was drawn still closer over the ears, the mackintosh
crept up higher, and we lost sight of all but the outline of the
spectacles.

The abominable twitter of the sparrows in the hedgerows gave notice of
the break of day--to travellers the most dismal of all hours, in my
opinion--when I awoke from the comfortable nap into which I had fallen
since the last change of horses. For some time we alternately dozed,
tumbled against each other, begged pardon, and awoke; till at last the
sun broke out gloriously as we drove into the cheerful little town of
B----.

A good breakfast set us all to rights, and made even our friend in the
mackintosh talkative. He came out most in the character of tea-maker (an
office, by the way, which he filled to the general satisfaction of his
constituents during our stay in North Wales). We found out that he was a
St Mary Hall man, with a duplicate name: Mr Sydney Dawson, as the cards
on his multifarious luggage set forth: that he was an aspirant for
"anything he could get" in the way of honours (humble aspiration as it
seemed, it was not destined to be gratified, for he got nothing). He
thought he might find some shooting and fishing in Wales, so had
brought with him a gun-case and a setter; though his pretensions to
sportsmanship proved to be rather of the cockney order. For three months
he was the happily unconscious butt of our party, and yet never but once
was his good-humour seriously interrupted.

From B---- to Glyndewi we had been told we must make our way as we
could: and a council of war, which included boots and the waiter, ended
in the arrival of the owner of one of the herring-boats, of which there
were several under "the terrace." "Was you wish to go to Glyndewi,
gentlemen? I shall take you so quick as any way; she is capital wind,
and you shall have fine sail." A man who could speak such undeniable
English was in himself a treasure; for an ineffectual attempt at a
bargain for some lobsters (even with a "Welsh interpreter" in our hands)
had warned us that there were in this Christian country unknown tongues
which would have puzzled even the Rev. Edward Irving. So the bargain was
struck: in half an hour ourselves and traps were alongside the boat:
and after waiting ten minutes for the embarkation of Mr Sydney Dawson
and his dog Sholto, who seemed to have an abhorrence of sea-voyages,
Branling at last hauled in the latter in the last agonies of
strangulation, and his master having tumbled in over him, to the
detriment of a pair of clean whites and a cerulean waistcoat, we--_i.
e._ the rest of us--set sail for Glyndewi in high spirits.

Our boatmen were intelligent fellows, and very anxious to display their
little stock of English. They knew Mr Hanmer well, they said--he had
been at Glyndewi the summer before; he was "nice free gentleman;" and
they guessed immediately the object of our pilgrimage: Glyndewi was
"very much for learning;" did not gentlemen from Oxford College, and
gentlemen from Cambridge College, all come there? We warned him not on
any account to couple us in his mind with "Cambridge gentlemen:" we were
quite a distinct species, we assured him. (They had beaten us that year
in the eight-oar match on the Thames.) But there seemed no sufficient
reason for disabusing their minds of the notion that this influx of
students was owing to something classical in the air of Glyndewi;
indeed, supposing this theory to be wrong, it was no easy matter to
substitute a sounder one. In what did the superiority of Mrs Jenkins's
smoky parlour at Glyndewi consist, for the purposes of reading for a
degree, compared with my pleasant rooms looking into ---- gardens at
Oxford, or the governor's snug library at home? It is an abstruse
question. Parents and guardians, indeed, whose part upon the stage of
life, as upon the theatrical stage, consists principally in submitting
to be more or less humbugged, attribute surprising effects to a fancied
absence of all amusements, with a mill-horse round of Greek, Latin, and
logic, early rising, and walks in the country with a pocket Horace. From
my own experience of reading parties, I should select as their peculiar
characteristics a tendency to hats and caps of such remarkable shapes
as, if once sported in the college quadrangle, would be the subject of
a common-room _instanter_; and, among some individuals (whom we may
call the peripatetic philosophers of the party) a predilection for
seedy shooting-coats and short pipes, with which they perambulate the
neighbourhood to the marvel of the aboriginal inhabitants; while
those whom we may class with the stoics, display a preference for
dressing-gowns and meerschaums, and confine themselves principally to
the doorways and open windows of their respective lodgings. How far
these "helps to knowledge"--for which Oxford certainly does not afford
equal facilities--conduce to the required first or second class, is a
question I do not feel competent to decide; but _if_ reading-parties
_do_ succeed, the secret of their success may at least as probably lie
in these hitherto unregarded phenomena.

Five hours of a fair wind brought us to Glyndewi. Here we found Hanmer
and Gordon, who had taken a house for the party, and seemed already
domesticated. I cannot say that we were royally lodged: the rooms were
low, and the terms high; but as no one thought of taking lodgings at
Glyndewi in the winter, and the rats consequently lived in them
rent-free for six months, it was but fair somebody should pay: and
we did. "Attendance" we had into the bargain. Now, attendance at a
lodging-house has been defined to be, the privilege of ringing your bell
as often as you please, provided you do not expect any one to answer it.
But the bell-ropes in Mrs Jenkins's parlours being only ornamental
appendages, our privilege was confined to calling upon the landing-place
for a red-headed female, who, when she did come, which was seldom, was
terrible to look upon, and could only be conversed with by pantomime.

To do Mrs Jenkins and "Gwenny" justice, they were scrupulously clean
in everything but their own persons, which, the latter's especially,
seemed to have monopolised the dirt of the whole establishment.
College bedrooms are not luxurious affairs, so we were not inclined
to be captious on that head; and we slept soundly, and awoke with a
determination to make our first voyage of discovery in a charitable
spirit.

The result of our morning's stroll was the unanimous conclusion that
Glyndewi was a rising place. It did not seem inclined to rise all at
once though; but in patches here and there, with a quarter of a mile or
so between, like what we read of the great sea-serpent. (I fear this
individual is no more; this matter-of-fact age has been the death of
him.) There were two long streets--one parallel to the quay (or, as the
more refined call it, "the terrace"), and the other at right angles to
it. The first was Herring Street--the second Goose Street. At least such
were the ancient names, which I give for the benefit of antiquarian
readers. Since the then Princess Victoria visited B----, the loyalty of
the Glyndewi people had changed "Herring" into "Victoria;" and her royal
consort has since had the equivocal compliment paid him of transmuting
"Goose Street" into "Albert Buildings." I trust it will not be
considered disloyal to say, that the original sponsors--the geese and
the herrings--seem to me to have been somewhat hardly used; having done
more for their namesakes than, as far as I can learn, their royal
successors even promised.

Glyndewi was rising, however, in more respects than in the matter of
taste in nomenclature. Tall houses, all front and windows, were stuck up
here and there; sometimes with a low fisherman's cottage between them,
whose sinking roof and bulging walls looked as if, like the frog in the
fable, it had burst in the vain attempt to rival its majestic neighbour.
At one end stood a large hotel with a small business, and an empty
billiard-room; at the other, a wall six inches high marked the spot
where subscription-rooms were to be built for the accommodation of
visitors and the public generally, as set forth in the prospectus, as
soon as the visitors and the public chose to find the money. Nearly the
whole of the village was the property of a gentleman who had built
the hotel and billiard-room, and run up a few lodging-houses on a
speculation, which seemed at best a doubtful one, of making it in time
a fashionable watering-place.

Glyndewi had been recommended to us as a quiet place. It was
quiet--horribly quiet. Not the quiet of green fields and deep woods,
the charm of country life; but the quiet of a teetotal supper-party,
or a college in vacation. "Just the place for reading: no gaiety--no
temptations." So I had written to tell the governor, in the ardour of my
setting forth as one of a "reading-party:" alas! it was a fatal mistake.
Had it been an ordinarily cheerful place, I think one or two of us could
and would have read there; as it was, our whole wits were set to work to
enliven its dulness. It took us as long to invent an amusement, as would
have sufficed elsewhere for getting tired of half-a-dozen different
dissipations. The very reason which made us fix upon it as a place to
read in, proved in our case the source of unmitigated idleness. "No
temptations," indeed! there were no temptations--the only temptation I
felt there was to hang or drown myself, and there was not a tree six
feet high within as many miles, and the Dewi was a river "darkly,
deeply, beautifully"--muddy; it would have been smothering rather. We
should not have staid to the end of the first month, had it not been for
very shame; but to run away from a reading-party would have been a joke
against us for ever. So from the time we got up in the morning, until
we climbed Mrs Jenkins's domestic tread-mill again at night, the one
question was, what should we do with ourselves? Walk? there were the
A---- and B---- roads--three miles of sand and dust either way. Before
us was the bay--behind the ----shire mountains, up which one might walk
some sixteen miles (in the month of July), and get the same view from
each successive point you reached: viz., a hill before you, which you
thought must be the top at last, and Glyndewi--of which we knew the
number of houses, and the number of windows in each--behind. Ride
then?--the two hacks kept by mine host of the Mynysnewydd Arms deserve
a history to themselves. Rosinante would have been ashamed to be seen
grazing in the same field with such caricatures of his race. There was a
board upon a house a few doors off, announcing that "pleasure and other
boats" were to be let on hire. All the boats that we were acquainted
with must have been the "other" ones--for they smelled of herrings,
sailed at about the pace of a couple of freshmen in a "two-oar," and
gave very pretty exercise--to those who were fond of it--in baling. As
for reading, we were like the performers at a travelling theatre--always
"going to begin."

Branling, indeed, did once shut himself up in his bedroom, as we
afterwards ascertained, with a box of cigars and a black and tan
terrier, and read for three weeks on end in the peculiar atmosphere thus
created. Willingham of Christ Church, and myself, had what was called
the dining-room in common, and proceeded so far on the third day after
our arrival, as to lay out a very imposing spread of books upon all the
tables; and there it remained in evidence of our good intentions, until
the first time we were called upon to do the honours of an extempore
luncheon. Unfortunately, from the very first, Willingham and myself
were set down by Hanmer as the idle men of the party; this sort of
prophetical discrimination, which tutors at Oxford are very much in the
habit of priding themselves upon, tends, like other prophecies, to work
its own fulfilment. Did a civil Welshman favour us with a call? "Show
him in to Mr Hawthorne and Mr Willingham; I dare say they are not very
busy"--quoth our _Jupiter tonans_ from on high in the dining-room, where
he held his court; and accordingly in he came. We had Stilton and
bottled porter in charge for these occasions from the common stock; but
the honours of all these visits were exclusively our own, as far as
house-room went. In dropped the rest of the party, one by one. Hanmer
himself pitched the Ethics into a corner to make room, as he said, for
substantials, the froth of bottled Guinness damped the eloquence of
Cicero, and Branling having twisted up my analysis of the last-read
chapter into a light for his cigar, there was an end of our morning's
work. How could we read? That was what we always said, and there was
some truth in it.

Mr Branling's reading fit was soon over too; and having cursed the
natives for barbarians, because there was not a pack of harriers within
ten miles, which confirmed him in the opinion he had always expressed of
their utter want of civilisation (for, as he justly remarked, not one in
a dozen could even speak decent English), he waited impatiently for
September, when he had got leave from some Mr Williams or Jones--I never
remembered which--to shoot over a considerable range about Glyndewi.

But with the 20th of August a change came o'er the spirit of our dream.
Hitherto we had seen little of any of the neighbouring families,
excepting that of a Captain George Phillips, who, living only three
miles off, on the bank of the river, and having three sons and two
daughters, and keeping a pretty yacht, had given us a dinner-party
or two, and a pleasant day's sail. Capital fellows were the young
Phillipses: Nature's gentlemen; unsophisticated, hearty Welshmen; lads
from sixteen to twenty. Down they used to come in a most dangerous
little craft of their own, which went by the name of the "Coroner's
Inquest," to smoke cigars, (against which the Captain had published an
interdict at home), and question us about Oxford larks, and tell us in
return stories of wild-fowl shooting, otter-hunting, and salmon-fishing,
in all which they were proficient.

Our establishment was not an imposing one, but of them we made no
strangers. Once they came, I remember, self-invited to dinner, in a most
unfortunate state of our larder. The weekly half sheep had not arrived
from B----; to get anything in Glyndewi, beyond the native luxuries of
bacon and herrings, was hopeless; and our dinner happened to be a leash
of fowls, of which we had just purchased a live supply. Mrs Glasse would
have been in despair; we took it coolly; to the three boiled fowls at
top, we added three roast ditto at bottom, and by unanimous consent of
both guests and entertainers, a more excellent dinner was never put on
table.

But the 20th of August the day of the Glyndewi regatta!--_that_ must
have a chapter to itself.


CHAPTER II.

When a dull place like Glyndewi does undertake to be gay, it seldom does
things by halves. Ordinary doses of excitement fail to meet the urgency
of the case. It was the fashion, it appeared, for all the country
families of any pretensions to _ton_, and not a few of the idlers from
the neighbouring watering-places, to be at Glyndewi for the race-week.
And as far as the programme of amusements went, certainly the committee
(consisting of the resident surgeon, the non-resident proprietor of the
"hotel," &c., and a retired major in the H.E.I.C.'s service, called
by his familiars by the endearing name of "Tiger Jones") had made a
spirited attempt to meet the demand. A public breakfast, and a regatta,
and a ball--a "Full Dress and Fancy Ball," the advertisement said, on
the 20th; a Horse-Race and an Ordinary on the 21st; a Cricket Match, if
possible, and any extra fun which the Visitors' own genius might strike
out on the following days.

The little bay of Glyndewi was not a bad place for a boat-race on a
small scale. The "terrace" commanded the whole of it; there were plenty
of herring-boats, about equally matched in sailing deficiencies, ready
and willing to "run"--_i. e._ creep--for the prizes; and an honourable
member of the Yacht Club, who for some years past, for reasons which it
was said his creditors could explain, had found it more convenient to
keep his season at B---- than at Cowes, always paid the stewards the
compliment of carrying off the "Ladies' Challenge Cup."

The two or three years' experience which the Glyndewi people had lately
gained of the nature and habits of "the Oxonians," made them an article
in great demand on these occasions. Mammas and daughters agreed in
looking upon us as undeniable partners in the ball-room, while the
sporting men booked us as safe for getting up a creditable four-oar,
with a strong probability of finding a light-weight willing to risk his
neck and reputation at a hurdle-race. Certain it is, that from the time
the races began to be seriously talked about, we began to feel ourselves
invested with additional importance. "Tiger Jones" (who occupied a snug
little box about a mile out of Glyndewi, where he lived upon cheroots
and brandy-and-water) called, was exceedingly polite, apologised for
not inviting us to dinner--a thing he declared impossible in his
quarters--hoped we would call some day and take a lunch with him, spoke
with rapture of the capital crew which "the gentlemen who were studying
here last summer" had made up, and which ran away from all competitors,
and expressed a fervent hope that we should do likewise.

The sporting surgeon (of course he had called upon us long ago)
redoubled his attentions, begged that if any of us were cricketers we
would endeavour to aid him in getting up a "Glyndewi eleven" against the
"Strangers," and fixed himself upon me as an invaluable acquisition,
when he found I had actually once played in a match against Marylebone.
(I did not tell him that the total score of my innings was "_one_.")
Would I, then, at once take the drilling of as many recruits as he could
get together? And would Mr Willingham and Mr Gordon, who "used to play
at school," get up their practice again? (It wanted about a fortnight to
the races.) The result of this, and sundry other interviews, was, that
Branling at length found a vent for the _vis inertiae_ in putting us all,
with the exception of Mr Sydney Dawson, whom he declared to be so stiff
in the back that he had no hope of him, into training for a four-oar;
and the surgeon and myself set off in his gig for B----, to purchase
materials for cricket.

It is true that our respected tutor did look more than usually grave,
and shook his head with a meaning almost as voluminous as Lord
Burleigh's, when informed of our new line of study. Rowing he declared
to be a most absurd expenditure of time and strength; he never could see
the fun of men breaking blood-vessels, and getting plucked for their
degree, for the honour of "the Trinity Boat." But the cricket touched
him on the raw. He was an old Etonian, and had in his time been
a good player; and was now as active as any stout gentleman of
seven-and-thirty, who had been twelve years a steady admirer of bursary
dinners and common-room port. So, after some decent scruples on his
part, and some well-timed compliments touching his physical abilities on
ours (he was much vainer of the muscle of his arm than of his high
reputation as a scholar), we succeeded in drawing from him a sort of
promise, that if we were so foolish as to get up a match, he would try
whether he had forgot all about bowling.

For the next fortnight, therefore, we had occupation enough cut out
for us. Branling was unmerciful in his practice on the river; and
considering that two of us had never pulled an oar but in the slowest
of "Torpids," we improved surprisingly under his tuition. The cricket,
too, was quite a new era in our existence. Dawson (we told him that the
"Sydney" must be kept for Sundays) was a perfect fund of amusement in
his zealous practice. He knew as much about the matter as a cow might,
and was rather less active. But if perseverance could have made a
cricketer, he would have turned out a first-rate one. Not content with
two or three hours of it every fine evening, when we all sallied down
to the marsh, followed by every idler in Glyndewi, he used to disappear
occasionally in the mornings, and for some days puzzled us as to where
and how he disposed of himself. We had engaged, in our corporate
capacity, the services of a most original retainer, who cleaned boots,
fetched the beer, ate the cold mutton, and made himself otherwise
useful when required. He was amphibious in his habits, having been a
herring-fisher the best part of his life; but being a martyr to the
rheumatism, which occasionally screwed him up into indescribable forms,
had betaken himself to earning a precarious subsistence as he could on
shore. It was not often that we required his services between breakfast
and luncheon, but one morning, after having despatched Gwenny in all
directions to hunt for Bill Thomas in vain, we at at last elicited from
her that "maybe she was gone with Mr Dawson." Then it came out, to our
infinite amusement, that Dawson was in the habit, occasionally, of
impressing our factotum Bill to carry bat, stumps, and ball down to the
marsh, and there commencing private practice on his own account.

Mr Sydney Dawson and Bill Thomas--the sublime and the
ridiculous--amalgamating at cricket, was far too good a joke to lose; so
we got Hanmer to cut his lecture short, and come down with us to the
scene of action. From the cover of a sand-bank, we had a view of all
that was going on in the plain below. There was our friend at the
wicket, with his coat off, and the grey spectacles on, in an attitude
which it must have taken him some study to accomplish, and Bill, with
the ball in his hand, vociferating "Plaiy." A ragged urchin behind the
wicket, attempting to bag the balls as Dawson missed them in what had
once been a hat, and Sholto looking on with an air of mystification,
completed the picture.

"That's too slow," said Sydney, as Bill, after some awful contortions,
at length delivered himself of what he called a cast. "_Diawl!_" said
Bill, _sotto voce_, as he again got possession of the ball. "That's too
high," was the complaint, as, with an extraordinary kind of jerk, it
flew some yards over the batsman's head, and took what remained of the
crown out of the little lazzaroni's hat behind. "_Diawl!_" quoth Bill
again, apologetically. "She got too much way on her that time." Bill
was generally pretty wide of his mark, and great appeared to be the
satisfaction of all parties when Dawson contrived to make a hit, and
Sholto and the boy set off after the ball, while the striker leaned with
elegant _nonchalance_ upon his bat, and Bill mopped his face, and gave
vent to a complimentary variety of "Diawl." It was really a pity to
interrupt the performance; but we did at last. Bill looked rather
ashamed of his share in the business when he saw "Mishtar," as he called
Hanmer; but Dawson's self-complacency and good-humour carried him
through everything. "By Jove," said Willingham to him, "no wonder you
improve in your style of play; Bill has no bad notion of bowling, has
he?" "Why, no; he does very well for practice; and he is to have
half-a-crown if he gets me out." "Bowl at his legs, Bill," said
Willingham aside, "he's out, you know, if you hit them." "Nay," said
Bill, with a desponding shake of the head, "she squat 'n hard on the
knee now just, and made 'n proper savage, but I wasn't get nothing for
that."

Positively we did more in the way of reading after the boating and the
cricket began, than while we continued in a state of vagrant idleness,
without a fixed amusement of any kind. In the first place, it was
necessary to conciliate Hanmer by some show of industry in the morning,
in order to keep him in good humour for the cricket in the evening; for
he was decidedly the main hope of our having anything like a decent
eleven. Secondly, the Phillipses took to dining early at home, and
coming to practice with us in the evening, instead of dropping down the
river every breezy morning, and either idling in our rooms, or beguiling
us out mackerel-fishing or flapper-shooting in their boat. And thirdly,
it became absolutely necessary that we should do something, if class
lists and examiners had any real existence, and were not mere bugbears
invented by "alma mater" to instil a wholesome terror into her unruly
progeny. Really, when one compared our actual progress with the Augean
labour which was to be gone through, it required a large amount of faith
to believe that we were all "going up for honours in October."

We spent a very pleasant morning at Llyn-eiros, the den of "Tiger
Jones." He obtained this somewhat appalling sobriquet from a habit of
spinning yarns, more marvellous than his unwarlike neighbours were
accustomed to, of the dangers encountered in his Indian sports; and one
in particular, of an extraordinary combat between his "chokedar" and a
tiger--whether the gist of the story lay in the tiger's eating the
chokedar, or the chokedar eating the tiger, I am not sure--I rather
think the latter. However, in Wales one is always glad to have some
distinguishing appellation to prefix to the name of Jones. If a man's
godfathers and godmothers have the forethought to christen him
"Mountstewart Jones," or "Fitzhardinge Jones" (I knew such instances of
cognominal anticlimax), then it was all very well--no mistake about the
individuality of such fortunate people. But "Tom Joneses" and "Bob
Joneses" were no individuals at all. They were classes, and large
classes; and had to be again distinguished into "Little Bob Joneses" and
"Long Bob Joneses." Or if there happened to be nothing sufficiently
characteristic in the personal appearance of the rival Joneses, then
was he fortunate who had no less complimentary additions to his style
and title than what might be derived from the name of his location, or
the nature of his engagements. These honours were often hereditary--nay,
sometimes descended in the female line. We hear occasionally, in
England, of "Mrs Doctor Smith," and "Mrs Major Brown;" and absurd as it
is, one does comprehend by intuition that it was the gentleman and not
the lady who was the ten-year man at Cambridge, or the commandant of
the Boggleton yeomanry; but few besides a Welshman would have learned,
without a smile, that "Mrs Jones the officer" was the relict of the late
tide-waiter at Glyndewi, or that the quiet, modest little daughter of
the town-clerk of B---- was known to her intimates as "Miss Jones the
lawyer." Luckily our friend the Tiger was a bachelor; it would have been
alarming to a nervous stranger at the Glyndewi ball, upon inquiring the
name of the young lady with red hair and cat's eyes, to have been
introduced incontinently to "Miss Jones the tiger."

The Tiger himself was a well-disposed animal; somewhat given to solitary
prowling, like his namesakes in a state of nature, but of most
untigerlike and facetious humour. He generally marched into Glyndewi
after an early breakfast, and from that time until he returned to
his "mutton" at five, might be seen majestically stalking up and down
the extreme edge of the terrace, looking at the fishing-boats, and
shaking--_not_ his tail, for, as all stout gentlemen seemed to think it
their duty to do by the sea-side, he wore a round jacket. From the time
that we began our new pursuits, he took to us amazingly--called us
his "dear lads"--offered bets to any amount that we should beat the
B---- Cutter Club, and protested that he never saw finer bowling at
Lord's than Hanmer's.

Branling was in delight. He had found a man who would smoke with him all
day (report said, indeed, that the Tiger regularly went to sleep with
a cheroot in his mouth), and he had the superintending of "the boat,"
which was his thought from morning to night. A light gig, that had once
belonged to the custom-house, was polished and painted under his special
directions (often did we sigh for one of King's worst "fours!") and the
fishermen marvelled at such precocious nautical talent.

None of these, however--great events as they were in our hitherto
monotonous sojourn--were the "crowning mercy" of the Glyndewi regatta.
Hitherto the sunshine of bright eyes, and the breath of balmy lips, had
been almost as much unknown to us as if we had been still within the
monastic walls of Oxford. We had dined in a body at our friend the
surgeon's: he was a bachelor. We had been invited by twos and threes at
a time to a Welsh squire's in the neighbourhood, who had two maiden
sisters, and a fat, good-humoured wife. Captain Phillips had given us a
spread more than once at Craig-y-gerron, and, of course, some of us (I
was not so fortunate) had handed in the Misses Phillips to dinner; but
the greater part of the time from six till eleven (at which hour Hanmer
always ordered out our "_trap_") was too pleasantly occupied in
discussing the captain's port and claret, and laughing at his jokes,
to induce us to give much time or attention to the ladies in the
drawing-room. If some of my fair readers exclaim against this stoic (or
rather epicurean) indifference, it may gratify their injured vanity to
know, that in the sequel some of us paid for it.

The Phillipses came down in full force the day before the regatta; they
were engaged to lunch with us, and, as it was the first time that the
ladies of the party had honoured us with a visit, we spared no pains to
make our entertainment somewhat more _recherche_ than was our wont. It
was then that I first discovered that Clara Phillips was beautiful. I am
not going to describe her now; I never could have described her. All I
knew, and all I remember, was, that for a long time afterwards I formed
my standard of what a woman ought to be, by unconscious comparison with
what she was. What colour her eyes were, was a question among us at the
time. Willingham swore they were grey; Dawson insisted that they were
hazel; Branling, to whom they referred the point, was inclined to think
there was "something green" in them. But that they were eyes of no
common expression, all of us were agreed. I think at least half the
party were more than half in love with her when that race-week was over.
In one sense it was not her fault if we were; for a girl more thoroughly
free from every species of coquetry, and with less of that pitiful
ambition of making conquests, which is the curse of half the sex, it was
impossible to meet with. But she was to blame for it too, in another
way; for to know her, and not love her, would have been a reproach to
any man. Lively and good-humoured, with an unaffected buoyancy of
spirits, interesting herself in all that passed around her, and
unconscious of the interest she herself excited, no wonder that she
seemed to us like an angel sent to cheer us in our house of bondage. Of
her own family she was deservedly the darling; even Dick Phillips, whom
three successive tutors had given up in despair, became the most docile
of pupils under his sister Clara. Accustomed early to join her brothers
in all out-door sports, she was an excellent horsewoman, a fearless
sailor, and an untiring explorer of mountains and waterfalls, without
losing her naturally feminine character, or becoming in any degree a
hoiden or a romp. She sang the sweet national airs of Wales with a voice
whose richness of tone was only second to its power of expression. She
did everything with the air of one who, while delighting others, is
conscious only of delighting herself; and never seeking admiration,
received it as gracefully as it was ungrudgingly bestowed.

If there is one form of taking exercise which I really hate, it is what
people call dancing. I am passionately fond of music; but why people
should conceive it necessary to shuffle about in all varieties of
awkwardness, in order to enjoy it to their satisfaction, has been, is,
and probably will ever be, beyond my comprehension. It is all very well
for young ladies on the look-out for husbands to affect a fondness for
dancing: in the first place, some women dance gracefully, and even
elegantly, and show themselves off undoubtedly to advantage (if any
exhibition on a woman's part be an advantage); then it gives an excuse
for whispering, and squeezing of hands, and stealing flowers, and a
thousand nameless skirmishings preparatory to what they are endeavouring
to bring about--an engagement; but for a man to be fond of shuffling
and twirling himself out of the dignity of step which nature gave
him--picking his way through a quadrille, like a goose upon hot bricks,
or gyrating like a bad tee-totum in what English fashionables are
pleased to term a "valse," I never see a man thus occupied, without a
fervent desire to kick him. "What a Goth!" I hear a fair reader of
eighteen, prettily ejaculate--"thank Heaven, that all men have not such
barbarous ideas! Why, I would go fifty miles to a good ball!" Be not
alarmed, my dear young lady; give me but a moment to thank Providence,
in my turn, that you are neither my sister nor my daughter, and I will
promise you that you shall never be my wife.

On the Saturday night, then, I made Gordon and Willingham both very
cross, and caught Sydney Dawson's eye looking over his spectacles with
supreme contempt, when I declared my decided intention of staying at
home the night of the ball. Even the Reverend Robert Hanmer, who was
going himself, was annoyed when Gordon told him of what he called my
wilfulness, having a notion that it was decidedly disrespectful in any
of us, either to go when he did _not_, or to decline going when he
_did_.

On the Tuesday morning, I sent to B---- for white kids. Gordon looked
astonished, Hanmer was glad that I had "taken his advice," and
Willingham laughed outright; he had overheard Clara Phillips ask me to
dance with her. Men _are_ like green gooseberries--very green ones;
women _do_ make fools of them, and a comparatively small proportion of
sugar, in the shape of flattery, is sufficient.

Two days before the regatta, there marched into Mrs Jenkins's open
doorway, a bewildered-looking gentleman, shaking off the dust from his
feet in testimony of having had a long walk, and inquiring for Hanmer.
Gwenny, with her natural grace, trotted up-stairs before him, put her
head in at the "drawing-room" door (she seemed always conscious that the
less one saw of her person the better), and having announced briefly,
but emphatically, "a gentlemans," retreated. Hanmer had puzzled himself
and me by an attempt to explain a passage which Aristotle, of course,
would have put in plainer language if he had known what he meant
himself--but modern philosophers are kind enough to help him out
occasionally--when the entrance of the gentleman in dust cut the Gordian
knot, and saved the Stagyrite from the disgrace of having a pretty bit
of esoteric abstruseness translated into common sense.

(What a blessing would it be for Dr ----, and Professor ----, if they
might be allowed to mystify their readers in Greek! though, to do them
justice, they have turned the Queen's English to good account for that
purpose, and have produced passages which first-class men, at an
Athenian university, might possibly construe, but which the whole board
of sophists might be defied to explain.)

The _deus ex machina_--the gentleman on, or rather off the tramp--who
arrived thus opportunely, was no less a person than the Reverend George
Plympton, Fellow of Oriel, &c. &c. &c. He was an intimate friend of our
worthy tutor's; if the friendship between Oxford dons can be called
intimacy. They compared the merits of their respective college cooks
three or four times a term, and contended for the superior vintage of
the common-room port. They played whist together; walked arm-in-arm
round Christ Church meadow; and knew the names of all the old incumbents
in each other's college-list, and the value of the respective livings.
Mr Plympton and a friend had been making a walking tour of North Wales;
that is, they walked about five miles, stared at a mountain, or a fall,
or an old castle, as per guide-book, and then coached it to the next
point, when the said book set down that "the Black Dog was an excellent
inn," or that "travellers would find every accommodation at Mrs
Price's of the Wynnstay Arms." Knowing that Hanmer was to be found at
Glyndewi, Mr Plympton left his friend at B----, where the salmon was
unexceptionable, and had completed the most arduous day's walk in his
journal, nearly thirteen miles, in a state of dust and heat far from
agreeable to a stoutish gentleman of forty, who usually looked as spruce
as if he came out of a band-box. Hanmer and he seemed really glad to see
each other. On those "oxless" shores, where, as Byron says, "beef was
rare," though

     "Goat's flesh there was, no doubt, and kid, and mutton,"

the tender reminiscences of far-off Gaude days and Bursary dinners,
that must have arisen in the hearts of each, were enough to make their
meeting almost an affecting one. Hanmer must have blushed, I think,
though far from his wont, when he asked Mr Plympton if he could feed
with us at four upon--hashed mutton! (We consumed nearly a sheep per
week, and exhausted our stock of culinary ideas, as well as our
landlady's patience, in trying to vary the forms in which it was to
appear; not having taken the precaution, as some Cambridge men did at
B---- one vacation, to bespeak a French cook at a rather higher salary
than the mathematical tutor's.)[A] Probably, however, Mr Plympton's
unusual walk made him more anxious about the quantity than the quality
of his diet, for he not only attacked the mutton like an Etonian, but
announced his intention of staying with us over the ball, if a bed was
to be had, and sending to B---- for his decorations. He was introduced
in due form to the Phillipses the next day, and in the number and
elegance of his bows, almost eclipsed Mr Sydney Dawson, whom Clara never
ceased to recommend to her brothers as an example of politeness.

[Footnote A: Fact.]

Bright dawned the morning of the 20th of August, the first of the "three
glorious days" of Glyndewi. As people came to these races really for
amusement, the breakfast was fixed for the very unfashionable hour of
ten, in order not to interfere with the main business of the day--the
regatta. Before half-past, the tables at the Mynysnewydd Arms were
filled with what the _----shire Herald_ termed "a galaxy of beauty and
fashion." But every one seemed well aware that there were far more
substantial attractions present, meant to fill not the tables only, but
the guests. The breakfast was by no means a matter of form. People had
evidently come with more serious intentions than merely to display new
bonnets, and trifle with grapes and peaches. Sea-air gives a whet to
even a lady's appetite, and if the performances that morning were any
criterion of the effects of that of Glyndewi, the new Poor Law
Commissioners, in forming their scale of allowances, must really have
reported it a "special case." The fair Cambrians, in short, played
very respectable knives and forks--made no bones--or rather nothing
but bones--of the chickens, and ate kippered salmon like Catholics.
You caught a bright eye gazing in your direction with evident
interest--"Would you have the kindness to cut that pasty before you
for a lady?" You almost overheard a tender whisper from the gentleman
opposite to the pretty girl beside him. She blushes and gently
remonstrates. Again his lip almost touches her cheek in earnest
persuasion--yes! she is consenting--to another _little_ slice of
ham! As for the jolly Welsh squires themselves, and their strapping
heirs-apparent (you remember that six-foot-four man surely, number
six of the Jesus boat)--now that the ladies have really done, and
the waiters have brought in the relays of brandered chickens and
fresh-caught salmon, which mine host, who has had some experience of his
customers, has most liberally provided--they set to work in earnest.
They have been only politely trifling hitherto with the wing of a fowl
or so, to keep the ladies company. But now, as old Captain Phillips, at
the head of the table, cuts a slice and a joke alternately, and the
Tiger at the bottom begins to let out his carnivorous propensities, one
gets to have an idea what breakfast means. "Let me advise you, my dear
Mr Dawson--as a friend--you'll excuse an old stager--if you have no
particular wish to starve yourself--you've had nothing yet but two cups
of tea--to help yourself, and let your neighbours do the same. You may
keep on cutting Vauxhall shavings for those three young Lloyds till
Michaelmas; pass the ham down to them, and hand me those devilled
kidneys."

"Tea? no; thank you; I took a cup yesterday, and haven't been myself
since. Waiter! don't you see this tankard's empty?"

"Consume you, Dick Phillips! I left two birds in that pie five minutes
back, and you've cleared it out!"

"Diawl, John Jones, I was a fool to look into a tankard after you!"

Everything has an end, and so the breakfast had at last; and we followed
the ladies to the terrace to watch the sailing for the ladies' challenge
cup. By the help of a glass we could see three yachts, with about half a
mile between each, endeavouring to get round a small boat with a man and
a flag in it, which, as the wind was about the worst they could have had
for the purpose, seemed no easy matter. There was no great interest in
straining one's eyes after them, so I found out the Phillipses, and
having told Dawson, who was escorting Clara, that Hanmer was looking for
him to make out the list of "the eleven," I was very sorry indeed when
the sound of a gun announced that the Hon. H. Chouser's Firefly had won
the cup, and that the other two yachts might be expected in the course
of half an hour. Nobody waited for them, of course. The herring-boats,
after a considerable deal of what I concluded from the emphasis to be
swearing in Welsh, in which, however, Captain Phillips, who was umpire,
seemed to have decidedly the advantage in variety of terms and power of
voice, were pronounced "ready," and started by gun-fire accordingly. A
rare start they made of it. The great ambition of every man among them
seemed to be to prevent the boats next in the line from starting at all.
It was a general fouling-match, and the jabbering was terrific. At last,
the two outside boats, having the advantage of a clear berth on one
side, got away, and made a pretty race of it, followed by such of the
rest as could by degrees extricate themselves from the melee.

But now was to come our turn. Laden with all manner of good wishes, we
hoisted a bit of dark-blue silk for the honour of Oxford, and spurted
under the terrace to our starting-place. The only boat entered against
us was the Dolphin, containing three stout gentlemen and a thin one,
members of the B---- Cutter Club, who evidently looked upon pulling as
no joke. Branling gave us a steady stroke, and Cotton of Baliol steered
us admirably; the rest did as well as they could. The old boys had a
very pretty boat--ours was a tub--but we beat them. They gave us a
stern-chase for the first hundred yards, for I cut a crab at starting;
but we had plenty of pluck, and came in winners by a length. Of course
we were the favourites--the "Dolphins" were all but one married--and
hearty were the congratulations with which we were greeted on landing.
Clara Phillips's eyes had a most dangerous light in them, as she shook
hands with our noble captain, who was in a terrible hurry, however, to
get away, and hunting everywhere for "that d----d Dawson," who had
promised to have Bill Thomas in readiness with "the lush." So I was
compelled to stay with her and give an account of the race, which she
perfectly understood, and be soundly scolded by the prettiest lips in
the world for my awkwardness, which she declared she never could have
forgiven if it had lost the race.

"You will come to the ball, then, Mr Hawthorne?"

"Am I not to dance with you?"

"Yes, if you behave well, and don't tease Mr Sydney Dawson: he is a
great favourite of mine, and took great care of me this morning at
breakfast."

"Well, then, for your sake, Miss Phillips, I will be particularly civil
to him; but I assure you, Dawson is like the fox that took a pride in
being hunted; he considers our persecution of him as the strongest
evidence of his own superiority; and if you seriously undertake to
patronise him, he will become positively unbearable."

The regatta over, we retired to make a hurried dinner, and to dress
for the ball. This, with some of our party, was a serious business.
Willingham and Dawson were going in fancy dresses. The former was an
admirable personification of Dick Turpin, standing upwards of six feet,
and broadly built; and becoming his picturesque costume as if it were
his everyday suit, he strutted before Mrs Jenkins's best glass, which
Hanmer charitably gave up for his accommodation, with a pardonable
vanity. Dawson had got a lancer's uniform from his London tailor; but
how to get into it was a puzzle; it was delightful to see his attempts
to unravel the gorgeous mysteries which were occupying every available
spot in his dingy bedroom. The shako was the main stumbling-block.
Being unfortunately rather small, it was no easy matter to keep it on
his head at all; and how to dispose of the cap-lines was beyond our
united wisdom. "Go without it, man," said Branling: "people don't want
hats in a ball-room. You can never dance with that thing on your head."

"Oh, but the head-dress is always worn at a fancy-ball, you know, and I
can take it off if I like to dance."

At last the idea struck us of employing the five or six yards of
gold cord that had so puzzled us, in securing shako and plume in a
perpendicular position. This at length accomplished, by dint of keeping
himself scrupulously upright, Mr Sydney Dawson majestically walked down
stairs.


CHAPTER III.

Now, there happened to be at that time residing in Glyndewi an old lady,
"of the name and cousinage" of Phillips, who, though an old maid, was
one of those unhappily rare individuals who do not think it necessary to
rail against those amusements which they are no longer in a situation to
enjoy. She was neither as young, nor as rich, nor as light-hearted, as
she had been; but it was difficult to imagine that she could ever have
been more truly cheerful and happy than she seemed now. So, instead
of cutting short every sally of youthful spirits, and every dream of
youthful happiness, by sagacious hints of cares and troubles to come,
she rather lent her aid to further every innocent enjoyment among her
younger friends; feeling, as she said, that the only pity was that young
hearts grew old so soon. The consequence was, that, instead of exacting
a forced deference from her many nephews and nieces (so are first
cousins' children called in Wales), she was really loved and esteemed
by them all; and while she never wished to deprive them of an hour's
enjoyment, they would willingly give up a pleasant party at any time to
spend an evening with the old lady, and enliven her solitude with the
sounds she best loved--the music of youthful voices.

All among her acquaintance, therefore, who were going to the ball in
fancy costume, had promised to call upon her, whether in or out of their
way, to "show themselves," willing to make her a partaker, as far as
they could, of the amusement of the evening. Captain Phillips had asked
us if we would oblige him, and gratify a kind old woman, by allowing him
to introduce us in our fancy dresses. I had none, and therefore did not
form part of the exhibition; but Dick Turpin and the cornet of lancers,
with Branling in a full hunting-costume (which always formed part of
his travelling baggage), walked some fifty yards to the old lady's
lodgings. Mr Plympton, always polite, accepted Captain Phillips's
invitation to be introduced at the same time. Now Mr Plympton, as was
before recorded, was a remarkably dapper personage; wore hair-powder, a
formidably tall and stiff white "choker," and upon all occasions of
ceremony, black shorts and silks, with gold buckles. Remarkably upright
and somewhat pompous in his gait, and abominating the free-and-easy
manners of the modern school, his bow would have graced the court of
Versailles, and his step was a subdued minuet. Equipped with somewhat
more than his wonted care, the rev. junior bursar of Oriel was
introduced into Mrs Phillips's little drawing-room, accompanying, and
strongly contrasting with, three gentlemen in scarlet and gold.
Hurriedly did the good old lady seize her spectacles, and rising to
receive her guests with a delighted curtsy, scan curiously for a
few moments Turpin's athletic proportions, and the fox-hunter's
close-fitting leathers and tops. As for Dawson, he stood like the
clear-complexioned and magnificently-whiskered officer, who silently
invites the stranger to enter the doors of Madame Tussaud's wax
exhibition; not daring to bow for fear of losing his beloved shako, but
turning his head from side to side as slowly, and far less naturally,
than the waxen gentleman aforementioned. All, in their several ways,
were worthy of admiration, and all did she seem to admire; but it
was when her eye rested at last on the less showy, but equally
characteristic figure in black, who stood bowing his acknowledgments of
the honour of the interview, with an _empressement_ which fully made up
for Dawson's forced _hauteur_--that her whole countenance glistened with
intense appreciation of the joke, and the very spectacles danced with
glee. Again did she make the stranger her most gracious curtsy; again
did Mr Plympton, as strongly as a bow could do it, declare how entirely
he was at her service: he essayed to speak, but before a word escaped
his lips, the old lady fairly burst out into a hearty laugh, clapped her
hands, and shouted to his astonished ears, "Capital, capital! do it
again! oh, do it again!" For a moment the consternation depicted upon Mr
Plympton's countenance at this remarkable reception, extended to the
whole of his companions; but the extraordinary sounds which proceeded
from Captain Phillips, in the vain attempt to stifle the laugh that
was nearly choking him, were too much for the gravity of even the
polite Mr Dawson; and it was amidst the violent application of
pocket-handkerchiefs in all possible ways, that the captain stepped
forward with the somewhat tardy announcement, "My dear aunt, allow me to
present the Rev. Mr Plympton, Fellow and Tutor of Oriel College." This
was accompanied by a wink and an attempt at a frown, intended to convey
the strongest reprobation of the old lady's proceedings; but which, upon
the features of the good captain, whose risible muscles were still
rebellious, had anything but a serious effect. "Indeed!" said she,
curtsying yet more profoundly in return for another bow. "How do you do,
sir? Oh, he is beautiful, isn't he?" half-aside to Willingham, who was
swallowing as much as he could of the butt of his whip. Poor Mr Plympton
looked aghast at the compliment. Branling fairly turned his back, and
burst from the room, nearly upsetting Hanmer and myself; who, having
waited below some time for our party to join us, had made our way
up-stairs to ascertain the cause of the unusual noises which reached us
from the open door of the drawing-room. Dawson was shaking with reckless
disregard of the safety of his head-dress, and the captain in an agony
between his natural relish for a joke and his real good-breeding. "Aunt
Martha, this is a clergyman, a friend of Mr Hanmer's, who is on a visit
here, and whom I introduce to you, because I know you will like him." Mr
Plympton commenced a fresh series of bows, in which there was, perhaps,
less gallantry and more dignity than usual, looking all the time as
comfortable as a gentleman might do who was debating with himself
whether the probabilities, as regarded the old lady's next movements,
lay on the side of kissing or scratching. Mrs Martha Phillips herself
commenced an incoherent apology about "expecting to see four young
gentlemen in fancy dresses;" and Hanmer and the captain tried all they
could to laugh off a _contretemps_, which to explain was impossible.
What the old lady took Mr Plympton for, and what Mr Plympton thought of
her, were questions which, so far as I know, no one ventured to ask. He
left Glyndewi the next morning; but the joke, after furnishing us with a
never-failing fund of ludicrous reminiscence for the rest of our stay,
followed him to the Oriel common-room, and was an era in the dulness of
that respectable symposium.

Dancing had begun in good earnest when we arrived at the ball-room.
There was the usual motley assemblage of costumes of all nations under
the sun, and some which the sun, when he put down the impudence of the
wax-lights upon his return the next morning, must have marvelled to
behold. Childish as it may be called, a fancy-ball is certainly, for the
first half-hour at all events, an amusing scene. Willingham and myself
stood a little inside the doorway for some moments, he enjoying the
admiring glances which his fine figure and picturesque costume were well
calculated to call forth, and I vainly endeavouring to make out Clara's
figure amidst the gay dresses and well-grown proportions of the pretty
Cambrians who flitted past. Sounds of expostulation and entreaty,
mingled with a laugh which we knew to be Branling's, in the passage
outside, disturbed both our meditations, and at last induced me to turn
my eyes unwillingly to the open door. Branling was leaning against it
in a fit of uncontrollable mirth, and beckoned us earnestly to join him.
Outside stood Dawson, stamping with vexation, and endeavouring to undo
the complex machinery which had hitherto secured his shako in an
erect position. He was in the unfortunate predicament of Dr S----'s
candelabrum, which, presented to him as a testimony of respect from his
grateful pupils, was found by many feet too large to be introduced into
any room in the Dr's comparatively humble habitation, and stood for some
time in the manufacturer's show-room in testimony of the fact, that
public acknowledgments of merit are _sometimes_ made on too large a
scale. Architects who give measurements for ordinary doorways, do not
contemplate such emergencies as testimonial candelabrums or irremovable
caps and plumes; and the door of the Glyndewi ball-room had no notion of
accommodating a lancer in full dress, who could not even be civil enough
to take off his hat. So there stood our friend, impatient to display his
uniform, and unwilling to lessen the effect of his first appearance by
doffing so important a part of his costume: to get through the door,
in the rigid inflexibility of head and neck which he had hitherto
maintained, was a manifest impossibility. Branling had suggested his
staying outside, and he would undertake to bring people to look at him;
but Dawson, for some unaccountable reason, was usually suspicious of
advice from that quarter; so he "stooped to conquer," and lost all. The
shako tumbled from its precarious perch, and hung ignobly suspended by
the cap-lines. A lancer with a pair of grey spectacles, and a shako
hanging round his neck, would have been a very fancy dress indeed: so he
was endeavouring, at the risk of choking himself, to disentangle, by
main force, the complication of knots which we had woven with some dim
hope of the result. In vain did we exhort him to take it patiently, and
remind him how preposterous it was to expect, that what had taken our
united ingenuity half an hour to arrange "to please him," could be
undone in a minute. "Cut the cursed things, can't you?" implored he.
No one had a knife. "I do believe, Branling, you are tying that knot
tighter: I had much rather not have your assistance." Branling protested
his innocence. At last we did release him, and he entered the room with
a look most appropriately crest-fallen, shako in hand, solacing himself
by displaying its glories as well as could be effected by judicious
changes of its position.

I soon found Clara, looking more radiantly beautiful than ever I had
seen her, in a sweet dress of Stuart tartan. I had to make my apologies,
which were most sincerely penitent ones, for not being in time to claim
my privilege of dancing the first quadrille with her. She smiled at my
evident earnestness, and good-humouredly added, that the next would be
a much more pleasant dance, as the room was now beginning to fill. It
was a pleasant dance, as she said; and the waltz that followed still
more delightful; and then Clara, with a blush and a laugh, declined my
pressing entreaties until after supper at all events. I refused her
good-natured offer of an introduction to "that pretty girl in blue," or
any other among the stars of the night; and sat down, or leant against
the wall, almost unconsciously watching her light step, and sternly
resisting all attempts on the part of my acquaintances to persuade me to
dance again. Of course, all the dancing characters among our party were
Clara's partners in succession; and both Gordon and Dawson, who came to
ask what had put me into the sulks, were loud in their encomiums on her
beauty and fascination; even Branling, no very devoted admirer of the
sex (he saw too much of them, he said, having four presentable sisters),
allowed that she was "the right sort of girl;" but it was not until I
saw her stand up with Willingham, and marked his evident admiration of
her, and heard the remarks freely made around me, that they were the
handsomest couple in the room, that I felt a twinge of what I would
hardly allow to myself was jealousy: when, however, after the dance,
they passed me in laughing conversation, evidently in high good-humour
with each other, and too much occupied to notice any one else, I
began to wonder I had never before found out what a conceited puppy
Willingham was, and set down poor Clara as an arrant flirt. But I was in
a variable mood, it seemed, and a feather--or, what some may say is even
lighter, a woman's word--was enough to turn me. So when I found myself,
by some irresistible attraction, drawn next to her again at supper, and
heard her sweet voice, and saw what I interpreted into a smile of
welcome, as she made room for me beside her, I forgave her all past
offences, and was perfectly happy for the next hour; nay, even
condescended to challenge Willingham to a glass of _soi-disant_
champagne. The Tiger, who was, according to annual custom, displaying
the tarnished uniform of the 3d Madras N.I., and illustrating his
tremendous stories of the siege of Overabad, or some such place, by
attacks on all the edibles in his neighbourhood, gave me a look of
intelligence as he requested I would "do him the honour," and shook his
whiskers with some meaning which I did not think it necessary to inquire
into. What was it to him if I chose to confine my attentions to my
undoubtedly pretty neighbour? No one could dispute my taste, at all
events; for Clara Phillips was a universal favourite, though I had
remarked that none of the numerous "eligible young men" in the room
appeared about her in the character of a dangler. She was engaged to
Willingham for the waltz next after supper, and I felt queerish again,
till she willingly agreed to dance the next set with me, on condition
that I would oblige her so far as to ask a friend of hers to be my
partner in the mean time. "She is a very nice girl, Mr Hawthorne,
though, perhaps, not one of the _belles_ of the room, and has danced but
twice this evening, and it will be so kind in you to ask her--only don't
do it upon my introduction, but let Major Jones introduce you as if at
your own request." Let no one say that vanity, jealousy, and all those
petty arts by which woman wrongs her better nature, are the rank growth
necessarily engendered by the vitiated air of a ball-room; rooted on the
same soil, warmed by the same sunshine, fed by the same shower, one
plant shall bear the antidote and one the poison: one kind and gentle
nature shall find exercise for all its sweetest qualities in those very
scenes which, in another, shall foster nothing but heartless coquetry or
unfeminine display. Never did Clara seem so lovely in mind and person as
when she drew upon her own attractions to give pleasure to her less
gifted friend; and, I suppose, I must have thrown into the tone of my
reply something of what I felt; for she blushed, uttered a hasty "I
thank you," and told Willingham it was time to take their places. I
sought and obtained the introduction, and endeavoured, for Clara's sake,
to be an agreeable partner to the quiet little girl beside me. One
subject of conversation, at all events, we hit upon, where we seemed
both at home; and if I felt some hesitation in saying all I thought of
Clara, my companion had none, but told me how much everybody loved her,
and how much she deserved to be loved. It was really so much easier to
draw my fair partner out on this point than any other, that I excused
myself for being so eager a listener; and, when we parted, to show
my gratitude in what I conceived the most agreeable way, I begged
permission to introduce Mr Sydney Dawson, and thus provided her with
what, I dare say, she considered a most enviable partner. I had told
Dawson she was a very clever girl (he was fond of what he called
"talented women," and had a delusive notion that he was himself a
genius): he had the impertinence to tell me afterwards he found her
rather stupid; I ought, perhaps, to have given him the key-note. During
the dance which followed, I remember I was silent and _distrait_; and
when it was over, and Clara told me she was positively engaged for more
sets than she should dance again, I left the ball-room, and wandered
feverishly along the quay to our lodgings. I remember persuading myself,
by a syllogistic process, that I was not in love, and dreaming that I
was anxiously reading the class-list, in which it seemed unaccountable
that my name should be omitted, till I discovered, on a second perusal,
that just about the centre of the first class, where "Hawthorne,
Franciscus, e. Coll----" ought to have come in, stood in large type the
name of "CLARA PHILLIPS."

The races, which occupied the morning of the next day, were as stupid
as country races usually are, except that the Welshmen had rather more
noise about it. The guttural shouts and yells from the throats of
tenants and other dependants, as the "mishtua's" horse won or lost, and
the extraordinary terms in which they endeavoured to encourage the
riders, were amusing even to a stranger, though one lost the point of
the various sallies which kept the course in one continued roar. As to
the running, everybody--that is, all the sporting world--knew perfectly
well, long before the horses started, which was to win; that appearing
to be the result of some private arrangement between the parties
interested, while the "racing" was for the benefit of the strangers and
the ladies. Those of the latter who had fathers, or brothers, or, above
all, lovers, among the knowing ones, won divers pairs of gloves on the
occasion, while those who were not so fortunate, lost them.

I fancied that Clara was not in her usual spirits on the race-course,
and she pleaded a headache as an excuse to her sister for ordering the
carriage to drive home long before the "sport" was over. If I had
thought the said sport stupid before, it did not improve in attraction
after her departure; and, when the jumping in sacks, and climbing up
poles, and other calisthenic exercises began, feeling a growing disgust
for "things in general," I resisted the invitation of a mamma and three
daughters, to join themselves and Mr Dawson in masticating some
sandwiches which looked very much like "relics of joy" from last night's
supper, and sauntered home, and sat an hour over a cigar and a chapter
of ethics. As the clock struck five, remembering that the Ordinary hour
was six, I called at the Phillips' lodgings to inquire for Clara. She
was out walking with her sister; so I returned to dress in a placid
frame of mind, confident that I should meet her at dinner.

For it was an Ordinary for ladies as well as gentlemen. A jovial Welsh
baronet sat at the head of the table, with the two ladies of highest
"consideration"--the county member's wife and the would-have-been
member's daughter--on his right and left; nobody thought of politics at
the Glyndewi regatta. Clara was there; but she was escorted into the
room by some odious man, who, in virtue of having been made high-sheriff
by mistake, sat next Miss Anti-reform on the chairman's left. The
natives were civil enough to marshal us pretty high up by right of
strangership, but still I was barely near enough to drink wine with her.

If a man wants a good dinner, a hearty laugh, an opportunity of singing
songs and speech-making, and can put up with indifferent wine, let him
go to the race Ordinary at Glyndewi next year, if it still be among the
things which time has spared. There was nothing like stiffness or
formality: people came there for amusement, and they knew that the only
way to get it was to make it for themselves. There seemed to be fun
enough for half-a-dozen of the common run of such dinners, even while
the ladies remained. It was, as Hanmer called it, an _extra_-ordinary.
But it was when the ladies had retired, and Hanmer and a few of the
"steady ones" had followed them, and those who remained closed up around
the chairman, and cigars and genuine whisky began to supersede the
questionable port and sherry, and the "Vice" requested permission to
call on a gentleman for a song, that we began to fancy ourselves within
the walls of some hitherto unknown college, where the "levelling system"
had mixed up fellows and undergraduates in one common supper-party, and
the portly principal himself rejoiced in the office of "_arbiter
bibendi_." Shall I confess it? I forgot even Clara in the uproarious
mirth that followed. Two of the young Phillipses were admirable singers,
and drew forth the hearty applause of the whole company. We got Dawson
to make a speech, in which he waxed poetical touching the "flowers of
Cambria," and drew down thunders of applause by a Latin quotation, which
every one took that means of showing that they understood. I obtained
almost unconsciously an immortal reputation by a species of flattery
to which the Welsh are most open. I had learnt, after no little
application, a Welsh toast--a happy specimen of the language; it was but
three words, but they were truly cabalistic. No sooner had I, after a
"neat and appropriate" preface, uttered my triple Shibboleth (it ended
in _rag_, and signified "Wales, Welshmen, and Welshwomen"), than the
whole party rose, and cheered at me till I felt positively modest. My
pronunciation, I believe, was perfect, (a woman's lips and an angel's
voice had taught it to me): and it was indeed the Open Sesame to their
hearts and feelings. I became at once the intimate friend of all who
could get near enough to offer me their houses, their horses, their
dogs--I have no doubt, had I given a hint at the moment, I might have
had any one of their daughters. "Would I come and pay a visit at
Abergwrnant before I left the neighbourhood? Only twenty-five miles,
and a coach from B----!" "Would I, before the shooting began, come to
Craig-y-bwldrwn, and stay over the first fortnight in September?" I
could have quartered myself, and two or three friends, in a dozen places
for a month at a time. And, let me do justice to the warm hospitality of
North Wales--these invitations were renewed in the morning: and were I
ever to visit those shores again, I should have no fear of their having
been yet forgotten.

Captain Phillips had told us that, when we left the table, "the girls"
would have some coffee for us, if not too late; and Willingham and
myself, having taken a turn or two in the moonlight to get rid of the
excitement of the evening, bent our steps in that direction. There were
about as many persons assembled as the little drawing-room would hold,
and Clara, having forgotten her headache, and looking as lovely as ever,
was seated at a wretched piano, endeavouring to accompany herself in
her favourite songs. Willingham and myself stood by, and our repeated
requests for some of those melodies which, unknown to us before, we had
learnt from her singing to admire beyond all the fashionable trash of
the day, were gratified with untiring good-nature. Somehow I thought
that she avoided my eye, and answered my remarks with less than her
usual archness and vivacity. I could bear it on this evening less than
ever; a hair will turn the scale; and I had just been, half ludicrously,
half seriously, affected by Welsh nationality. One cannot help warming
towards a community which are so warm-hearted among themselves. Visions
of I know not what--love and a living, Clara and a cottage--were
floating dreamlike before my eyes; and I felt as if borne along by a
current whose direction might be dangerous, but which it was misery to
resist. Willingham had turned away a minute to hunt for some missing
book, which contained one of his favourites; and, leaning over her with
my finger pointing to the words which she had just been singing, I said
something about there being always a fear in happiness such as I had
lately been enjoying, lest it might not last. For a moment she met my
earnest look, and coloured violently; and then fixing her eyes on the
music before her, she said quickly, "Mr Hawthorne, I thought you had a
higher opinion of me than to make me pretty speeches; I have a great
dislike to them." I began to protest warmly against any intention of
mere compliment, when the return of Willingham with his song prevented
any renewal of the subject. I was annoyed and silent, and detected a
tremor in her voice while she sang the words, and saw her cheek paler
than usual. The instant the song was over, she complained with a smile
of being tired, and, without a look at either of us, joined a party who
were noisily recounting the events of the race-course. Nor could I again
that evening obtain a moment's conversation with her. She spoke to me,
indeed, and very kindly; but once only did I catch her eye, when I was
speaking to some one else--the glance was rapidly withdrawn, but it
seemed rather sorrowful than cold.

I was busy with Hanmer the next morning before breakfast, when Dick
Phillips made his appearance, and informed us that the "strangers" had
made up an eleven for the cricket match, and that we were to play at
ten. He was a sort of live circular, despatched to get all parties in
readiness.

"Oh! I have something for you from Clara," said he to me, as he was
leaving; "the words of a song she promised you, I believe."

I opened the sealed envelope, saw that it was _not_ a song, and left
Hanmer somewhat abruptly. When I was alone, I read the following:--

     "DEAR MR HAWTHORNE,--Possibly you may have been told that I
     have, before now, done things which people call strange--that
     is, contrary to some arbitrary notions which are to supersede
     our natural sense of right and wrong. But never, until now, did
     I follow the dictates of my own feelings in opposition to
     conventional rules, with the painful uncertainty as to the
     propriety of such a course, which I now feel. And if I had less
     confidence than I have in your honour and your kindness, or
     less esteem for your character, or less anxiety for your
     happiness, I would not write to you now. But I feel that, if
     you are what I wish to believe you, it is right that you should
     be at once undeceived as to my position. Others should have
     done it, perhaps--it would have spared me much. Whether your
     attentions to me are in sport or earnest, they must cease. I
     have no right to listen to such words as yours last night--my
     heart and hand are engaged to one who deserves better from
     me than the levity which alone could have placed me in the
     position from which I thus painfully extricate myself. For any
     fault on my part, I thus make bitter atonement. I wish you
     health and happiness, and now let this save us both from
     further misunderstanding.

                         "C."

Again and again did I read these words. Not one woman in a hundred
would have ventured on such a step. And for what? to save me from the
mortification of a rejection? It could be nothing else. How easy for
a man of heartless gallantry to have written a cool note in reply,
disclaiming "any aspiration after the honour implied," and placing the
warm-hearted writer in the predicament of having declined attentions
never meant to be serious! But I felt how kindly, how gently, I had been
treated--the worst of it was, I loved her better than ever. I wrote
some incoherent words in reply, sufficiently expressive of my bitter
disappointment, and my admiration of her conduct; and then I felt
"that my occupation was gone." She whom I had so loved to look upon, I
trembled now to see. I had no mind to break my heart; but I felt that
time and change were necessary to prevent it. Above all, Glyndewi was no
place for me to forget _her_ in.

In the midst of my painful reflections on all the happy hours of the
past week, Gordon and Willingham broke in upon me with high matter for
consultation relative to the match. In vain did I plead sudden illness,
and inability to play: they declared it would knock the whole thing on
the head, for Hanmer would be sure to turn sulky, and there was an end
of the eleven; and they looked so really chagrined at my continued
refusals, that at length I conquered my selfishness (I had had a lesson
in that), and, though really feeling indisposed for any exertion, went
down with them to the ground. I was in momentary dread of seeing Clara
arrive (for all the world was to be there), and felt nervous and
low-spirited. The strangers' eleven was a better one than we expected,
and they put our men out pretty fast. Hanmer got most unfortunately run
out after a splendid hit, and begged me to go in and "do something," I
took my place mechanically, and lost my wicket to the first ball. We
made a wretched score, and the strangers went in exultingly. In spite of
Hanmer's steady bowling, they got runs pretty fast; and an easy catch
came into my hands just as Clara appeared on the ground, and I lost all
consciousness of what I was about. Again the same opportunity offered,
and again my eyes were wandering among the tents. Hanmer got annoyed,
and said something not over civil: I was vexed myself that my
carelessness should be the cause of disappointment twice, and yet more
than half-inclined to quarrel with Branling, whom I overheard muttering
about my "cursed awkwardness." We were left in a fearful minority at
the close of the first innings, when we retired to dinner. The Glyndewi
party and their friends were evidently disappointed. I tried to avoid
Clara; but could not keep far from her. At last she came up with one of
her brothers, spoke and shook hands with me, said that her brother had
told her I was not well, and that she feared I ought not to have played
at all. "I wish you could have beat them, Mr Hawthorne--I had bet that
you would; perhaps you will feel better after dinner; those kind of
headaches soon wear off," she added with a smile and a kind look, which
I understood as she meant it. I walked into the tent where we were to
dine: I sat next a little man on the opposite side, an Englishman, one
of their best players, as active as a monkey, who had caught out three
of our men in succession. He talked big about his play, criticised
Willingham's batting, which was really pretty, and ended by discussing
Clara Phillips, who was, he said, "a demned fine girl, but too much of
her." I disliked his flippancy before, but now my disgust to him was
supreme. I asked the odds against us, and took them freely. There was
champagne before me, and I drank it in tumblers. I did what even in my
undergraduate days was rarely my habit--I drank till I was considerably
excited. Hanmer saw it, and got the match resumed at once to save me, as
he afterwards said, "from making a fool of myself." I insisted, in
spite of his advice, "to cool myself," upon going in first. My flippant
acquaintance of the dinner-table stood _point_, and I knew, if I could
but see the ball, and not see more than one, that I could occasionally
"hit square" to some purpose. I had the luck to catch the first ball
just on the rise, and it cut my friend _point_ off his legs as if he had
been shot. He limped off the ground, and we were troubled with him no
more. I hit as I never did before, or shall again. At first I played
wild, but as I got cool, and my sight became steady, I felt quite at
home. The bowlers got tired, and Dick Phillips, who had no science, but
the strength of a unicorn, was in with me half-an-hour, slashing in all
directions. In short, the tide turned, and the match ended in our
favour.

I was quite sober, and free from all excitement, when I joined Clara,
for the last time, after the game was over. "I am so glad you played so
well," said she; "if you are but as successful at Oxford as you have
been at the boat-race and the cricket, you will have no reason to be
disappointed: your career here has been one course of victory." "Not
altogether, Miss Phillips: the prize I shall leave behind me when I
quit Glyndewi to-morrow, is worth more than all that I can gain." "Mr
Hawthorne," said she kindly, "one victory is in your own power, and you
will soon gain it, and be happy--the victory over yourself."

I made some excuse to Hanmer about letters from home, to account for my
sudden departure. How the party got on after I left them, and what was
the final result of our "reading," is no part of my tale; but I fear the
reader will search the class-lists of 18-- in vain for the names of Mr
Hanmer's pupils.




 FATHER TOM AND THE POPE;
 OR, A NIGHT AT THE VATICAN.

     _As related by Mr Michael Heffernan, Master of the National
     School at Tallymactaggart, in the County of Leitrim, to a
     friend, during his official visit to Dublin, for the purpose of
     studying Political Economy, in the Spring of 1838._

[_MAGA._ MAY 1838.]


CHAPTER I.

HOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.

When his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take
pot-look wid him. More be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that,
there was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an absolution from
the fast on account ov the great company that was in it--at laste so I'm
tould. Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow--glory be to
God!--and so, as they wor sitting, afther dinner, taking their sup
together, says the Pope, says he, "Thomaus"--for the Pope, you know,
spakes that away, all as one as one ov uz--"Thomaus _a lanna_," says he,
"I'm tould you welt them English heretics out ov the face."

"You may say that," says his Riv'rence to him again. "Be my sowl," says
he, "if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the first
Pope I floored."

Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you know, Pope was
the great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov
coorse they knewn all the ins and outs of the conthravarsy at Room.
"Faix, Thomaus," says he, smiling across the table at him mighty
agreeable--"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the pleasant
man over the dhrop ov good liquor."

"Would you like to thry?" says his Riv'rence.

"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?" says the Pope. "Sorra betther
bottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you on
the table; it's raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it."

"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.

"Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure and here's the best ov good
claret in the cut decanther."

"Not maning to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his
Riv'rence, "I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass ov
spirits through it, if convanient."

"Hand me over the bottle of brandy," says the Pope to his head butler,
"and fetch up the materi'ls," says he.

"Ah, then, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, "maybe
you'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure it's all one
throuble," says he, "and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always
plays the puck wid my inthrails."

"'Pon my conscience, then," says the Pope, "it's very sorry I am,
Misther Maguire," says he, "that it isn't in my power to plase you; for
I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whisky in Room this
blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."

"Well, in troth, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "I knewn there was no
use in axing; only," says he, "I didn't know how else to exqueeze the
liberty I tuck," says he, "of bringing a small taste," says he, "of the
real stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his
coat-pocket; "that never seen the face of a gauger," says he, setting it
down on the table fornenst the Pope: "and if you'll jist thry the full
ov a thimble ov it, and it doesn't rise the cockles of your Holiness's
heart, why then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!" and wid that he
outs wid the cork.

Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for
fetching dhrink that a way in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in
the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you to
comprehind the differ betuxt an inwitation to dinner from the succissor
of Saint Pether, and from a common nagur ov a Prodesan squireen that
maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more nor his own
heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you wisit in
Leithrim," says he, "and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know the differ
in the prisint case," says he, "only that you're a champion ov the
Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come,
let it stay. And in throth I'm curis myself," says he, getting mighty
soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, "in
inwestigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch ov
natural philosophy," says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to his
blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he cried
out, the dear man, "Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!" and
crossed himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.

"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now," says his Riv'rence,
"and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy of punch; and,"
says he, stirring up the materi'ls wid his goolden muddler--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very shcrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vargin goold--"if I might make bould," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjec afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably
whacilitate the inwestigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if
you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it in wardly."

"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment," says the Pope, in a
much more condescinding way nor you'd have expected--and wid that he
mixes himself a real stiff facer.

"Now, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "this bein' the first time you
ever dispinsed them chymicals," says he, "I'll just make bould to lay
down one rule ov orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them,
_secundum mortem_."

"What's that?" says the Pope.

"Put in the sperits first," says his Riv'rence; "and then put in the
sugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils
the punch."

"Glory be to God!" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was
saying. "Glory be to God!" says he, smacking his lips. "I never knewn
what dhrink was afore," says he. "It bates the Lachrymalchrystal out ov
the face!" says he--"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!" says he,
wiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.

"'Pon my secret honour," says his Riv'rence, "I'm raally glad to see
your Holiness set so much to your satiswhaction; especially," says he,
"as, for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty of fetching the fellow ov
that small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat-pocket. So devil a fear
ov our running dhry till the but-end of the evening, anyhow," says he.

"Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for
faix," says he, "I'm bent on analizing the metaphwysics ov this
phinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off," says he, "you're not dhrinking
at all."

"Is it dhrink?" says his Riv'rence; "by Gorra, your Holiness," says he,
"I'd dhrink wid you till the cows 'ud be coming home in the morning."

So wid that they tackled to, to the second fugee a-piece, and fell into
larned discourse. But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir at
the Boord. Oh my sorra light upon you, Docther Whateley, wid your
pilitical econimy and your hydherastatics! What the _dioul_ use has a
poor hedge-master like me wid sich deep larning as is only fit for the
likes ov them two that I left over their second tumbler? Howandiver,
wishing I was like them, in regard ov the sup ov dhrink, anyhow, I must
brake off my norration for the prisint; but when I see you again, I'll
tell you how Father Tom made a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in
theology and the cube root.


CHAPTER II.

 HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN THEOLOGY
 AND LOGIC.

Well, the lecthir's over, and I'm kilt out and out. My bitther curse
upon the man that invinted the same Boord! I thought ons't I'd fadomed
the say ov throuble; and that was when I got through fractions at ould
Mat Kavanagh's school, in Firdramore--God be good to poor Mat's sowl,
though he did deny the cause the day he suffered! but it's fluxions
itself we're set to bottom now, sink or shwim! May I never die if my
head isn't as throughother as anything wid their ordinals and
cardinals--and, begob, it's all nothing to the econimy lecthir that I
have to go to at two o'clock. Howandiver, I mustn't forget that we left
his Riv'rence and his Holiness sitting fornenst one another in the
parlor ov the Vatican, jist afther mixing their second tumbler.

When they had got well down into the same, they fell, as I was telling
you, into larned discourse. For, you see, the Pope was curious to find
out whether Father Tom was the great theologian all out that people
said; and says he, "Mister Maguire," says he, "What answer do you make
to the heretics when they quote them passidges agin thransubstantiation
out ov the Fathers?" says he.

"Why," says his Riv'rence, "as there should be no sich passidges I make
myself mighty aisy about them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov
them," says he, "just repate one ov them, and I'll show you how to
catapomphericate it in two shakes."

"Why, then," says the Pope, "myself disremimbers the particlar passidges
they alledge out ov them ould felleys," says he, "though sure enough
they're more numerous nor edifying--so we'll jist suppose that a heretic
was to find sich a saying as this in Austin, 'Every sensible man knows
that thransubstantiation is a lie,'--or this out of Tertullian or
Plutarch, 'the bishop ov Room is a common imposther,'--now tell me,
could you answer him?"

"As easy as kiss," says his Riv'rence. "In the first, we're to
understand that the exprission, 'Every sinsible man,' signifies simply,
'Every man that judges by his nath'ral sinses;' and we all know that
nobody folleying them seven deludhers could ever find out the mysthery
that's in it, if somebody didn't come in to his assistance wid an eighth
sinse, which is the only sinse to be depended on, being the sinse ov the
Church. So that, regarding the first quotation which your Holiness has
supposed, it makes clane for us, and tee-totally agin the heretics."

"That's the explanation sure enough," says his Holiness; "and now what
div you say to my being a common imposther?"

"Faix, I think," says his Riv'rence, "wid all submission to the betther
judgment ov the learned father that your Holiness has quoted, he'd have
been a thrifle nearer the thruth, if he had said that the bishop ov Room
is the grand imposther and top-sawyer in that line over us all."

"What do you mane?" says the Pope, getting quite red in the face.

"What would I mane," says his Riv'rence, as composed as a docther ov
physic, "but that your Holiness is at the head ov all them--troth I had
a'most forgot I wasn't a bishop myself," says he (the deludher was going
to say, as the head of all _uz_)--"that has the gift ov laying on hands.
For sure," says he, "imposther and _imposithir_ is all one, so you're
only to undherstand _manuum_, and the job is done. Awouich!" says he,
"if any heretic 'ud go for to cast up sich a passidge as that agin me,
I'd soon give him a lesson in the p'lite art ov cutting a stick to welt
his own back wid."

"'Pon my apostolical word," says the Pope, "you've cleared up them two
pints in a most satiswhacthery manner."

"You see," says his Riv'rence--by this time they wor mixing their third
tumbler--"the writings ov them Fathers is to be thrated wid great
veneration; and it 'ud be the height ov presumption in any one to sit
down to interpret them widout providing himself wid a genteel assortment
ov the best figures ov rhetoric, sich as mettonymy, hyperbol,
cattychraysis, prolipsis, mettylipsis, superbaton, pollysyndreton,
hustheronprotheron, prosodypeia and the like, in ordher that he may
never be at a loss for shuitable sintiments when he comes to their
high-flown passidges. For unless we thrate them Fathers liberally to a
handsome allowance ov thropes and figures, they'd set up heresy at
ons't, so they would."

"It's thrue for you," says the Pope; "the figures ov spache is the
pillars ov the Church."

"Bedad," says his Riv'rence, "I dunna what we'd do widout them at all."

"Which one do you prefir?" says the Pope; "that is," says he, "which
figure of spache do you find most usefullest when you're hard set?"

"Metaphour's very good," says his Riv'rence, "and so's mettonymy--and
I've known prosodypeia stand to me at a pinch mighty well--but for a
constancy, superbaton's the figure for my money. Devil be in me," says
he, "but I'd prove black white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a
good stock ov superbaton."

"Faix," says the Pope, wid a sly look, "you'd need to have it backed, I
judge, wid a small taste of assurance."

"Well now, jist for that word," says his Riv'rence, "I'll prove it
widout aither one or other. Black," says he, "is one thing and white is
another thing. You don't conthravene that? But every thing is aither one
thing or another thing; I defy the apostle Paul to get over that
dilemma. Well! If any thing be one thing, well and good; but if it be
another thing, then it's plain it isn't both things, and so can't be two
things--nobody can deny that. But what can't be two things must be one
thing,--_Ergo_, whether it's one thing or another thing it's all one.
But black is one thing and white is another thing,--_Ergo_, black and
white is all one. _Quod erat demonsthrandum._"

"Stop a bit," says the Pope, "I can't althegither give in to your second
minor--no--your second major," says he, and he stopped. "Faix, then,"
says he, getting confused, "I don't rightly remimber where it was
exactly that I thought I seen the flaw in your premises. Howsomdiver,"
says he, "I don't deny that it's a good conclusion, and one that 'ud be
ov materi'l service to the Church if it was dhrawn wid a little more
distinctiveness."

"I'll make it as plain as the nose on your Holiness's face, by
superbaton," says his Riv'rence. "My adversary says, black is not
another colour, that is, white? Now that's jist a parallel passidge wid
the one out ov Tartullian that me and Hayes smashed the heretics on in
Clarendon Sthreet, 'This is my body--that is, the figure ov my body.'
That's a superbaton, and we showed that it oughtn't to be read that way
at all, but this way, 'This figure of my body _is_ my body.' Jist so wid
my adversary's proposition, it mustn't be undherstood the way it reads,
by no manner of manes; but it's to be taken this way,--'Black--that is,
white, is not another colour,'--green, if you like, or orange, by dad,
for anything I care, for my case is proved. 'Black,' that is, 'white,'
lave out the 'that,' by sinnalayphy, and you have the orthodox
conclusion, 'Black is white,' or by convarsion, 'White is black.'"

"It's as clear as mud," says the Pope.

"Begad," says his Riv'rence, "I'm in great humour for disputin'
to-night. I wisht your Holiness was a heretic jist for two minutes,"
says he, "till you'd see the flaking I'd give you!"

"Well then, for the fun o' the thing, suppose me my namesake, if you
like," says the Pope, laughing, "though, by Jayminy," says he, "he's not
one that I take much pride out ov."

"Very good--devil a betther joke ever I had," says his Riv'rence. "Come,
then, Misther Pope," says he, "hould up that purty face ov yours, and
answer me this question. Which 'ud be the biggest lie, if I said I seen
a turkey-cock lying on the broad ov his back, and picking the stars out
ov the sky, or if I was to say that I seen a gandher in the same
intherestin' posture, raycreating himself wid similar asthronomical
experiments? Answer me that, you ould swaddler?" says he.

"How durst you call me a swaddler, sir?" says the Pope, forgetting, the
dear man, the part that he was acting.

"Don't think for to bully me!" says his Riv'rence, "I always daar to
spake the truth, and it's well known that you're nothing but a swaddling
ould sinner ov a saint," says he, never letting on to persave that his
Holiness had forgot what they were agreed on.

"By all that's good," says the Pope, "I often hard ov the imperance ov
you Irish afore," says he, "but I never expected to be called a saint in
my own house either by Irishman or Hottentot. I'll till you what,
Misther Maguire," says he, "if you can't keep a civil tongue in your
head, you had betther be walking off wid yourself; for I beg lave to
give you to undherstand, that it won't be for the good ov your health if
you call me by sich an outprobrious epithet again," says he.

"Oh, indeed! then things is come to a purty pass," says his Riv'rence
(the dear funny soul that he ever was!) "when the likes of you compares
one of the Maguires ov Tempo wid a wild Ingine! Why, man alive, the
Maguires was kings ov Fermanagh three thousand years afore your
grandfather, that was the first ov your breed that ever wore shoes and
stockings" (I'm bound to say, in justice to the poor Prodesan, that this
was all spoken by his Riv'rence by way of a figure ov spache), "was sint
his Majesty's arrand to cultivate the friendship of Prince Lee Boo in
Botteney Bay! Oh Bryan dear," says he, letting on to cry, "if you were
alive to hear a _boddagh Sassenagh_ like this casting up his counthry to
one ov the name ov Maguire!"

"In the name ov God," says the Pope, very solemniously, "what _is_ the
maning ov all this at all at all?" says he.

"Sure," says his Riv'rence, whispering to him across the table, "sure
you know we're acting a conthravarsy, and you tuck the part ov the
Prodesan champion. You wouldn't be angry wid me, I'm sure, for sarving
out the heretic to the best ov my ability."

"Oh begad, I had forgot," says the Pope, the good-natured ould crethur;
"sure enough you were only taking your part, as a good Milesian Catholic
ought, agin the heretic Sassenagh. Well," says he, "fire away now, and
I'll put up wid as many conthroversial compliments as you plase to pay
me."

"Well, then, answer me my question, you santimonious ould dandy," says
his Riv'rence.

"In troth, then," says the Pope, "I dunna which 'ud be the biggest lie:
to my mind," says he, "the one appears to be about as big a bounce as
the other."

"Why, then, you poor simpleton," says his Riv'rence, "don't you persave
that, forbye the advantage the gandher 'ud have in the length ov his
neck, it 'ud be next to onpossible for the turkey-cock lying thataway
to see what he was about, by rason ov his djollars and other
accouthrements hanging back over his eyes? The one about as big a bounce
as the other! Oh, you misfortunate crethur! if you had ever larned your
A B C in theology, you'd have known that there's a differ betuxt them
two lies so great, that, begad, I wouldn't wondher if it 'ud make a
balance ov five years in purgathory to the sowl that 'ud be in it. Ay,
and if it wasn't that the Church is too liberal entirely, so she is, it
'ud cost his heirs and succissors betther nor ten pounds to have him out
as soon as the other. Get along, man, and take half-a-year at dogmatical
theology: go and read your Dens, you poor dunce, you!"

"Raally," says the Pope, "you're making the heretic's shoes too hot to
hould me. I wondher how the Prodesans can stand afore you at all."

"Don't think to delude me," says his Riv'rence, "don't think to back out
ov your challenge now," says he, "but come to the scratch like a man, if
you are a man, and answer me my question. What's the rason, now, that
Julius Caesar and the Vargin Mary was born upon the one day?--answer me
that, if you wouldn't be hissed off the platform?"

Well, my dear, the Pope couldn't answer it, and he had to acknowledge
himself sacked. Then he axed his Riv'rence to tell him the rason
himself; and Father Tom communicated it to him in Latin. But as that is
a very deep question, I never hard what the answer was, except that I'm
tould it was so mysterious, it made the Pope's hair stand on end.

But there's two o'clock, and I'll be late for the lecthir.


CHAPTER III.

HOW FATHER TOM MADE A HARE OF HIS HOLINESS IN LATIN.

Oh, Docther Whateley, Docther Whateley, I'm sure I'll never die another
death if I don't die aither of consumption or production! I ever and
always thought that asthronomy was the hardest science that was till
now--and it's no lie I'm telling you, the same asthronomy is a tough
enough morsel to brake a man's fast upon--and geolidgy is middling and
hard too--and hydherastatics is no joke; but ov all the books of science
that ever was opened and shut, that book upon Pilitical Econimy lifts
the pins! Well, well, if they wait till they persuade me that taking a
man's rints out ov the counthry, and spinding them in forrain parts
isn't doing us out ov the same, they'll wait a long time in troth. But
you're waiting, I see, to hear how his Riv'rence and his Holiness got on
after finishing the disputation I was telling you of. Well, you see, my
dear, when the Pope found he couldn't hold a candle to Father Tom in
theology and logic, he thought he'd take the shine out ov him in Latin
anyhow, so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I quite agree wid you
that it's not lucky for us to be spaking on them deep subjects in sich
langidges as the evil spirits is acquainted wid; and," says he, "I think
it 'ud be no harm for us to spake from this out in Latin," says he, "for
fraid the devil 'ud undherstand what we are saying."

"Not a hair I care," says Father Tom, "whether he undherstands what
we're saying or not, as long as we keep off that last pint we wor
discussing, and one or two others. Listners never heard good ov
themselves," says he; "and if Belzhebub takes anything amiss that aither
you or me says in regard ov himself or his faction, let him stand forrid
like a man, and, never fear, I'll give him his answer. Howandiver, if
it's for a taste ov classic conwersation you are, just to put us in mind
ov ould Cordarius," says he, "here's at you;" and wid that he lets fly
at his Holiness wid his health in Latin.

"Vesthrae Sanctitatis salutem volo!" says he.

"Vesthrae Revirintiae salubritati bibo!" says the Pope to him again
(haith, it's no joke, I tell you, to remimber sich a power ov larning).
"Here's to you wid the same," says the Pope, in the raal Ciceronian.
"Nunc poculum alterhum imple," says he.

"Cum omni jucunditate in vita," says his Riv'rence. "Cum summa
concupiscintia et animositate," says he; as much as to say, "Wid all the
veins ov my heart, I'll do that same;" and so wid that, they mixed their
fourth gun a-piece.

"Aqua vitae vesthra sane est liquor admirabilis," says the Pope.

"Verum est pro te,--it's thrue for you," says his Riv'rence, forgetting
the idyim ov the Latin phwraseology, in a manner.

"Prava est tua Latinitas, domine," says the Pope, finding fault like wid
his etymology.

"Parva culpa mihi," "small blame to me, that is," says his Riv'rence;
"nam multum laboro in partibus interioribus," says he--the dear man!
that never was at a loss for an excuse!

"Quid tibi incommodi?" says the Pope, axing him what ailed him.

"Habesne id quod Anglice vocamus, a looking-glass," says his Riv'rence.

"Immo, habeo speculum splendidissimum subther operculum pyxidis hujus
starnutatoriae," says the Pope, pulling out a beautiful goold snuff-box,
wid a looking-glass in under the lid; "Subther operculum pyxidis hujus
starnutatorii--no--starnutatoriae--quam dono accepi ab Archi-duce
Austhriaco siptuagisima praetherita," says he; as much as to say that he
got the box in a prisint from the Queen ov Spain last Lint, if I rightly
remimber.

Well, Father Tom laughed like to burst. At last, says he, "Pather
Sancte," says he, "sub errore jaces. 'Looking-glass' apud nos habet
significationem quamdam peculiarem ex tempore diei dependentem"--there
was a sthring ov accusatives for yez!--"nam mane speculum sonat," says
he, "post prandium vero mat--mat--mat"--sorra be in me but I disremimber
the classic appellivation ov the same article. Howandiver, his Riv'rence
went on explaining himself in such a way as no scholar could mistake.
"Vesica mea," says he, "ab illo ultimo eversore distenditur, donc
similis est rumpere. Verbis apertis," says he, "Vesthrae Sanctitatis
praesentia salvata, aquam facere valde desidhero."

"Ho, ho, ho!" says the Pope, grabbing up his box; "si inquinavisses meam
pyxidem, excimnicari debuisses. Hillo, Anthony," says he to his head
butler, "fetch Misther Maguire a----"

"You spoke first!" says his Riv'rence, jumping off his sate: "You spoke
first in the vernacular. I take Misther Anthony to witness," says he.

"What else would you have me to do?" says the Pope, quite dogged like to
see himself bate thataway at his own waypons. "Sure," says he, "Anthony
wouldn't undherstand a B from a bull's foot, if I spoke to him any other
way."

"Well, then," says his Riv'rence, "in considheration ov the
needcessity," says he, "I'll let you off for this time; but mind, now,
afther I say _praestho_, the first of us that spakes a word of English
is the hare--_praestho_!"

Neither ov them spoke for near a minit, considhering wid themselves how
they wor to begin sich a great thrial ov shkill. At last, says the
Pope--the blessed man! only think how 'cute it was ov him!--"Domine
Maguire," says he, "valde desidhero, certiorem fieri de significatione
istius verbi _eversor_ quo jam jam usus es"--(well, surely I _am_ the
boy for the Latin!)

"_Eversor_, id est cyathus," says his Riv'rence, "nam apud nos
_tumbleri_, seu eversores, dicti sunt ab evertendo ceremoniam inter
amicos; non, ut Temperantiae Societatis frigidis fautoribus placet, ab
evertendis ipsis potatoribus." (It's not every masther undher the Boord,
I tell you, could carry such a car-load ov the dead langidges.) "In agro
vero Louthiano et Midensi," says he, "nomine gaudent quodam secundum
linguam Anglicanum significante bombardam seu tormentum; quia ex eis
tanquam ex telis jaculatoriis liquorem faucibus immittere solent. Etiam
inter haereticos illos melanostomos" (that was a touch of Greek).
"Presbyterianos Septentrionales, qui sunt terribiles potatores, Cyathi
dicti sunt _faceres_, et dimidium Cyathi _haef-a-glessus_. Dimidium
Cyathi vero apud Metropolitanos Hibernicos dicitur _dandy_."--

"En verbum Anglicanum!" says the Pope, clapping his hands,--"leporem te
fecisti;" as much as to say that he had made a hare ov himself.

"_Dandaeus, dandaeus_, verbum erat," says his Riv'rence--oh, the dear man,
but it's himself that was handy ever and always at getting out ov a
hobble--"_dandaeus_ verbum erat," says he, "quod dicturus eram, cum me
intherpillavisti."

"Ast ego dico," says the Pope, very sharp, "quod verbum erat _dandy_."

"Per tibicinem qui coram Mose modulatus est," says his Riv'rence, "id
flagellat mundum! _Dandaeus_ dixi, et tu dicis _dandy_; ergo tu es lepus,
non ego--Ah, ha! Saccavi vesthram Sanctitatem!"

"Mendacium est!" says the Pope, quite forgetting himself, he was so mad
at being sacked before the sarvints.

Well, if it hadn't been that his Holiness was in it, Father Tom 'ud have
given him the contints of his tumbler betuxt the two eyes, for calling
him a liar; and, in troth, it's very well it was in Latin the offince
was conweyed, for, if it had been in the vernacular, there's no saying
what 'ud ha' been the consequence. His Riv'rence was mighty angry
anyhow.--"Tu senex lathro," says he, "quomodo audes me mendacem
praedicare?"

"Et tu, sacrilege nebulo," says the Pope, "quomodo audacitatem habeas,
me Dei in terris vicarium, lathronem conwiciari?"

"Interroga circumcirca," says his Riv'rence.

"Abi ex aedibus meis," says the Pope.

"Abi tu in malem crucem," says his Riv'rence.

"Excumnicabo te," says the Pope.

"Diabolus curat," says his Riv'rence.

"Anathema sis," says the Pope.

"Oscula meum pod,"--says his Riv'rence--but, my dear, afore he could
finish what he was going to say, the Pope broke out into the vernacular,
"Get out o' my house, you reprobate!" says he in sich a rage that he
could contain himself widin the Latin no longer.

"Ha, ha, ha!--ho, ho, ho!" says his Riv'rence, "Who's the hare now, your
Holiness? Oh, by this and by that, I've sacked you clane! Clane and
clever I've done it, and no mistake! You see what a bit ov desate will
do wid the wisest, your Holiness--sure it was joking I was, on purpose
to aggrawate you--all's fair, you know, in love, law, and conthravarsy.
In troth if I'd thought you'd have taken it so much to heart, I'd have
put my head into the fire afore I'd have said a word to offind you,"
says he, for he seen that the Pope was very vexed. "Sure, God forbid
that I'd say anything agin your Holiness, barring it was in fun: for
aren't you the father ov the faithful, and the thrue vicar ov God upon
earth? And amn't I ready to go down on my two knees this blessed minit
and beg your apostolical pardon for every word that I said to your
displasement?"

"Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wor?" says the Pope.

"May I never die if I amn't," says his Riv'rence. "It was all to provoke
your Holiness to commit a brache ov the Latin that I tuck the small
liberties I did," says he.

"I'd have you to take care," says the Pope, "how you take sich small
liberties again, or maybe you'll provoke me to commit a brache ov the
pace."

"Well, and if I did," says his Riv'rence, "I know a sartain preparation
ov chemicals that's very good for curing a brache either in Latinity or
frindship."

"What's that?" says the Pope, quite mollified, and sitting down again at
the table that he had ris from in the first pluff of his indignation.
"What's that?" says he, "for, 'pon my Epistolical 'davy, I think it
'udn't be asy to bate this miraclous mixthir that we've been thrying to
anilize this two hours back," says he, taking a mighty scientifical swig
out ov the bottom ov his tumbler.

"It's good for a beginning," says his Riv'rence; "it lays a very nate
foundation for more sarious operation: but we're now arrived at a pariod
of the evening when it's time to proceed wid our shuper-structhure by
compass and square, like free and excipted masons as we both are."

My time's up for the present; but I'll tell you the rest in the evening
at home.


CHAPTER IV.

 HOW FATHER TOM AND HIS HOLINESS DISPUTED IN METAPHYSICS
 AND ALGEBRA.

God be wid the time when I went to the classical seminary ov Firdramore!
when I'd bring my sod o' turf undher my arm, and sit down on my shnug
boss o' straw, wid my back to the masther and my shins to the fire, and
score my sum in Dives's denominations or the double rule o' three, or
play fox-and-geese wid purty Jane Cruise that sat next me, as plisantly
as the day was long, widout any one so much as saying, "Mikey Heffernan,
what's that you're about?"--for ever since I was in the one lodge wid
poor ould Mat I had my own way in his school as free as ever I had in my
mother's shebeen. God be wid them days, I say again, for its althered
times wid me, I judge, since I got under Carlisle and Whateley. Sich
sthrictness! sich ordher! sich dhrilling, and lecthiring, and tuthoring
as they do get on wid! I wisht to gracious the one-half of their rules
and rigilations was sunk in the say. And they're getting so sthrict,
too, about having fair play for the heretic childher! We've to have no
more schools in the chapels, nor masses in the schools. Oh, by this and
by that it'll never do at all! The ould plan was twenty times betther;
and, for my own part, if it wasn't that the clargy supports them in a
manner, and the grant's a thing not easily done widout these hard
times, I'd see if I couldn't get a sheltered spot nigh-hand the chapel,
and set up again on the good ould principle: and faix, I think our
Metropolitan 'ud stand to me, for I know that his Grace's motto was ever
and always, that "Ignorance is the thrue mother ov piety."

But I'm running away from my narrative entirely, so I am. "You'll plase
to ordher up the housekeeper, then," says Father Tom to the Pope, "wid a
pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov her fist ov butther,
along wid a dust ov soft sugar in a saucer, and I'll show you the way of
producing a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the thirst out ov
every nook and corner in your Holiness's blessed carcidge."

The Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they were brought in by the
head butler.

"That'll not do at all," says his Riv'rence, "the ingredients won't
combine in due proportion unless ye do as I bid yez. Send up the
housekeeper," says he, "for a faymale hand is ondispinsably necessary to
produce the adaptation ov the particles and the concurrence ov the
corpuscles, widout which you might boil till morning, and never fetch
the cruds off ov it."

Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by-and-by up there
comes an ould faggot ov a _Caillean_, that was enough to frighten a
horse from his oats.

"Don't thry for to desave me," says his Riv'rence, "for it's no use, I
tell yez. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yez: I seen her presarving
gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a
sloe," says he, "and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste of
this celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or mortial this
blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little
finger."

"Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "it's very unproper ov you to spake
that way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir."

"Honour bright, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, laying his hand on
his heart.

"Oh, by this and by that, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "I'll have
none of your insiniwations: I don't care who sees my whole household,"
says he; "I don't care if all the faymales undher my roof was paraded
down the High Street of Room," says he.

"Oh, it's plain to be seen how little you care who see's them," says his
Riv'rence. "You're afeared, now, if I was to see your housekeeper, that
I'd say she was too handsome."

"No, I'm not!" says the Pope; "I don't care who sees her," says he.
"Anthony," says he to the head butler, "bid Eliza throw her apron over
her head, and come up here." Wasn't that stout in the blessed man? Well,
my dear, up she came, stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like
the brake o' day: for though her apron was thrown over her head as she
came forrid, till you could barely see the tip ov her chin--more be
token there was a lovely dimple in it, as I've been tould--yet she let
it shlip a bit to one side, by chance like, jist as she got fornenst the
fire, and if she wouldn't have given his Riv'rence a shot if he hadn't
been a priest, it's no matther.

"Now, my dear," says he, "you must take that skillet, and hould it over
the fire till the milk comes to a blood-hate; and the way you'll know
that will be by stirring it ons't or twice wid the little finger ov your
right hand, afore you put in the butther: not that I misdoubt," says he,
"but that the same finger's fairer nor the whitest milk that ever came
from the tit."

"None of your deludhering talk to the young woman, sir," says the Pope,
mighty stern. "Stir the posset as he bids you, Eliza, and then be off
wid yourself," says he.

"I beg your Holiness's pardon ten thousand times," says his Riv'rence;
"I'm sure I meant nothing onproper; I hope I'm uncapable ov any sich
dirilection of my duty," says he. "But, marciful Saver!" he cried out,
jumping up on a suddent, "look behind you, your Holiness--I'm blest but
the room's on fire!"

Sure enough the candle fell down that minit, and was near setting fire
to the windy-curtains, and there was some bustle, as you may suppose,
getting things put to rights. And now I have to tell you ov a raally
onpleasant occurrence. If I was a Prodesan that was in it, I'd say that
while the Pope's back was turned, Father Tom made free wid the two lips
ov Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I believe it was a mere mistake
that his Holiness fell into on account of his being an ould man, and not
having aither his eyesight or his hearing very parfect. At any rate it
can't be denied but that he had a sthrong imprission that sich was the
case; for he wheeled about as quick as thought, jist as his Riv'rence
was sitting down, and charged him wid the offince plain and plump. "Is
it kissing my housekeeper before my face you are, you villain?" says he.
"Go down out o' this," says he to Miss Eliza; "and do you be packing off
wid you," he says to Father Tom, "for it's not safe, so it isn't, to
have the likes ov you in a house where there's temptation in your way."

"Is it me?" says his Riv'rence; "why, what would your Holiness be at, at
all? Sure I wasn't doing no sich thing."

"Would you have me doubt the evidence ov my sinses?" says the Pope;
"would you have me doubt the testimony ov my eyes and ears?" says he.

"Indeed I would so," says his Riv'rence, "if they pretend to have
informed your Holiness ov any sich foolishness."

"Why," says the Pope, "I seen you afther kissing Eliza as plain as I see
the nose on your face; I heard the smack you gave her as plain as ever I
heard thundher."

"And how do you know whether you see the nose on my face or not?" says
his Riv'rence; "and how do you know whether what you thought was
thundher, was thundher at all? Them operations of the sinses," says he,
"comprises only particular corporayal emotions, connected wid sartain
confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn't to be depended upon at
all. If we were to follow them blind guides, we might jist as well turn
heretics at ons't. 'Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it's naither
charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your eyes and
ears agin the characther of a clergyman. And now, see how aisy it is to
explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went over
beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to help her
to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the noise you
heard, my dear man, it was neither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the
cork out ov this blissid bottle."

"Don't offer to thrape that upon me!" says the Pope; "here's the cork in
the bottle still, as tight as a wedge."

"I beg your pardon," says his Riv'rence, "that's not the cork at all,"
says he; "I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it's very purtily
spitted on the end ov this blessed cork-shcrew at this prisint moment;
howandiver you can't see it, because it's only its raal prisence that's
in it. But that appearance that you call a cork," says he, "is nothing
but the outward spacies and external qualities of the cortical nathur.
Them's nothing but the accidents of the cork that you're looking at and
handling; but, as I tould you afore, the real cork's dhrew, and is here
prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise
I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound
ov the _pogue_."

You know there was no conthravening what he said; and the Pope couldn't
openly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.
"Granting," says he, "that there is the differ you say betwixt the
reality ov the cork and them cortical accidents, and that it's quite
possible, as you alledge, that the thrue cork is really prisint on the
end ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth ov the bottle
stopped--still," says he, "I can't undherstand, though willing to acquit
you, how the dhrawing ov the real cork, that's onpalpable and widout
accidents, could produce the accident of that sinsible explosion I heard
jist now."

"All I can say," says his Riv'rence, "is, that I'm sinsible it was a
real accident, anyhow."

"Ay," says the Pope, "the kiss you gev Eliza, you mane."

"No," says his Riv'rence, "but the report I made."

"I don't doubt you," says the Pope.

"No cork could be dhrew with less noise," says his Riv'rence.

"It would be hard for anything to be less nor nothing, barring algebra,"
says the Pope.

"I can prove to the conthrary," says his Riv'rence. "This glass ov
whisky is less nor that tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler of punch is
nothing to this jug ov _scaltheen_."

"Do you judge by superficial misure or by the liquid contents?" says the
Pope.

"Don't stop me betwixt my premisses and my conclusion," says his
Riv'rence; "_Ergo_, this glass ov whisky is less nor nothing; and for
that raison I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov the
same jug, just by way ov a frost-nail."

"Adding what's less nor nothing," says the Pope, "is subtraction
according to algebra; so here goes to make the rule good," says he,
filling his tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down again at the
table, for the anger didn't stay two minits on him, the good-hearted
ould sowl.

"Two minuses makes one plus," says his Riv'rence, as ready as you plase,
"and that'll account for the increased daycrement I mane to take the
liberty of producing in the same mixed quantity," says he, follying his
Holiness's epistolical example.

"By all that's good," says the Pope, "that's the best stuff I ever
tasted; you call it a mixed quantity, but I say it's prime."

"Since it's ov the first ordher, then," says his Riv'rence, "we'll have
the less deffeequilty in reducing it to a simple equation."

"You'll have no fractions at my side, anyhow," says the Pope. "Faix, I'm
afeared," says he, "it's only too asy ov solution our sum is like to
be."

"Never fear for that," says his Riv'rence, "I've a good stock of surds
here in the bottle; for I tell you it will take us a long time to
exthract the root ov it, at the rate we're going on."

"What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational quantity?" says the
Pope.

"Becase it's too much for one, and too little for two," says his
Riv'rence.

"Clear it ov its coefficient, and we'll thry," says the Pope.

"Hand me over the exponent, then," says his Riv'rence.

"What's that?" says the Pope.

"The shcrew, to be sure," says his Riv'rence.

"What for?" says the Pope.

"To dhraw the cork," says his Riv'rence.

"Sure the cork's dhrew," says the Pope.

"But the sperits can't get out on account of the accidents that's stuck
in the neck ov the bottle," says his Riv'rence.

"Accident ought to be passable to sperit," says the Pope, "and that
makes me suspect that the reality ov the cork's in it afther all."

"That's a barony-masia," says his Riv'rence, "and I'm not bound to
answer it. But the fact is, that it's the accidents ov the sperits too
that's in it, and the reality's passed out through the cortical spacies
as you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in real good
sperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and were else would the real
sperits come from if they wouldn't come out ov the bottle?"

"Well, then," says the Pope, "since we've got the reality, there's no
use troubling ourselves wid the accidents."

"Oh, begad," says his Riv'rence, "the accidents is very essential too;
for a man may be in the best ov good sperits, as far as his immaterial
part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt
the sinsible thirst out ov him." So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and
sets about brewing the other skillet ov _scaltheen_; but, faix, he had
to get up the ingredients this time by the hands ov ould Molly; though
devil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same
decoction.

But, my dear, here's the _Freeman's Journal_, and we'll see what's the
news afore we finish the residuary proceedings of their two Holinesses.


CHAPTER V.

THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.

_Hurroo_, my darlings!--didn't I tell you it 'ud never do? Success to
bould John Tuam and the ould siminary ov Firdramore! Oh, more power to
your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that has broken their Boord into
shivers undher your feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day for Ireland,
this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether? Isn't Carlisle and
Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling
teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his
pasthoral staff in his hand and beathen them out o' Connaught as fast as
ever Pathrick druve the sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould Mat Kavanagh,
if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the happy man. "My curse upon
their g'ographies and Bibles," he used to say; "where's the use ov
perplexing the poor childher wid what we don't undherstand ourselves?"
no use at all, in troth, and so I said from the first myself. Well,
thank God and his Grace, we'll have no more thrigonomethry nor scripther
in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges every Saturday night, as we used to
do, wid our chairman behind the masther's desk, and we'll hear our mass
every Sunday morning wid the blessed priest standing afore the same. I
wisht to goodness I hadn't parted wid my Seven Champions ov Christendom
and Freney the Robber; they're books that'll be in great requist in
Leithrim as soon as the pasthoral gets wind. Glory be to God! I've done
wid their lecthirs--they may all go and be d----d wid their consumption
and production. I'm off to Tallymactaggart before daylight in the
morning, where I'll thry whether a sod or two o' turf can't consume a
cartload ov heresy, and whether a weekly meeting ov the lodge can't
produce a new thayory ov rints. But afore I take my lave ov you, I may
as well finish my story about poor Father Tom that I hear is coming up
to whale the heretics in Adam and Eve during the Lint.

The Pope--and indeed it ill becomes a good Catholic to say anything agin
him--no more would I, only that his Riv'rence was in it--but you see the
fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious as ever he could be, at
seeing himself sacked right and left by Father Tom, and bate out o' the
face, the way he was, on every science and subjec' that was started. So,
not to be outdone altogether, he says to his Riv'rence, "You're a man
that's fond ov the brute crayation, I hear, Misther Maguire?"

"I don't deny it," says his Riv'rence, "I've dogs that I'm willing to
run agin any man's, ay, or to match them agin any other dogs in the
world for genteel edication and polite manners," says he.

"I'll hould you a pound," says the Pope, "that I've a quadhruped in my
possession that's a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel."

"Done," says his Riv'rence, and they staked the money.

"What can this larned quadhruped o' yours do?" says his Riv'rence.

"It's my mule," says the Pope, "and, if you were to offer her goolden
oats and clover off the meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she'd
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday
in the year."

"Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine," says his
Riv'rence, "that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts
out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the
week as reg'lar as a Christian?"

"Oh, be asy, Masther Maguire," says the Pope.

"You don't b'lieve me, don't you?" says his Riv'rence; "very well, I'll
soon show you whether or no," and he put his knuckles in his mouth, and
gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The
aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,
when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be
sitting next the door, betuxt him and his Riv'rence, and, may I never
die, if he didn't clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang. "God's
presence be about us!" says the Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit
come to fly away wid him for the lie that he had tould in regard ov his
mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in grazing
the brute's teeth): but, seeing it was only one ov the greatest beauties
ov a greyhound that he'd ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon
recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris and
went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov beef, a
slice ov mutton, and a slice of salmon, and put them all on a plate
thegither. "Here, Spring, my man," says he, setting the plate down afore
him on the hearthstone, "here's your supper for you this blessed Friday
night." Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may
believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist
tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted his nose out o'
the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his tail wagging,
looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as much as to say, "Give me your
absolution, till I hide them temptations out o' my sight."

"There's a dog that knows his duty," says his Riv'rence; "there's a
baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the
field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you
seen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you'd say the hill
was running away from undher him. Oh I wisht you had been wid me," says
he, never letting on to see the dog at all, "one day, last Lent, that I
was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me,
for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel
door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse
Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that
she'd take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but
afore I had gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like
the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his
being able ons't to turn her. Well, I run on till I come to the
Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low and I didn't
mind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a
ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen
afore or since. If Spring turned that hare ons't that day, he turned her
fifty times, up and down, back and for'ard throughout and about. At last
he run her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn, and when I went
up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his side, not
able to stir a foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore his nose as
dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark of a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring,
isn't that thrue?" says he. Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve,
and, before you could say thrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful of mate
consaled. "Now," says his Riv'rence, "hand me over my pound, for I've
won my bate fairly."

"You'll excuse me," says the Pope, pocketing his money, "for we put the
clock half an hour back, out ov compliment to your Riv'rence," says he,
"and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all."

"Well, it's no matther," says his Riv'rence, putting back his pound-note
in his pocket-book, "only," says he, "it's hardly fair to expect a brute
baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology."

In troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the same bate, for he won it
clever; and, indeed, I'm afeared the shabby way he was thrated had some
effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did. "Will your
Holiness take a blast ov the pipe?" says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.

"I never smoke," says the Pope, "but I haven't the least objection to
the smell of the tobaccay."

"Oh, you had betther take a dhraw," says his Riv'rence, "it'll relish
the dhrink, that 'ud be too luscious entirely, widout something to
flavour it."

"I had thoughts," said the Pope, wid the laste sign ov a hiccup on him,
"ov getting up a broiled bone for the same purpose."

"Well," says his Riv'rence, "a broiled bone 'ud do no manner ov harm at
this present time; but a smoke," says he, "'ud flavour both the devil
and the dhrink."

"What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?" says the Pope.

"Raal nagur-head," says his Riv'rence; "a very mild and salubrious
spacies of the philosophic weed."

"Then, I don't care if I do take a dhraw," says the Pope. Then Father
Tom held the coal himself till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they
sat widout saying anything worth mentioning for about five minutes.

At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, "I dunna what gev me this plaguy
hiccup," says he. "Dhrink about," says he--"Begorra," he says, "I think
I'm getting merrier nor's good for me. Sing us a song, your Riv'rence,"
says he.

Father Tom then sung him Monatagrenoge and the Bunch o' Rushes, and
he was mighty well pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and
joining in in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let him. At last, my
dear, he opens the lower buttons ov his waistcoat, and the top one of
his waistband, and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the
windys. "I dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at all," says he, "I'm
mortial sick."

"I thrust," says his Riv'rence, "the pasthry that you ate at dinner
hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's stomach."

"Oh my! oh!" says the Pope, "what's this at all?" gasping for
breath, and as pale as a sheet, wid a could swate bursting out
over his forehead, and the palms ov his hands spread out to catch
the air. "Oh my! oh my!" says he, "fetch me a basin!--Don't spake
to me. Oh!--oh!--blood alive!--Oh, my head, my head, hould my
head!--oh!--ubh!--I'm poisoned!--ach!"

"It was them plaguy pasthries," says his Riv'rence. "Hould his head
hard," says he, "and clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness, it 'ud set you to
rights in no time."

"Carry me to bed," says the Pope, "and never let me see that wild Irish
priest again. I'm poisoned by his manes--ubplsch!--ach!--ach!--He dined
wid Cardinal Wayld yestherday," says he, "and he's bribed him to take me
off. Send for a confissor," says he, "for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split--so it is!--Oh my! oh my!--ubplsch!--ach!"

Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his while to make him an
answer; but, when he seen how ungratefully he was used, afther all his
throuble in making the evening agreeable to the ould man, he called
Spring, and put the but-end ov the second bottle into his pocket, and
left the house widout once wishing "Good-night, an' plaisant dhrames to
you;" and, in troth, not one of _them_ axed him to lave them a lock ov
his hair.

That's the story as I heard it tould; but myself doesn't b'lieve over
one-half of it. Howandiver, when all's done, it's a shame, so it is,
that he's not a bishop this blessed day and hour: for, next to the
goiant of St Jarlath's, he's out and out the cleverest fellow ov the
whole jing-bang.




LA PETITE MADELAINE.

BY MRS SOUTHEY.

[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1831.]


I was surprised the other day by a visit from a strange old lady,
brought hither to be introduced to me, at her own request, by some
friends of mine with whom she was staying in this neighbourhood. Having
been, I was informed, intimately acquainted, in her early years, with a
branch of my mother's family, to which she was distantly related, she
had conceived a desire to see one of its latest descendants, and I was
in consequence honoured with her visit. But if the honour done me was
unquestionable, the motive to which I was indebted for it was not to be
easily divined; for, truth to speak, little indication of good-will
towards me, or of kindly feeling, was discernible in the salutation
of my visitor, in her stiff and stately curtsy, her cold ceremonious
expressions, and in the sharp and severe scrutiny of the keen grey eyes,
with which she leisurely took note of me from head to foot.

Mrs Ormond's appearance was that of a person far advanced in years;
older than my mother would have been if still living; but her form, of
uncommon height, gaunt, bony, and masculine, was firm and erect as in
the vigour of life, and in perfect keeping with the hard-featured,
deep-lined countenance, surmounted by a coiffure that, perched on the
summit of a roll of grizzled hair, strained tight from the high and
narrow forehead, was, with the rest of her attire, a facsimile of that
of my great-aunt Barbara (peace be to her memory!) as depicted in a
certain invaluable portrait of that virtuous gentlewoman, now deposited,
for more inviolable security, in the warmest corner of the lumber-room.

Though no believer in the influence of "the evil eye," there was
something in the expression of the large, prominent, light grey orbs, so
strangely fixed upon me, that had the effect of troubling me so far, as
to impose a degree of embarrassment and restraint on my endeavours to
play the courteous hostess, and very much to impede all my attempts at
conversation.

As the likeliest means of breaking down the barrier of formality, I
introduced the subject most calculated, it might be supposed, to awaken
feelings of mutual interest. I spoke of my maternal ancestry--of the
Norman blood and Norman land from which the race had sprung, and of my
inherited love for the birthplace of those nearest and dearest to me in
the last departed generation; though the daughter of an English father,
his country was my native, as well as my "Father-land."

Mrs Ormond, though the widow of an English husband, spoke with a foreign
accent so familiar to my ear, that, in spite of the sharp thin tones of
the voice that uttered them, I could have fancied musical, had there
been a gleam of kindness in her steady gaze. But I courted it in vain.
The eyes of Freya were never fixed in more stony hardness on a rejected
votary, than were those of my stern inspectress on my almost deprecating
face; and her ungracious reserve baffled all my attempts at
conversation.

All she allowed to escape her, in reference to the Norman branches of
our respective families, was a brief allusion to the intimacy which had
subsisted between her mother and my maternal grandmother; and when I
endeavoured from that slight clue to lead her farther into the family
relations, my harmless pertinacity was rebuked by a shake of the head as
portentous as Lord Burleigh's, accompanied by so grim a smile, and a
look of such undefinable meaning, as put the finishing-stroke to my
previous bewilderment, and prevented me from recalling to mind, as I
should otherwise have done, certain circumstances associated with a
proper name--that of her mother's family, which she spoke with peculiar
emphasis--and having done so, and in so doing (as she seemed persuaded)
"spoken daggers" to my conscience, she signified by a stately sign to
the ladies who had accompanied her that she was ready to depart, and,
the carriage being announced, forthwith arose, and honouring me with a
farewell curtsy, as formal as that which had marked her introduction,
sailed out of the apartment, if not with swan-like grace, with much of
that sublimer majesty of motion with which a heron on a mud-bank stalks
deliberately on, with head erect and close depending pinions. And as if
subjugated by the strange influence of the sharp grey eyes, bent on me
to the last with sinister expression, unconsciously I returned my grim
visitor's parting salutation with so profound a curtsy, that my knees
(all unaccustomed to such Richardsonian ceremony) had scarcely recovered
from it, when the closing door shut out her stately figure, and it was
not till the sound of carriage-wheels certified her final departure,
that, recovering my own identity, I started from the statue-like posture
in which I had remained standing after that unwonted genuflection, and
sank back on the sofa to meditate at leisure on my strange morning
adventure.

My ungracious visitor had left me little cause, in truth, for pleasing
meditation, so far as her gaunt self was immediately concerned, but a
harsh strain, or an ungraceful object, will sometimes (as well as the
sweetest and most beautiful) revive a long train of interesting
associations, and the plea alleged for her introduction to me had been
of itself sufficient to awaken a chord of memory, whose vibration ceased
not at her departure. On the contrary, I fell forthwith into a dreaming
mood, that led me back to recollections of old stories, of old
times--such as I had loved to listen to in long-past days, from those
who had since followed in their turn the elders of our race (whose
faithful historians they were) to the dark and narrow house appointed
for all living.

Who that has ever been addicted to the idle, and I fear me profitless,
speculation of waking dreams, but may call to mind how, when the spell
was on him, as outward and tangible things (apparently the objects
of intent gaze) faded on the eye of sense, the inward vision
proportionately cleared and strengthened--and circumstances long
unremembered--names long unspoken--histories and descriptions once
attended to with deep interest, but long passed from recollection, are
drawn forth, as it were, from the dark recesses of the mind, at first
like wandering atoms confused and undefined, but gradually assuming
distinctness and consistency, till the things _that be_ are to us the
_unreal_ world, and we live and move again (all intervening space a
blank) among the things that have been?

Far back into that shadowy region did I wander, when left as described
by "the grim white woman," to ponder over the few words she had
vouchsafed to utter, and my own "thick-coming fancies." The one proper
name she had pronounced--that of her mother's family--had struck on my
ear like a familiar sound; yet--how could I have heard it? If ever, from
one person only--from _my_ dear mother's lips--"De St Hilaire!"--again
and again I slowly repeated to myself--and then--I scarce know how--the
Christian name of Adrienne rose spontaneously to my lips; and no sooner
were the two united than the spell of memory was complete, and fresh on
my mind, as if I had heard it but yesterday, returned the whole history
of Adrienne de St Hilaire.

Adrienne de St Hilaire and Madelaine du Resnel were far-removed cousins;
both "demoiselles de bonnes families," residing at contiguous chateaux,
near a small hamlet not far from Caen, in Normandy; both well born and
well connected, but very unequally endowed with the gifts of fortune.
Mademoiselle de St Hilaire was the only child and heiress of wealthy
parents, both of whom were still living. Madelaine du Resnel, the
youngest of seven, left in tender infancy to the guardianship of a
widowed mother, whose scanty dower (the small family estate devolving on
her only son) would have been insufficient for the support of herself
and her younger children (all daughters), had she not continued
mistress of her son's house and establishment during his minority.

"La petite Madelaine" (as, being the latest born, she was long called by
her family and friends) opened her eyes upon this mortal scene but a
week before her father was carried to his grave, and never was poor babe
so coldly welcomed under circumstances that should have made her doubly
an object of tenderness.

"Petite malheureuse! je me serais bien passee de toi," was the maternal
salutation, when her new-born daughter was first presented to Madame du
Resnel--a cold-hearted, strong-minded woman, more absorbed in the change
about to be operated in her own situation by her approaching widowhood,
than by her impending bereavement of a most excellent and tender
husband. But one precious legacy was in reserve for the forlorn infant.
She was clasped to the heart of her dying father--his blessing was
breathed over her, and his last tears fell on her innocent, unconscious
face. "Mon enfant! tu ne connaitra jamais ton pere, mais il veillera sur
toi," were the tender, emphatic words with which he resigned her to the
arms of the old servant, who failed not to repeat them to her little
charge when she was old enough to comprehend their affecting purport.
And well and holily did la petite Madelaine treasure that saying in her
heart of hearts; and early reason had the poor child to fly for comfort
to that secret source. Madame du Resnel could not be accused of
over-indulgence to any of her children--least of all to the poor little
one whom she looked on from the first almost as an intruder; but she
felt maternal pride in the resemblance already visible in her elder
daughters to her own fine form and handsome features,--while la petite
Madelaine, a small creature from her birth, though delicately and
perfectly proportioned--fair and blue-eyed, and meek-looking as
innocence itself, but without one feature in her face that could be
called handsome, had the additional misfortune, when about five years
old, to be marked--though not seamed--by the small-pox, from which cruel
disease her life escaped almost miraculously.

"Qu'elle est affreuse!" was the mother's tender exclamation at the first
full view of her restored child's disfigured face. Those words, young as
she was, went to the poor child's heart, that swelled so to bursting, it
might have broken, (who knows?) but for her hoarded comfort: and she
sobbed herself to sleep that night, over and over again repeating to
herself, "Mon papa veille sur moi."

If there be much truth in that poetical axiom,

     "A favourite has no friend,"

it is at least as frequently evident, that even in domestic circles the
degree of favour shown by the head of the household to any individual
member too often regulates the general tone of consideration; and that
even among the urchins of the family, an instinctive perception is never
wanting, of how far, and over whom, they may tyrannise with impunity.

No creature in whose nature was a spark of human feeling could tyrannise
over la petite Madelaine,--she was so gentle, so loving (when she dared
show her love), so perfectly tractable and unoffending; but in the
Chateau du Resnel no one could have passed two whole days without
perceiving she was no favourite, except with one old servant--the same
who had placed her in her dying father's arms, and recorded for her
his last precious benediction--and with her little brother, who
always vowed to those most in his confidence, and to Madelaine herself,
when her tears flowed for some short, sharp sorrow, that when he
was a man, "toutes ces demoiselles"--meaning his elder sisters and
monitresses--should go and live away where they pleased, and leave
him and la petite Madelaine to keep house together.

Except from these two, any one would have observed that there were
"shortcomings" towards her; "shortcomings" of tenderness from the
superiors of the household--"shortcomings" of observances from the
menials; anything was good enough for Madelaine--any time was time
enough for Madelaine. She had to finish wearing out all her sisters' old
frocks and wardrobes in general, to eat the crumb of the loaf they had
pared the crust from, and to be satisfied with half a portion of soupe
au lait, if they had chosen to take double allowance; and, blessedly for
la petite Madelaine, it was her nature to be satisfied with everything
not embittered by marked and intentional unkindness. It was her nature
to sacrifice itself for others. Might that sacrifice have been repaid by
a return of love, her little heart would have overflowed with happiness.
As it was, she had not yet learnt to reason upon the want of sympathy;
she felt without analysing. She was not harshly treated,--was seldom
found fault with, though far more rarely commended,--was admitted to
share in her sisters' sports, with the proviso that she had no choice in
them,--old Jeannette and le petit frere Armand loved her dearly; so did
Roland, her father's old faithful hound,--and on the whole, la petite
Madelaine was a happy little girl.

And happier she was, a thousand times happier, than her cousin
Adrienne--than Adrienne de St Hilaire, the spoilt child of fortune and
of her doting parents, who lived but in her and for her, exhausting all
the ingenuity of love, and all the resources of wealth, in vain
endeavours to perfect the felicity of their beautiful but heartless
idol.

The families of St Hilaire and Du Resnel were, as has been mentioned,
distantly related, and the ties of kindred were strengthened by
similarity of faith, both professing that of the Reformed Church, and
living on that account very much within their own circle, though on
terms of perfect good-will with the surrounding Catholic neighbourhood.
Mlle. de St Hilaire might naturally have been expected to select among
the elder of her cousins her companion and intimate, their ages nearly
assimilating with her own; but, too cold-hearted to seek for sympathy,
too proud to brook companionship on equal terms, and too selfish and
indolent to sacrifice any caprice, or make any exertion for the sake of
others, she found it most convenient to patronise la petite Madelaine,
whose gentle spirit and sweet temper insured willing though not servile
compliance with even the unreasonable fancies of all who were kind to
her, and whose quickness of intellect and excellent capacity more than
fitted her for companionship with Adrienne, though the latter was six
years her senior. Besides all, there was the pleasure of patronage--not
the least influential motive to a proud and mean spirit, or to the
heart of a beauty, well-nigh satiated, if that were possible, by the
contemplation of her own perfections. When la petite Madelaine was ten
years old, and la belle Adrienne sixteen, it therefore happened that the
former was much oftener to be found at Chateau St Hilaire than at le
Manoir du Resnel; for whenever the parental efforts of Monsieur and
Madame de St Hilaire failed (and they failed too often) to divert the
ennui and satisfy the caprices of their spoiled darling, the latter was
wont to exclaim, in the pettish tone of peevish impatience, "Faites donc
venir la petite Madelaine!" and the innocent charmer was as eagerly
sought out and welcomed by the harassed parents as ever David was sought
for by the servants of Saul, to lay with the sweet breathings of his
harp the evil spirit that possessed their unhappy master. Something
similar was the influence of la petite Madelaine's nature over that of
her beautiful cousin. No wonder that her presence could scarcely be
dispensed with at Chateau St Hilaire. Had her own home been more a home
of love, not all the blandishments of the kindest friends, not all the
luxuries of a wealthy establishment, would ever have reconciled her to
be so much separated from her nearest connections. But, alas! except
when her services were required (and no sparing and light tasks were her
assigned ones), she was but too welcome to bestow her companionship on
others; and except Roland, and le petit frere, who was there to miss la
petite Madelaine? And Roland was mostly her escort to St Hilaire; and on
fine evenings, when le petit frere had escaped from his tutor and his
sisters, Jeannette was easily persuaded to take him as far as the old
mill, half-way between the chateaux, to meet her on her way home. Those
were pleasant meetings. Madelaine loved often, in after-life, to talk of
them with that dear brother, always her faithful friend. So time went
on--Time, the traveller whose pace is so variously designated by various
humours, is always the restless, the unpausing--till Mademoiselle de St
Hilaire had attained the perfection of blooming womanhood--the glowing
loveliness of her one-and-twentieth summer--and la petite Madelaine
began to think people ought to treat her more like a woman--for was she
not fifteen complete? Poor little Madelaine! thou hadst indeed arrived
at that most womanly era. But, to look at that small slight form, still
childishly attired in frock and sash, of the simplest form and
homeliest materials--at that almost infantine face, that looked _more_
youthful, and _almost_ beautiful, when it smiled, from the effect of
a certain dimple in the left cheek (Adrienne always insisted it was a
pock-mark);--to look at that form and face, and the babyish curls of
light-brown hair that hung about it quite down the little throat, and
lay clustering on the girlish neck--who could ever have thought of
paying thee honour due as to the dignity of confirmed womanhood?

So it was Madelaine's fate still to be "La petite Madelaine"--still
nobody--that anomalous personage who plays so many parts in society,--as
often to suit his own convenience as for that of others; and though
people are apt to murmur at being forced into the character, many a one
lives to assume it willingly--as one slips off a troublesome costume
at a masque, to take shelter under a quiet domino. As for la petite
Madelaine, who did not care very much about the matter, though it was a
_little_ mortifying to be patted on the head, and called "bonne petite,"
instead of "mademoiselle," as was her undoubted right, from strangers at
least, it was better to be _somebody_ in one or two hearts (le petit
frere et Jeannette) than in the mere _respects_ of a hundred indifferent
people; and as for la belle cousine, Madelaine, though on excellent
terms with her, never dreamed of her having a heart,--one cause,
perhaps, of their mutual good understanding; for la petite Madelaine,
actuated by instinctive perception, felt that it would be perfectly
irrational to expect warmth of affection from one constituted so
differently from herself; so she went on, satisfied with the
consciousness of giving pleasure, and with such return as was made
for it.

But la petite Madelaine was soon to be invested with a most important
office; one, however, that was by no means to supersede her character of
Nobody, but, enigmatical as it may sound, to double her usefulness in
that capacity--while, on private and particular occasions, she was to
enact a _somebody_ of infinite consequence--that of confidante in a
love affair--as la belle cousine was pleased to term her _liaison_ with
a very handsome and elegant young officer, who, after some faint
opposition on the part of her parents, was duly installed at St Hilaire
as the accepted and acknowledged lover of its beautiful heiress. Walter
Barnard (for he was of English birth and parentage), the youngest of
three brothers, the elder of whom was a baronet, was most literally a
soldier of fortune, his portion, at his father's death, amounting to no
more than a pair of colours in a marching regiment--and the splendid
income thereunto annexed. But high in health and hope, and "all the
world before him where to choose"--of high principles--simple and
unvitiated habits--the object of the love of many friends, and the
esteem of all his brother officers--the young man was rather disposed to
consider his lot in life as peculiarly fortunate, till the pressure of
disease fell heavy on him, and he rose from a sick-bed which had held
him captive many weeks, the victim of infectious fever, so debilitated
in constitution as to be under the necessity of obtaining leave of
absence from his regiment, for the purpose (peremptorily insisted on by
his physician) of seeking the perfect change of air and scene which was
essential to effect his restoration. He was especially enjoined to try
the influence of another climate--that of France was promptly decided
on--not only from the proximity of that country (a consideration of no
small weight in the young soldier's prudential calculations), but
because a brother officer was about to join a part of his family then
resident at Caen in Normandy, and the pleasure of travelling with him
settled the point of Walter's destination _so far_--and, as it fell out,
even to that _other_ station in the route of life, only second in
awfulness to the "bourne from whence no traveller returns." His English
friends, who had been some years inhabitants of Caen, were acquainted
with many French families in that town and its vicinity, and, among
others, Walter was introduced by them at the Chateau de St Hilaire,
where the Protestant English were always welcomed with marked
hospitality. The still languishing health of the young soldier excited
peculiar interest; he was invited to make frequent trials of the fine
air of the chateau and its noble domain. A very few sufficed to convince
him that it was far more salubrious than the confined atmosphere of
Caen; and very soon the fortunate invalid was installed in all the
rights and privileges of "L'Ami de la Maison."

Circumstances having conducted our _dramatis personae_ to this point, how
could it fall out otherwise than that the grateful Walter should fall
desperately in love (which, by the by, he did at first sight) with la
belle Adrienne, and that she should _determine_ to fall _obstinately_ in
love with him! He, poor fellow! in pure simplicity of heart, really
gazed himself into a devoted passion for the youthful beauty, without
one interested view towards the charms of the heiress. But, besides
thinking him the handsomest man she had ever seen, she was determined in
her choice, by knowing it was in direct opposition to the wishes of her
parents, who had long selected for her future husband a person so every
way unexceptionable, that their fair daughter was very likely to have
selected him for herself, had they not committed the fatal error of
expressing their wishes with regard to him. There was PERSUASION and
DISSUASION--mild opposition and systematic wilfulness--a few tears, got
up with considerable effort--vapeurs and migraines in abundance--loss of
appetite--hints about broken hearts--and the hearts of the tender
parents could hold out no longer--Walter Barnard was received into the
family as the future husband of its lovely daughter.

All this time, what had become of la petite Madelaine? What does become
of little girls just half-way through their teens, when associated,
under similar circumstances, with young ladies who are women grown? Why,
they are to be patient listeners to the lover's perfections when he is
out of the way, and more patient companions (because perfectly unnoticed
at such times) of the lovers' romantic walks; shivering associates (at
discreet distance) of their tender communings on mossy banks, under
willow and acacia, by pond-sides and brook-sides--by daylight, and
twilight, and moonlight--at all seasons, and in all temperatures--so
that by the time the pastoral concludes with matrimony, it may be
accounted an especial mercy if the "mutual friend" is not crippled with
the rheumatism for life, or brought into the first stage of a galloping
consumption. No such fatal results were, however, in reserve for the
termination of la petite Madelaine's official duties; and those, while
in requisition, were made less irksome to her than they are in general
to persons so circumstanced,--in part through the happy influence of her
own sweet nature, which always apportioned to itself some share of the
happiness it witnessed; in part through her long-acquired habits of
patience and self-sacrifice; and, in part also, because Walter Barnard
was an especial favourite with her--and little wonder that he was
so--the gay and happy young man, devoted as he was to Adrienne in all
the absorbing interest of a first successful passion, had yet many a
kind word and beaming smile to spare for the poor little cousin, who
often but for him would have sat quite unnoticed at her tent-stitch,
even in the family circle; and when she was the convenient _tiers_ in
the romantic rambles of himself and his lady-love, thanks to his
unfailing good-nature, even then she did not feel herself utterly
forgotten.

For even in spite of discouraging looks from la belle Adrienne, of which
in truth he was not quick to discern the meaning, he would often linger
to address a few words to the silent little girl, who had been tutored
too well to speak unspoken to, or even to walk quite within ear-shot of
her _soi-disant_ companions. And when he had tenderly assisted Adrienne
to pass over some stile or brooklet in their way, seldom it happened but
that his hand was next at the service of Madelaine; and only those whose
spirits have been long subdued by a sense of insignificance, impressed
by the slighting regards or careless notice of cold friends or
condescending patrons, can conceive the enthusiastic gratitude with
which those trivial instances of kindness were treasured up in her
heart's records. So it was, that la petite Madelaine, far from wearying
of Walter's praises, when it pleased Adrienne to descant upon them in
his absence, was apt to think her fair cousin did him scant justice, and
that if she had been called on as his eulogist, oh! how far more
eloquently could she speak! In short, la petite Madelaine, inexperienced
as of course she was in such matters, saw with the acuteness of feeling,
that Walter had obtained an interest only in the vanity and self-love,
not in the heart of his fair mistress. "Poor Adrienne! she cannot help
it, if she _has no_ heart," was Madelaine's sage soliloquy. "Mais quel
dommage pour ce bon Walter, qui en a tant!"

"Le bon Walter" might possibly have made the same discovery, had the
unrestricted intercourse of the lovers been of long continuance; and he
might have also ascertained another point, respecting which certain
dubious glimmerings had begun at intervals to intrude themselves on his
meditations _couleur de rose_,--was it possible that the moral and
intellectual perfections of his idol _could_ be less than in perfect
harmony with her outward loveliness? The doubt was sacrilegious,
detestable, dismissed with generous indignation, but again and again
some demon (or was it his _good_ genius?) recalled a startling frown, an
incautious word or tone, a harsh or fretful expression from the eye and
voice of his beloved, addressed to _la petite cousine_ or to himself,
when in lightness of spirit, and frank-hearted kindness, he had laughed
and talked with the latter, as with a young engaging sister. And
then, except on one topic, his passion for la belle Adrienne, and her
transcendent charms, of which, as yet, he was ever ready to pour out
the heart's eloquent nonsense, somehow their conversations always
languished. She had no eye for the natural beauties, of which he was
an enthusiastic admirer; yawned or looked puzzled or impatient, when
he stopped to gaze upon some glorious sunset, or violet-hued distance,
melting into the roseate sky. And though she did not reject his
offering of wild roses, or dewy honeysuckles, it was received with a
half-contemptuous indifference, that invited no frequent renewal of the
simple tribute; and from the date of a certain walk, when the lover's
keen glance observed that the bunch of wild-flowers, carelessly dropt by
Adrienne a few minutes after he had given them to her, was furtively
picked up by la petite Madelaine as she followed in the narrow woodpath,
and placed as furtively within the folds of her fichu--if Monsieur
Walter, from that time forth, pulled a wild rose from the spray, or a
violet from the bank, it was tendered with a smile to one whose _hand_
at least was less careless than Adrienne's; and for her heart, that
mattered not (farther than in brotherly kindness) to the _reputed_
possessor of la belle St Hilaire's. Yet, in long after days, when silver
threads began to streak the soft fair hair of Madelaine du Resnel,
and the thick black clustering curls of Walter Barnard were more than
sprinkled with the same paly hue, he found in turning over the leaves
of an old French romance, in which her name was inscribed, the dried,
faded, scentless forms of what had been a few sweet wild-flowers. On the
margin of the page, to which time had glued them, was a date, and a few
written words. And the sight of those frail memorials, associated with
those age-tinted characters, must have awakened tender and touching
recollections in his heart who gazed upon them; for a watery film
suffused his eyes as he raised them from the volume, and turned with a
half-pensive smile to one who sat beside him, quietly busied with her
knitting needles in providing for his winter comfort.

"Mais revenons a nos moutons." Our present business is with the young
lover and his fair mistress, and the still younger Madelaine. Time will
overtake them soon enough. We need not anticipate his work. The old
inexorable brought to a conclusion Walter's leave of absence, just as
certain discoveries to which we have alluded were beginning to break
upon him; just as la belle Adrienne began to weary of playing at
_parfait amour_, enacting the adorable to her lover, and the _aimable_
to her cousin _in his presence_; just as Monsieur and Madame, her weak
but worthy parents, were secretly praying for their future son-in-law's
departure, in the forlorn hope (as they had stipulated that even _les
fiancailles_ should not take place for a twelve-month to come) that some
unexpected page might yet turn over in the chapter of accidents, whereon
might be written the name of Jules Marquis d'Arval, instead of that of
the landless, untitled Walter Barnard, for the husband of their
beautiful heiress.

Just at this critical juncture arrived the day of separation--of
separation for a year certain! Will it be doubted that with the parting
hour, rushed back upon Walter's heart a flood of tenderness, even more
impassioned than that with which it had first pledged itself to the
beautiful Adrienne? The enthusiasm of his nature, acting as a stimulus
to her apathetic temperament, communicated to her farewell so much of
the appearance of genuine feeling, that the young soldier returned to
his country, and to his military duties, imbued with the blissful
assurance that, whatever unworthy doubts had been suggested occasionally
by fallacious appearances, the heart of his fair betrothed was as
faultless as her person, and exclusively devoted to himself. So wholly
had the "sweet sorrow" of that farewell absorbed his every faculty, that
it was not till he was miles from St Hilaire on his way to the coast,
that Walter remembered la petite Madelaine; remembered that he had
bid HER no farewell; that she had slipt away to her own home the last
evening of his stay at St Hilaire, unobserved by all but an old _bonne_,
who was commissioned to say Mademoiselle Madelaine had a headache,
and that she had not reappeared the next morning, the morning of his
departure. "Dear little Madelaine! how could I forget her?" was the next
thought to that which had recalled her. "But she shall live with us
when we are married." So having laid the flattering unction to his
conscience, by that satisfactory arrangement for her future comfort,
he "whistled her image down the wind" again, and betook himself with
redoubled ardour to the contemplation of Adrienne.

And where was la petite Madelaine?--What became of her, and what
was she doing that livelong day? Never was she so much wanted at St
Hilaire--to console--to support--to occupy the "fair forsaken;" and
yet she came not. "What insensibility--what ingratitude! at such a
time!"--exclaimed the parents of the lovely desolate--so interesting
in her becoming character of a lone bird "reft of its mutual heart,"
so amiable in her attempted exculpation of the neglectful Madelaine!
"She does not mean to be unkind--to be cruel--as her conduct
_seems_"--_sweetly_ interposed the meek apologist.--"But she is
thoughtless--_insouciante_--and you know, chere Maman! I always told
you la petite Madelaine has no sensibility--Ah Ciel!"----That mine
were less acute!--was, of course, the implied sense of that concluding
apostrophe--and every one will feel the eloquence of the appeal, so
infinitely more affecting than the full-length sentence would have been.
If vagueness is one great source of the sublime--it is also a grand
secret in the arcana of sensibility.

But we may remember that poor little Madelaine had slipt away to her own
home the preceding evening, pleading a headache as the excuse for her
evasion. Perhaps the same cause--(was it headache?) holds her still
captive in her little chamber, the topmost chamber in the western
pepper-box turret, four of which flank the four corners of the old
Chateau du Resnel. Certain it is, from that same lofty lodging
Madelaine has not stirred the livelong day--scarcely from that same
station;--

     "There at her chamber window high,
       The lonely maiden sits--
     Its casement fronts the western sky,
       And balmy air admits.

     "And while her thoughts have wandered far
       From all she hears and sees,
     She gazes on the evening star,
       That twinkles through the trees.--

     "Is it to watch the setting sun,
       She does that seat prefer?
     Alas! the maiden thinks of one,
       Who _little_ thinks of her."

"Eternal fidelity"--being, of course, the first article agreed and sworn
to in the lovers' parting covenant, "Constant correspondence," as
naturally came second in the list, and never was eagerness like Walter's
to pour out the first sorrows of absence in his first letter to the
beloved, or impatience like his for the appearance of her answer. After
some decorous delay----(a _little_ maiden coyness was thought decorous
in those days)--it arrived, the delightful letter! Delightful it would
have been to Walter, in that second effervescence of his first passion,
had the penmanship of the fair writer been barely legible, and her
epistolary talent not absolutely below the lowest degree of mediocrity.
Walter (to say the truth) had felt certain involuntary misgivings on
that subject. Himself not only an ardent admirer of nature, but an
unaffected lover of elegant literature, he had been frequently mortified
at Adrienne's apparent indifference to the one, and seeming distaste to
the other. Of her style of writing he had found no opportunities of
judging. Albums were not the fashion in those days--and although, on the
few occasions of his absence from St Hilaire after his engagement with
Adrienne (Caen being still his ostensible place of residence), he had
not failed to indite to her sundry billets, and even full-length
letters, dispatched (as on a business of life and death) by bribed and
special messengers,--either Mlle. de St Hilaire was engaged or abroad
when they arrived--or otherwise prevented from replying; and still more
frequently the lover trod on the heels of his despatch. So it chanced
that he had not carried away with him one hoarded treasure of the fair
one's writing. And as to books--he had never detected the "dame de ses
pensees" in the act of reading anything more intellectual than the words
for a new Vaudeville, or a letter from her Paris milliner. He had more
than once proposed to read aloud to her--but either she was seized
with a fit of unconquerable yawning before he proceeded far in his
attempt--or the migraine, or the vapours, to which distressing ailments
she was constitutionally subject--were sure to come on at the
unfortunate moment of his proposition--and thus, from a combination of
untoward accidents, he was not only left in ignorance of his mistress's
higher attainments, but at certain moments of disappointed feeling
reduced to form conjectures on the subject, compared to which "ignorance
was bliss;" and to some lingering doubts of the like nature, as well as
to lover-like impatience, might be attributable the nervous trepidation
with which he broke the seal of her first letter. That letter!--The
first glimpse of its contents was a glimpse of Paradise!--The first
hurried reading transported him to the seventh heaven--and the twentieth
(of course, dispassionately critical) confirmed him in the fruition
of its celestial beatitudes. Seriously speaking, Walter Barnard
must have been a fool, as well as an ingrate, if he had not been
pleased--enraptured with the sweet, modest, womanly feeling that
breathed through every line of that dear letter. It was no long one--no
laboured production--(though perfectly correct as to style and grammar);
but the artless affection that evinced itself in more than one sentence
of those two short pages, would have stamped perfection on the whole, in
Walter's estimation, had it not (as was the case) been throughout
characterised by a beautiful, yet singular simplicity of expression,
which surprised not less than it enchanted him. And then--how he
reproached himself for the mixed emotion!--Why should it surprise him
that Adrienne wrote thus? His was the inconceivable dulness--the want
of discernment--of intuitive penetration into the intellectual depths
of a character, veiled from vulgar eyes by the retiringness of
self-depreciating delicacy, but which to him would gradually have
revealed itself, if he had applied himself sedulously to unravel the
interesting mystery.

Thenceforward, as may well be imagined, the correspondence, so happily
commenced, was established on the most satisfactory footing, and nothing
could exceed the delightful interest with which Walter studied the
beautiful parts of a character, which gradually developed itself as
their epistolary intercourse proceeded, now enchanting him by its
peculiar naivete and innocent sportiveness, now affecting him more
profoundly, and not less delightfully, by some tone of deep feeling and
serious sweetness, so well in unison with all the better and higher
feelings of his own nature, that it was with more than lover-like
fervour he thanked Heaven for his prospects of happiness with the dear
and amiable being, whose personal loveliness had now really sunk to a
secondary rank in his estimation of her charms. A slight shade of the
reserve which, in his personal intercourse with Adrienne, had kept him
so unaccountably in the dark with respect to her true character, was
still perceptible, even in her delightful letters, but only sufficiently
to give a more piquant interest to their correspondence. It was evident
that she hung back, as it were, to take from his letters the tone of her
replies; that on any general subject, it was for him to take the lead,
though, having done so, whether in allusion to books, or on any topic
connected with taste or sentiment, she was ever modestly ready to take
her part in the discussion, with simple good sense and unaffected
feeling. It was almost unintentionally that he made a first allusion
to some favourite book; and the letter, containing his remark, was
despatched before he recollected that he had once been baffled in an
attempt to enjoy it with Adrienne by the manner (more discouraging than
indifference) with which she received his proposition, that they should
read it together. He wished he had not touched upon the subject.
Adrienne, excellent as was her capacity--spiritual as were her letters,
might not love reading. He would, if possible, have recalled his letter.
But its happy inadvertence was no longer matter of regret when the reply
reached him. _That very book_--his favourite poet--was Adrienne's also!
and more than one sweet passage she quoted from it! _His favourite_
passages also! Was ever sympathy so miraculous! And that the dear
diffident creature should so unaccountably have avoided, when they were
together, all subjects that might lead to the discovery!

The literary pretensions of the young soldier were by no means those
of profound scholarship, of deep reading, or even of a very regular
education; but his tastes were decidedly intellectual, and the charm
of his intercourse with Adrienne was in no slight degree enhanced by
the discovery that, on all subjects with which they were mutually
acquainted, she was fully competent to enter with equal interest.

Absence and lengthened separation are generally allowed to be great
tests of love, or, more properly speaking, of its truth. In Walter's
case, they hardly acted as such, for distance had proved to him but a
_lunette d'approche_, bringing him acquainted with those rare qualities
in his fair mistress which had been imperceptible during their personal
intercourse. With what impatience, knowing her as he now did, did he
anticipate the hour of their union! But it was with something like a
feeling of disappointment that he remarked in her letters a degree of
uneasiness on that tender subject, to which (as the period of separation
drew nearer to a close) he was fain to allude more frequently and
fondly. One other shade of alloy had crossed at intervals his pleasure
in their correspondence. Many kind inquiries had he made for la petite
Madelaine, and many affectionate messages had he sent her. But they were
either wholly unnoticed, or answered in phrase the most formal and
laconic,--

"Mlle. du Resnel was well, obliged to Monsieur Walter for his polite
inquiries.--Desired her compliments."

It was in vain that Walter ventured a half-sportive message in
reply to this ceremonious return for his frank and affectionate
remembrances--that, in playful mockery, he requested Adrienne to obtain
for him "_Mademoiselle du Resnel's_ forgiveness for his temerity in
still designating her by the familiar title of _La Petite Madelaine_."
The reply was, if possible, more brief and chilling--so unlike (he could
not but remark) to that he might reasonably have expected from his
grateful and warm-hearted little friend, that a strange surmise, or
rather a revived suspicion, suggested itself as the possible solution
of his conjectures. But was it possible--(Walter's face flushed as
bethought of his own _possible_ absurdity in so suspecting)--was
it in the nature of things--that Adrienne, the peerless, the lovely
and beloved, should conceive one jealous thought of the poor little
Madelaine? The supposition was almost too ridiculous to be harboured for
a moment--and yet _he_ remembered certain passages in their personal
intercourse, when the strangeness (to use no harsher word) of Adrienne's
behaviour to her cousin, had awakened in him an indefinite consciousness
that his good-humoured notice of the poor little girl, and the kind word
he was ever prompt to speak in her praise when she was absent, were
likely to be anything but advantageous to her in their effect on the
feelings of her patroness. One circumstance, in particular, recurred to
him,--the recollection of a certain _jour de fete_, when la petite
Madelaine (who had been dancing at a village gala, kept annually at the
Manoir du Resnel in honour of Madame's name-day) presented herself,
late in the evening, at St Hilaire, so blooming from the effects of
her recent exhilarating exercise--her meek eyes so bright with the
excitement of innocent gaiety, and her small delicate figure and
youthful face set off so advantageously by her simple holiday dress,
especially by her hat, _a la bergere_, garlanded with wild roses, that
even the old people, M. and Mad. de St Hilaire, complimented her on her
appearance, and himself (after whispering aside to Adrienne, "La Petite
est jolie a ravir,") had sprung forward, and whirled her round the salon
in a _tour de danse_, the effect of which impromptu was assuredly not
to lessen the bloom upon her cheeks, which flushed over neck and brow,
as, with the laughing familiarity of a brother, he commended her tasteful
dress, and especially the pretty hat, which she must wear, and that
only, he assured her, when she wished to be perfectly irresistible.
Walter's sportive sally was soon over, and Madelaine's flush of beauty
(the magical effect of happiness) soon faded. Both yielded to the
influence of another spell--that wrought by the coldly discouraging
looks of Adrienne, and by the asperity of the few sentences, which were
all she condescended to utter during the remainder of the evening. When
la petite Madelaine reappeared the next morning with her cousin (who,
on the plea of a migraine, remained till late in her own apartments),
Walter failed not to remark that her eyes were red and heavy, and that
her manner was more constrained than usual; neither did it escape his
observation when Sunday arrived, that the tasteful little hat had been
strangely metamorphosed, and that when he rallied her on her capricious
love of changes, which had only spoiled what was before so becoming,
she stole a half-fearful glance at Adrienne, while rather confusedly
replying that "it was not her _own_ doing, but that Ma'amselle Justine,
her cousin's femme-de-chambre, had been permitted by the latter to
arrange it more fashionably." The subject dropped then, and was never
resumed; but Walter _then_ made his own comments on it. And now that
the peculiar tone of Adrienne's letters in referring to Madelaine brought
former circumstances vividly to mind, it is not surprising that he fell
into a fit of musing on the _possibility_, which he yet rebuked himself
for suspecting. It must be confessed that his reflections on the subject
were of a less displeasing nature than those which had suggested
themselves on former occasions, before epistolary correspondence with
his fair betrothed had given him that insight into her character and
feelings which, strange to say, he had failed to obtain during their
personal communication. Now he felt assured, that if indeed she were
susceptible of the weakness he had dared to suspect, it was mingled with
no unkindly feelings towards her unoffending cousin, but sprang solely
from the peculiar sensitiveness of her nature, and the exclusive
delicacy of her affection for himself.

Where ever was the lover--(we say not the husband)--who could dwell but
with tenderest indulgence on an infirmity of love so flattering to his
own self-love and self-complacency? We suspect that Walter's fervour was
anything but cooled by the fancied discovery; and his doubts on the
subject, if he still harboured any, were wholly dispelled by a
postscript to Adrienne's next letter, almost amounting, singular as was
the construction, to an avowal of her own weakness.

In the three fair pages of close writing of which that letter consisted,
was vouchsafed no word of reply to an interrogatory--the last, he
secretly resolved, he would ever venture on that subject--whether his
"little cousin Madelaine," as he had sometimes sportively called her by
anticipation, had quite forgotten her friend Walter. But on one of the
outside folds, evidently an after-thought, written hurriedly, and, as it
seemed, with a trembling hand, was the following postscript:--

"La Petite Madelaine se souvient toujours du bon Walter--Comment
ferait-elle autrement?

"Mais, cependant, qu'il ne soit plus question d'elle dans les lettres de
Mons. Walter."

"A most strange fancy! an unaccountable caprice of this dear
Adrienne's!" was Walter's smiling soliloquy. "Some day she shall laugh
at it with me--but for the present and for ever, be the dear one's will
my law." Thenceforth "il n'etait plus question de la Petite Madelaine"
in Walter's letters, and in those of Adrienne she was never more alluded
to.

Mademoiselle de St Hilaire's mind was about this time engrossed by far
more important personages than her absent lover, or her youthful friend.
The present occupants, herself (no _new_ one truly), and a certain
Marquis d'Arval, who would probably have been her first choice, if he
had not been the selected of her parents. Not that she had by any means
decided on the rupture of her engagement with Walter (if indeed such a
contingency had ever formed the subject of her private musings);
neither, at any rate, would she have dissolved it, till his return
should compel her to a decision. For his letters were too agreeable, too
spiritual--too full of that sweet incense that never satiated her
vanity, to be voluntarily relinquished.

But in the mean time, the correspondence, piquant as it was--a charming
_passe-temps_!--could not be expected to engross her wholly. Many vacant
hours still hung upon her hands, wonderful to say, in spite of those
intellectual and elegant pursuits, the late discovery of which had so
enraptured the unsophisticated Walter. Who so proper as the Marquis
d'Arval, then on a visit at the Chateau,--her cousin too--besides being
the especial favourite of her parents--(dutiful Adrienne!)--to be the
confidential friend of la belle _delaissee_?--to be in fact the
substitute of the absent lover, in all those _petits soins_ that so
agreeably divert the ennui of a fine lady's life, and for which the most
sentimental correspondence can furnish no equivalent? In the article of
_petits soins_ indeed (the phrase is perfectly untranslatable), the
merits of d'Arval were decidedly superior to those of his English
competitor, whose English feelings and education certainly disqualified
him for evincing that peculiar tact and nicety of judgment in all
matters relating to female decoration and occupation, so essential in
the _cavalier servente_ of a French beauty. Though an excellent French
scholar, Walter never could compass the nomenclature of shades and
colours, so familiar and expressive to French tongues and tastes. He
blundered perpetually between "rose tendre," and "rose foncee;" and was
quite at fault if referred to as arbitrator between the respective
merits of "Boue de Paris," or "Crapeau mort d'amour."

Achilles, in his female weeds, was never more awkward at his task than
poor Walter, when appointed, by especial favour, to the office of
arranging the ribbon collar, or combing the silken mane and ruffled paws
of Silvie, Adrienne's little _chien lion_. And though ready enough (as
we have seen) to importune his mistress with worthless offerings of
paltry wild-flowers, it never entered his simple fancy to present her
with small, compact bouquets, sentimentally and scientifically combined
(the pensee never omitted, if in season), the stems wound together with
silk of appropriate hue, or wrapped round with a motto, or well-turned
couplet. In these, and all accomplishments of a similar nature, Walter
Barnard's genius was immeasurably distanced by that of the Marquis
d'Arval.

The latter was also peculiarly interesting in his character of a
despairing lover; and his attentions were particularly well-timed, at a
season when the absence of the happy lover had made a vacuum in the life
(of course not the _heart_) of Adrienne, who on her part was actuated by
motives of pure humanity in consoling d'Arval (as far as circumstances
permitted) for the success of his rival, by proofs of her warmest
friendship and tenderest commiseration.

Since the Marquis's arrival at St Hilaire, his universal genius had in
great measure superseded la petite Madelaine in her office of exorcist
to the demon of ennui, her fair cousin's relentless persecutor. She was
therefore less frequently, or rather less constantly, at the
Chateau--though still summoned to secret conference in Adrienne's
boudoir, and often detained there for hours by consultations or
occupations of that private and confidential nature, so interesting to
the generality of young ladies who have lovers in their hearts or heads,
though the details might be insipid to the general reader, if it were
even allowable to reveal mysteries little less sacred than the
Eleusinian.

It might have been inferred, however, that la petite Madelaine was but
an unwilling sharer of those secret conferences; for she often retired
from them with looks of more grave and even careful expression, than
were well in character with the youthful countenance, and an air of
dejection that ill suited the recent listener to a happy love-tale. And
when her services (whatever were their nature) were no longer required,
Adrienne evinced no inclination to detain her at St Hilaire.

She was still, however, politely and even kindly welcomed by the owners
of the Chateau; but when no longer necessary to the contentment of their
idolised daughter, the absence or presence of la petite Madelaine became
to them a matter of the utmost indifference, and by degrees she became
painfully sensible that there is a wide difference in being accounted
_nobody_ with respect to our individual consequence, or in relation to
our capabilities for contributing, however humbly, to the comfort and
happiness of others. To the first species of insignificance Madelaine
had been early accustomed, and easily reconciled; but the second pressed
heavily on her young heart--and perhaps the more so, at St Hilaire, for
the perpetually recurring thoughts of a time still recent--("the happy
time," as that poor girl accounted it in her scant experience of
happiness)--when she had a friend there who, however his heart was
devoted to her cousin, had never missed an occasion of showing kindness
to herself, and of evincing to her, by those attentions which pass
unnoticed when accepted as a due, but are so precious to persons
situated as was la petite Madelaine, that to him at least her pains and
pleasures, her tastes, her feelings, and her welfare, were by no means
indifferent or unimportant. The dew of kindness never falls on any soil
so grateful as the young heart unaccustomed to its genial influence.
After-benefits, more weighty and important, fail not in noble natures to
inspire commensurate gratitude--but they cannot call forth that burst of
enthusiastic feeling, awakened by the first experienced kindness, like
the sudden verdure of a dry seed-bed called into life and luxuriance by
the first warm shower of spring.

La petite Madelaine's natural home was at no time, as has been observed,
a very happy one to her. And now that it was more her home than for some
years it had been, time had wrought no favourable change in her
circumstances there. Time had not infused more tenderness towards her
into the maternal feelings of Madame du Resnel--though it had worked its
usual effect of increasing the worldliness, and hardening the hardness,
of her nature. Time had not dulcified the tempers of the three elder
Mademoiselles du Resnel, by providing with husbands the two cadettes
between them and Madelaine. And time had cruelly curtailed the few home
joys of the poor Madelaine, by sending le petit frere to college, and by
delivering up to his great receiver, Death--her only other friend--the
faithful and affectionate Jeannette. Of the few that had once loved her
in her father's house, only the old dog was left to welcome her more
permanent abode there; and one would have thought he was sensible of the
added responsibilities death and absence had devolved upon him.
Forsaking his long-accustomed place on the sunny pavement of the south
stone courtyard, he established himself at the door of the salon if she
was within it, himself not being privileged to enter there--or with his
young mistress in her own little turret-chamber, where he had all
_entrees_--or even to her favourite arbour in the garden he contrived to
creep with her, though his old limbs were too feeble to accompany her
beyond that short distance. And when they were alone together, he would
look up in her face with such a "human meaning" in his dim eyes, as
spoke to Madelaine's heart, as plainly and more affectingly than words
could have spoken--"I only am left to love my master's daughter, and who
but she cares for old Roland?"

In the mean time, Walter's year of probation was fast drawing to a
close; and his return to St Hilaire, and all thereon depending, was
looked forward to with very different feelings by himself (the happy
expectant!) by the inhabitants of the Chateau, and by its still
occasional inmate, the little Maiden of the Manoir, whose meditations on
the subject were not the less frequent and profound, because to her it
was obviously one of little personal interest. Monsieur and Madame de St
Hilaire had watched with intense anxiety the fancied progress of the
Marquis d'Arval in supplanting the absent Walter in the affections of
their daughter. But experience had taught them that the surest means of
effecting their wishes was to refrain from expressing them to the
dutiful Adrienne. So they looked on, and kept silence, with hopes that
became fainter as the decisive period approached, and they observed that
the lovers' correspondence was unslackened, and the Marquis made no
interesting communication to them of that success on his part which, he
was well aware, they would receive as most gratifying intelligence. On
the contrary, he found it necessary, about this time, to make a journey
to Paris, and to his estates in Languedoc; but as he still seemed
devoted to Adrienne, and his devotions were evidently accepted with the
sweetest complacency, the bewildered parents still cherished a belief
that the young people mutually understood each other--that d'Arval's
temporary absence had been concerted between them, from motives of
prudence and delicacy with respect to Walter, and that when the latter
arrived, their daughter would either require him to release her from her
rash engagement, or empower them to acquaint him with her change of
sentiments.

Nothing could be farther from truth, however, than this fancied
arrangement of the worthy elders. Whatever were d'Arval's ultimate
views and hopes, he had contented himself during his visit with
playing the favourite lover _pro tempore_. Perhaps he was too
honourable to take further advantage o

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/33694