← catalogue

The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #5240 · 1,091,769 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete
    
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: The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Hablot Knight Browne


        
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5240]
                Most recently updated: October 3, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5240

Credits: Mary Munarin and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFESSIONS OF HARRY LORREQUER — COMPLETE ***




The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer

By Charles James Lever (1806-1872)

Dublin

MDCCCXXXIX.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: spine]

[Illustration: titlepage]

[Illustration: The Inn at Munich]




“We talked of pipe-clay regulation caps—
    Long twenty-fours—short culverins and mortars—
Condemn’d the ‘Horse Guards’ for a set of raps,
    And cursed our fate at being in such quarters.
Some smoked, some sighed, and some were heard to snore;
    Some wished themselves five fathoms ’neath the Solway;
And some did pray—who never prayed before—
    That they might get the ‘route’ for Cork or Galway.”





CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I. Arrival in Cork—Civic Festivities—Private Theatricals
 CHAPTER II. Detachment Duty—The Burton Arms—Callonby
 CHAPTER III. Life at Callonby—Love-making—Miss O’Dowd’s Adventure
 CHAPTER IV. Botanical Studies—The Natural System preferable to the Linnaean
 CHAPTER V. Puzzled—Explanation—Makes bad worse—The Duel
 CHAPTER VI. The Priest’s Supper—Father Malachi and the Coadjutor—Major Jones and the Abbé
 CHAPTER VII. The Lady’s Letter—Peter and his Acquaintances—Too late
 CHAPTER VIII. Congratulations—Sick Leave—How to pass the Board
 CHAPTER IX. The Road—Travelling Acquaintances—A Packet Adventure
 CHAPTER X. Upset—Mind and Body
 CHAPTER XI. Cheltenham—Matrimonial Adventure—Showing how to make love for a friend
 CHAPTER XII. Dublin—Tom O’Flaherty—A Reminiscence of the Peninsula
 CHAPTER XIII. Dublin—The Boarding-house—Select Society
 CHAPTER XIV. The Chase
 CHAPTER XV. Mems Of the North Cork
 CHAPTER XVI. Theatricals
 CHAPTER XVII. (The chapter number is a repeat) The Wager
 CHAPTER XVIII. The Elopement
 CHAPTER XIX. Detachment Duty—An Assize Town
 CHAPTER XX. The Assize Town
 CHAPTER XXI. A Day in Dublin
 CHAPTER XXII. A Night at Howth
 CHAPTER XXIII. The Journey
 CHAPTER XXIV. Calais
 CHAPTER XXV. The Gen d’Arme
 CHAPTER XXVI. The Inn at Chantraine
 CHAPTER XXVII. Mr O’Leary
 CHAPTER XXVIII. Paris
 CHAPTER XXIX. Paris
 CHAPTER XXX. Captain Trevanion’s Adventure
 CHAPTER XXXI. Difficulties
 CHAPTER XXXII. Explanation
 CHAPTER XXXIII. Mr O’Leary’s First Love
 CHAPTER XXXIV. Mr O’Leary’s Second Love
 CHAPTER XXXV. The Duel
 CHAPTER XXXVI. Early Recollections—A First Love
 CHAPTER XXXVII. Wise Resolves
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Proposal
 CHAPTER XXXIX. Thoughts upon Matrimony in general, and in the Army in particular—The Knight of Kerry and Billy M’Cabe
 CHAPTER XL. A Reminiscence
 CHAPTER XLI. The Two Letters
 CHAPTER XLII. Mr O’Leary’s Capture
 CHAPTER XLIII. The Journey
 CHAPTER XLIV. The Journey
 CHAPTER XLV. A Reminscence of the East
 CHAPTER XLVI. A Day in the Phœnix
 CHAPTER XLVII. An Adventure in Canada
 CHAPTER XLVIII. The Courier’s Passport
 CHAPTER XLIX. A Night in Strasbourg
 CHAPTER L. A Surprise
 CHAPTER LI. Jack Waller’s Story
 CHAPTER LII. Munich
 CHAPTER LIII. Inn at Munich
 CHAPTER LIV. The Ball
 CHAPTER LV. A Discovery
 CHAPTER LVI. Conclusion




LIST OF PLATES

 The Inn at Munich
 Lorrequer on Parade
 Nicholas Announcing Miss Betty O’Dowd’s Carriage
 The Sentry Challenging Father Luke and the Abbé
 The Supper at Father Malachi’s
 Mrs. Mulrooney and Sir Stewart Moore
 Lorrequer Making His Escape From Col. Kamworth’s
 Mr. Cudmore Filling the Teapot
 Dr. Finucane and the Grey Mare
 Lorrequer Practising Physic
 Mr. Burke’s Enthusiasm for the Duke of Wellington
 The Passport Office
 Lorrequer as Postillion
 Mr. O’Leary Creating a Sensation at the Salon des Etranges
 Trevanion Astonishing the Bully Gendemar
 Mr. O’Leary Charges the Mob
 Mr. O’Leary Imagines Himself Kilt
 Harry Proves Himself a Man of Metal
 Mr. O’Leary’s Double Capture
 Mr. Malone and Friend
 Lorrequer’s Debut at Strasburg
 The Inn at Munich
 Arrival of Charge d’Affairs




To Sir George Hamilton Seymour, G.C.H.
&c. &c.

My Dear Sir Hamilton,

If a feather will show how the wind blows, perhaps my dedicating to you
even as light matter as these Confessions may in some measure prove how
grateful I feel for the many kindnesses I have received from you in the
course of our intimacy. While thus acknowledging a debt, I must also
avow that another motive strongly prompts me upon this occasion. I am
not aware of any one, to whom with such propriety a volume of anecdote
and adventure should be inscribed, as to one, himself well known as an
inimitable narrator. Could I have stolen for my story, any portion of
the grace and humour with which I have heard you adorn many of your
own, while I should deem this offering more worthy of your acceptance,
I should also feel more confident of its reception by the public.

With every sentiment of esteem and regard,
Believe me very faithfully yours,
THE AUTHOR.

Bruxelles, December, 1839.




PREFATORY EPISTLE.


Dear Public,

When first I set about recording the scenes which occupy these pages, I
had no intention of continuing them, except in such stray and scattered
fragments as the columns of a Magazine[*] permit of; and when at length
I discovered that some interest had attached not only to the
adventures, but to their narrator, I would gladly have retired with my
“little laurels” from a stage, on which, having only engaged to appear
between the acts, I was destined to come forward as a principal
character.

* The Dublin University Magazine.


Among the “miseries of human life,” a most touching one is spoken
of—the being obliged to listen to the repetition of a badly sung song,
because some well-wishing, but not over discreet friend of the singer
has called loudly for an _encore_.

I begin very much to fear that something of the kind has taken place
here, and that I should have acted a wiser part, had I been contented
with even the still small voice of a few partial friends, and retired
from the boards in the pleasing delusion of success; but unfortunately,
the same easy temperament that has so often involved me before, has
been faithful to me here; and when you pretended to be pleased,
unluckily, I believed you.

So much of apology for the matter—a little now for the manner of my
offending, and I have done. I wrote as I felt—sometimes in good
spirits, sometimes in bad—always carelessly—for, God help me, I can do
no better.

When the celibacy of the Fellows of Trinity College, Dublin, became an
active law in that University, the Board proceeded to enforce it, by
summoning to their presence all the individuals who it was well known
had transgressed the regulation, and among them figured Dr. S., many of
whose sons were at the same time students in the college. “Are you
married, Dr. S——r?” said the bachelor vice-provost, in all the dignity
and pride of conscious innocence. “Married!” said the father of ten
children, with a start of involuntary horror;—“married?” “Yes sir,
married.” “Why sir, I am no more married than the Provost.” This was
quite enough—no further questions were asked, and the head of the
University preferred a merciful course towards the offender, to
repudiating his wife and disowning his children. Now for the
application. Certain captious and incredulous people have doubted the
veracity of the adventures I have recorded in these pages; I do not
think it necessary to appeal to concurrent testimony and credible
witnesses for their proof, but I pledge myself to the fact that every
tittle I have related is as true as that my name is Lorrequer—need I
say more?

Another objection has been made to my narrative, and I cannot pass it
by without a word of remark;—“these Confessions are wanting in scenes
of touching and pathetic interest”[*]—true, quite true; but I console
myself on this head, for I remember hearing of an author whose
paraphrase of the book of Job was refused by a publisher, if he could
not throw a little more humour into it; and if I have not been more
miserable and more unhappy, I am very sorry for it on _your_ account,
but you must excuse my regretting it on _my own_. Another story and I
have done;—the Newgate Calendar makes mention of a notorious
housebreaker, who closed his career of outrage and violence by the
murder of a whole family, whose house he robbed; on the scaffold he
entreated permission to speak a few words to the crowd beneath, and
thus addressed them:—“My friends, it is quite true I murdered this
family; in cold blood I did it—one by one they fell beneath my hand,
while I rifled their coffers, and took forth their effects; but one
thing is imputed to me, which I cannot die without denying—it is
asserted that I stole an extinguisher; the contemptible character of
this petty theft is a stain upon my reputation, that I cannot suffer to
disgrace my memory.” So would I now address you for all the graver
offences of my book; I stand forth guilty—miserably, palpably
guilty—they are mine every one of them; and I dare not, I cannot deny
them; but if you think that the blunders in French and the hash of
spelling so widely spread through these pages, are attributable to me;
on the faith of a gentleman I pledge myself you are wrong, and that I
had nothing to do with them. If my thanks for the kindness and
indulgence with which these hastily written and rashly conceived
sketches have been received by the press and the public, are of any
avail, let me add, in conclusion, that a more grateful author does not
exist than

HARRY LORREQUER

* We have the author’s permission to state, that all the pathetic and
moving incidents of his career he has reserved for a second series of
“Confessions,” to be entitled “Lorrequer _Married?_”—_Publisher’s
Note_.




A WORD OF INTRODUCTION.


“Story! God bless you; I have none to tell, sir.”

It is now many—do not ask me to say how many—years since I received
from the Horse Guards the welcome intelligence that I was gazetted to
an ensigncy in his Majesty’s —th Foot, and that my name, which had
figured so long in the “Duke’s” list, with the words “a very hard case”
appended, should at length appear in the monthly record of promotions
and appointments.

Since then my life has been passed in all the vicissitudes of war and
peace. The camp and the bivouac—the reckless gaiety of the
mess-table—the comfortless solitude of a French prison—the exciting
turmoils of active service—the wearisome monotony of garrison duty, I
have alike partaken of, and experienced. A career of this kind, with a
temperament ever ready to go with the humour of those about him will
always be sure of its meed of adventure. Such has mine been; and with
no greater pretension than to chronicle a few of the scenes in which I
have borne a part, and revive the memory of the other actors in
them—some, alas! now no more—I have ventured upon these “Confessions.”

If I have not here selected that portion of my life which most abounded
in striking events and incidents most worthy of recording, my excuse is
simply, because being my first appearance upon the boards, _I_
preferred accustoming myself to the look of the house, while performing
the “Cock,” to coming before the audience in the more difficult part of
Hamlet.

As there are unhappily impracticable people in the world, who, as
Curran expressed it, are never content to know “who killed the gauger,
if you can’t inform them who wove his corduroys”—to all such I would,
in deep humility, say, that with my “Confessions” they have nothing to
do—I have neither story nor moral—my only pretension to the one, is the
detail of a passion which marked some years of my life; my only attempt
at the other, the effort to show how prolific in hair-breadth ‘scapes
may a man’s career become, who, with a warm imagination and easy
temper, believes too much, and rarely can feign a part without
forgetting that he is acting. Having said thus much, I must once more
bespeak the indulgence never withheld from a true penitent, and at once
begin my “Confessions.”




 CHAPTER I.
ARRIVAL IN CORK—CIVIC FESTIVITIES—PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

[Illustration: Lorrequer on Parade]


It was on a splendid morning in the autumn of the year 181— that the
Howard transport, with four hundred of his Majesty’s 4—th Regt.,
dropped anchor in the beautiful harbour of Cove; the sea shone under
the purple light of the rising sun with a rich rosy hue, beautifully in
contrast with the different tints of the foliage of the deep woods
already tinged with the brown of autumn. Spike Island lay “sleeping
upon its broad shadow,” and the large ensign which crowns the battery
was wrapped around the flag-staff, there not being even air enough to
stir it. It was still so early, that but few persons were abroad; and
as we leaned over the bulwarks, and looked now, for the first time for
eight long years, upon British ground, many an eye filled, and many a
heaving breast told how full of recollections that short moment was,
and how different our feelings from the gay buoyancy with which we had
sailed from that same harbour for the Peninsula; many of our best and
bravest had we left behind us, and more than one native to the land we
were approaching had found his last rest in the soil of the stranger.
It was, then, with a mingled sense of pain and pleasure, we gazed upon
that peaceful little village, whose white cottages lay dotted along the
edge of the harbour. The moody silence our thoughts had shed over us
was soon broken: the preparations for disembarking had begun, and I
recollect well to this hour how, shaking off the load that oppressed my
heart, I descended the gangway, humming poor Wolfe’s well-known song—

“Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?”


And to this elasticity of spirits—whether the result of my profession,
or the gift of God—as Dogberry has it—I know not—I owe the greater
portion of the happiness I have enjoyed in a life, whose changes and
vicissitudes have equalled most men’s.

Drawn up in a line along the shore, I could scarce refrain from a smile
at our appearance. Four weeks on board a transport will certainly not
contribute much to the “personnel” of any unfortunate therein confined;
but when, in addition to this, you take into account that we had not
received new clothes for three years—if I except caps for our
grenadiers, originally intended for a Scotch regiment, but found to be
all too small for the long-headed generation. Many a patch of brown and
grey, variegated the faded scarlet, “of our uniform,” and scarcely a
pair of knees in the entire regiment did not confess their obligations
to a blanket. But with all this, we shewed a stout, weather-beaten
front, that, disposed as the passer-by might feel to laugh at our
expense, very little caution would teach him it was fully as safe to
indulge it in his sleeve.

The bells from every steeple and tower rung gaily out a peal of welcome
as we marched into “that beautiful city called Cork,” our band playing
“Garryowen”—for we had been originally raised in Ireland, and still
among our officers maintained a strong majority from that land of
punch, priests, and potatoes—the tattered flag of the regiment proudly
waving over our heads, and not a man amongst us whose warm heart did
not bound behind a Waterloo medal. Well—well! I am now—alas, that I
should say it—somewhat in the “sear and yellow;” and I confess, after
the experience of some moments of high, triumphant feeling, that I
never before felt within me, the same animating, spirit-filling glow of
delight, as rose within my heart that day, as I marched at the head of
my company down George’s-street.

We were soon settled in barracks; and then began a series of
entertainments on the side of the civic dignities of Cork, which soon
led most of us to believe that we had only escaped shot and shell to
fall less gloriously beneath champagne and claret. I do not believe
there is a coroner in the island who would have pronounced but the one
verdict over the regiment—“Killed by the mayor and corporation,” had we
so fallen.

First of all, we were dined by the citizens of Cork—and, to do them
justice, a harder drinking set of gentlemen no city need boast; then we
were feasted by the corporation; then by the sheriffs; then came the
mayor, solus; then an address, with a cold collation, that left eight
of us on the sick-list for a fortnight; but the climax of all was a
grand entertainment given in the mansion-house, and to which upwards of
two thousand were invited. It was a species of fancy ball, beginning by
a dejeune at three o’clock in the afternoon, and ending—I never yet met
the man who could tell when it ended; as for myself, my finale partook
a little of the adventurous, and I may as well relate it.

After waltzing for about an hour with one of the prettiest girls I ever
set eyes upon, and getting a tender squeeze of the hand, as I restored
her to a most affable-looking old lady in a blue turban and a red
velvet gown who smiled most benignly on me, and called me “Meejor,” I
retired to recruit for a new attack, to a small table, where three of
ours were quaffing “ponche a la Romaine,” with a crowd of Corkagians
about them, eagerly inquiring after some heroes of their own city,
whose deeds of arms they were surprised did not obtain special mention
from “the Duke.” I soon ingratiated myself into this well-occupied
clique, and dosed them with glory to their hearts’ content. I resolved
at once to enter into their humour; and as the “ponche” mounted up to
my brain I gradually found my acquaintanceship extend to every family
and connexion in the country.

“Did ye know Phil Beamish of the 3—th, sir?” said a tall, red-faced,
red-whiskered, well-looking gentleman, who bore no slight resemblance
to Feargus O’Connor.

“Phil Beamish!” said I. “Indeed I did, sir, and do still; and there is
not a man in the British army I am prouder of knowing.” Here, by the
way, I may mention that I never heard the name till that moment.

“You don’t say so, sir?” said Feargus—for so I must call him, for
shortness sake. “Has he any chance of the company yet, sir?”

“Company!” said I, in astonishment. “He obtained his majority three
months since. You cannot possibly have heard from lately, or you would
have known that?”

“That’s true, sir. I never heard since he quitted the 3—th to go to
Versailles, I think they call it, for his health. But how did he get
the step, sir?”

“Why, as to the company, that was remarkable enough!” said I, quaffing
off a tumbler of champagne, to assist my invention. “You know it was
about four o’clock in the afternoon of the 18th that Napoleon ordered
Grouchy to advance with the first and second brigade of the Old Guard
and two regiments of chasseurs, and attack the position occupied by
Picton and the regiments under his command. Well, sir, on they came,
masked by the smoke of a terrific discharge of artillery, stationed on
a small eminence to our left, and which did tremendous execution among
our poor fellows—on they came, Sir; and as the smoke cleared partially
away we got a glimpse of them, and a more dangerous looking set I
should not desire to see: grizzle-bearded, hard-featured, bronzed
fellows, about five-and-thirty or forty years of age; their beauty not
a whit improved by the red glare thrown upon their faces and along the
whole line by each flash of the long twenty-fours that were playing
away to the right. Just at this moment Picton rode down the line with
his staff, and stopping within a few paces of me, said, ‘They’re coming
up; steady, boys; steady now: we shall have something to do soon.’ And
then, turning sharply round, he looked in the direction of the French
battery, that was thundering away again in full force, ‘Ah, that must
be silenced,’ said he, ‘Where’s Beamish?’—“Says Picton!” interrupted
Feargus, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his mouth growing
wider every moment, as he listed with the most intense interest. “Yes,”
said I, slowly; and then, with all the provoking nonchalance of an
Italian improvisatore, who always halts at the most exciting point of
his narrative, I begged a listener near me to fill my glass from the
iced punch beside him. Not a sound was heard as I lifted the bumper to
my lips; all were breathless in their wound-up anxiety to hear of their
countryman who had been selected by Picton—for what, too, they knew not
yet, and, indeed, at this instant I did not know myself, and nearly
laughed outright, for the two of our men who had remained at the table
had so well employed their interval of ease as to become very
pleasantly drunk, and were listening to my confounded story with all
the gravity and seriousness in the world.

“‘Where’s Beamish?’ said Picton. ‘Here, sir,’ said Phil stepping out
from the line and touching his cap to the general, who, taking him
apart for a few minutes, spoke to him with great animation. We did not
know what he said; but before five minutes were over, there was Phil
with three companies of light-bobs drawn up at our left; their muskets
at the charge, they set off at a round trot down the little steep which
closed our flank. We had not much time to follow their movements, for
our own amusement began soon; but I well remember, after repelling the
French attack, and standing in square against two heavy charges of
cuirassiers, the first thing I saw where the French battery had stood,
was Phil Beamish and about a handful of brave fellows, all that
remained from the skirmish. He captured two of the enemy’s
field-pieces, and was ‘Captain Beamish’ on the day after.”

“Long life to him,” said at least a dozen voices behind and about me,
while a general clinking of decanters and smacking of lips betokened
that Phil’s health with all the honours was being celebrated. For
myself, I was really so engrossed by my narrative, and so excited by
the “ponche,” that I saw or heard very little of what was passing
around, and have only a kind of dim recollection of being seized by the
hand by “Feargus,” who was Beamish’s brother, and who, in the fullness
of his heart, would have hugged me to his breast, if I had not
opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless under the table.

When I first returned to consciousness, I found myself lying exactly
where I had fallen. Around me lay heaps of slain—the two of “ours”
amongst the number. One of them—I remember he was the adjutant—held in
his hand a wax candle (three to the pound). Whether he had himself
seized it in the enthusiasm of my narrative of flood and field, or it
had been put there by another, I know not, but he certainly cut a droll
figure. The room we were in was a small one off the great saloon, and
through the half open folding-door I could clearly perceive that the
festivities were still continued. The crash of fiddles and French
horns, and the tramp of feet, which had lost much of their elasticity
since the entertainments began, rang through my ears, mingled with the
sounds “down the middle,” “hands across,” “here’s your partner,
Captain.” What hour of the night or morning it then was, I could not
guess; but certainly the vigor of the party seemed little abated, if I
might judge from the specimens before me, and the testimony of a short
plethoric gentleman, who stood wiping his bald head, after conducting
his partner down twenty-eight couple, and who, turning to his friend,
said, “Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills.”

The first evidence I shewed of any return to reason, was a strong
anxiety to be at my quarters; but how to get there I knew not. The
faint glimmering of sense I possessed told me that “to stand was to
fall,” and I was ashamed to go on all-fours, which prudence suggested.

At this moment I remembered I had brought with me my cane, which, from
a perhaps pardonable vanity, I was fond of parading. It was a present
from the officers of my regiment—many of them, alas, since dead—and had
a most splendid gold head, with a stag at the top—the arms of the
regiment. This I would not have lost for any consideration I can
mention; and this now was gone! I looked around me on every side; I
groped beneath the table; I turned the sleeping sots who lay about in
no very gentle fashion; but, alas, it was gone. I sprang to my feet and
only then remembered how unfit I was to follow up the search, as
tables, chairs, lights, and people seemed all rocking and waving before
me. However, I succeeded in making my way, through one room into
another, sometimes guiding my steps along the walls; and once, as I
recollect, seeking the diagonal of a room, I bisected a quadrille with
such ill-directed speed, as to run foul of a Cork dandy and his partner
who were just performing the “en avant:” but though I saw them lie
tumbled in the dust by the shock of my encounter—for I had upset them—I
still held on the even tenor of my way. In fact, I had feeling for but
one loss; and, still in pursuit of my cane, I reached the hall-door.
Now, be it known that the architecture of the Cork Mansion House has
but one fault, but that fault is a grand one, and a strong evidence of
how unsuited English architects are to provide buildings for a people
whose tastes and habits they but imperfectly understand—be it known,
then, that the descent from the hall-door to the street was by a flight
of twelve stone steps. How I should ever get down these was now my
difficulty. If Falstaff deplored “eight yards of uneven ground as being
three score and ten miles a foot,” with equal truth did I feel that
these twelve awful steps were worse to me than would be M’Gillicuddy
Reeks in the day-light, and with a head clear from champagne.

While I yet hesitated, the problem resolved itself; for, gazing down
upon the bright gravel, brilliantly lighted by the surrounding lamps, I
lost my balance, and came tumbling and rolling from top to bottom,
where I fell upon a large mass of some soft substance, to which, in all
probability, I owe my life. In a few seconds I recovered my senses, and
what was my surprise to find that the downy cushion beneath, snored
most audibly! I moved a little to one side, and then discovered that in
reality it was nothing less than an alderman of Cork, who, from his
position, I concluded had shared the same fate with myself; there he
lay, “like a warrior taking his rest,” but not with his “martial cloak
around him,” but a much more comfortable and far more costly robe—a
scarlet gown of office—with huge velvet cuffs and a great cape of the
same material. True courage consists in presence of mind; and here mine
came to my aid at once: recollecting the loss I had just sustained, and
perceiving that all was still about me, with that right Peninsular
maxim, that reprisals are fair in an enemy’s camp, I proceeded to strip
the slain; and with some little difficulty—partly, indeed, owing to my
unsteadiness on my legs—I succeeded in denuding the worthy alderman,
who gave no other sign of life during the operation than an abortive
effort to “hip, hip, hurra,” in which I left him, having put on the
spoil, and set out on my way to the barrack with as much dignity of
manner as I could assume in honour of my costume. And here I may
mention (en parenthese) that a more comfortable morning gown no man
ever possessed, and in its wide luxuriant folds I revel, while I write
these lines.

When I awoke on the following day I had considerable difficulty in
tracing the events of the past evening. The great scarlet cloak,
however, unravelled much of the mystery, and gradually the whole of my
career became clear before me, with the single exception of the episode
of Phil Beamish, about which my memory was subsequently refreshed—but I
anticipate. Only five appeared that day at mess; and, Lord! What
spectres they were!—yellow as guineas; they called for soda water
without ceasing, and scarcely spoke a word to each other. It was plain
that the corporation of Cork was committing more havoc among us than
Corunna or Waterloo, and that if we did not change our quarters, there
would be quick promotion in the corps for such as were “seasoned
gentlemen.” After a day or two we met again together, and then what
adventures were told—each man had his own story to narrate; and from
the occurrences detailed, one would have supposed years had been
passing, instead of the short hours of an evening party. Mine were
indeed among the least remarkable; but I confess that the air of
vraisemblance produced by my production of the aldermanic gown gave me
the palm above all competitors.

Such was our life in Cork—dining, drinking, dancing, riding steeple
chases, pigeon shooting, and tandem driving—filling up any little
interval that was found to exist between a late breakfast, and the time
to dress for dinner; and here I hope I shall not be accused of a
tendency to boasting, while I add, that among all ranks and degrees of
men, and women too, there never was a regiment more highly in
estimation than the 4—th. We felt the full value of all the attentions
we were receiving; and we endeavoured, as best we might, to repay them.
We got up Garrison Balls and Garrison Plays, and usually performed one
or twice a week during the winter. Here I shone conspicuously; in the
morning I was employed painting scenery and arranging the properties;
as it grew later, I regulated the lamps, and looked after the
foot-lights, mediating occasionally between angry litigants, whose
jealousies abound to the full as much, in private theatricals, as in
the regular corps dramatique. Then, I was also leader in the orchestra;
and had scarcely to speak the prologues. Such are the cares of
greatness: to do myself justice, I did not dislike them; though, to be
sure, my taste for the drama did cost me a little dear, as will be seen
in the sequel.

We were then in the full career of popularity. Our balls pronounced the
very pleasantest; our plays far superior to any regular corps that had
ever honoured Cork with their talents; when an event occurred which
threw a gloom over all our proceedings, and finally put a stop to every
project for amusement, we had so completely given ourselves up to. This
was no less than the removal of our Lieutenant-Colonel. After thirty
years of active service in the regiment he then commanded, his age and
infirmities, increased by some severe wounds, demanded ease and repose;
he retired from us, bearing along with him the love and regard of every
man in the regiment. To the old officers he was endeared by long
companionship, and undeviating friendship; to the young, he was in
every respect as a father, assisting by his advice, and guiding by his
counsel; while to the men, the best estimate of his worth appeared in
the fact, that corporeal punishment was unknown in the corps. Such was
the man we lost; and it may well be supposed, that his successor, who,
or whatever he might be, came under circumstances of no common
difficulty amongst us; but, when I tell, that our new
Lieutenant-Colonel was in every respect his opposite, it may be
believed how little cordiality he met with.

Lieutenant-Colonel Carden—for so I shall call him, although not his
real name—had not been a month at quarters, when he proved himself a
regular martinet; everlasting drills, continual reports, fatigue
parties, and ball practice, and heaven knows what besides, superseded
our former morning’s occupation; and, at the end of the time I have
metioned, we, who had fought our way from Albuera to Waterloo, under
some of the severest generals of division, were pronounced a most
disorderly and ill-disciplined regiment, by a Colonel, who had never
seen a shot fired but at a review in Hounslow, or a sham-battle in the
Fifteen Acres. The winter was now drawing to a close—already some
little touch of spring was appearing; as our last play for the season
was announced, every effort to close with some little additional effort
was made; and each performer in the expected piece was nerving himself
for an effort beyond his wont. The Colonel had most unequivocally
condemned these plays; but that mattered not; they came not within his
jurisdiction; and we took no notice of his displeasure, further than
sending him tickets, which were as immediately returned as received.
From being the chief offender, I had become particularly obnoxious; and
he had upon more than one occasion expressed his desire for an
opportunity to visit me with his vengeance; but being aware of his kind
intentions towards me, I took particular care to let no such
opportunity occur.

On the morning in question, then, I had scarcely left my quarters, when
one of my brother officers informed me that the Colonel had made a
great uproar, that one of the bills of the play had been put up on his
door—which, with his avowed dislike to such representations, he
considered as intended to insult him: he added, too, that the Colonel
attributed it to me. In this, however, he was wrong—and, to this hour,
I never knew who did it. I had little time, and still less inclination,
to meditate upon the Colonel’s wrath—the theatre had all my thoughts;
and indeed it was a day of no common exertion, for our amusements were
to conclude with a grand supper on the stage, to which all the elite of
Cork were invited. Wherever I went through the city—and many were my
peregrinations—the great placard of the play stared me in the fact; and
every gate and shuttered window in Cork, proclaimed “THE PART OF
OTHELLO, BY MR. LORREQUER.”

As evening drew near, my cares and occupations were redoubled. My Iago
I had fears for—’tis true he was an admirable Lord Grizzle in Tom
Thumb—but then—then I had to paint the whole company, and bear all
their abuse besides, for not making some of the most ill-looking
wretches, perfect Apollos; but, last of all, I was sent for, at a
quarter to seven, to lace Desdemona’s stays. Start not, gentle
reader—my fair Desdemona—she “who might lie by an emperor’s side, and
command him tasks”—was no other than the senior lieutenant of the
regiment, and who was a great a votary of the jolly god as honest
Cassio himself. But I must hasten on—I cannot delay to recount our
successes in detail. Let it suffice to say, that, by universal consent,
I was preferred to Kean; and the only fault the most critical observer
could find to the representative of Desdemona, was a rather unlady-like
fondness for snuff. But, whatever little demerits our acting might have
displayed, were speedily forgotten in a champagne supper. There I took
the head of the table; and, in the costume of the noble Moor, toasted,
made speeches, returned thanks, and sung songs, till I might have
exclaimed with Othello himself, “Chaos was come again;”—and I believe I
owe my ever reaching the barrack that night to the kind offices of
Desdemona, who carried me the greater part of the way on her back.

The first waking thoughts of him who has indulged over-night, was not
among the most blissful of existence, and certainly the pleasure is not
increased by the consciousness that he is called on to the discharge of
duties to which a fevered pulse and throbbing temples are but
ill-suited. My sleep was suddenly broken in upon the morning after the
play, but a “row-dow-dow” beat beneath my window. I jumped hastily from
my bed, and looked out, and there, to my horror, perceived the regiment
under arms. It was one of our confounded colonel’s morning drills; and
there he stood himself with the poor adjutant, who had been up all
night, shivering beside him. Some two or three of the officers had
descended; and the drum was now summoning the others as it beat round
the barrack-square. I saw there was not a moment to lose, and proceeded
to dress with all despatch; but, to my misery, I discovered every where
nothing but theatrical robes and decorations—there lay a splendid
turban, here a pair of buskins—a spangled jacket glittered on one
table, and a jewelled scimitar on the other. At last I detected my
“regimental small-clothes,” &c. most ignominiously thrust into a
corner, in my ardour for my Moorish robes the preceding evening.

I dressed myself with the speed of lightning; but as I proceeded in my
occupation—guess my annoyance to find that the toilet-table and glass,
ay, and even the basin-stand, had been removed to the dressing-room of
the theatre; and my servant, I suppose, following his master’s example,
was too tipsy to remember to bring them back; so that I was unable to
procure the luxury of cold water—for now not a moment more remained—the
drum had ceased, and the men had all fallen in. Hastily drawing on my
coat, I put on my shako, and buckling on my belt as dandy-like as might
be, hurried down the stairs to the barrack-yard. By the time I got
down, the men were all drawn up in line along the square; while the
adjutant was proceeding to examine their accoutrements, &c. as he
passed down. The colonel and the officers were standing in a group, but
no conversing. The anger of the commanding officer appeared still to
continue, and there was a dead silence maintained on both sides. To
reach the spot where they stood, I had to pass along part of the line.
In doing so, how shall I convey my amazement at the faces that met me—a
general titter ran along the entire rank, which not even their fears
for consequences seemed able to repress—for an effort, on the part of
many, to stifle the laugh, only ended in a still louder burst of
merriment. I looked to the far side of the yard for an explanation, but
there was nothing there to account for it. I now crossed over to where
the officers were standing, determining in my own mind to investigate
the occurrence thoroughly, when free from the presence of the colonel,
to whom any representation of ill conduct always brought a punishment
far exceeding the merits of the case.

Scarcely had I formed this resolve, when I reached the group of
officers; but the moment I came near, one general roar of laughter
saluted me,—the like of which I never before heard—I looked down at my
costume, expecting to discover that, in my hurry to dress, I had put on
some of the garments of Othello—No: all was perfectly correct. I waited
for a moment, till the first burst of their merriment over, I should
obtain a clue to the jest. But their mirth appeared to increase. Indeed
poor G——, the senior major, one of the gravest men in Europe, laughed
till the tears ran down his cheeks; and such was the effect upon me,
that I was induced to laugh too—as men will sometimes, from the
infectious nature of that strange emotion; but, no sooner did I do
this, than their fun knew no bounds, and some almost screamed aloud, in
the excess of their merriment; just at this instant the Colonel, who
had been examining some of the men, approached our group, advancing
with an air of evident displeasure, as the shouts of loud laughter
continued. As he came up, I turned hastily round, and touching my cap,
wished him good morning. Never shall I forget the look he gave me. If a
glance could have annihilated any man, his would have finished me. For
a moment his face became purple with rage, his eye was almost hid
beneath his bent brow, and he absolutely shook with passion.

“Go, Sir,” said he at length, as soon as he was able to find utterance
for his words; “Go, sir, to your quarters; and before you leave them, a
court-martial shall decide, if such continued insult to your commanding
officer, warrants your name being in the Army List.”

“What the devil can all this mean?” I said, in a half-whisper, turning
to the others. But there they stood, their handkerchiefs to their
mouths, and evidently choking with suppressed laughter.

“May I beg, Colonel C——,” said I——

“To your quarters, sir,” roared the little man, in the voice of a lion.
And with a haughty wave of his hand, prevented all further attempt on
my part to seek explanation.

“They’re all mad, every man of them,” I muttered, as I betook byself
slowly back to my rooms, amid the same evidences of mirth my first
appearance had excited—which even the Colonel’s presence, feared as he
was, could not entirely subdue.

With the air of a martyr I trod heavily up the stairs, and entered my
quarters, meditating within myself, awful schemes for vengeance, on the
now open tyranny of my Colonel; upon whom, I too, in my honest
rectitude of heart, vowed to have “a court-martial.” I threw myself
upon a chair, and endeavoured to recollect what circumstance of the
past evening could have possibly suggested all the mirth in which both
officers and men seemed to participate equally; but nothing could I
remember, capable of solving the mystery,—surely the cruel wrongs of
the manly Othello were no laughter-moving subject.

I rang the bell hastily for my servant. The door opened.

“Stubbes,” said I, “are you aware”——

I had only got so far in my question, when my servant, one of the most
discreet of men, put on a broad grin, and turned away towards the door
to hide his face.

“What the devil does this mean?” said I, stamping with passion; “he is
as bad as the rest. Stubbes,” and this I spoke with the most grave and
severe tone, “what is the meaning of the insolence?”

“Oh, sir,” said the man; “Oh, sir, surely you did not appear on parade
with that face?” and then he burst into a fit of the most
uncontrollable laughter.

Like lightning a horrid doubt shot across my mind. I sprung over to the
dressing-glass, which had been replaced, and oh: horror of horrors!
There I stood as black as the king of Ashantee. The cursed dye which I
had put on for Othello, I had never washed off,—and there with a huge
bear-skin shako, and a pair of black, bushy whiskers, shone my huge,
black, and polished visage, glowering at itself in the looking-glass.

My first impulse, after amazement had a little subsided, was to laugh
immoderately; in this I was joined by Stubbes, who, feeling that his
mirth was participated in, gave full vent to his risibility. And,
indeed, as I stood before the glass, grinning from ear to ear, I felt
very little surprise that my joining in the laughter of my brother
officers, a short time before, had caused an increase of their
merriment. I threw myself upon a sofa, and absolutely laughed till my
sides ached, when, the door opening, the adjutant made his appearance.
He looked for a moment at me, then at Stubbes, and then burst out
himself, as loud as either of us. When he had at length recovered
himself, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and said, with a tone
of much gravity:—

“But, my dear Lorrequer, this will be a serious—a devilish serious
affair. You know what kind of man Colonel C—— is; and you are aware,
too, you are not one of his prime favourites. He is firmly convinced
that you intended to insult him, and nothing will convince him to the
contrary. We told him how it must have occurred, but he will listen to
no explanation.”

I thought for one second before I replied, my mind, with the practised
rapidity of an old campaigner, took in all the pros and cons of the
case; I saw at a glance, it were better to brave the anger of the
Colonel, come in what shape it might, than be the laughing-stock of the
mess for life, and with a face of the greatest gravity and
self-possession, said,

“Well, adjutant, the Colonel is right. It was no mistake! You know I
sent him tickets yesterday for the theatre. Well, he returned them;
this did not annoy me, but on one account, I had made a wager with
Alderman Gullable, that the Colonel should see me in Othello—what was
to be done? Don’t you see, now, there was only one course, and I took
it, old boy, and have won my bet!”

“And lost your commission for a dozen of champagne, I suppose,” said
the adjutant.

“Never mind, my dear fellow,” I repled; “I shall get out of this
scrape, as I have done many others.”

“But what do you intend doing?”

“Oh, as to that,” said I, “I shall, of course, wait on the Colonel
immediately; pretend to him that it was a mere blunder, from the
inattention of my servant—hand over Stubbes to the powers that punish,
(here the poor fellow winced a little,) and make my peace as well as I
can. But, adjutant, mind,” said I, “and give the real version to all
our fellows, and tell them to make it public as much as they please.”

“Never fear,” said he, as he left the room still laughing, “they shall
all know the true story; but I wish with all my heart you were well out
of it.”

I now lost no time in making my toilet, and presented myself at the
Colonel’s quarters. It is no pleasure for me to recount these passages
in my life, in which I have had to hear the “proud man’s contumely.” I
shall therefore merely observe, that after a very long interview, the
Colonel accepted my apologies, and we parted.

Before a week elapsed, the story had gone far and near; every
dinner-table in Cork had laughed at it. As for me, I attained immortal
honour for my tact and courage. Poor Gullable readily agreed to favour
the story, and gave us a dinner as the lost wager, and the Colonel was
so unmercifully quizzed on the subject, and such broad allusions to his
being humbugged were given in the Cork papers, that he was obliged to
negociate a change of quarters with another regiment, to get out of the
continual jesting, and in less than a month we marched to Limerick, to
relieve, as it was reported, the 9th, ordered for foreign service, but,
in reality, only to relieve Lieut.-Colonel C——, quizzed beyond
endurance.

However, if the Colonel had seemed to forgive, he did not forget, for
the very second week after our arrival in Limerick, I received one
morning at my breakfast-table, the following brief note from our
adjutant:—

“My Dear Lorrequer—The Colonel has received orders to despatch two
companies to some remote part of the county Clare; as you have ‘done
the state some service,’ you are selected for the beautiful town of
Kilrush, where, to use the eulogistic language of the geography books,
‘there is a good harbour, and a market plentifully supplied with fish.’
I have just heard of the kind intention in store for you, and lose no
time in letting you know.
    “God give you a good deliverance from the ‘garcons lances,’ as the
    Moniteur calls the Whiteboys, and believe me ever your’s, Charles
    Curzon.”


I had scarcely twice read over the adjutant’s epistle, when I received
an official notification from the Colonel, directing me to proceed to
Kilrush, then and there to afford all aid and assistance in suppressing
illicit distillation, when called on for that purpose; and other
similar duties too agreeable to recapitulate. Alas! Alas! Othello’s
occupation: was indeed gone! The next morning at sun-rise saw me on my
march, with what appearance of gaiety I could muster, but in reality
very much chopfallen at my banishment, and invoking sundry things upon
the devoted head of the Colonel, which he would by no means consider as
“blessings.”

How short-sighted are we mortals, whether enjoying all the pump and
state of royalty, or marching like myself at the head of a company of
his Majesty’s 4—th.

Little, indeed, did I anticipate that the Siberia to which I fancied I
was condemned should turn out the happiest quarters my fate ever threw
me into. But this, including as it does, one of the most important
events of my life, I reserve for another chapter.—

“What is that place called, Sergeant?”—“Bunratty Castle, sir,”

“Where do we breakfast?”—“At Clare Island, sir.”

“March away, boys!”




 CHAPTER II.
DETACHMENT DUTY—THE BURTON ARMS—CALLONBY.


For a week after my arrival at Kilrush, my life was one of the most
dreary monotony. The rain, which had begun to fall as I left Limerick,
continued to descend in torrents, and I found myself a close prisoner
in the sanded parlour of “mine inn.” At no time would such “durance
vile” have been agreeable; but now, when I contrasted it with all I had
left behind at head quarters, it was absolutely maddening. The pleasant
lounge in the morning, the social mess, and the agreeable evening
party, were all exchanged for a short promenade of fourteen feet in one
direction, and twelve in the other, such being the accurate measurement
of my “salle a manger.” A chicken, with legs as blue as a Highlander’s
in winter, for my dinner; and the hours that all Christian mankind were
devoting to pleasant intercourse, and agreeable chit-chat, spent in
beating that dead-march to time, “the Devil’s Tattoo,” upon my ricketty
table, and forming, between whiles, sundry valorous resolutions to
reform my life, and “eschew sack and loose company.”

My front-window looked out upon a long, straggling, ill-paved street,
with its due proportion of mud-heaps, and duck pools; the houses on
either side were, for the most part, dingy-looking edifices, with
half-doors, and such pretension to being shops as a quart of meal, or
salt, displayed in the window, confers; or sometimes two tobacco-pipes,
placed “saltier-wise,” would appear the only vendible article in the
establishment. A more wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone
poverty, I never beheld.

If I turned for consolation to the back of the house, my eyes fell upon
the dirty yard of a dirty inn; the half-thatched cow-shed, where two
famished animals mourned their hard fate,—“chewing the cud of sweet and
bitter fancy;” the chaise, the yellow post-chaise, once the pride and
glory of the establishment, now stood reduced from its wheels, and
ignominiously degraded to a hen-house; on the grass-grown roof a cock
had taken his stand, with an air of protective patronage to the
feathered inhabitants beneath:

“To what base uses must we come at last.”


That chaise, which once had conveyed the blooming bride, all blushes
and tenderness, and the happy groom, on their honeymoon visit to
Ballybunion and its romantic caves, or to the gigantic cliffs and
sea-girt shores of Moher—or with more steady pace and becoming gravity
had borne along the “going judge of assize,”—was now become a lying-in
hospital for fowl, and a nursery for chickens. Fallen as I was myself
from my high estate, it afforded me a species of malicious satisfaction
to contemplate these sad reverses of fortune; and I verily believe—for
on such slight foundation our greatest resolves are built—that if the
rain had continued a week longer, I should have become a misanthropist
for life. I made many inquiries from my landlady as to the society of
the place, but the answers I received only led to greater despondence.
My predecessor here, it seemed, had been an officer of a veteran
battalion, with a wife, and that amount of children which is
algebraically expressed by an X (meaning an unknown quantity). He, good
man, in his two years’ sojourn here, had been much more solicitous
about his own affairs, than making acquaintance with his neighbours;
and at last, the few persons who had been in the habit of calling on
“the officer,” gave up the practice; and as there were no young ladies
to refresh Pa’s memory on the matter, they soon forgot completely that
such a person existed—and to this happy oblivion I, Harry Lorrequer,
succeeded, and was thus left without benefit of clergy to the tender
mercies of Mrs. Healy of the Burton arms.

As during the inundation which deluged the whole country around I was
unable to stir from the house, I enjoyed abundant opportunity of
cultivating the acquaintance of my hostess, and it is but fair that my
reader, who has journeyed so far with me, should have an introduction.

Mrs. Healy, the sole proprietor of the “Burton Arms,” was of some five
and fifty—“or by’r lady,” three score years, of a rubicund and hale
complexion; and though her short neck and corpulent figure might have
set her down as “doubly hazardous,” she looked a good life for many
years to come. In height and breadth she most nearly resembled a
sugar-hogshead, whose rolling, pitching motion, when trundled along on
edge, she emulated in her gait. To the ungainliness of her figure her
mode of dressing not a little contributed. She usually wore a thick
linsey-wolsey gown, with enormous pockets on either side, and, like
Nora Creina’s, it certainly inflicted no undue restrictions upon her
charms, but left

“Every beauty free,
To sink or swell as heaven pleases.”


Her feet—ye gods! Such feet—were apparelled in listing slippers, over
which the upholstery of her ancles descended, and completely relieved
the mind of the spectator as to the superincumbent weight being
disproportioned to the support; I remember well my first impression on
seeing those feet and ancles reposing upon a straw footstool, while she
took her afternoon dose, and I wondered within myself if elephants were
liable to the gout. There are few countenances in the world, that if
wishing to convey an idea of, we cannot refer to some well-known
standard; and thus nothing is more common than to hear comparisons with
“Vulcan—Venus—Nicodemus,” and the like; but in the present case, I am
totally at a loss for any thing resembling the face of the worth Mrs.
Healy, except it be, perhaps, that most ancient and sour visage we used
to see upon old circular iron rappers formerly—they make none of them
now—the only difference being, that Mrs. Healy’s nose had no ring
through it; I am almost tempted to add, “more’s the pity.”

Such was she in “the flesh;” would that I could say, she was more
fascinating in the “spirit!” but alas, truth, from which I never may
depart in these “my confessions,” constrains me to acknowledge the
reverse. Most persons in this miserable world of ours, have some
prevailing, predominating characteristic, which usually gives the tone
and colour to all their thoughts and actions, forming what we
denominate temperament; this we see actuating them, now more, now less;
but rarely, however, is this great spring of action without its moments
of repose. Not so with her of whom I have been speaking. She had but
one passion—but, like Aaron’s rod, it had a most consuming tendency—and
that was to scold, and abuse, all whom hard fate had brought within the
unfortunate limits of her tyranny. The English language, comprehensive
as it is, afforded not epithets strong enough for her wrath, and she
sought among the more classic beauties of her native Irish, such
additional ones as served her need, and with this holy alliance of
tongues, she had been for years long, the dread and terror of the
entire village.

“The dawning of morn, the day-light sinking,”

ay, and even the “night’s dull hours,” it was said, too, found her
labouring in her congenial occupation; and while thus she continued to
“scold and grow fat,” her inn, once a popular and frequented one,
became gradually less and less frequented, and the dragon of the
Rhine-fells did not more effectually lay waste the territory about him,
than did the evil influence of her tongue spread desolation and ruin
around her. Her inn, at the time of my visit, had not been troubled
with even a passing traveller for many months; and, indeed, if I had
any, even the least foreknowledge of the character of my hostess, its
privacy should have still remained uninvaded for some time longer.

I had not been many hours installed, when I got a specimen of her
powers; and before the first week was over, so constant and unremitting
were her labours in this way, that I have upon the occasion of a slight
lull in the storm, occasioned by her falling asleep, actually left my
room to inquire if anything had gone wrong, in the same was as the
miller is said to awake, if the mill stops. I trust I have said enough,
to move the reader’s pity and compassion for my situation—one more
miserable it is difficult to conceive. It may be though that much might
be done by management, and that a slight exercise of the favourite Whig
plan of concilliation, might avail. Nothing of the kind. She was proof
against all such arts; and what was still worse, there was no subject,
no possible circumstance, no matter, past, present, or to come, that
she could not wind by her diabolical ingenuity, into some cause of
offence; and then came the quick transition to instant punishment.
Thus, my apparently harmless inquiry as to the society of the
neighbourhood, suggested to her—a wish on my part to make
acquaintance—therefore to dine out—therefore not to dine at
home—consequently to escape paying half-a-crown and devouring a
chicken—therefore to defraud her, and behave, as she would herself
observe, “like a beggarly scullion, with his four shillings a day,
setting up for a gentleman,” &c.

By a quiet and Job-like endurance of all manner of taunting suspicions,
and unmerited sarcasms, to which I daily became more reconciled, I
absolutely rose into something like favour; and before the first month
of my banishment expired, had got the length of an invitation to tea,
in her own snuggery—an honour never known to be bestowed on any before,
with the exception of Father Malachi Brennan, her ghostly adviser; and
even he, it is said, never ventured on such an approximation to
intimacy, until he was, in Kilrush phrase, “half screwed,” thereby
meaning more than half tipsy. From time to time thus, I learned from my
hostess such particulars of the country and its inhabitants as I was
desirous of hearing; and among other matters, she gave me an account of
the great landed proprietor himself, Lord Callonby, who was daily
expected at his seat, within some miles of Kilrush, at the same time
assuring me that I need not be looking so “pleased and curling out my
whiskers;” “that they’d never take the trouble of asking even the name
of me.” This, though neither very courteous, nor altogether flattering
to listen to, was no more than I had already learned from some brother
officers who knew this quarter, and who informed me that the Earl of
Callonby, though only visiting his Irish estates every three or four
years, never took the slightest notice of any of the military in his
neighbourhood; nor, indeed did he mix with the country gentry,
confining himself to his own family, or the guests, who usually
accompanied him from England, and remained during his few weeks’ stay.
My impression of his lordship was therefore not calculated to cheer my
solitude by any prospect of his rendering it lighter.

The Earl’s family consisted of her ladyship, an only son, nearly of
age, and two daughters; the eldest, Lady Jane, had the reputation of
being extremely beautiful; and I remembered when she came out in
London, only the year before, hearing nothing but praises of the grace
and elegance of her manner, united to the most classic beauty of her
face and figure. The second daughter was some years younger, and said
to be also very handsome; but as yet she had not been brought into
society. Of the son, Lord Kilkee, I only heard that he had been a very
gay fellow at Oxford, where he was much liked, and although not
particularly studious, had given evidence of talent.

Such were the few particulars I obtained of my neighbours, and thus
little did I know of those who were so soon to exercise a most
important influence upon my future life.

After some weeks’ close confinement, which, judging from my feelings
alone, I should have counted as many years, I eagerly seized the
opportunity of the first glimpse of sunshine to make a short excursion
along the coast; I started early in the morning, and after a long
stroll along the bold headlands of Kilkee, was returning late in the
evening to my lodgings. My path lay across a wild, bleak moor, dotted
with low clumps of furze, and not presenting on any side the least
trace of habitation. In wading through the tangled bushes, my dog
“Mouche” started a hare; and after a run “sharp, short, and decisive,”
killed it at the bottom of a little glen some hundred yards off.

I was just patting my dog, and examining the prize, when I heard a
crackling among the low bushes near me; and on looking up, perceived,
about twenty paces distant, a short, thick-set man, whose fustian
jacket and leathern gaiters at once pronounced him the gamekeeper; he
stood leaning upon his gun, quietly awaiting, as it seemed, for any
movement on my part, before he interfered. With one glance I detected
how matters stood, and immediately adopting my usual policy of “taking
the bull by the horns,” called out, in a tone of very sufficient
authority,

“I say, my man, are you his lordship’s gamekeeper?”

Taking off his hat, the man approached me, and very respectfully
informed me that he was.

“Well then,” said I, “present this hare to his lordship with my
respects; here is my card, and say I shall be most happy to wait on him
in the morning, and explain the circumstance.”

The man took the card, and seemed for some moments undecided how to
act; he seemed to think that probably he might be ill-treating a friend
of his lordship’s if he refused; and on the other hand might be merely
“jockeyed” by some bold-faced poacher. Meanwhile I whistled my dog
close up, and humming an air, with great appearance of indifference,
stepped out homeward. By this piece of presence of mind I saved poor
“Mouche;” for I saw at a glance, that, with true gamekeeper’s law, he
had been destined to death the moment he had committed the offence.

The following morning, as I sat at breakfast, meditating upon the
events of the preceding day, and not exactly determined how to act,
whether to write to his lordship explaining how the matter occurred, or
call personally, a loud rattling on the pavement drew me to the window.
As the house stood at the end of a street, I could not see in the
direction the noise came; but as I listened, a very handsome tandem
turned the corner of the narrow street, and came along towards the
hotel at a long, sling trot; the horses were dark chestnuts, well
matched, and shewing a deal of blood. The carriage was a dark drab,
with black wheels; the harness all of the same colour. The whole
turn-out—and I was an amateur of that sort of thing—was perfect; the
driver, for I come to him last, as he was the last I looked at, was a
fashionable looking young fellow, plainly, but knowingly, dressed, and
evidently handling the “ribbon,” like an experienced whip.

After bringing his nags up to the inn door in very pretty style, he
gave the reins to his servant, and got down. Before I was well aware of
it, the door of my room opened, and the gentleman entered with a
certain easy air of good breeding, and saying,

“Mr. Lorrequer, I presume—” introduced himself as Lord Kilkee.

I immediately opened the conversation by an apology for my dog’s
misconduct on the day before, and assured his lordship that I knew the
value of a hare in a hunting country, and was really sorry for the
circumstance.

“Then I must say,” replied his lordship, “Mr. Lorrequer is the only
person who regrets the matter; for had it not been for this, it is more
than probable we should never have known we were so near neighbours; in
fact, nothing could equal our amazement at hearing you were playing the
‘Solitaire’ down here. You must have found it dreadfully heavy, ‘and
have thought us downright savages.’ But then I must explain to you,
that my father has made some ‘rule absolute’ about visiting when down
here. And though I know you’ll not consider it a compliment, yet I can
assure you there is not another man I know of he would pay attention
to, but yourself. He made two efforts to get here this morning, but the
gout ‘would not be denied,’ and so he deputed a most inferior
‘diplomate;’ and now will you let me return with some character from my
first mission, and inform my friends that you will dine with us to-day
at seven—a mere family party; but make your arrangements to stop all
night and to-morrow: we shall find some work for my friend there on the
hearth; what do you call him, Mr. Lorrequer?”

“‘Mouche’—come here, ‘Mouche.’”

“Ah ‘Mouche,’ come here, my fine fellow—a splendid dog, indeed; very
tall for a thorough-bred; and now you’ll not forget, seven, ‘temps
militaire,’ and so, sans adieu.”

And with these words his lordship shook me heartily by the hand; and
before two minutes had elapsed, had wrapped his box-coat once more
across him, and was round the corner.

I looked for a few moments on the again silent street, and was almost
tempted to believe I was in a dream, so rapidly had the preceding
moments passed over; and so surprised was I to find that the proud Earl
of Callonby, who never did the “civil thing” any where, should think
proper to pay attention to a poor sub in a marching regiment, whose
only claim on his acquaintance was the suspicion of poaching on his
manor. I repeated over and over all his lordship’s most polite
speeches, trying to solve the mystery of them; but in vain: a thousand
explanations occurred, but none of them I felt at all satisfactory;
that there was some mystery somewhere, I had no doubt; for I remarked
all through that Lord Kilkee laid some stress upon my identity, and
even seemed surprised at _my_ being in such banishment. “Oh,” thought I
at last, “his lordship is about to get up private theatricals, and has
seen my Captain Absolute, or perhaps my Hamlet”—I could not say
“Othello” even to myself—“and is anxious to get ‘such unrivalled
talent’ even ‘for one night only.’”

After many guesses this seemed the nearest I could think of; and by the
time I had finished my dressing for dinner, it was quite clear to me I
had solved all the secret of his lordship’s attentions.

The road to “Callonby” was beautiful beyond any thing I had ever seen
in Ireland. For upwards of two miles it led along the margin of the
lofty cliffs of Moher, now jutting out into bold promontories, and
again retreating, and forming small bays and mimic harbours, into which
the heavy swell of the broad Atlantic was rolling its deep blue tide.
The evening was perfectly calm, and at a little distance from the shore
the surface of the sea was without a ripple. The only sound breaking
the solemn stillness of the hour, was the heavy plash of the waves, as
in minute peals they rolled in upon the pebbly beach, and brought back
with them at each retreat, some of the larger and smoother stones,
whose noise, as they fell back into old ocean’s bed, mingled with the
din of the breaking surf. In one of the many little bays I passed, lay
three or four fishing smacks. The sails were drying, and flapped lazily
against the mast. I could see the figures of the men as they passed
backwards and forwards upon the decks, and although the height was
nearly eight hundred feet, could hear their voices quite distinctly.
Upon the golden strand, which was still marked with a deeper tint,
where the tide had washed, stood a little white cottage of some
fisherman—at least, so the net before the door bespoke it. Around it,
stood some children, whose merry voices and laughing tones sometimes
reached me where I was standing. I could not but think, as I looked
down from my lofty eyrie, upon that little group of boats, and that
lone hut, how much of the “world” to the humble dweller beneath, lay in
that secluded and narrow bay. There, the deep sea, where their days
were passed in “storm or sunshine,”—there, the humble home, where at
night they rested, and around whose hearth lay all their cares and all
their joys. How far, how very far removed from the busy haunts of men,
and all the struggles and contentions of the ambitious world; and yet,
how short-sighted to suppose that even they had not their griefs and
sorrows, and that their humble lot was devoid of the inheritance of
those woes, which all are heirs to.

I turned reluctantly, from the sea-shore to enter the gate of the park,
and my path in a few moments was as completely screened from all
prospect of the sea, as though it had lain miles inland. An avenue of
tall and ancient lime trees, so dense in their shadows as nearly to
conceal the road beneath, led for above a mile through a beautiful
lawn, whose surface, gently undulating, and studded with young clumps,
was dotted over with sheep. At length, descending by a very steep road,
I reached a beautiful little stream, over which a rustic bridge was
thrown. As I looked down upon the rippling stream beneath, on the
surface of which the dusky evening flies were dipping, I made a
resolve, if I prospered in his lordship’s good graces, to devote a day
to the “angle” there, before I left the country. It was now growing
late, and remember Lord Kilkee’s intimation of “sharp seven,” I threw
my reins over my cob, “Sir Roger’s” neck, (for I had hitherto been
walking,) and cantered up the steep hill before me. When I reached the
top, I found myself upon a broad table land, encircled by old and
well-grown timber, and at a distance, most tastefully half concealed by
ornamental planting, I could catch some glimpse of Callonby. Before,
however, I had time to look about me, I heard the tramp of horses’ feet
behind, and in another moment two ladies dashed up the steep behind,
and came towards me, at a smart gallop, followed by a groom, who,
neither himself nor his horse, seemed to relish the pace of his fair
mistresses. I moved off the road into the grass to permit them to pass;
but no sooner had they got abreast of me, than Sir Roger, anxious for a
fair start, flung up both heels at once, pricked up his ears, and with
a plunge that very nearly threw me from the saddle, set off at top
speed. My first thought was for the ladies beside me, and, to my utter
horror, I now saw them coming along in full gallop; their horses had
got off the road, and were, to my thinking, become quite unmanageable.
I endeavoured to pull up, but all in vain. Sir Roger had got the bit
between his teeth, a favourite trick of his, and I was perfectly
powerless to hold him by this time, they being mounted on
thoroughbreds, got a full neck before me, and the pace was now
tremendous, on we all came, each horse at his utmost stretch; they were
evidently gaining from the better stride of their cattle, and will it
be believed, or shall I venture to acknowledge it in these my
confessions, that I, who a moment before, would have given my best
chance of promotion, to be able to pull in my horse, would now have
“pledged my dukedom” to be able to give Sir Roger one cut of the whip
unobserved. I leave it to the wise to decipher the rationale, but such
is the fact. It was complete steeple-chasing, and my blood was up.

On we came, and I now perceived that about two hundred yards before me
stood an iron gate and piers, without any hedge or wall on either side;
before I could conjecture the meaning of so strange a thing in the
midst of a large lawn, I saw the foremost horse, now two or three
lengths before the other, still in advance of me, take two or three
short strides, and fly about eight feet over a sunk fence—the second
followed in the same style, the riders sitting as steadily as in the
gallop. It was now my turn, and I confess, as I neared the dyke, I
heartily wished myself well over it, for the very possibility of a
“mistake” was maddening. Sir Roger came on at a slapping pace, and when
within two yards of the brink, rose to it, and cleared it like a deer.
By the time I had accomplished this feat, not the less to my
satisfaction, that both ladies had turned in the saddles to watch me,
they were already far in advance; they held on still at the same pace,
round a small copse which concealed them an instant from my view, and
which, when I passed, I perceived that they had just reached the hall
door, and were dismounting.

On the steps stood a tall, elderly-looking, gentleman-like person, who
I rightly conjectured was his lordship. I heard him laughing heartily
as I came up. I at last succeeded in getting Sir Roger to a canter, and
when about twenty yards from where the group were standing, sprung off,
and hastened up to make my apologies as I best might, for my
unfortunate runaway. I was fortunately spared this awkwardness of an
explanation, for his lordship, approaching me with his hand extended,
said—

“Mr. Lorrequer is most welcome at Callonby. I cannot be mistaken, I am
sure—I have the pleasure of addressing the nephew of my old friend, Sir
Guy Lorrequer of Elton. I am indeed most happy to see you, and not the
less so, that you are safe and sound, which, five minutes since, I
assure you I had my fears for—”

Before I could assure his lordship that my fears were all for my
competitors in the race—for such in reality they were—he introduced me
to the two ladies, who were still standing beside him—“Lady Jane
Callonby; Mr. Lorrequer; Lady Catherine.”

“Which of you, young ladies, may I ask, planned this escapade, for I
see by your looks, it was no accident?”

“I think, papa,” said Lady Jane, “you must question Mr. Lorrequer on
that head; he certainly started first.”

“I confess, indeed,” said I, “such was the case.”

“Well, you must confess, too, you were distanced,” said Lady Jane, at
the same time, most terribly provoked, to be quizzed on such a matter;
that I, a steeple-chase horseman of the first water, should be twitted
by a couple of young ladies, on the score of a most manly exercise.
“But come,” said his lordship, “the first bell has rung long since, and
I am longing to ask Mr. Lorrequer all about my old college friend of
forty years ago. So, ladies, hasten your toilet, I beseech you.”

With these words, his lordship, taking my arm, led me into the
drawing-room, where we had not been many minutes till we were joined by
her ladyship, a tall stately handsome woman, of a certain age;
resolutely bent upon being both young and beautiful, in spite of time
and wrinkles; her reception of me, though not possessing the frankness
of his lordship, was still very polite, and intended to be even
gracious. I now found by the reiterated inquiries for my old uncle, Sir
Guy, that he it was, and not Hamlet, to whom I owed my present notice,
and I must include it among my confessions, that it was about the first
advantage I ever derived from the relationship. After half an hour’s
agreeable chatting, the ladies entered, and then I had time to remark
the extreme beauty of their appearance; they were both wonderfully
like, and except that Lady Jane was taller and more womanly, it would
have been almost impossible to discriminate between them.

Lady Jane Callonby was then about twenty years of age, rather above the
middle size, and slightly disposed towards embonpoint; her eye was of
the deepest and most liquid blue, and rendered apparently darker, by
long lashes of the blackest jet—for such was the colour of her hair;
her nose slightly, but slightly, deviated from the straightness of the
Greek, and her upper lip was faultless, as were her mouth and chin; the
whole lower part of the face, from the perfect “chiselling,” and from
the character of her head, had certainly a great air of hauteur, but
the extreme melting softness of her eyes took from this, and when she
spoke, there was a quiet earnestness in her mild and musical voice,
that disarmed you at once of connecting the idea of self with the
speaker; the word “fascinating,” more than any other I know of, conveys
the effect of her appearance, and to produce it, she had more than any
other woman I ever met, that wonderful gift, the “l’art de plaire.”

I was roused from my perhaps too earnest, because unconscious gaze, at
the lovely figure before me, by his Lordship saying, “Mr. Lorrequer,
her Ladyship is waiting for you.” I accordingly bowed, and, offering my
arm, led her into the dinner-room. And here I draw rein for the
present, reserving for my next chapter—My Adventure at Callonby.




 CHAPTER III.
LIFE AT CALLONBY—LOVE-MAKING—MISS O’DOWD’S ADVENTURE.


My first evening at Callonby passed off as nearly all first evenings do
every where. His lordship was most agreeable, talked much of my uncle,
Sir Guy, whose fag he had been at Eton half a century before, promised
me some capital shooting in his preserves, discussed the state of
politics; and, as the second decanter of port “waned apace,” grew
wondrous confidential, and told me of his intention to start his son
for the county at the next general election, such being the object
which had now conferred the honour of his presence on his Irish
estates.

Her ladyship was most condescendingly civil, vouchsafed much tender
commiseration for my “exile,” as she termed my quarters in Kilrush;
wondered how _I_ could possibly exist in a marching regiment, (who had
never been in the cavalry in my life!) spoke quite feelingly on my
kindness in joining their stupid family party, for they were living, to
use her own phrase, “like hermits;” and wound up all by a playful
assurance that as she perceived, from all my answers, that I was bent
on preserving a strict incognito, she would tell no tales about me on
her return to “Town.” Now, it may readily be believed, that all this,
and many more of her ladyship’s allusions, were a “Chaldee manuscript”
to me; that she knew certain facts of my family and relations, was
certain; but that she had interwoven in the humble web of my history, a
very pretty embroidery of fiction was equally so; and while she thus
ran on, with innumerable allusions to Lady Marys and Lord Johns, who
she pretended to suppose were dying to hear from me, I could not help
muttering to myself with good Christopher Sly, “And all this be
true—then Lord be thanked for my good amends;” for up to that moment I
was an ungrateful man for all this high and noble solicitude. One dark
doubt shot for an instant across my brain. Maybe her ladyship had
“registered a vow” never to syllable a name unchronicled by Debrett, or
was actually only mystifying me for mere amusement. A minute’s
consideration dispelled this fear; for I found myself treated “en
Seigneur” by the whole family. As for the daughters of the house,
nothing could possibly be more engaging than their manner. The eldest,
Lady Jane, was pleased from my near relationship to her father’s oldest
friend to receive me, “from the first,” on the most friendly footing;
while, with the younger, Lady Catherine, from her being less ‘maniere’
than her sister, my progress was even greater; and thus, before we
separated for the night, I contrived to “take up my position” in such a
fashion, as to be already looked upon as one of the family party, to
which object, Lord and indeed Lady Callonby seemed most willing to
contribute, and made me promise to spend the entire of the following
day at Callonby, and as many of the succeeding ones as my military
duties would permit.

As his lordship was wishing me “good night” at the door of the
drawing-room, he said, in a half whisper,

“We were ignorant yesterday, Mr. Lorrequer, how soon we should have had
the pleasure of seeing you here; and you are therefore condemned to a
small room off the library, it being the only one we can insure you as
being well aired. I must therefore apprize you that you are not to be
shocked at finding yourself surrounded by every member of my family,
hung up in frames around you. But as the room is usually my own
snuggery, I have resigned it without any alteration whatever.”

The apartment for which his lordship had so strongly apologized, stood
in very pleasing contrast to my late one in Kilrush. The soft Persian
carpet, on which one’s feet sank to the very ankles; the brightly
polished dogs, upon which a blazing wood fire burned; the well
upholstered fauteuils which seemed to invite sleep without the trouble
of lying down for it; and last of all, the ample and luxurious bed,
upon whose rich purple hangings the ruddy glare of the fire threw a
most mellow light, was all a pleasing exchange for the “garniture” of
the “Hotel Healy.”

“Certes, Harry Lorrequer,” said I, as I threw myself upon a small
ottoman before the fire in all the slippered ease, and abandon of a man
who has changed a dress-coat for a morning-gown; “Certes, thou art
destined for great things; even here, where fate had seemed ‘to do its
worst’ to thee, a little paradise opens, and what, to ordinary mortals
had proved but a ‘flat, stale, and most unprofitable’ quarter, presents
to thee all the accumulated delight of a hospitable mansion, a kind,
almost friendly, host, a condescending Madame Mere, and daughters too!
Ah ye Gods! But what is this;” and here, for the first time, lifting up
my eyes, I perceived a beautiful water-colour drawing in the style of
“Chalon,” which was placed above the chimney-piece. I rose at once, and
taking a candle, proceeded to examine it more minutely. It was a
portrait of Lady Jane, a full-length too, and wonderfully like; there
was more complexion, and perhaps more roundness in the figure than her
present appearance would justify; but if any thing was gained in
brilliancy, it was certainly lost in point of expression; and I
infinitely preferred her pale, but beautifully fair countenance, to the
rosy cheek of the picture; the figure was faultless; the same easy
grace, the result of perfect symmetry and refinement together, which
only one in a thousand of even handsome girls possess, was pourtrayed
to the life. The more I looked, the more I felt charmed with it. Never
had I seen any thing so truly characteristic as this sketch, for it was
scarcely more. It was after nearly an hour’s quiet contemplation, that
I began to remember the lateness of the night; an hour, in which my
thoughts had rambled from the lovely object before me, to wonder at the
situation in which I found myself placed; for there was so much of
“empressement” towards me, in the manner of every member of the family,
coupled with certain mistakes as to my habits and acquaintances, as
left me perfectly unable to unravel the mystery which so evidently
surrounded me. “Perhaps,” thought I, “Sir Guy has written in my behalf
to his lordship. Oh, he would never do any thing half so civil. Well,
to be sure, I shall astonish them at head quarters; they’ll not believe
this. I wonder if Lady Jane saw my ‘Hamlet;’ for they landed in Cork
from Bristol about that time. She is indeed a most beautiful girl. I
wish I were a marquis, if it were only for her sake. Well, my Lord
Callonby, you may be a very wise man in the House of Lords; but, I
would just ask, is it exactly prudent to introduce into your family on
terms of such perfect intimacy, a young, fascinating, well-looking
fellow, of four-and-twenty, albeit only a subaltern, with two such
daughters as you have? Peut etre! One thing is certain—_I_ have no
cause of complaint; and so, good night, Lady Jane”—and with those words
I fell asleep, to dream of the deepest blue eyes, and the most melting
tones that ever reduced a poor lieutenant in a marching regiment to
curse his fate, that he could not call the Commander of the Forces his
father.

When I descended to the breakfast-room, I found the whole family
assembled in a group around Lord Kilkee, who had just returned from a
distant part of the county, where he had been canvassing the electors,
and spouting patriotism the day before. He was giving an account of his
progress with much spirit and humour as I entered, but, on seeing me,
immediately came forward, and shook hands with me like an old
acquaintance. By Lord Callonby and the ladies I was welcomed also with
much courtesy and kindness, and some slight badinage passed upon my
sleeping, in what Lord Kilkee called the “Picture Gallery,” which, for
all I knew to the contrary, contained but one fair portrait. I am not a
believer in Mesmer; but certainly there must have been some influence
at work—very like what we hear of “magnetism”—for before the breakfast
was concluded, there seemed at once to spring up a perfect
understanding between this family and myself, which made me feel as
much ‘chez moi’, as I had ever done in my life; and from that hour I
may date an intimacy which every succeeding day but served to increase.

After breakfast Lord Callonby consigned me to the guidance of his son,
and we sallied forth to deal destruction amongst the pheasants, with
which the preserves were stocked; and here I may observe, ‘en passant’,
that with the single exception of fox-hunting, which was ever a passion
with me, I never could understand that inveterate pursuit of game to
which some men devote themselves—thus, grouse-shooting, and its
attendant pleasures, of stumping over a boggy mountain from day-light
till dark, never had much attraction for me; and, as to the delights of
widgeon and wild-duck shooting, when purchased by sitting up all night
in a barrel, with your eye to the bung, I’ll none of it—no, no! Give me
shooting or angling merely as a divertimento, a pleasant interlude
between breakfast and luncheon-time, when, consigning your Manton to a
corner, and the game keeper “to the dogs,” you once more humanize your
costume to take a canter with the daughters of the house; or, if the
day look loweringly, a match of billiards with the men.

I have ever found that the happiest portions of existence are the most
difficult to chronicle. We may—nay, we must, impart our miseries and
annoyances to our many “dear friends,” whose forte is sympathy or
consolation—and all men are eloquent on the subject of their woes; not
so with their joys: some have a miser-like pleasure in hoarding them up
for their own private gratification; others—and they are prudent—feel
that the narrative is scarcely agreeable even to their best friends;
and a few, of whom I confess myself one, are content to be happy
without knowing why, and to have pleasant souvenirs, without being able
to explain them.

Such must be my apology for not more minutely entering upon an account
of my life at Callonby. A fortnight had now seen me ‘enfonce’, the
daily companion of two beautiful girls in all their walks and rides,
through a romantic, unfrequented country, seeing but little of the
other members of the family; the gentlemen being entirely occupied by
their election tactics, and Lady Callonby being a late riser, seldom
appeared before the dinner hour. There was not a cliff upon the bold
and rocky coast we did not climb, not a cave upon the pebbly beach
unvisited; sometimes my fair companions would bring a volume of
Metastasio down to the little river where I used to angle; and the
“gentle craft” was often abandoned for the heart-thrilling verses of
that delightful poet. Yes, many years have passed over, and these
scenes are still as fresh in my memory as though they had been of
yesterday. In my memory, I say, as for thee

“Qui sa si te
Ti sovrerai di me.”


At the end of three weeks the house became full of company, from the
garret to the cellar. Country gentlemen and their wives and daughters
came pouring in, on every species of conveyance known since the flood;
family coaches, which, but for their yellow panels, might have been
mistaken for hearses, and high barouches, the “entree” to which was
accomplished by a step-ladder, followed each other in what appeared a
never-ending succession; and here I may note an instance of the
anomalous character of the conveyances, from an incident to which I was
a witness at the time.

Among the visitors on the second day came a maiden lady from the
neighbourhood of Ennistimon, Miss Elizabeth O’Dowd, the last of a very
old and highly respectable family in the county, and whose extensive
property, thickly studded with freeholders, was a strong reason for her
being paid every attention in Lord Callonby’s power to bestow; Miss
Betty O’Dowd—for so she was generally styled—was the very
personification of an old maid; stiff as a ramrod, and so rigid in
observance of the proprieties of female conduct, that in the estimation
of the Clare gentry, Diana was a hoyden compared to her.

Miss Betty lived, as I have said, near Ennistimon, and the road from
thence to Callonby at the time I speak of—it was before Mr. Nimmo—was
as like the bed of a mountain torrent as a respectable highway; there
were holes that would have made a grave for any maiden lady within
fifty miles; and rocks thickly scattered, enough to prove fatal to the
strongest wheels that ever issued from “Hutton’s.” Miss O’Dowd knew
this well; she had upon one occasion been upset in travelling it—and a
slate-coloured silk dress bore the dye of every species of mud and mire
to be found there, for many a year after, to remind her of her
misfortune, and keep open the wound of her sorrow. When, therefore, the
invitation to Callonby arrived, a grave council of war was summoned, to
deliberate upon the mode of transit, for the honour could not be
declined, “coute qui coute.” The chariot was out of the question;
Nicholas declared it would never reach the “Moraan Beg,” as the first
precipice was called; the inside car was long since pronounced unfit
for hazardous enterprise; and the only resource left, was what is
called in Hibernian parlance, a “low-backed car,” that is, a car
without any back whatever; it being neither more nor less than the
common agricultural conveyance of the country, upon which, a feather
bed being laid, the farmers’ wives and daughters are generally conveyed
to fairs, wakes, and stations, &c. Putting her dignity, if not in her
pocket, at least wherever it could be most easily accommodated, Miss
O’Dowd placed her fair self, in all the plenitude of her charms and the
grandeur of a “bran new green silk,” a “little off the grass, and on
the bottle,” (I love to be particular,) upon this humble voiture, and
set out on her way, if not “rejoicing,” at least consoled by Nicholas,
that “It ‘id be black dark when they reached the house, and the devil a
one ‘id be the wiser than if she came in a coach and four.” Nicholas
was right; it was perfectly dark on their arrival at Callonby, and Miss
O’Dowd having dismounted, and shook her plumage, a little crumpled by
her half-recumbent position for eight miles, appeared in the
drawing-room, to receive the most courteous attentions from Lady
Callonby, and from his lordship the most flattering speeches for her
kindness in risking herself and bringing her horses on such a dreadful
road, and assured her of his getting a presentment the very next
assizes to repair it; “For we intend, Miss O’Dowd,” said he, “to be
most troublesome neighbours to you in future.”

The evening passed off most happily. Miss O’Dowd was delighted with her
hosts, whose character she resolved to maintain in spite of their
reputation for pride and haughtiness. Lady Jane sang an Irish melody
for her, Lady Callonby gave her slips of a rose geranium she got from
the Princess Augusta, and Lord Kilkee won her heart by the performance
of that most graceful step ‘yclept “cover the buckle” in an Irish jig.
But, alas! how short-lived is human bliss, for while this estimable
lady revelled in the full enjoyment of the hour, the sword of Damocles
hung suspended above her head; in plain English, she had, on arriving
at Callonby, to prevent any unnecessary scrutiny into the nature of her
conveyance, ordered Nicholas to be at the door punctually at eleven;
and then to take an opportunity of quietly slipping open the
drawing-room door, and giving her an intimation of it, that she might
take her leave at once. Nicholas was up to time, and having disposed
the conveyance under the shadow of the porch, made his way to the door
of the drawing-room unseen and unobserved. He opened it gently and
noiselessly, merely sufficient to take a survey of the apartment, in
which, from the glare of the lights, and the busy hum of voices, he was
so bewildered that it was some minutes before he recognized his
mistress. At last he perceived her; she was seated at a card-table,
playing whist with Lord Callonby for her partner. Who the other players
were, he knew not. A proud man was Nicholas, as he saw his mistress
thus placed, actually sitting, as he afterwards expressed it, “forenint
the Lord,” but his thoughts were bent on other matters, and it was no
time to indulge his vauntings.

He strove for some time patiently, to catch her eye, for she was so
situated as to permit of this, but without success. He then made a
slight attempt to attract her attention by beckoning with his finger;
all in vain. “Oh murther,” said he, “what is this for? I’ll have to
spake afther all.”

“Four by honours,” said his lordship, “and the odd trick. Another
double, I believe, Miss O’Dowd.”

Miss O’Dowd nodded a graceful assent, while a sharp-looking old dowager
at the side of the table called out, “a rubber of four on, my Lord;”
and now began an explanation from the whole party at once. Nicholas saw
this was his time, and thought that in the melee, his hint might reach
his mistress unobserved by the remainder of the company. He accordingly
protruded his head into the room, and placing his finger upon the side
of his nose, and shutting one eye knowingly, with an air of great
secrecy, whispered out, “Miss Betty—Miss Betty, alanah!” For some
minutes the hum of the voices drowned his admonitions—but as, by
degrees waxing warmer in the cause, he called out more loudly,—every
eye was turned to the spot from whence these extraordinary sounds
proceeded; and certainly the appearance of Nicholas at the moment was
well calculated to astonish the “elegans” of a drawing room. With his
one eye fixed eagerly in the direction of his mistress, his red scratch
wig pushed back off his forehead, in the eagerness of his endeavour to
be heard, there he stood, perfectly unmindful of all around, save Miss
O’Dowd herself. It may well be believed, that such an apparition could
not be witnessed with gravity, and, accordingly a general titter ran
through the room, the whist party still contending about odd tricks and
honours, being the only persons insensible to the mirth around
them—“Miss Betty, arrah, Miss Betty,” said Nicholas with a sigh that
converted the subdued laughter of the guests into a perfect burst of
mirth.

“Eh,” said his lordship, turning round; “what is this? We are losing
something excellent, I fear.”

At this moment, he caught a glimpse of Nicholas, and, throwing himself
back in this chair, laughed immoderately. It was now Miss Betty’s turn;
she was about to rise from the table, when the well-known accents of
Nicholas fell upon her ear. She fell back in her seat—there he was: the
messenger of the foul fiend himself would have been more welcome at
that moment. Her blood rushed to her face and temples; her hands
tingled; she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, there stood the
accursed Nicholas glowering at her still.

“Man—man!” said she at length; “what do you mean, what do you want
here?”

Poor Nicholas, little guessing that the question was intended to throw
a doubt upon her acquaintance with him, and conceiving that the hour
for the announcement had come, hesitated for an instant how he should
designate the conveyance. He could not call it a coach! It certainly
was not a buggy—neither was it a jaunting car—what should he say—he
looked earnestly, and even imploringly at his mistress, as if to convey
some sense of his difficulty, and then, as it were, catching a sudden
inspiration, winked once more—as he said:—

“Miss Betty—the—the—the—,” and here he looked indescribably droll; “the
thing, you know, is at the door.”

All his Lordship’s politeness was too little for the occasion, and Miss
O’Dowd’s tenantry were lost to the Callonby interest for ever.




 CHAPTER IV.
BOTANICAL STUDIES—THE NATURAL SYSTEM PREFERABLE TO THE LINNEAN.

[Illustration: Nicholas Announcing Miss Betty O’Dowds Carriage]


“The carriage is at the door, my lord,” said a servant, entering the
luncheon-room where we were all assembled.

“Now then, Mr. Lorrequer,” said Lord Callonby, “allons, take another
glass of wine, and let us away. I expect you to make a most brilliant
speech, remember!”

His lordship here alluded to our intention of visiting a remote barony,
where a meeting of the freeholders was that day to be held, and at
which I was pledged for a “neat and appropriate” oration in abuse of
the corn laws and the holy alliance.

“I beg pardon, my lord,” said her ladyship in a most languishing tone;
“but Mr. Lorrequer is pre-engaged; he has for the last week been
promising and deterring his visit to the new conservatory with me;
where he is to find out four or five of the Swiss shrubs that Collins
cannot make out—and which I am dying to know all about.”

“Mr. Lorrequer is a false man then,” said Lady Catherine, “for he said
at breakfast, that we should devote this afternoon to the chalk
caves—as the tide will be so far out, we can see them all perfectly.”

“And I,” said Lord Kilkee, “must put in my plea, that the aforesaid Mr.
Lorrequer is booked for a coursing match—‘Mouche versus Jessie.’—Guilty
or not guilty?”

Lady Jane alone of all said not a word.

“Guilty on every count of the indictment,” said I; “I throw myself on
the mercy of the court.”

“Let his sentence then be banishment,” said Lady Catherine with
affected anger, “and let him go with papa.”

“I rather think,” said Lord Kilkee, “the better plan is to let him
visit the conservatory, for I’d wager a fifty he finds it more
difficult to invent botany, than canvass freeholders; eh?”

“I am sure,” said Lady Jane, for the first time breaking silence, “that
mamma is infinitely flattered by the proposal that Mr. Lorrequer’s
company is to be conferred upon her for his sins.”

“I am not to be affronted, nor quizzed out of my chaperon; here, Mr.
Lorrequer,” said Lady Callonby rising, “get Smith’s book there, and let
me have your arm; and now, young ladies, come along, and learn
something, if you can.”

“An admirable proviso,” said Lord Kilkee, laughing; “if his botany be
only as authentic as the autographs he gave Mrs. MacDermot, and all of
which he wrote himself, in my dressing-room, in half an hour. Napoleon
was the only difficult one in the number.”

Most fortunately this unfair disclosure did not reach her ladyship’s
ears, as she was busily engaged putting on her bonnet, and I was yet
unassailed in reputation to her.

“Good bye, then,” said Lord Callonby; “we meet at seven;” and in a few
moments the little party were scattered to their several destinations.

“How very hot you have this place, Collins,” said Lady Callonby as we
entered the conservatory.

“Only seventy-five, my lady, and the Magnolias require heat.”

I here dropped a little behind, as if to examine a plant, and in a
half-whisper said to Lady Jane—

“How came it that you alone, Lady Jane, should forget I had made
another appointment? I thought you wished to make a sketch of
Craigmoran Abbey—did you forget that we were to ride there to-day?”

Before she could reply, Lady Callonby called out—“Oh, here it is, Mr.
Lorrequer. Is this a heath? that is the question.”

Here her ladyship pointed to a little scrubby thing, that looked very
like a birch rod. I proceeded to examine it most minutely, while
Collins waited with all the intense anxiety of a man whose character
depended on the sentence.

“Collins will have it a jungermania,” said she.

“And Collins is right,” said I, not trusting myself with the
pronunciation of the awful word her ladyship uttered.

Collins looked ridiculously happy.

“Now that is so delightful,” said Lady Callonby, as she stopped to look
for another puzzle.

“What a wretch it is,” said Lady Catherine, covering her face with a
handkerchief.

“What a beautiful little flower,” said Lady Jane, lifting up the bell
of a “lobelia splendens.”

“You know, of course,” said I, “what they call that flower in
France—L’amour tendre.”

“Indeed!”

“True, I assure you; may I present you with this sprig of it,” cutting
off a small twig, and presenting it at the same instant unseen by the
others.

She hesitated for an instant, and then extending her fair and taper
hand took it. I dared not look at her as she did so, but a proud
swelling triumph at my heart nearly choked me.

“Now Collins,” said Lady Callonby, “I cannot find the Alpen tree I
brought home from the Grundenwald.”

Collins hurried forward to her ladyship’s side.

Lady Catherine was also called to assist in the search.

I was alone with Lady Jane.

“Now or never,” thought I; I hesitated—I stammered—my voice faltered.
She saw my agitation; she participated in, and increased it. At last I
summoned up courage to touch her hand; she gently withdrew it—but so
gently, it was not a repulse.

“If Lady Jane,” said I at length, “if the devoted—”

“Holloa, there,” said a deep voice without; “is Mr. Lorrequer there?”

It was Lord Kilkee, returned from his coursing match. None but he who
has felt such an interruption, can feel for me. I shame to say that his
brotherhood to her, for whom I would have perilled my life, restrained
me not from something very like a hearty commendation of him to the
powers that burn—

“Down, dogs, there—down,” continued he, and in a moment after entered
the conservatory flushed and heated with the chace.

“Mouche is the winner—two to one—and so, Master Shallow, I owe you a
thousand pounds.”

Would to heaven that I had lost the wager, had it only taken a little
longer to decide it! I of course appeared overjoyed at my dog’s
success, and listened with great pretence of interest to the narrative
of the “run;” the more so, because that though perhaps more my friend
than the older members of the family, Lord Kilkee evidently liked less
than them, my growing intimacy with his sister; and I was anxious to
blind him on the present occasion, when, but for his recent excitement,
very little penetration would have enabled him to detect that something
unusual had taken place.

It was now so nearly dark, that her ladyship’s further search for the
alpine treasure became impossible, and so we turned our steps towards
the garden, where we continued to walk till joined by Lord Callonby.
And now began a most active discussion upon agriculture, rents, tithes,
and toryism, in which the ladies took but little part; and I had the
mortification to perceive that Lady Jane was excessively ‘ennuyée’, and
seized the first opportunity to leave the party and return to the
house; while her sister gave me from time to time certain knowing
glances, as if intimating that my knowledge of farming and political
economy was pretty much on a par with my proficiency in botany.

One has discovered me at least, thought I; but the bell had rung to
dress for dinner, and I hastened to my room to think over future plans,
and once more wonder at the singular position into which fate and the
“rules of the service” had thrown me.




  CHAPTER V.
PUZZLED—EXPLANATION—MAKES BAD WORSE—THE DEED


“Any letters?” said her ladyship to a servant, as she crossed the hall.

“Only one, my lady—for Mr. Lorrequer, I believe.”

“For me!” thought I; “how is this?” My letters had been hitherto always
left in Kilrush. Why was this forwarded here? I hurried to the
drawing-room, where I found a double letter awaiting me. The writing
was Curzon’s and contained the words “to be forwarded with haste” on
the direction. I opened and read as follows:—

“Dear Lorrequer,—Have you any recollection, among your numerous
‘escapades’ at Cork, of having grievously insulted a certain Mr. Giles
Beamish, in thought, word, or deed? If you have, I say, let me know
with all convenient despatch, whether the offence be one admitting of
apology—for if not, the Lord have mercy on your soul—a more wrothy
gentleman than the aforesaid, it having rarely been my evil fortune to
foregather with. He called here yesterday to inquire your address, and
at my suggestion wrote a note, which I now enclose. I write in great
haste, and am ever yours faithfully, C. Curzon.
    “N.B.—I have not seen his note, so explain all and every thing.”


The inclosed letter ran thus:

“Sir,—It can scarcely have escaped your memory, though now nearly two
months since, that at the Mayor’s ‘dejeune’ in Cork, you were pleased
to make merry at my expense, and expose me and my family for your
amusement. This is to demand an immediate apology, or that satisfaction
which, as an officer, you will not refuse your most obedient servant,
Giles Beamish, Swinburne’s Hotel.”


“Giles Beamish! Giles Beamish!” said I, repeating the name in every
variety of emphasis, hoping to obtain some clue to the writer. Had I
been appointed the umpire between Dr. Wall and his reviewers, in the
late controversy about “phonetic signs,” I could not have been more
completely puzzled than by the contents of this note. “Make merry at
his expense!” a great offence truly—I suppose I have laughed at better
men than ever he was; and I can only say of such innocent amusement, as
Falstaff did of sack and sugar, if such be a sin, “then heaven help the
wicked.” But I wish I knew who he is, or what he alludes to, provided
he is not mad, which I begin to think not improbable. “By the bye, my
Lord, do you know any such person in the south as a Mr. Beamish—Giles
Beamish?”

“To be sure,” said Lord Callonby, looking up from his newspaper, “there
are several of the name of the highest respectability. One is an
alderman of Cork—a very rich man, too—but I don’t remember his
Christian name.”

“An alderman, did you say?”

“Yes. Alderman Beamish is very well known. I have seen him frequently—a
short florid, little man.”

“Oh, it must be him,” said I, musingly, “it must have been this worthy
alderman, from whose worshipful person I tore the robe of office on the
night of the fete. But what does he mean by ‘my exposing him and his
family?’ Why, zounds, his wife and children were not with him on the
pavement. Oh, I see it; it is the mansion-house school of eloquence;
did not Sir William Curtis apologise for not appearing at court, from
having lost an eye, which he designated as an awful ‘domestic
calamity.’”

It being now settled to my satisfaction, that Mr. Beamish and the great
uncloaked were “convertible terms,” I set about making the ‘amende’ in
the most handsome manner possible. I wrote to the alderman a most
pacific epistle, regretting that my departure from Cork deprived me of
making reparation before, and expressing a most anxious hope that “he
caught no cold,” and a fervent wish that “he would live many years to
grace and ornament the dignity of which his becoming costume was the
emblem.” This I enclosed in a note to Curzon, telling him how the
matter occurred, and requesting that he would send it by his servant,
together with the scarlet vestment which he would find in my
dressing-room. Having folded and sealed this despatch, I turned to give
Lord Callonby an account of the business, and showed him Beamish’s
note, at which he was greatly amused: and, indeed, it furnished food
for mirth for the whole party during the evening. The next morning I
set out with Lord Callonby on the long-threatened canvassing
expedition—with the details of which I need not burden my
“Confessions.” Suffice it to say, that when Lord Kilkee was advocating
Toryism in the west, I, his accredited ambassador, was devoting to the
infernal gods the prelacy, the peerage, and the pension list—a mode of
canvass well worthy of imitation in these troublesome times; for, not
to speak of the great prospect of success from having friends on both
sides of the question, the principal can always divest himself of any
unpleasant consequences as regards inconsistency, by throing the blame
on this friend, “who went too far,” as the appropriate phrase is.

Nothing could be more successful than our mission. Lord Callonby was
delighted beyond bounds with the prospect, and so completely carried
away by high spirits, and so perfectly assured that much of it was
owing to my exertions, that on the second morning of our tour—for we
proceeded through the county for three days—he came laughing into my
dressing-room, with a newspaper in his hand.

“Here, Lorrequer,” said he, “here’s news for you. You certainly must
read this,” and he handed me a copy of the “Clare Herald,” with an
account of our meeting the evening before.

After glancing my eye rapidly over the routine usual in such
cases—Humph, ha—nearly two hundred people—most respectable farmers—room
appropriately decorated—“Callonby Arms”—“after the usual loyal toasts,
the chairman rose”—Well, no matter. Ah! here it is: “Mr. Lorrequer here
addressed the meeting with a flow of eloquence it has rarely, if ever,
been our privilege to hear equalled. He began by”—humph—

“Ah,” said his lordship, impatiently, “you will never find it out—look
here—‘Mr. Lorrequer, whom we have mentioned as having made the highly
exciting speech, to be found in our first page, is, we understand, the
son of Sir Guy Lorrequer, of Elton, in Shropshire—one of the wealthiest
baronets in England. If rumour speak truly, there is a very near
prospect of an alliance between this talented and promising young
gentleman, and the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a certain
noble earl, with whom he has been for some time domesticated.”

“Eh, what think you? Son of Sir Guy Lorrequer. I always thought my old
friend a bachelor, but you see the ‘Clare Herald’ knows better. Not to
speak of the last piece of intelligence, it is very good, is it not?”

“Capital, indeed,” said I, trying to laugh, and at the same time
blushing confoundedly, and looking as ridiculously as need be.

It now struck me forcibly that there was something extremely odd in his
lordship’s mention of this paragraph, particularly when coupled with
his and Lady Callonby’s manner to me for the last two months. They knew
enough of my family, evidently, to be aware of my station and
prospects—or rather my want of both—and yet, in the face of this, they
not only encouraged me to prolong a most delightful visit, but by a
thousand daily and dangerous opportunities, absolutely threw me in the
way of one of the loveliest of her sex, seemingly without fear on their
parts. “‘Eh bien,’” thought I, with my old philosophy, “Time, that
‘pregnant old gentleman,’ will disclose all, and so ‘laisse, aller.’”

My reveries on my good and evil fortune were suddenly interrupted by a
letter which reached me that evening, having been forwarded from
Callonby by a special messenger. “What! Another epistle from Curzon,”
said I, as my eye caught the address, and wondering not a little what
pressing emergency had called forth the words on the cover—“to be
forwarded with haste.” I eagerly broke the seal and read the following:

“My Dear Harry,—I received yours on the 11th, and immediately
despatched your note and the raiment to Mr. Beamish. He was from home
at the time, but at eight o’clock I was sent for from the mess to see
two gentlemen on most pressing business. I hurried to my quarters, and
there found the aforesaid Mr. B. accompanied by a friend, whom he
introduced as Dr. De Courcy Finucane, of the North Cork Militia—as
warlike looking a gentleman, of his inches, some five feet three, as
you would wish to see. The moment I appeared, both rose, and commenced
a narrative, for such I judge it to be, but so energetically and so
completely together, that I could only bow politely, and at last
request that one, or the other, would inform me of the object of their
visit. Here began the tug of war, the Doctor saying, ‘Arrah, now
Giles’—Mr. Beamish interrupting by ‘Whisht, I tell ye—now, can’t you
let me! Ye see, Mr. Curzoin’—for so they both agreed to designate me.
At last, completely worn out, I said, ‘Perhaps you have not received my
friend’s note?’ At this Mr. Beamish reddened to the eyes, and with the
greatest volubility poured forth a flood of indignant eloquence, that I
thought it necessary to check; but in this I failed, for after
informing me pretty clearly, that he knew nothing of your story of the
alderman, or his cloak, added, that he firmly believed your pretended
reparation was only a renewed insult, and that—but in a word, he used
such language, that I was compelled to take him short; and the finale
is, that I agreed you should meet him, though still ignorant of what he
calls the ‘original offence.’—But heaven knows, his conduct here last
night demands a reprimand, and I hope you may give it; and if you shoot
him, we may worm out the secret from his executors. Nothing could
exceed the politeness of the parties on my consenting to this
arrangement. Dr. Finucane proposed Carrigaholt, as the rendezvous,
about 12 miles, I believe, from Kilrush, and Tuesday evening at six as
the time, which will be the very earliest moment we can arrive there.
So, pray be up to time, and believe me yours, C. Curzon, Saturday
Evening.”


It was late on Monday evening when this letter reached me, and there
was no time to be lost, as I was then about 40 Irish miles from the
place mentioned by Curzon; so after briefly acquainting Lord Callonby
that I was called off by duty, I hurried to my room to pack my clothes,
and again read over this extraordinary epistle.

I confess it did appear something droll, how completely Curzon seemed
to imbibe the passion for fighting from these “blood-thirsty Irishmen.”
For by his own showing he was utterly ignorant of my ever having
offended this Mr. Beamish, of whom I recollected nothing whatever. Yet
when the gentleman waxes wrothy, rather than inconvenience him, or
perhaps anxious to get back to the mess, he coolly says, “Oh, my friend
shall meet you,” and then his pleasant jest, “find out the cause of
quarrel from his executors!”

Truly, thought I, there is no equanimity like his who acts as your
second in a duel. The gentlemanlike urbanity with which he waits on the
opposite friend—the conciliating tone with which he proffers implacable
enmity—the killing kindness with which he refuses all accommodation—the
Talleyrand air of his short notes, dated from the “Travellers,” or
“Brookes,” with the words 3 o’clock or 5 o’clock on the cover, all
indicative of the friendly precipitancy of the negociation. Then, when
all is settled, the social style with which he asks you to take a
“cutlet” with him at the “Clarendon,” not to go home—are only to be
equalled by the admirable tact on the ground—the studiously elegant
salute to the adverse party, half a la Napoleon, and half Beau
Brummell—the politely offered snuff-box—the coquetting raillery about
10 paces or 12—are certainly the beau ideal of the stoicism which
preludes sending your friend out of the world like a gentleman.

How very often is the face of external nature at variance with the
thoughts and actions—“the sayings and doings” we may be most intent
upon at the moment. How many a gay and brilliant bridal party has
wended its way to St. George’s, Hanover-square, amid a downpour of
rain, one would suppose sufficient to quench the torch of Hymen, though
it burned as brightly as Capt. Drummond’s oxygen light; and on the
other hand, how frequently are the bluest azure of heaven and the most
balmy airs shed upon the heart bursting with affliction, or the head
bowed with grief; and without any desire to impugn, as a much high
authority has done, the moral character of the moon, how many a scene
of blood and rapine has its mild radiance illumined. Such reflections
as these came thronging to my mind, as on the afternoon of Tuesday I
neared the little village of our rendezvous.

The scene which in all its peaceful beauty lay before me, was truly a
bitter contrast to the occasion that led me thither. I stood upon a
little peninsula which separates the Shannon from the wide Atlantic. On
one side the placed river flowed on its course, between fields of
waving corn, or rich pasturage—the beautiful island of Scattery, with
its picturesque ruins reflected in the unrippled tide—the cheerful
voices of the reapers, and the merry laugh of the children were mingled
with the seaman’s cry of the sailors, who were “heaving short” on their
anchor, to take the evening tide. The village, which consisted of
merely a few small cabins, was still from its situation a pleasing
object in the picture, and the blue smoke that rose in slender columns
from the humble dwellings, took from the scene its character of
loneliness, and suggested feelings of home and homely enjoyments, which
human habitations, however lowly, never fail to do.

“At any other time,” thought I, “and how I could have enjoyed all this,
but now—and, ha, I find it is already past five o’clock, and if I am
rightly informed I am still above a mile from ‘Carrigaholt,’ where we
were to meet.”

I had dismissed my conveyance when nearing the village, to avoid
observation, and now took a foot-path over the hills. Before I had
proceeded half a mile, the scene changed completely. I found myself
traversing a small glen, grown over with a low oak scrub, and not
presenting, on any side, the slightest trace of habitation. I saw that
the ground had been selected by an adept. The glen, which grew narrow
as I advanced, suddenly disclosed to my view a glimpse of the Atlantic,
upon which the declining sun was pouring a flood of purple glory. I had
scarcely turned from the contemplation of this beautiful object, when a
long low whistle attracted my attention. I looked in the direction from
whence it proceeded, and discovered at some distance from me three
figures standing beside the ruin of an old Abbey, which I now for the
first time perceived.

If I had entertained any doubt as to who they were, it had been
speedily resolved, for I now saw one of the party waving his hat to me,
whom, I soon recognized to be Curzon; he came forward to meet me, and,
in the few hundred yards that intervened before our reaching the
others, told me as much as he knew of the opposite party; which, after
all, was but little. Mr. Beamish, my adversary, he described as a
morose, fire-eating southern, that evidently longed for an “affair”
with a military man, then considered a circumstance of some eclat in
the south; his second, the doctor, on the contrary, was by far “the
best of the cut-throats,” a most amusing little personage, full of his
own importance, and profuse in his legends of his own doings in love
and war, and evidently disposed to take the pleasing side of every
occurrence in life; they both agreed in but one point—a firm and fixed
resolve to give no explanation of the quarrel with me. “So then,” said
I, as Curzon hurried over the preceding account, “you absolutely know
nothing whatever of the reason for which I am about to give this man a
meeting.”

“No more than you,” said Curzon, with imperturbable gravity; “but one
thing I am certain of—had I not at once promised him such, he would
have posted you in Limerick the next morning; and as you know our mess
rule in the 4—th, I thought it best—”

“Oh, certainly, quite right; but now are you quite certain I am the man
who offended him? For I solemnly assure you, I have not the most remote
recollection of having ever heard of him.”

“That point,” said Curzon, “there can be no doubt of, for he not only
designated you as Mr. Harry Lorrequer, but the gentleman that made all
Cork laugh so heartily, by his representation of Othello.”

“Stop!” said I, “say not a word more; I’m his man.”

By this time we had reached the ruins, and turning a corner came in
full contact with the enemy; they had been resting themselves on a
tombstone as we approached.

“Allow me,” said Curzon, stepping a little in advance of me; “allow me
to introduce my friend Mr. Lorrequer, Dr. Finicane,—Dr. Finicane, Mr.
Lorrequer.”

“Finucane, if quite agreeable to you; Finucane,” said the little
gentleman, as he lifted his hat straight off his head, and replaced it
most accurately, by way of salute. “Mr. Lorrequer, it is with sincere
pleasure I make your acquaintance.” Here Mr. Beamish bowed stiffly, in
return to my salutation, and at the instant a kind of vague sensation
crossed my mind, that those red whiskers, and that fiery face were not
seen for the first time; but the thumbscrews of the holy office would
have been powerless to refresh my memory as to when.

“Captain,” said the doctor, “may I request the favour of your company
this way, one minute;” they both walked aside; the only words which
reached me as I moved off, to permit their conference, being an
assurance on the part of the doctor, “that it was a sweet spot he
picked out, for, by having them placed north and south, neither need
have a patch of sky behind him.” Very few minutes sufficed for
preliminaries, and they both advanced, smirking and smiling, as if they
had just arranged a new plan for the amelioration of the poor, or the
benefit of the manufacturing classes, instead of making preparations
for sending a gentleman out of the world.

“Then if I understand you, captain,” said the doctor, “you step the
distance, and I give the word.”

“Exactly,” said Curzon.

After a joking allusion to my friend’s length of limb, at which we all
laughed heartily, we were placed, Curzon and the doctor standing and
breaking the line between us; the pistols were then put into our hands,
the doctor saying—“Now, gentlemen, I’ll just retire six paces, and turn
round, which will be quite time enough to prepare, and at the word
‘fire,’ ye’ll blaze away; mind now.” With a knowing wink, the doctor
delivered this direction, and immediately moved off; the word “fire”
followed, and both pistols went off together. My hat was struck near
the top, and, as the smoke cleared away, I perceived that my ball had
taken effect upon my adversary; he was wounded a little below the knee
and appeared to steady himself with the greatest difficulty. “Your
friend is hit,” said Curzon, to the doctor, who now came forward with
another pistol. “Your friend is hit.”

“So I perceive,” said he, placing his finger on the spot; “but it is no
harm in life; so we proceed, if you please.”

“You don’t mean to demand another shot?” said Curzon.

“Faith, do I,” said the doctor coolly.

“Then,” said Curzon, “I must tell you most unequivocally, I refuse, and
shall now withdraw my friend; and had it not been for a regulation
peculiar to our regiment, but never intended to include cases of this
nature, we had not been here now; for up to this hour my principal and
myself are in utter ignorance of any cause of offence ever having been
offered by him to Mr. Beamish.”

“Giles, do you hear this?” said the doctor.

But Giles did not hear it, for the rapid loss of blood from his wound
had so weakened him, that he had fainted, and now lay peaceably on the
grass. Etiquette was now at an end, and we all ran forward to assist
the wounded man; for some minutes he lay apparently quite senseless,
and when he at last rallied and looked wildly about him, it appeared to
be with difficulty that he recalled any recollection of the place, and
the people around him; for a few seconds he fixed his eyes steadily
upon the doctor, and with a lip pale and bloodless, and a voice
quivering from weakness, said,

“Fin! Didn’t I tell ye, that pistol always threw high—oh!” and this he
said with a sigh that nearly overpowered him, “Oh, Fin, if you had only
given me the saw-handled one, that _I am used to;_ but it is no good
talking now.”

In my inmost heart I was grateful to the little doctor for his mistake,
for I plainly perceived what “the saw-handled one he was used to” might
have done for me, and could not help muttering to myself with good Sir
Andrew—“If I had known he was so cunning of fence, I’d have seen him
damned before that I fought with him.”

Our first duty was now to remove the wounded man to the high road,
about which both he himself and his second seemed disposed to make some
difficulty; they spoke together for a few moments in a low tone of
voice, and then the doctor addressed us—“We feel, gentlemen, this is
not a time for any concealment; but the truth is, we have need of great
circumspection here, for I must inform you, we are both of us bound
over in heavy recognizances to keep the peace.”

“Bound over to keep the peace!” said Curzon and myself together.

“Nothing less; and although there is nobody hereabout would tell, yet
if the affair got into the papers by any means, why there are some
people in Cork would like to press my friend there, for he is a very
neat shot when he has the saw-handle,” and here the doctor winked.

We had little time permitted us, to think upon the oddity of meeting a
man in such circumstances, for we were now obliged to contribute our
aid in conveying him to the road, where some means might be procured
for his transfer to Kilrush, or some other town in the neighbourhood,
for he was by this time totally unable to walk.

After half an hour’s toiling, we at last did reach the highway, by
which time I had ample opportunity, short as the space was, to see
something of the character of our two opponents. It appeared the doctor
exercised the most absolute control over his large friend, dictating
and commanding in a tone which the other never ventured to resist; for
a moment or two Mr. Beamish expressed a great desire to be conveyed by
night to Kilrush, where he might find means to cross the Shannon into
Kerry; this, however, the doctor opposed strenuously, from the risque
of publicity; and finally settled that we should all go in a body to
his friend, Father Malachi Brennan’s house, only two miles off, where
the sick man would have the most tender care, and what the doctor
considered equally indispensable, we ourselves a most excellent supper,
and a hearty welcome.

“You know Father Malachi, of course, Mr. Lorrequer?”

“I am ashamed to say I do not.”

“Not know Malachi Brennan and live in Clare! Well, well, that is
strange; sure he is the priest of this country for twelve miles in
every direction of you, and a better man, and a pleasanter, there does
not live in the diocese; though I’m his cousin that says it.”

After professing all the possible pleasure it would afford my friend
and myself to make the acquaintance of Father Malachi, we proceeded to
place Mr. Beamish in a car that was passing at the time, and started
for the residence of the good priest. The whole of the way thither I
was occupied but by one thought, a burning anxiety to know the cause of
our quarrel, and I longed for the moment when I might get the doctor
apart from his friend, to make the inquiry.

“There—look down to your left, where you see the lights shining so
brightly, that is Father Malachi’s house; as sure as my name is De
Courcy Finucane, there’s fun going on there this night.”

“Why, there certainly does seem a great illumination in the valley
there,” said I.

“May I never,” said the doctor, “if it isn’t a station—”

“A station!—pray may I ask—”

“You need not ask a word on the subject; for, if I am a true prophet,
you’ll know what it means before morning.”

A little more chatting together, brought us to a narrow road, flanked
on either side by high hedges of hawthorn, and, in a few minutes more,
we stood before the priest’s residence, a long, white-washed, thatched
house, having great appearance of comfort and convenience. Arrived
here, the doctor seemed at once to take on him the arrangement of the
whole party; for, after raising the latch and entering the house, he
returned to us in a few minutes, and said,

“Wait a while now; we’ll not go in to Father Malachi, ‘till we’ve put
Giles to bed.”

We, accordingly, lifted him from off the car, and assisted him into the
house, and following Finucane down a narrow passage, at last reached a
most comfortable little chamber, with a neat bed; here we placed him,
while the doctor gave some directions to a bare-headed, red-legged
hussey, without shoes or stockings, and himself proceeded to examine
the wound, which was a more serious one than it at first appeared.

After half an hour thus occupied, during which time, roars of merriment
and hearty peals of laughter burst upon us every time the door opened,
from a distant part of the house, where his reverence was entertaining
his friends, and which, as often as they were heard by the doctor
seemed to produce in him sensations not unlike those that afflicted the
“wedding guest” in the “Ancient Mariner,” when he heard the “loud
bassoon,” and as certainly imparted an equally longing desire to be a
partaker in the mirth. We arranged every thing satisfactorily for Mr.
Beamish’s comfort, and with a large basin of vinegar and water, to keep
his knee cool, and a strong tumbler of hot punch, to keep his heart
warm—homeopathic medicine is not half so new as Dr. Hahnneman would
make us believe—we left Mr. Beamish to his own meditations, and
doubtless regrets that he did not get “the saw-handled one, he was used
to,” while we proceeded to make our bows to Father Malachi Brennan.

But, as I have no intention to treat the good priest with ingratitude,
I shall not present him to my readers at the tail of a chapter.




  CHAPTER VI.
THE PRIEST’S SUPPER—FATHER MALACHI AND THE COADJUTOR—MAJOR JONES AND
THE ABBE

[Illustration: The Sentry Challenging Father Luke and the Abbé]


At the conclusion of our last chapter we left our quondam antagonist,
Mr. Beamish, stretched at full length upon a bed practising homeopathy
by administering hot punch to his fever, while we followed our
chaperon, Doctor Finucane, into the presence of the Reverend Father
Brennan.

The company into which we now, without any ceremony on our parts,
introduced ourselves, consisted of from five and twenty to thirty
persons, seated around a large oak table, plentifully provided with
materials for drinking, and cups, goblets, and glasses of every shape
and form. The moment we entered, the doctor stepped forward, and,
touching Father Malachi on the shoulder,—for so I rightly guessed him
to be,—presented himself to his relative, by whom he was welcomed with
every demonstration of joy. While their recognitions were exchanged,
and while the doctor explained the reasons of our visit, I was enabled,
undisturbed and unnoticed, to take a brief survey of the party.

Father Malachi Brennan, P.P. of Carrigaholt, was what I had often
pictured to myself as the beau ideal of his caste; his figure was
short, fleshy, and enormously muscular, and displayed proportions which
wanted but height to constitute a perfect Hercules; his legs so thick
in the calf, so taper in the ancle, looked like nothing I know, except
perhaps, the metal balustrades of Carlisle-bridge; his face was large
and rosy, and the general expression, a mixture of unbounded good
humour and inexhaustible drollery, to which the restless activity of
his black and arched eye-brows greatly contributed; and his mouth, were
it not for a character of sensuality and voluptuousness about the
nether lip, had been actually handsome; his head was bald, except a
narrow circle close above the ears, which was marked by a ring of curly
dark hair, sadly insufficient however, to conceal a development behind,
that, if there be truth in phrenology, bodes but little happiness to
the disciples of Miss Martineau.

Add to these external signs a voice rich, fluent, and racy, with the
mellow “doric” of his country, and you have some faint resemblance of
one “every inch a priest.” The very antipodes to the ‘bonhomie’ of this
figure, confronted him as croupier at the foot of the table. This, as I
afterwards learned, was no less a person than Mister Donovan, the
coadjutor or “curate;” he was a tall, spare, ungainly looking man of
about five and thirty, with a pale, ascetic countenance, the only
readable expression of which vibrated between low suspicion and intense
vulgarity: over his low, projecting forehead hung down a mass of
straight red hair; indeed—for nature is not a politician—it almost
approached an orange hue. This was cut close to the head all around,
and displayed in their full proportions a pair of enormous ears, which
stood out in “relief,” like turrets from a watch-tower, and with pretty
much the same object; his skin was of that peculiar colour and texture,
to which, not all “the water in great Neptune’s ocean” could impart a
look of cleanliness, while his very voice, hard, harsh, and inflexible,
was unprepossessing and unpleasant. And yet, strange as it may seem,
he, too, was a correct type of his order; the only difference being,
that Father Malachi was an older coinage, with the impress of Donay or
St. Omers, whereas Mister Donovan was the shining metal, fresh stamped
from the mint of Maynooth.

[Illustration: Supper at Father Malachi’s]

While thus occupied in my surveillance of the scene before me, I was
roused by the priest saying—

“Ah, Fin, my darling, you needn’t deny it; you’re at the old game as
sure as my name is Malachi, and ye’ll never be easy nor quiet till
ye’re sent beyond the sea, or maybe have a record of your virtues on
half a ton of marble in the church-yard, yonder.”

“Upon my honour, upon the sacred honour of a De Courcy—.”

“Well, well, never mind it now; ye see ye’re just keeping your friends
cooling themselves there in the corner—introduce me at once.”

“Mr. Lorrequer, I’m sure—.”

“My name is Curzon,” said the adjutant, bowing.

“A mighty pretty name, though a little profane; well, Mr. Curse-on,”
for so he pronounced it, “ye’re as welcome as the flowers in May; and
it’s mighty proud I am to see ye here.

“Mr. Lorrequer, allow me to shake your hand—I’ve heard of ye before.”

There seemed nothing very strange in that; for go where I would through
this country, I seemed as generally known as ever was Brummell in
Bond-street.

“Fin tells me,” continued Father Malachi, “that ye’d rather not be
known down here, in regard of a reason,” and here he winked. “Make
yourselves quite easy; the king’s writ was never but once in these
parts; and the ‘original and true copy’ went back to Limerick in the
stomach of the server; they made him eat it, Mr. Lorrequer; but it’s as
well to be cautious, for there are a good number here. A little dinner,
a little quarterly dinner we have among us, Mr. Curseon, to be social
together, and raise a ‘thrifle’ for the Irish college at Rome, where we
have a probationer or two, ourselves.”

“As good as a station, and more drink,” whispered Fin into my ear.

“And now,” continued the priest, “ye must just permit me to re-christen
ye both, and the contribution will not be the less for what I’m going
to do; and I’m certain you’ll not be worse for the change Mr.
Curseon—though ’tis only for a few hours, ye’ll have a dacent name.”

As I could see no possible objection to this proposal, nor did Curzon
either, our only desire being to maintain the secrecy necessary for our
antagonist’s safety, we at once assented; when Father Malachi took me
by the hand, but with such a total change in his whole air and
deportment that I was completely puzzled by it; he led me forward to
the company with a good deal of the ceremonious reverence I have often
admired in Sir Charles Vernon, when conducting some full-blown dowager
through the mazes of a castle minuet. The desire to laugh outright was
almost irresistible, as the Rev. Father stood at arm’s length from me,
still holding my hand, and bowing to the company pretty much in the
style of a manager introducing a blushing debutante to an audience. A
moment more, and I must have inevitably given way to a burst of
laughter, when what was my horror to hear the priest present me to the
company as their “excellent, worthy, generous, and patriotic young
landlord, Lord Kilkee. Cheer every mother’s son of ye; cheer I say;”
and certainly precept was never more strenuously backed by example, for
he huzzaed till I thought he would burst a blood-vessel; may I add, I
almost wished it, such was the insufferable annoyance, the chagrin,
this announcement gave me; and I waited with eager impatience for the
din and clamour to subside, to disclaim every syllable of the priest’s
announcement, and take the consequences of my baptismal epithet, cost
what it might. To this I was impelled by many and important reasons.
Situated as I was with respect to the Callonby family, my assumption of
their name at such a moment might get abroad, and the consequences to
me, be inevitable ruin; and independent of my natural repugnance to
such sailing under false colours, I saw Curzon laughing almost to
suffocation at my wretched predicament, and (so strong within me was
the dread of ridicule) I thought, “what a pretty narrative he is
concocting for the mess this minute.” I rose to reply; and whether
Father Malachi, with his intuitive quickness, guessed my purpose or
not, I cannot say, but he certainly resolved to out-maneuver me, and he
succeeded: while with one hand he motioned to the party to keep
silence, with the other he took hold of Curzon, but with no peculiar or
very measured respect, and introduced him as Mr. MacNeesh, the new
Scotch steward and improver—a character at that time whose popularity
might compete with a tithe proctor or an exciseman. So completely did
this tactique turn the tables upon the poor adjutant, who the moment
before was exulting over me, that I utterly forgot my own woes, and sat
down convulsed with mirth at his situation—an emotion certainly not
lessened as I saw Curzon passed from one to the other at table, “like a
pauper to his parish,” till he found an asylum at the very foot, in
juxta with the engaging Mister Donovan. A propinquity, if I might judge
from their countenances, uncoveted by either party.

While this was performing, Doctor Finucane was making his recognitions
with several of the company, to whom he had been long known during his
visits to the neighbourhood. I now resumed my place on the right of the
Father, abandoning for the present all intention of disclaiming my
rank, and the campaign was opened. The priest now exerted himself to
the utmost to recall conversation with the original channels, and if
possible to draw off attention from me, which he still feared, might,
perhaps, elicit some unlucky announcement on my part. Failing in his
endeavours to bring matters to their former footing, he turned the
whole brunt of his attentions to the worthy doctor, who sat on his
left.

“How goes on the law,” said he, “Fin? Any new proofs, as they call
them, forthcoming?”

What Fin replied, I could not hear, but the allusion to the “suit” was
explained by Father Malachi informing us that the only impediment
between his cousin and the title of Kinsale lay in the unfortunate
fact, that his grandmother, “rest her sowl,” was not a man.

Doctor Finucane winced a little under the manner in which this was
spoken: but returned the fire by asking if the bishop was down lately
in that quarter? The evasive way in which “the Father” replied having
stimulated my curiosity as to the reason, little entreaty was necessary
to persuade the doctor to relate the following anecdote, which was not
relished the less by his superior, that it told somewhat heavily on Mr.
Donovan.

“It is about four years ago,” said the doctor, “since the Bishop, Dr.
Plunkett, took it into his head that he’d make a general inspection, ‘a
reconnoisance,’ as we’d call it, Mr. Lor—that is, my lord! through the
whole diocese, and leave no part far nor near without poking his nose
in it and seeing how matters were doing. He heard very queer stories
about his reverence here, and so down he came one morning in the month
of July, riding upon an old grey hack, looking just for all the world
like any other elderly gentleman in very rusty black. When he got near
the village he picked up a little boy to show him the short cut across
the fields to the house here; and as his lordship was a ‘sharp man and
a shrewd,’ he kept his eye on every thing as he went along, remarking
this, and noting down that.

“‘Are ye regular in yer duties, my son?’ said he to the gossoon.

“‘I never miss a Sunday,’ said the gossoon; ‘for it’s always walking
his reverence’s horse I am the whole time av prayers.’

“His lordship said no more for a little while, when he muttered between
his teeth, ‘Ah, it’s just slander—nothing but slander and lying
tongues.’ This soliloquy was caused by his remarking that on every gate
he passed, or from every cabin, two or three urchins would come out
half naked, but all with the finest heads of red hair he ever saw in
his life.

“‘How is it, my son,’ said he, at length; ‘they tell very strange
stories about Father Malachi, and I see so many of these children with
red hair. Eh—now Father Malachi’s a dark man.’

“‘True for ye,’ said the boy; ‘true for ye, Father Malachi’s dark; but
the coadjutor!—the coadjutor’s as red as a fox.’”

When the laugh this story caused had a little subsided, Father Malachi
called out, “Mickey Oulahan! Mickey, I say, hand his lordship over ‘the
groceries’”—thus he designated a square decanter, containing about two
quarts of whiskey, and a bowl heaped high with sugar—“a dacent boy is
Mickey, my lord, and I’m happy to be the means of making him known to
you.” I bowed with condescension, while Mr. Oulahan’s eyes sparkled
like diamonds at the recognition.

“He has only two years of the lease to run, and a ‘long charge,’”
(anglicé, a large family,) continued the priest.

“I’ll not forget him, you may depend upon it,” said I.

“Do you hear that,” said Father Malachi, casting a glance of triumph
round the table, while a general buzz of commendation on priest and
patron went round, with many such phrases as, “Och thin, it’s his
riv’rance can do it,” “na bocklish,” “and why not,” &c. &c. As for me,
I have already “confessed” to my crying sin, a fatal, irresistible
inclination to follow the humour of the moment wherever it led me; and
now I found myself as active a partizan in quizzing Mickey Oulahan, as
though I was not myself a party included in the jest. I was thus fairly
launched into my inveterate habit, and nothing could arrest my
progress.

One by one the different individuals round the table were presented to
me, and made known their various wants, with an implicit confidence in
my power of relieving them, which I with equal readiness ministered to.
I lowered the rent of every man at table. I made a general jail
delivery, an act of grace, (I blush to say,) which seemed to be
peculiarly interesting to the present company. I abolished all
arrears—made a new line of road through an impassable bog, and over an
inaccessible mountain—and conducted water to a mill, which (I learned
in the morning) was always worked by wind. The decanter had scarcely
completed its third circuit of the board, when I bid fair to be most
popular specimen of the peerage that ever visited the “far west.” In
the midst of my career of universal benevolence, I was interrupted by
Father Malachi, whom I found on his legs, pronouncing a glowing
eulogium on his cousin’s late regiment, the famous North Cork.

“That was the corps!” said he. “Bid them do a thing, and they’d never
leave off; and so, when they got orders to retire from Wexford, it’s
little they cared for the comforts of baggage, like many another
regiment, for they threw away every thing but their canteens, and never
stopped till they ran to Ross, fifteen miles farther than the enemy
followed them. And when they were all in bed the same night, fatigued
and tired with their exertions, as ye may suppose, a drummer’s boy
called out in his sleep—‘here they are—they’re coming’—they all jumped
up and set off in their shirts, and got two miles out of town before
they discovered it was a false alarm.”

Peal after peal of laughter followed the priest’s encomium on the
doctor’s regiment; and, indeed, he himself joined most heartily in the
mirth, as he might well afford to do, seeing that a braver or better
corps than the North Cork, Ireland did not possess.

“Well,” said Fin, “it’s easy to see ye never can forget what they did
at Maynooth.”

Father Malachi disclaimed all personal feeling on the subject; and I
was at last gratified by the following narrative, which I regret deeply
I am not enabled to give in the doctor’s own verbiage; but writing as I
do from memory, (in most instances,) I can only convey the substance:

It was towards the latter end of the year ‘98—the year of the
troubles—that the North Cork was ordered, “for their sins” I believe,
to march from their snug quarters in Fermoy, and take up a position in
the town of Maynooth—a very considerable reverse of fortune to a set of
gentlemen extremely addicted to dining out, and living at large upon a
very pleasant neighbourhood. Fermoy abounded in gentry; Maynooth at
that, time had few, if any, excepting his Grace of Leinster, and he
lived very privately, and saw no company. Maynooth was stupid and
dull—there were neither belles nor balls; Fermoy (to use the doctor’s
well remembered words) had “great feeding,” and “very genteel young
ladies, that carried their handkerchiefs in bags, and danced with the
officers.”

They had not been many weeks in their new quarters, when they began to
pine over their altered fortunes, and it was with a sense of delight,
which a few months before would have been incomprehensible to them,
they discovered, that one of their officers had a brother, a young
priest in the college: he introduced him to some of his confrères, and
the natural result followed. A visiting acquaintance began between the
regiment and such of the members of the college as had liberty to leave
the precincts: who, as time ripened the acquaintance into intimacy,
very naturally preferred the cuisine of the North Cork to the meagre
fare of “the refectory.” At last seldom a day went by, without one or
two of their reverences finding themselves guests at the mess. The
North Corkians were of a most hospitable turn, and the fathers were
determined the virtue should not rust for want of being exercised; they
would just drop in to say a word to “Captain O’Flaherty about leave to
shoot in the demesne,” as Carton was styled; or, they had a “frank from
the Duke for the Colonel,” or some other equally pressing reason; and
they would contrive to be caught in the middle of a very droll story
just as the “roast beef” was playing. Very little entreaty then
sufficed—a short apology for the “dereglements” of dress, and a few
minutes more found them seated at table without further ceremony on
either side.

Among the favourite guests from the college, two were peculiarly held
in estimation—“the Professor of the Humanities,” Father Luke Mooney;
and the Abbé D’Array, “the Lecturer on Moral Philosophy, and Belles
Lettres;” and certain it is, pleasanter fellows, or more gifted with
the “convivial bump,” there never existed. He of the Humanities was a
droll dog—a member of the Curran club, the “monks of the screw,” told
an excellent story, and sang the “Cruiskeen Lawn” better than did any
before or since him;—the moral philosopher, though of a different
genre, was also a most agreeable companion, an Irishman transplanted in
his youth to St. Omers, and who had grafted upon his native humour a
considerable share of French smartness and repartee—such were the two,
who ruled supreme in all the festive arrangements of this jovial
regiment, and were at last as regular at table, as the adjutant and the
paymaster, and so might they have continued, had not prosperity, that
in its blighting influence upon the heart, spares neither priests nor
laymen, and is equally severe upon mice (see Æsop’s fable) and moral
philosophers, actually deprived them, for the “nonce” of reason, and
tempted them to their ruin. You naturally ask, what did they do? Did
they venture upon allusions to the retreat upon Ross? Nothing of the
kind. Did they, in that vanity which wine inspires, refer by word, act,
or inuendo, to the well-known order of their Colonel when reviewing his
regiment in “the Phœnix,” to “advance two steps backwards, and dress by
the gutter.” Far be it from them: though indeed either of these had
been esteemed light in the balance compared with their real crime.
“Then, what was their failing—come, tell it, and burn ye?” They
actually, “horresco referens,” quizzed the Major coram the whole
mess!—Now, Major John Jones had only lately exchanged into the North
Cork from the “Darry Ragement,” as he called it. He was a red-hot
orangeman, a deputy-grand something, and vice-chairman of the
“’Prentice Boys” beside. He broke his leg when a school-boy, by a fall
incurred in tying an orange handkerchief around King William’s August
neck in College-green, on one 12th of July, and three several times had
closed the gates of Derry with his own loyal hands, on the famed
anniversary; in a word, he was one, that if his church had enjoined
penance as an expiation for sin, would have looked upon a trip to
Jerusalem on his bare knees, as a very light punishment for the crime
on his conscience, that he sat at table with two buck priests from
Maynooth, and carved for them, like the rest of the company!

Poor Major Jones, however, had no such solace, and the canker-worm eat
daily deeper and deeper into his pining heart. During the three or four
weeks of their intimacy with his regiment, his martyrdom was awful. His
figure wasted, and his colour became a deeper tinge of orange, and all
around averred that there would soon be a “move up” in the corps, for
the major had evidently “got his notice to quit” this world, and its
pomps and vanities. He felt “that he was dying,” to use Haines Bayley’s
beautiful and apposite words, and meditated an exchange, but that, from
circumstances, was out of the question. At last, subdued by grief, and
probably his spirit having chafed itself smooth by such constant
attrition, he became, to all seeming, calmer; but it was only the calm
of a broken and weary heart. Such was Major Jones at the time, when,
“suadente diabolo,” it seemed meet to Fathers Mooney and D’Array to
make him the butt of their raillery. At first, he could not believe it;
the thing was incredible—impossible; but when he looked around the
table, when he heard the roars of laughter, long, loud, and vociferous;
when he heard his name bandied from one to the other across the table,
with some vile jest tacked to it “like a tin kettle to a dog’s tail,”
he awoke to the full measure of his misery—the cup was full. Fate had
done her worst, and he might have exclaimed with Lear, “spit,
fire—spout, rain,” there was nothing in store for him of further
misfortune.

A drum-head court-martial—a hint “to sell out”—ay, a sentence of
“dismissed the service,” had been mortal calamities, and, like a man,
he would have borne them; but that he, Major John Jones, D.G.S. C.P.B.,
&c. &c., who had drank the “pious, glorious, and immortal,” sitting
astride of “the great gun of Athlone,” should come to this! Alas, and
alas! He retired that night to his chamber a “sadder if not a wiser
man;” he dreamed that the “statue” had given place to the unshapely
figure of Leo X., and that “Lundy now stood where Walker stood before.”
He humped from his bed in a moment of enthusiasm, he vowed his revenge,
and he kept his vow.

That day the major was “acting field officer.” The various patroles,
sentries, picquets, and out-posts, were all under his especial control;
and it was remarked that he took peculiar pains in selecting the men
for night duty, which, in the prevailing quietness and peace of that
time, seemed scarcely warrantable.

Evening drew near, and Major Jones, summoned by the “oft-heard beat,”
wended his way to the mess. The officers were dropping in, and true as
“the needle to the pole,” came Father Mooney and the Abbé. They were
welcomed with the usual warmth, and strange to say, by none more than
the major himself, whose hilarity knew no bounds.

How the evening passed, I shall not stop to relate: suffice it to say,
that a more brilliant feast of wit and jollification, not even the
North Cork ever enjoyed. Father Luke’s drollest stories, his very
quaintest humour shone forth, and the Abbé sang a new “Chanson a
Boire,” that Beranger might have envied.

“What are you about, my dear Father D’Array?” said the Colonel; “you
are surely not rising yet; here’s a fresh cooper of port just come in;
sit down, I entreat.”

“I say it with grief, my dear colonel, we must away; the half-hour has
just chimed, and we must be within ‘the gates’ before twelve. The truth
is, the superior has been making himself very troublesome about our
‘carnal amusements’ as he calls our innocent mirth, and we must
therefore be upon our guard.”

“Well, if it must be so, we shall not risk losing your society
altogether, for an hour or so now; so, one bumper to our next
meeting—to-morrow, mind, and now, M. D’Abbé, au revoir.”

The worthy fathers finished their glasses, and taking a most
affectionate leave of their kind entertainers, sallied forth under the
guidance of Major Jones, who insisted upon accompanying them part of
the way, as, “from information he had received, the sentries were
doubled in some places, and the usual precautions against surprise all
taken.” Much as this polite attention surprised the objects of it, his
brother officers wondered still more, and no sooner did they perceive
the major and his companions issue forth, than they set out in a body
to watch where this most novel and unexpected complaisance would
terminate.

When the priests reached the door of the barrack-yard, they again
turned to utter their thanks to the major, and entreat him once more,
“not to come a step farther. There now, major, we know the path well,
so just give us the pass, and don’t stay out in the night air.”

“Ah oui, Monsieur Jones,” said the Abbé, “retournez, je vous prie. We
are, I must say, chez nous. Ces braves gens, les North Cork know us by
this time.”

The major smiled, while he still pressed his services to see them past
the picquets, but they were resolved and would not be denied.

“With the word for the night, we want nothing more,” said Father Luke.

“Well, then,” said the major, in the gravest tone, and he was naturally
grave, “you shall have your way, but remember to call out loud, for the
first sentry is a little deaf, and a very passionate, ill-tempered
fellow to boot.”

“Never fear,” said Father Mooney, laughing; “I’ll go bail he’ll hear
me.”

“Well—the word for the night is—‘Bloody end to the Pope,’—don’t forget,
now, ‘Bloody end to the Pope,’” and with these words he banged the door
between him and the unfortunate priests; and, as bolt was fastened
after bolt, they heard him laughing to himself like a fiend over his
vengeance.

“And big bad luck to ye, Major Jones, for the same, every day ye see a
paving stone,” was the faint sub-audible ejaculation of Father Luke,
when he was recovered enough to speak.

“Sacristi! Que nous sommes attrappes,” said the Abbé, scarcely able to
avoid laughing at the situation in which they were placed.

“Well, there’s the quarter chiming now; we’ve no time to lose—Major
Jones! Major, darling! Don’t now, ah, don’t! sure ye know we’ll be
ruined entirely—there now, just change it, like a dacent fellow—the
devil’s luck to him, he’s gone. Well, we can’t stay here in the rain
all night, and be expelled in the morning afterwards—so come along.”

They jogged on for a few minutes in silence, till they came to that
part of the “Duke’s” demesne wall, where the first sentry was
stationed. By this time the officers, headed by the major, had quietly
slipped out of the gate, and were following their steps at a convenient
distance.

The fathers had stopped to consult together, what they should do in
this trying emergency—when their whisper being overheard, the sentinel
called out gruffly, in the genuine dialect of his country, “who goes
that?”

“Father Luke Mooney, and the Abbé D’Array,” said the former, in his
most bland and insinuating tone of voice, a quality he most eminently
possessed.

“Stand and give the countersign.”

“We are coming from the mess, and going home to the college,” said
Father Mooney, evading the question, and gradually advancing as he
spoke.

“Stand, or I’ll shot ye,” said the North Corkian.

Father Luke halted, while a muttered “Blessed Virgin” announced his
state of fear and trepidation.

“D’Array, I say, what are we to do.”

“The countersign,” said the sentry, whose figure they could perceive in
the dim distance of about thirty yards.

“Sure ye’ll let us pass, my good lad, and ye’ll have a friend in Father
Luke the longest day ye live, and ye might have a worse in time of
need; ye understand.”

Whether he did understand or not, he certainly did not heed, for his
only reply was the short click of his gun-lock, that bespeaks a
preparation to fire.

“There’s no help now,” said Father Luke; “I see he’s a haythen; and bad
luck to the major, I say again;” and this in the fulness of his heart
he uttered aloud.

“That’s not the countersign,” said the inexorable sentry, striking the
butt end of the musket on the ground with a crash that smote terror
into the hearts of the priests.

Mumble—mumble—“to the Pope,” said Father Luke, pronouncing the last
words distinctly, after the approved practice of a Dublin watchman, on
being awoke from his dreams of row and riot by the last toll of the
Post-office, and not knowing whether it has struck “twelve” or “three,”
sings out the word “o’clock,” in a long sonorous drawl, that wakes
every sleeping citizen, and yet tells nothing how “time speeds on his
flight.”

“Louder,” said the sentry, in a voice of impatience.

——“to the Pope.”

“I don’t hear the first part.”

“Oh then,” said the priest, with a sigh that might have melted the
heart of anything but a sentry, “Bloody end to the Pope; and may the
saints in heaven forgive me for saying it.”

“Again,” called out the soldier; “and no muttering.”

“Bloody end to the Pope,” cried Father Luke in bitter desperation.

“Bloody end to the Pope,” echoed the Abbé.

“Pass bloody end to the Pope, and good night,” said the sentry,
resuming his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter
behind, told the unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and
that the story would be over the whole town in the morning.

Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in
accomplishing, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to
face their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more,
nor were they ever observed to pass the precincts of the college, while
that regiment occupied Maynooth.

Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily
relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily
related it. Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however,
resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry,
with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas,
must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not
fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane’s acquaintance.

“Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me,” said the padre, as
the laugh subsided; “and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow
this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin
Hanegan’s aunt.”

“Here’s to her health,” said Fin; “and your reverence will get us the
chant.”

“Agreed,” said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a
few preparatory hems, he sang the following “singularly wild and
beautiful poem,” as some one calls Christabel:—

“Here’s a health to Martin Hanegan’s aunt,
    And I’ll tell ye the reason why!
She eats bekase she is hungry,
    And drinks bekase she is dry.

    “And if ever a man,
    Stopped the course of a can,
Martin Hanegan’s aunt would cry—
    ‘Arrah, fill up your glass,
    And let the jug pass;
How d’ye know but what your neighbour’s dhry?’”


“Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please—Fill up your
glass,” and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that
would have astonished the Philharmonic.

The mirth and fun now grew “fast and furious;” and Father Malachi,
rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every
side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor. It was not that
peculiar period in the evening’s enjoyment, when an expert and
practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves
every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected
by Father Malachi to propose the little “conthribution.” He brought a
plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the
company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of
the institution he was advocating, and concluding with the following
words:—“and now ye’ll just give whatever ye like, according to your
means in life, and what ye can spare.”

The admonition, like the “morale” of an income tax, having the
immediate effect of pitting each man against his neighbour, and
suggesting to their already excited spirits all the ardour of gambling,
without, however, a prospect of gain. The plate was first handed to me
in honour of my “rank,” and having deposited upon it a handful of small
silver, the priest ran his finger through the coin, and called out:—

“Five pounds! at least; not a farthing less, as I am a sinner. Look,
then,—see now; they tell ye, the gentlemen don’t care for the like of
ye! but see for yourselves. May I trouble y’r lordship to pass the
plate to Mr. Mahony—he’s impatient, I see.”

Mr. Mahony, about whom I perceived very little of the impatience
alluded to, was a grim-looking old Christian, in a rabbit-skin
waistcoat, with long flaps, who fumbled in the recesses of his breeches
pocket for five minutes, and then drew forth three shillings, which he
laid upon the plate, with what I fancied very much resembled a sigh.

“Six and sixpence, is it? or five shillings?—all the same, Mr. Mahony,
and I’ll not forget the thrifle you were speaking about this morning
any way;” and here he leaned over as interceding with me for him, but
in reality to whisper into my ear, “the greatest miser from this to
Castlebar.”

“Who’s that put down the half guinea in goold?” (And this time he spoke
truth.) “Who’s that, I say?”

“Tim Kennedy, your reverence,” said Tim, stroking his hair down with
one hand, and looking proud and modest at the same moment.

“Tim, ye’re a credit to us any day, and I always said so. It’s a gauger
he’d like to be, my lord,” said he, turning to me, in a kind of stage
whisper. I nodded and muttered something, when he thanked me most
profoundly as if his suit had prospered.

“Mickey Oulahan—the lord’s looking at ye, Mickey.” This was said
piannisime across the table, and had the effect of increasing Mr.
Oulahan’s donation from five shillings to seven—the last two being
pitched in very much in the style of a gambler making his final coup,
and crying “va banque.” “The Oulahans were always dacent people—dacent
people, my lord.”

“Be gorra, the Oulahans was niver dacenter nor the Molowneys, any how,”
said a tall athletic young fellow, as he threw down three crown pieces,
with an energy that made every coin leap from the plate.

“They’ll do now,” said Father Brennan; “I’ll leave them to themselves;”
and truly the eagerness to get the plate and put down the subscription,
fully equalled the rapacious anxiety I have witnessed in an old maid at
loo, to get possession of a thirty-shilling pool, be the same more or
less, which lingered on its way to her, in the hands of many a fair
competitor.

“Mr. M’Neesh”—Curzon had hitherto escaped all notice—“Mr. M’Neesh, to
your good health,” cried Father Brennan. “It’s many a secret they’ll be
getting out o’ye down there about the Scotch husbandry.”

Whatever poor Curzon knew of “drills,” certainly did not extend to them
when occupied by turnips. This allusion of the priest’s being caught up
by the party at the foot of the table, they commenced a series of
inquiries into different Scotch plans of tillage—his brief and
unsatisfactory answers to which, they felt sure, were given in order to
evade imparting information. By degrees, as they continued to press him
with questions, his replies grew more short, and a general feeling of
dislike on both sides was not very long in following.

The father saw this, and determining with his usual tact to repress it,
called on the adjutant for a song. Now, whether he had but one in the
world, or whether he took this mode of retaliating for the annoyances
he had suffered, I know not; but true it is, he finished his tumbler at
a draught, and with a voice of no very peculiar sweetness, though
abundantly loud, began “The Boyne Water.”

He had just reached the word “battle,” in the second line upon which he
was bestowing what he meant to be a shake, when, as if the word
suggested it, it seemed the signal for a general engagement. Decanters,
glasses, jugs, candlesticks,—aye, and the money-dish, flew right and
left—all originally intended, it is true, for the head of the luckless
adjutant, but as they now and then missed their aim, and came in
contact with the “wrong man,” invariably provoked retaliation, and in a
very few minutes the battle became general.

What may have been the doctor’s political sentiments on this occasion,
I cannot even guess; but he seemed bent upon performing the part of a
“convivial Lord Stanley,” and maintaining a dignified neutrality. With
this apparent object, he mounted upon the table, to raise himself, I
suppose, above the din and commotion of party clamour, and brandishing
a jug of scalding water, bestowed it with perfect impartiality on the
combatants on either side. This Whig plan of conciliation, however well
intended, seemed not to prosper with either party; and many were the
missiles directed at the ill-starred doctor. Meanwhile Father Malachi,
whether following the pacific instinct of his order, in seeking an
asylum in troublesome times, or equally moved by old habit to gather
coin in low places, (much of the money having fallen,) was
industriously endeavouring to insert himself beneath the table; in
this, with one vigorous push, he at last succeeded, but in so doing
lifted it from its legs, and thus destroying poor “Fin’s” gravity,
precipitated him, jug and all, into the thickest part of the fray,
where he met with that kind reception such a benefactor ever receives
at the hands of a grateful public. I meanwhile hurried to rescue poor
Curzon, who, having fallen to the ground, was getting a cast of his
features taken in pewter, for such seemed the operation a stout farmer
was performing on the adjutant’s face with a quart. With considerable
difficulty, notwithstanding my supposed “lordship,” I succeeded in
freeing him from his present position; and he concluding, probably,
that enough had been done for one “sitting,” most willingly permitted
me to lead him from the room. I was soon joined by the doctor, who
assisted me in getting my poor friend to bed; which being done, he most
eagerly entreated me to join the company. This, however, I firmly but
mildly declined, very much to his surprise; for as he remarked—“They’ll
all be like lambs now, for they don’t believe there’s a whole bone in
his body.”

Expressing my deep sense of the Christian-like forbearance of the
party, I pleaded fatigue, and bidding him good night, adjourned to my
bed-room; and here, although the arrangements fell somewhat short of
the luxurious ones appertaining to my late apartment at Callonby, they
were most grateful at the moment; and having “addressed myself to
slumber,” fell fast asleep, and only awoke late on the following
morning to wonder where I was: from any doubts as to which I was
speedily relieved by the entrance of the priest’s bare-footed
“colleen,” to deposit on my table a bottle of soda water, and announce
breakfast, with his reverence’s compliments.

Having made a hasty toilet, I proceeded to the parlour, which, however
late events might have impressed upon my memory, I could scarcely
recognise. Instead of the long oak table and the wassail bowl, there
stood near the fire a small round table, covered with a snow—white
cloth, upon which shone in unrivalled brightness a very handsome tea
equipage—the hissing kettle on one hob was vis a vis’d by a gridiron
with three newly taken trout, frying under the reverential care of
Father Malachi himself—a heap of eggs ranged like shot in an ordnance
yard, stood in the middle of the table, while a formidable pile of
buttered toast browned before the grate—the morning papers were airing
upon the hearth—every thing bespoke that attention to comfort and
enjoyment one likes to discover in the house where chance may have
domesticated him for a day or two.

“Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer. I trust you have rested well,” said
Father Malachi as I entered.

“Never better; but where are our friends?”

“I have been visiting and comforting them in their affliction, and I
may with truth assert it is not often my fortune to have three as
sickly looking guests. That was a most unlucky affair last night, and I
must apologise.”

“Don’t say a word, I entreat; I saw how it all occurred, and am quite
sure if it had not been for poor Curzon’s ill-timed melody—”

“You are quite right,” said the father interrupting me. “Your friend’s
taste for music—bad luck to it—was the ‘teterrima causa belli.’”

“And the subscription,” said I; “how did it succeed?”

“Oh, the money went in the commotion; and although I have got some
seven pounds odd shillings of it, the war was a most expensive one to
me. I caught old Mahony very busy under the table during the fray; but
let us say no more about it now—draw over your chair. Tea or coffee?
there’s the rum if you like it ‘chasse.’”

I immediately obeyed the injunction, and commenced a vigorous assault
upon the trout, caught, as he informed me, “within twenty perches of
the house.”

“Your poor friend’s nose is scarcely regimental,” said he, “this
morning; and as for Fin, he was never remarkable for beauty, so, though
they might cut and hack, they could scarcely disfigure him, as Juvenal
says—isn’t it Juvenal?

“‘Vacuus viator cantabit ante Latronem;’


“or in the vernacular:

“‘The empty traveller may whistle
Before the robber and his pistil’ (pistol).”


“There’s the Chili vinegar—another morsel of the trout?”

“I thank you; what excellent coffee, Father Malachi!”

“A secret I learned at St. Omer’s some thirty years since. Any letters,
Bridget?”—to a damsel that entered with a pacquet in her hand.

“A gossoon from Kilrush, y’r reverence, with a bit of a note for the
gentleman there.”

“For me!—ah, true enough. Harry Lorrequer, Esq. Kilrush—try
Carrigaholt.” So ran the superscription—the first part being in a
lady’s handwriting; the latter very like the “rustic paling” of the
worthy Mrs. Healy’s style. The seal was a large one, bearing a coronet
at top, and the motto in old Norman-French, told me it came from
Callonby.

With what a trembling hand and beating heart I broke it open, and yet
feared to read it—so much of my destiny might be in that simple page.
For once in my life my sanguine spirit failed me; my mind could take in
but one casualty, that Lady Jane had divulged to her family the nature
of my attentions, and that in the letter before me lay a cold mandate
of dismissal from her presence for ever.

At last I summoned courage to read it; but having scrupled to present
to my readers the Reverend Father Brennan at the tail of a chapter, let
me not be less punctilious in the introduction of her ladyship’s
billet.




  CHAPTER VII.
THE LADY’S LETTER—PETER AND HIS ACQUAINTANCES—TOO LATE.


Her ladyship’s letter ran thus—

“Callonby, Tuesday morning.


“My dear Mr. Lorrequer,—My lord has deputed me to convey to you our
adieus, and at the same time to express our very great regret that we
should not have seen you before out departure from Ireland. A sudden
call of the House, and some unexpected ministerial changes, require
Lord Callonby’s immediate presence in town; and probably before this
reaches you we shall be on the road. Lord Kilkee, who left us
yesterday, was much distressed at not having seen you—he desired me to
say you shall hear from him from Leamington. Although writing amid all
the haste and bustle of departure, I must not forget the principal part
of my commission, nor lady-like defer it to a postscript: my lord
entreats that you will, if possible, pass a month or two with us in
London this season; make any use of his name you think fit at the
Horse-Guards, where he has some influence. Knowing as I do, with what
kindness you ever accede to the wishes of your friends, I need not say
how much gratification this will afford us all; but, sans response, we
expect you. Believe me to remain, yours very sincerely,


    “Charlotte Callonby.”


“P.S.—We are all quite well, except Lady Jane, who has a slight cold,
and has been feverish for the last day or two.”


Words cannot convey any idea of the torrent of contending emotions
under which I perused this letter. The suddenness of the departure,
without an opportunity of even a moment’s leave-taking, completely
unmanned me. What would I not have given to be able to see her once
more, even for an instant—to say “a good bye”—to watch the feeling with
which she parted from me, and augur from it either favourably to my
heart’s dearest hope, or darkest despair. As I continued to read on,
the kindly tone of the remainder reassured me, and when I came to the
invitation to London, which plainly argued a wish on their part to
perpetuate the intimacy, I was obliged to read it again and again,
before I could convince myself of its reality. There it was, however,
most distinctly and legibly impressed in her ladyship’s fairest
calligraphy; and certainly great as was its consequence to me at the
time, it by no means formed the principal part of the communication.
The two lines of postscript contained more, far more food for hopes and
fears than did all the rest of the epistle.

Lady Jane was ill then, slightly however—a mere cold; true, but she was
feverish. I could not help asking myself what share had I causing that
flushed cheek and anxious eye, and pictured to myself, perhaps with
more vividness than reality, a thousand little traits of manner, all
proofs strong as holy writ to my sanguine mind, that my affection was
returned, and that I loved not in vain. Again and again I read over the
entire letter; never truly did a nisi prius lawyer con over a new act
of parliament with more searching ingenuity, to detect its hidden
meaning, than did I to unravel through its plain phraseology the secret
intention of the writer towards me.

There is an old and not less true adage, that what we wish we readily
believe; and so with me—I found myself an easy convert to my own hopes
and desires, and actually ended by persuading myself—no very hard
task—that my Lord Callonby had not only witnessed but approved of my
attachment to his beautiful daughter, and for reasons probably known to
him, but concealed from me, opined that I was a suitable “parti,” and
gave all due encouragement to my suit. The hint about using his
lordship’s influence at the Horse guards I resolved to benefit by; not,
however, in obtaining leave of absence, which I hoped to accomplish
more easily, but with his good sanction in pushing my promotion, when I
claimed him as my right honorable father-in-law—a point, on the
propriety of which, I had now fully satisfied myself. What visions of
rising greatness burst upon my mind, as I thought on the prospect that
opened before me; but here let me do myself the justice to record, that
amid all my pleasure and exultation, my proudest thought, was in the
anticipation of possessing one in every way so much my superior—the
very consciousness of which imparted a thrill of fear to my heart, that
such good fortune was too much even to hope for.

How long I might have luxuriated in such Chateaux en Espagne, heaven
knows; thick and thronging fancies came abundantly to my mind, and it
was with something of the feeling of the porter in the Arabian Nights,
as he surveyed the fragments of his broken ware, hurled down in a
moment of glorious dreaminess, that I turned to look at the squat and
unaristocratic figure of Father Malachi, as he sat reading his
newspaper before the fire. How came I in such company; methinks the
Dean of Windsor, or the Bishop of Durham had been a much more seemly
associate for one destined as I was for the flood-tide of the world’s
favour.

My eye at this instant rested upon the date of the letter, which was
that of the preceding morning, and immediately a thought struck me
that, as the day was a louring and gloomy one, perhaps they might have
deferred their journey, and I at once determined to hasten to Callonby,
and, if possible, see them before their departure.

“Father Brennan,” said I, at length, “I have just received a letter
which compels me to reach Kilrush as soon as possible. Is there any
public conveyance in the village?”

“You don’t talk of leaving us, surely,” said the priest, “and a haunch
of mutton for dinner, and Fin says he’ll be down, and your friend, too,
and we’ll have poor Beamish in on a sofa.”

“I am sorry to say my business will not admit of delay, but, if
possible, I shall return to thank you for all you kindness, in a day or
two—perhaps tomorrow.”

“Oh, then,” said Father Brennan, “if it must be so, why you can have
‘Pether,’ my own pad, and a better you never laid leg over; only give
him his own time, and let him keep the ‘canter,’ and he’ll never draw
up from morning till night; and now I’ll just go and have him in
readiness for you.”

After professing my warm acknowledgments to the good father for his
kindness, I hastened to take a hurried farewell of Curzon before going.
I found him sitting up in bed taking his breakfast; a large strip of
black plaster, extending from the corner of one eye across the nose,
and terminating near the mouth, denoted the locale of a goodly wound,
while the blue, purple and yellow patches into which his face was
partitioned out, left you in doubt whether he now resembled the knave
of clubs or a new map of the Ordnance survey; one hand was wrapped up
in a bandage, and altogether a more rueful and woe-begone looking
figure I have rarely looked upon; and most certainly I am of opinion
that the “glorious, pious and immortal memory” would have brought
pleasanter recollections to Daniel O’Connell himself, than it would on
that morning to the adjutant of his majesty’s 4—th.

“Ah, Harry,” said he, as I entered, “what Pandemonium is this we’ve got
into? did you ever witness such a business as last night’s?”

“Why truly,” said I, “I know of no one to blame but yourself; surely
you must have known what a fracas your infernal song would bring on.”

“I don’t know now whether I knew it or not; but certainly at the moment
I should have preferred anything to the confounded cross-examination I
was under, and was glad to end it by any coup d’etat. One wretch was
persecuting me about green crops, and another about the feeding of
bullocks; about either of which I knew as much as a bear does of a
ballet.”

“Well, truly, you caused a diversion at some expense to your
countenance, for I never beheld anything—”

“Stop there,” said he, “you surely have not seen the doctor—he beats me
hollow—they have scarcely left so much hair on his head as would do for
an Indian’s scalp lock; and, of a verity, his aspect is awful this
morning; he has just been here, and by-the-bye has told me all about
your affair with Beamish. It appears that somewhere you met him at
dinner, and gave a very flourishing account of a relative of his who
you informed him was not only selected for some very dashing service,
but actually the personal friend of Picton; and, after the family
having blazed the matter all over Cork, and given a great entertainment
in honor of their kinsman, it turns out that, on the glorious 19th, he
ran away to Brussels faster than even the French to Charleroi; for
which act, however, there was no aspersion ever cast upon his courage,
that quality being defended at the expense of his honesty; in a word,
he was the paymaster of the company, and had what Theodore Hook calls
an ‘affection of his chest,’ that required change of air. Looking only
to the running away part of the matter, I unluckily expressed some
regret that he did not belong to the North Cork, and I remarked the
doctor did not seem to relish the allusion, and as _I_ only now
remember, it was _his_ regiment, I suppose I’m in for more mischief.”

I had no time to enjoy Curzon’s dilemma, and had barely informed him of
my intended departure, when a voice from without the room proclaimed
that “Pether” was ready, and having commissioned the adjutant to say
the “proper” to Mr. Beamish and the doctor, hurried away, and after a
hearty shake of the hand from Father Brennan, and a faithful promise to
return soon, I mounted and set off.

Peter’s pace was of all others the one least likely to disturb the
lucubrations of a castle-builder like myself; without any admonition
from whip or spur he maintained a steady and constant canter, which, I
am free to confess, was more agreeable to sit, than it was graceful to
behold; for his head being much lower than his tail, he every moment
appeared in the attitude of a diver about to plunge into the water, and
more than once I had misgivings that I would consult my safety better
if I sat with my face to the tail; however, what will not habit
accomplish? before I had gone a mile or two, I was so lost in my own
reveries and reflections, that I knew nothing of my mode of
progression, and had only thoughts and feelings for the destiny that
awaited me; sometimes I would fancy myself seated in the House of
Commons, (on the ministerial benches, of course,) while some leading
oppositionist was pronouncing a glowing panegyric upon the eloquent and
statesmanlike speech of the gallant colonel—myself; then I thought I
was making arrangements for setting out for my new appointment, and
Sancho Panza never coveted the government of an island more than I did,
though only a West Indian one; and, lastly, I saw myself the chosen
diplomate on a difficult mission, and was actually engaged in the easy
and agreeable occupation of outmaneuvering Talleyrand and Pozzo di
Borgo, when Peter suddenly drew up at the door of a small cabin, and
convinced me that I was still a mortal man, and a lieutenant in his
Majesty’s 4—th. Before I had time afforded me even to guess at the
reason of this sudden halt, an old man emerged from the cabin, which I
saw now was a road-side ale-house, and presented Peter with a bucket of
meal and water, a species of “viaticum” that he evidently was
accustomed to, at this place, whether bestrode by a priest or an
ambassador. Before me lay a long straggling street of cabins,
irregularly thrown, as if riddled over the ground; this I was informed
was Kilkee; while my good steed, therefore, was enjoying his potation,
I dismounted, to stretch my legs and look about me, and scarcely had I
done so when I found half the population of the village assembled round
Peter, whose claims to notoriety, I now learned, depended neither upon
his owner’s fame, nor even my temporary possession of him. Peter, in
fact, had been a racer, once—when, the wandering Jew might perhaps have
told, had he ever visited Clare—for not the oldest inhabitant knew the
date of his triumphs on the turf; though they were undisputed
traditions, and never did any man appear bold enough to call them in
question: whether it was from his patriarchal character, or that he was
the only race-horse ever known in his county I cannot say, but, of a
truth, the Grand Lama could scarcely be a greater object of reverence
in Thibet, than was Peter in Kilkee.

“Musha, Peter, but it’s well y’r looking,” cried one.

“Ah, thin, maybe ye an’t fat on the ribs,” cried another.

“An’ cockin’ his tail like a coult,” said a third.

I am very certain, if I might venture to judge from the faces about,
that, had the favourite for the St. Leger, passed through Kilkee at
that moment, comparisons very little to his favor had been drawn from
the assemblage around me. With some difficulty I was permitted to reach
my much admired steed, and with a cheer, which was sustained and caught
up by every denizen of the village as I passed through, I rode on my
way, not a little amused at my equivocal popularity.

Being desirous to lose no time, I diverged from the straight road which
leads to Kilrush, and took a cross bridle-path to Callonby; this, I
afterwards discovered was a detour of a mile or two, and it was already
sun-set when I reached the entrance to the park. I entered the avenue,
and now my impatience became extreme, for although Peter continued to
move at the same uniform pace, I could not persuade myself that he was
not foundering at every step, and was quite sure we were scarcely
advancing; at last I reached the wooden bridge, and ascended the steep
slope, the spot where I had first met her, on whom my every thought now
rested. I turned the angle of the clump of beech trees from whence the
first view of the house is caught—I perceived to my inexpressible
delight that gleams of light shone from many of the windows, and could
trace their passing from one to the other. I now drew rein, and with a
heart relieved from a load of anxiety, pulled up my good steed, and
began to think of the position in which a few brief seconds would place
me. I reached the small flower-garden, sacred by a thousand endearing
recollections. Oh! of how very little account are the many words of
passing kindness, and moments of light-hearted pleasure, when spoken or
felt, compared to the memory of them when hallowed by time or distance.

“The place, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,” all reminded me of
the happy past, and all brought vividly before me every portion of that
dream of happiness in which I was so utterly—so completely
steeped—every thought of the hopelessness of my passion was lost in the
intensity of it, and I did not, in the ardour of my loving, stop to
think of its possible success.

It was strange enough that the extreme impatience, the hurried anxiety,
I had felt and suffered from, while riding up the avenue, had now fled
entirely, and in its place I felt nothing but a diffident distrust of
myself, and a vague sense of awkwardness about intruding thus
unexpectedly upon the family, while engaged in all the cares and
preparations for a speedy departure. The hall-door lay as usual wide
open, the hall itself was strewn and littered with trunks, imperials,
and packing-cases, and the hundred et ceteras of travelling baggage. I
hesitated a moment whether I should not ring, but at last resolved to
enter unannounced, and, presuming upon my intimacy, see what effect my
sudden appearance would have on Lady Jane, whose feelings towards me
would be thus most unequivocally tested. I passed along the wide
corridor, entered the music-room—it was still—I walked then to the door
of the drawing-room—I paused—I drew a full breath—my hand trembled
slightly as I turned the lock—I entered—the room was empty, but the
blazing fire upon the hearth, the large arm-chairs drawn around, the
scattered books upon the small tables, all told that it had been
inhabited a very short time before. Ah! thought I, looking at my watch,
they are at dinner, and I began at once to devise a hundred different
plans to account for my late absence and present visit. I knew that a
few minutes would probably bring them into the drawing-room, and I felt
flurried and heated as the time drew near. At last I heard voices
without—I started from the examination of a pencil drawing but partly
finished, but the artist of which I could not be deceived in—I
listened—the sounds drew near—I could not distinguish who were the
speakers—the door-lock turned, and I rose to make my well-conned, but
half-forgotten speech; and oh, confounded disappointment, Mrs. Herbert,
the house-keeper, entered. She started, not expecting to see me, and
immediately said,

“Oh! Mr. Lorrequer! then you’ve missed them.”

“Missed them!” said I; “how—when—where?”

“Did you not get a note from my lord?”

“No; when was it written?”

“Oh, dear me, that is so very unfortunate. Why, sir, my lord sent off a
servant this morning to Kilrush, in Lord Kilkee’s tilbury, to request
you would meet them all in Ennis this evening, where they had intended
to stop for to-night; and they waited here till near four o’clock
to-day, but when the servant came back with the intelligence that you
were from home, and not expected to return soon, they were obliged to
set out, and are not going to make any delay now, till they reach
London. The last direction, however, my lord gave, was to forward her
ladyship’s letter to you as soon as possible.”

What I thought, said, or felt, might be a good subject of confession to
Father Malachi, for I fear it may be recorded among my sins, as I doubt
not that the agony I suffered vented itself in no measured form of
speech or conduct; but I have nothing to confess here on the subject,
being so totally overwhelmed as not to know what I did or said. My
first gleam of reason elicited itself by asking,

“Is there, then, no chance of their stopping in Ennis to-night?” As I
put the question my mind reverted to Peter and his eternal canter.

“Oh, dear, no, sir; the horses are ordered to take them, since Tuesday;
and they only thought of staying in Ennis, if you came time enough to
meet them—and they will be so sorry.”

“Do you think so, Mrs. Herbert? do you, indeed, think so?” said I, in a
most insinuating tone.

“I am perfectly sure of it, sir.”

“Oh, Mrs. Herbert, you are too kind to think so; but perhaps—that
is—may be, Mrs. Herbert, she said something—”

“Who, sir?”

“Lady Callonby, I mean; did her ladyship leave any message for me about
her plants? or did she remember—”

Mrs. Herbert kept looking at me all the time, with her great wide grey
eyes, while I kept stammering and blushing like a school-boy.

“No, sir; her ladyship said nothing, sir; but Lady Jane—”

“Yes; well, what of Lady Jane, my dear Mrs. Herbert?”

“Oh, sir! but you look pale; would not you like to have a little wine
and water—or perhaps—”

“No, thank you, nothing whatever; I am just a little fatigued—but you
were mentioning—”

“Yes, sir; I was saying that Lady Jane was mighty particular about a
small plant; she ordered it to be left in her dressing-room, though
Collins told her to have some of the handsome ones of the green-house,
she would have nothing but this; and if you were only to hear half the
directions she gave about keeping it watered, and taking off dead
leaves, you’d think her heart was set on it.”

Mrs. Herbert would have had no cause to prescribe for my paleness had
she only looked at me this time; fortunately, however, she was engaged,
housekeeper-like, in bustling among books, papers, &c. which she had
come in for the purpose of arranging and packing up. She being left
behind to bring up the rear, and the heavy baggage.

Very few moments’ consideration were sufficient to show me that pursuit
was hopeless; whatever might have been Peter’s performance in the reign
of “Queen Anne,” he had now become like the goose so pathetically
described by my friend Lover, rather “stiff in his limbs,” and the odds
were fearfully against his overtaking four horses, starting fresh every
ten miles, not to mention their being some hours in advance already.
Having declined all Mrs. Herbert’s many kind offers, anent food and
rest, I took a last lingering look at the beautiful pictures, which
still held its place in the room lately mine, and hurried from a place
so full of recollections; and, notwithstanding the many reasons I had
for self-gratulation, every object around and about, filled me with
sorrow and regret for hours that had passed—never, never to return.

It was very late when I reached my old quarters at Kilrush; Mrs. Healy
fortunately was in bed asleep—fortunately I say, for had she selected
that occasion to vent her indignation for my long absence, I greatly
fear that, in my then temper I should have exhibited but little of that
Job-like endurance for which I was once esteemed; I entered my little
mean-looking parlour, with its three chairs and lame table, and, as I
flung myself upon the wretched substitute for a sofa, and thought upon
the varied events which a few weeks had brought about; it required the
aid of her ladyship’s letter, which I opened before me, to assure me I
was not dreaming.

The entire of that night I could not sleep; my destiny seemed upon its
balance; and, whether the scale inclined to this side or that, good or
evil fortune seemed to betide me. How many were my plans and
resolutions, and how often abandoned; again to be pondered over, and
once more given up. The grey dawn of the morning was already breaking,
and found me still doubting and uncertain. At last the die was thrown;
I determined at once to apply for leave to my commanding officer,
(which he could, if he pleased, give me, without any application to the
Horse Guards,) set out for Elton, tell Sir Guy my whole adventure, and
endeavour, by a more moving love story than ever graced even the
Minerva Press, to induce him to make some settlement on me, and use his
influence with Lord Callonby in my behalf; this done, set out for
London, and then—and then—what then?—then for the Morning Post—“Cadeau
de noces”—“happy couple”—“Lord Callonby’s seat in Hampshire,” &c. &c.

“You wished to be called at five, sir,” said Stubber.

“Yes; is it five o’clock?”

“No, sir; but I heard you call out something about ‘four horses,’ and I
thought you might be hurried, so I came a little earlier.”

“Quite right, Stubber; let me have my breakfast as soon as possible,
and see that chestnut horse I brought here last night, fed.”

“And now for it,” said I, after writing a hurried note to Curzon,
requesting him to take command of my party at Kilrush, till he heard
from me, and sending my kindest remembrance to my three friends; I
despatched the epistle by my servant on Peter, while I hastened to
acquire a place in the mail for Ennis, on the box seat of which let my
kind reader suppose me seated, as wrapping my box-coat around me, I lit
my cigar and turned my eyes towards Limerick.




  CHAPTER VIII.
CONGRATULATIONS—SICK LEAVE—HOW TO PASS THE BOARD.


I had scarcely seated myself to breakfast at Swinburn’s hotel in
Limerick, when the waiter presented me with a letter. As my first
glance at the address showed it to be in Colonel Carden’s handwriting,
I felt not a little alarmed for the consequences of the rash step I had
taken in leaving my detachment; and, while quickly thronging fancies of
arrest and courtmartial flitted before me, I summoned resolution at
last to break the seal, and read as follows:—

“My dear Lorrequer,” (“dear Lorrequer!” dear me, thought I; cool
certainly, from one I have ever regarded as an open enemy)—“My dear
Lorrequer, I have just accidentally heard of your arrival here, and
hasten to inform you, that, as it may not be impossible your reasons
for so abruptly leaving your detachment are known to me, I shall not
visit your breach of discipline very heavily. My old and worthy friend,
Lord Callonby, who passed through here yesterday, has so warmly
interested himself in your behalf, that I feel disposed to do all in my
power to serve you; independently of my desire to do so on your own
account. Come over here, then, as soon as possible, and let us talk
over your plans together.


    “Believe me, most truly yours,
“Henry Carden.


“Barracks, 10 o’clock.”


How mysterious and difficult to unravel, have been some of the
circumstances narrated in these “Confessions,” I do not scruple to avow
that the preceding letter was to me by far the most inexplicable piece
of fortune I had hitherto met with. That Lord Callonby should have
converted one whom I believed an implacable foe, into a most obliging
friend, was intelligible enough, seeing that his lordship had through
life been the patron of the colonel; but why he had so done, and what
communications he could possibly have made with regard to me, that
Colonel Carden should speak of “my plans” and proffer assistance in
them was a perfect riddle; and the only solution, one so ridiculously
flattering that I dared not think of it. I read and re-read the note;
misplaced the stops; canvassed every expression; did all to detect a
meaning different from the obvious one, fearful of a self-deception
where so much was at stake. Yet there it stood forth, a plain
straightforward proffer of services, for some object evidently known to
the writer; and my only conclusion, from all, was this, that “my Lord
Callonby was the gem of his order, and had a most remarkable talent for
selecting a son-in-law.”

I fell into a deep reverie upon my past life, and the prospects which I
now felt were opening before me. Nothing seemed extravagant to hopes so
well founded—to expectations so brilliant—and, in my mind’s eye, I
beheld myself at one moment leading my young and beautiful bride
through the crowded salons of Devonshire House; and, at the next, I was
contemplating the excellence and perfection of my stud arrangements at
Melton, for I resolved not to give up hunting. While in this
pleasurable exercise of my fancy, I was removing from before me some of
the breakfast equipage, or, as I then believed it, breaking the trees
into better groups upon my lawn, I was once more brought to the world
and its dull reality, by the following passage which my eye fell upon
in the newspaper before me—“We understand that the 4—th are daily
expecting the route for Cork, from whence they are to sail, early in
the ensuing month for Halifax, to relieve the 99th.” While it did not
take a moment’s consideration to show me that though the regiment there
mentioned was the one I belonged to, I could have no possible interest
in the announcement; it never coming into my calculation that I should
submit to such expatriation; yet it gave me a salutary warning that
there was no time to be lost in making my application for leave, which,
once obtained, I should have ample time to manage an exchange into
another corps. The wonderful revolution a few days had effected in all
my tastes and desires, did not escape me at this moment. But a week or
two before and I should have regarded an order for foreign service as
anything rather than unpleasant—now the thought was insupportable. Then
there would have been some charm to me in the very novelty of the
locale, and the indulgence of that vagrant spirit I have ever
possessed; for, like Justice Woodcock, “I certainly should have been a
vagabond if Providence had not made me a justice of the peace”—now, I
could not even contemplate the thing as possible; and would have
actually refused the command of a regiment, if the condition of its
acceptance were to sail for the colonies.

Besides, I tried—and how ingenious is self-deception—I tried to find
arguments in support of my determination totally different from the
reasons which governed me. I affected to fear climate, and to dread the
effect of the tropics upon my health. It may do very well, thought I,
for men totally destitute of better prospects; with neither talent,
influence or powerful connexion, to roast their cheeks at Sierra Leone,
or suck a sugar-cane at St. Lucia. But that you, Harry Lorrequer,
should waste your sweetness upon planters’ daughters—that have only to
be known, to have the world at your feet! The thing is absurd, and not
to be thought of! Yes, said I half aloud—we read in the army list, that
Major A. is appointed to the 50th, and Capt. B. to the 12th; but how
much more near the truth would it be, to say—“That His Majesty, in
consideration of the distinguished services of the one, has been
graciously pleased to appoint him to—a case of blue and collapsed
cholera, in India; and also, for the bravery and gallant conduct of t

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/5240