THE IRISH DRAGOON.Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoonIn battle, in bivouac, or in saloon,From the tip of his spur to his bright sabretasche.With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye,He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,He springs in his saddle andchassesthe French,With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.His spirits are high, and he little knows care,Whether sipping his claret or charging a square,With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.As ready to sing or to skirmish he’s found,To take off his wine or to take up his ground;When the bugle may call him, how little he fearsTo charge forth in column and beat the Mounseers,With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.When the battle is over, he gayly rides backTo cheer every soul in the night bivouac,With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.Oh, there you may see him in full glory crowned,As he sits ‘midst his friends on the hardly won ground,And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live,With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
It was late when we broke up; but among all the recollections of that pleasant evening none clung to me so forcibly, none sank so deeply in my heart, as the gay and careless tone of Power’s manly voice; and as I fell asleep towards morning, the words of “The Irish Dragoon” were floating through my mind and followed me in my dreams.
THE VICE-PROVOST.
I had now been for some weeks a resident within the walls of the university, and yet had never presented my letter of introduction to Dr. Barret. Somehow, my thoughts and occupations had left me little leisure to reflect upon my college course, and I had not felt the necessity suggested by my friend Sir Harry, of having a supporter in the very learned and gifted individual to whom I was accredited. How long I might have continued in this state of indifference it is hard to say, when chance brought about my acquaintance with the doctor.
Were I not inditing a true history in this narrative of my life, to the events and characters of which so many are living witnesses, I should certainly fear to attempt anything like a description of this very remarkable man; so liable would any sketch, however faint and imperfect, be to the accusation of caricature, when all was so singular and so eccentric.
Dr. Barret was, at the time I speak of, close upon seventy years of age, scarcely five feet in height, and even that diminutive stature lessened by a stoop. His face was thin, pointed, and russet-colored; his nose so aquiline as nearly to meet his projecting chin, and his small gray eyes, red and bleary, peered beneath his well-worn cap with a glance of mingled fear and suspicion. His dress was a suit of the rustiest black, threadbare, and patched in several places, while a pair of large brown leather slippers, far too big for his feet, imparted a sliding motion to his walk that added an air of indescribable meanness to his appearance; a gown that had been worn for twenty years, browned and coated with the learned dust of theFagel, covered his rusty habiliments, and completed the equipments of a figure that it was somewhat difficult for the young student to recognize as the vice-provost of the university. Such was he in externals. Within, a greater or more profound scholar never graced the walls of the college; a distinguished Grecian, learned in all the refinements of a hundred dialects; a deep Orientalist, cunning in all the varieties of Eastern languages, and able to reason with a Moonshee, or chat with a Persian ambassador. With a mind that never ceased acquiring, he possessed a memory ridiculous for its retentiveness, even of trifles; no character in history, no event in chronology was unknown to him, and he was referred to by his contemporaries for information in doubtful and disputed cases, as men consult a lexicon or dictionary. With an intellect thus stored with deep and far-sought knowledge, in the affairs of the world he was a child. Without the walls of the college, for above forty years, he had not ventured half as many times, and knew absolutely nothing of the busy, active world that fussed and fumed so near him; his farthest excursion was to the Bank of Ireland, to which he made occasional visits to fund the ample income of his office, and add to the wealth which already had acquired for him a well-merited repute of being the richest man in college.
His little intercourse with the world had left him, in all his habits and manners, in every respect exactly as when he entered college nearly half a century before; and as he had literally risen from the ranks in the university, all the peculiarities of voice, accent, and pronunciation which distinguished him as a youth, adhered to him in old age. This was singular enough, and formed a very ludicrous contrast with the learned and deep-read tone of his conversation; but another peculiarity, still more striking, belonged to him. When he became a fellow, he was obliged, by the rules of the college, to take holy orders as asine qua nonto his holding his fellowship. This he did, as he would have assumed a red hood or blue one, as bachelor of laws or doctor of medicine, and thought no more of it; but frequently, in his moments of passionate excitement, the venerable character with which he was invested was quite forgotten, and he would utter some sudden and terrific oath, more productive of mirth to his auditors than was seemly, and for which, once spoken, the poor doctor felt the greatest shame and contrition. These oaths were no less singular than forcible; and many a trick was practised, and many a plan devised, that the learned vice-provost might be entrapped into his favorite exclamation of, “May the devil admire me!” which no place or presence could restrain.
My servant, Mike, who had not been long in making himself acquainted with all the originals about him, was the cause of my first meeting the doctor, before whom I received a summons to appear on the very serious charge of treating with disrespect the heads of the college.
The circumstances were shortly these: Mike had, among the other gossip of the place, heard frequent tales of the immense wealth and great parsimony of the doctor, and of his anxiety to amass money on all occasions, and the avidity with which even the smallest trifle was added to his gains. He accordingly resolved to amuse himself at the expense of this trait, and proceeded thus. Boring a hole in a halfpenny, he attached a long string to it, and having dropped it on the doctor’s step stationed himself on the opposite side of the court, concealed from view by the angle of the Commons’ wall. He waited patiently for the chapel bell, at the first toll of which the door opened, and the doctor issued forth. Scarcely was his foot upon the step, when he saw the piece of money, and as quickly stooped to seize it; but just as his finger had nearly touched it, it evaded his grasp and slowly retreated. He tried again, but with the like success. At last, thinking he had miscalculated the distance, he knelt leisurely down, and put forth his hand, but lo! it again escaped him; on which, slowly rising from his posture, he shambled on towards the chapel, where, meeting the senior lecturer at the door, he cried out, “H——— to my soul, Wall, but I saw the halfpenny walk away!”
For the sake of the grave character whom he addressed, I need not recount how such a speech was received; suffice it to say, that Mike had been seen by a college porter, who reported him as my servant.
I was in the very act of relating the anecdote to a large party at breakfast in my rooms, when a summons arrived, requiring my immediate attendance at the board, then sitting in solemn conclave at the examination hall.
I accordingly assumed my academic costume as speedily as possible, and escorted by that most august functionary, Mr. M’Alister, presented myself before the seniors.
The members of the board, with the provost at their head, were seated at a long oak table covered with books, papers, etc., and from the silence they maintained as I walked up the hall, I augured that a very solemn scene was before me.
“Mr. O’Malley,” said the dean, reading my name from a paper he held in his hand, “you have been summoned here at the desire of the vice-provost, whose questions you will reply to.”
I bowed. A silence of a few minutes followed, when, at length, the learned doctor, hitching up his nether garments with both hands, put his old and bleary eyes close to my face, while he croaked out, with an accent that no hackney-coachman could have exceeded in vulgarity,—
“Eh, O’Malley, you’requartus, I believe; a’n’t you?”
“I believe not. I think I am the only person of that name now on the books.”
“That’s thrue; but there were three O’Malleys before you. Godfrey O’Malley, that construedCalve Neronito Nero the Calvinist,—ha! ha! ha!—was cautioned in 1788.”
“My uncle, I believe, sir.”
“More than likely, from what I hear of you,—Ex uno, etc. I see your name every day on the punishment roll. Late hours, never at chapel, seldom at morning lecture. Here ye are, sixteen shillings, wearing a red coat.”
“Never knew any harm in that, Doctor.”
“Ay, but d’ye see me, now? ‘Grave raiment,’ says the statute. And then, ye keep numerous beasts of prey, dangerous in their habits, and unseemly to behold.”
“A bull terrier, sir, and two game-cocks, are, I assure you, the only animals in my household.”
“Well. I’ll fine you for it.”
“I believe, Doctor,” said the dean, interrupting in an undertone, “that you cannot impose a penalty in this matter.”
“Ay, but I can. ‘Singing-birds,’ says the statute, ‘are forbidden within the wall.’”
“And then, ye dazzled my eyes at Commons with a bit of looking-glass, on Friday. I saw you. May the devil!—ahem! As I was saying, that’s castingreflectionson the heads of the college; and your servant it was,Michaelis Liber, Mickey Free,—may the flames of!—ahem!—an insolent varlet! called me a sweep.”
“You, Doctor; impossible!” said I, with pretended horror.
“Ay, but d’ye see me, now? It’s thrue, for I looked about me at the time, and there wasn’t another sweep in the place but myself. Hell to!—I mean—God forgive me for swearing! but I’ll fine you a pound for this.”
As I saw the doctor was getting on at such a pace, I resolved, notwithstanding the august presence of the board, to try the efficacy of Sir Harry’s letter of introduction, which I had taken in my pocket in the event of its being wanted.
“I beg your pardon, sir, if the time be an unsuitable one; but may I take the opportunity of presenting this letter to you?”
“Ha! I know the hand—Boyle’s.Boyle secundus. Hem, ha, ay! ‘My young friend; and assist him by your advice.’ To be sure! Oh, of course. Eh, tell me, young man, did Boyle say nothing to you about the copy of Erasmus, bound in vellum, that I sold him in Trinity term, 1782?”
“I rather think not, sir,” said I, doubtfully.
“Well, then, he might. He owes me two-and-fourpence of the balance.”
“Oh, I beg pardon, sir; I now remember he desired me to repay you that sum; but he had just sealed the letter when he recollected it.”
“Better late than never,” said the doctor, smiling graciously. “Where’s the money? Ay! half-a-crown. I haven’t twopence—never mind. Go away, young man; the case is dismissed.Vehementer miror quare hue venisti. You’re more fit for anything than a college life. Keep good hours; mind the terms; and dismissMichaelis Liber. Ha, ha, ha! May the devil!—hem!—that is do—” So saying, the little doctor’s hand pushed me from the hall, his mind evidently relieved of all the griefs from which he had been suffering, by the recovery of his long-lost two-and-four-pence.
Such was my first and last interview with the vice-provost, and it made an impression upon me that all the intervening years have neither dimmed nor erased.
TRINITY COLLEGE.—A LECTURE.
I had not been many weeks a resident of Old Trinity ere the flattering reputation my chum, Mr. Francis Webber, had acquired, extended also to myself; and by universal consent, we were acknowledged the most riotous, ill-conducted, disorderly men on the books of the university. Were the lamps of the squares extinguished, and the college left in total darkness, we were summoned before the dean; was the vice-provost serenaded with a chorus of trombones and French horns, to our taste in music was the attention ascribed; did a sudden alarm of fire disturb the congregation at morning chapel, Messrs. Webber and O’Malley were brought before the board,—and I must do them the justice to say that the most trifling circumstantial evidence was ever sufficient to bring a conviction. Reading men avoided the building where we resided as they would have done the plague. Our doors, like those of a certain classic precinct commemorated by a Latin writer, lay open night and day, while mustached dragoons, knowingly dressed four-in-hand men, fox-hunters in pink, issuing forth to the Dubber or returning splashed from a run with the Kildare hounds, were everlastingly seen passing and repassing. Within, the noise and confusion resembled rather the mess-room of a regiment towards eleven at night than the chambers of a college student; while, with the double object of affecting to be in ill-health, and to avoid the reflections that daylight occasionally inspires, the shutters were never opened, but lamps and candles kept always burning. Such was No. 2, Old Square, in the goodly days I write of. All the terrors of fines and punishments fell scathless on the head of my worthy chum. In fact, like a well-known political character, whose pleasure and amusement it has been for some years past to drive through acts of Parliament and deride the powers of the law, so did Mr. Webber tread his way, serpenting through the statute-book, ever grazing, but rarely trespassing upon some forbidden ground which might involve the great punishment of expulsion. So expert, too, had he become in his special pleadings, so dexterous in the law of the university, that it was no easy matter to bring crime home to him; and even when this was done, his pleas of mitigation rarely failed of success.
There was a sweetness of demeanor, a mild, subdued tone about him, that constantly puzzled the worthy heads of the college how the accusations ever brought against him could be founded on truth; that the pale, delicate-looking student, whose harsh, hacking cough terrified the hearers, could be the boisterous performer upon a key-bugle, or the terrific assailant of watchmen, was something too absurd for belief. And when Mr. Webber, with his hand upon his heart, and in his most dulcet accents, assured them that the hours he was not engaged in reading for the medal were passed in the soothing society of a few select and intimate friends of literary tastes and refined minds, who, knowing the delicacy of his health,—here he would cough,—were kind enough to sit up with him for an hour or so in the evening, the delusion was perfect; and the story of the dean’s riotous habits having got abroad, the charge was usually suppressed.
Like most idle men, Webber never had a moment to spare. Except read, there was nothing he did not do; training a hack for a race in the Phoenix, arranging a rowing-match, getting up a mock duel between two white-feather acquaintances, were his almost daily avocations. Besides that, he was at the head of many organized societies, instituted for various benevolent purposes. One was called “The Association for Discountenancing Watchmen;” another, “The Board of Works,” whose object was principally devoted to the embellishment of the university, in which, to do them justice, their labors were unceasing, and what with the assistance of some black paint, a ladder, and a few pounds of gunpowder, they certainly contrived to effect many important changes. Upon an examination morning, some hundred luckless “jibs” might be seen perambulating the courts, in the vain effort to discover their tutors’ chambers, the names having undergone an alteration that left all trace of their original proprietors unattainable: Doctor Francis Mooney having become Doctor Full Moon; Doctor Hare being, by the change of two letters, Doctor Ape; Romney Robinson, Romulus and Remus, etc. While, upon occasions like these, there could be but little doubt of Master Frank’s intentions, upon many others, so subtle were his inventions, so well-contrived his plots, it became a matter of considerable difficulty to say whether the mishap which befell some luckless acquaintance were the result of design or mere accident; and not unfrequently well-disposed individuals were found condoling with “Poor Frank” upon his ignorance of some college rule or etiquette, his breach of which had been long and deliberately planned. Of this latter description was a circumstance which occurred about this time, and which some who may throw an eye over these pages will perhaps remember.
The dean, having heard (and, indeed, the preparations were not intended to secure secrecy) that Webber destined to entertain a party of his friends at dinner on a certain day, sent a peremptory order for his appearance at Commons, his name being erased from the sick list, and a pretty strong hint conveyed to him that any evasion upon his part would be certainly followed by an inquiry into the real reasons for his absence. What was to be done? That was the very day he had destined for his dinner. To be sure, the majority of his guests were college men, who would understand the difficulty at once; but still there were some others, officers of the 14th, with whom he was constantly dining, and whom he could not so easily put off. The affair was difficult, but still Webber was the man for a difficulty; in fact, he rather liked one. A very brief consideration accordingly sufficed, and he sat down and wrote to his friends at the Royal Barracks thus:—
Saturday.DEAR POWER,—I have a better plan for Tuesday than that Ihad proposed. Lunch here at three (we’ll call it dinner), in the hallwith the great guns. I can’t say much for the grub; but thecompany—glorious!After that we’ll start for Lucan in the drag; takeour coffee, strawberries, etc., and return to No. 2 for supper at ten.Advertise your fellows of this change, and believe me,Most unchangeably yours, FRANK WEBBER.
Accordingly, as three o’clock struck, six dashing-looking light dragoons were seen slowly sauntering up the middle of the dining-hall, escorted by Webber, who, in full academic costume, was leisurely ciceroning his friends, and expatiating upon the excellences of the very remarkable portraits which graced the walls.
The porters looked on with some surprise at the singular hour selected for sight-seeing; but what was their astonishment to find that the party, having arrived at the end of the hall, instead of turning back again, very composedly unbuckled their belts, and having disposed of their sabres in a corner, took their places at the Fellows’ table, and sat down amidst the collective wisdom of Greek lecturers and Regius professors, as though they had been mere mortals like themselves.
Scarcely was the long Latin grace concluded, when Webber, leaning forward, enjoined his friends, in a very audible whisper, that if they intended to dine no time was to be lost.
“We have but little ceremony here, gentlemen, and all we ask is a fair start,” said he, as he drew over the soup, and proceeded to help himself.
The advice was not thrown away; for each man, with an alacrity a campaign usually teaches, made himself master of some neighboring dish, a very quick interchange of good things speedily following the appropriation. It was in vain that the senior lecturer looked aghast, that the professor of astronomy frowned. The whole table, indeed, were thunderstruck, even to the poor vice-provost himself, who, albeit given to the comforts of the table, could not lift a morsel to his mouth, but muttered between his teeth, “May the devil admire me, but they’re dragoons!” The first shock of surprise over, the porters proceeded to inform them that except Fellows of the University or Fellow-commoners, none were admitted to the table. Webber however assured them that it was a mistake, there being nothing in the statute to exclude the 14th Light Dragoons, as he was prepared to prove. Meanwhile dinner proceeded, Power and his party performing with great self-satisfaction upon the sirloins and saddles about them, regretting only, from time to time, that there was a most unaccountable absence of wine, and suggesting the propriety of napkins whenever they should dine there again. Whatever chagrin these unexpected guests caused among their entertainers of the upper table, in the lower part of the hall the laughter was loud and unceasing; and long before the hour concluded, the Fellows took their departure, leaving to Master Frank Webber the task of doing the honors alone and unassisted. When summoned before the board for the offence on the following morning, Webber excused himself by throwing the blame upon his friends, with whom, he said, nothing short of a personal quarrel—a thing for a reading man not to be thought of—could have prevented intruding in the manner related. Nothing less thanhistact could have saved him on this occasion, and at last he carried the day; while by an act of the board the 14th Light Dragoons were pronounced the most insolent corps in the service.
An adventure of his, however, got wind about this time, and served to enlighten many persons as to his real character, who had hitherto been most lenient in their expressions about him. Our worthy tutor, with a zeal for our welfare far more praiseworthy than successful, was in the habit of summoning to his chambers, on certain mornings of the week, his various pupils, whom he lectured in the books for the approaching examinations. Now, as these séances were held at six o’clock in winter as well as summer, in a cold fireless chamber,—the lecturer lying snug amidst his blankets, while we stood shivering around the walls,—the ardor of learning must indeed have proved strong that prompted a regular attendance. As to Frank, he would have as soon thought of attending chapel as of presenting himself on such an occasion. Not so with me. I had not yet grown hackneyed enough to fly in the face of authority, and I frequently left the whist-table, or broke off in a song, to hurry over to the doctor’s chambers and spout Homer and Hesiod. I suffered on in patience, till at last the bore became so insupportable that I told my sorrows to my friend, who listened to me out, and promised me succor.
It so chanced that upon some evening in each week Dr. Mooney was in the habit of visiting some friends who resided a short distance from town, and spending the night at their house. He, of course, did not lecture the following morning,—a paper placard, announcing no lecture, being affixed to the door on such occasions. Frank waited patiently till he perceived the doctor affixing this announcement upon his door one evening; and no sooner had he left the college than he withdrew the paper and departed.
On the next morning he rose early, and concealing himself on the staircase, waited the arrival of the venerable damsel who acted as servant to the doctor. No sooner had she opened the door and groped her way into the sitting-room than Frank crept forward, and stealing gently into the bedroom, sprang into the bed and wrapped himself up in the blankets. The great bell boomed forth at six o’clock, and soon after the sounds of the feet were heard upon the stairs. One by one they came along, and gradually the room was filled with cold and shivering wretches, more than half asleep, and trying to arouse themselves into an approach to attention.
“Who’s there?” said Frank, mimicking the doctor’s voice, as he yawned three or four times in succession and turned in the bed.
“Collisson, O’Malley, Nesbitt,” etc., said a number of voices, anxious to have all the merit such a penance could confer.
“Where’s Webber?”
“Absent, sir,” chorussed the whole party.
“Sorry for it,” said the mock doctor. “Webber is a man of first-rate capacity; and were he only to apply, I am not certain to what eminence his abilities might raise him. Come, Collisson, any three angles of a triangle are equal to—are equal to—what are they equal to?” Here he yawned as though he would dislocate his jaw.
“Any three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles,” said Collisson, in the usual sing-song tone of a freshman.
As he proceeded to prove the proposition, his monotonous tone seemed to have lulled the doctor into a doze, for in a few minutes a deep, long-drawn snore announced from the closed curtains that he listened no longer. After a little time, however, a short snort from the sleeper awoke him suddenly, and he called out, “Go on, I’m waiting. Do you think I can arouse at this hour of the morning for nothing but to listen to your bungling? Can no one give me a free translation of the passage?”
This digression from mathematics to classics did not surprise the hearers, though it somewhat confused them, no one being precisely aware what the line in question might be.
“Try it, Nesbitt,—you, O’Malley. Silent all? Really this is too bad!” An indistinct muttering here from the crowd was followed by an announcement from the doctor that the speaker was an ass, and his head a turnip! “Not one of you capable of translating a chorus from Euripides,—‘Ou, ou, papai, papai,’ etc.; which, after all, means no more than, ‘Oh, whilleleu, murder, why did you die!’ etc. What are you laughing at, gentlemen? May I ask, does it become a set of ignorant, ill-informed savages—yes, savages, I repeat the word—to behave in this manner? Webber is the only man I have with common intellect,—the only man among you capable of distinguishing himself. But as for you, I’ll bring you before the board; I’ll write to your friends; I’ll stop your college indulgences; I’ll confine you to the walls; I’ll be damned, eh—”
This lapse confused him. He stammered, stuttered, endeavored to recover himself; but by this time we had approached the bed, just at the moment when Master Frank, well knowing what he might expect if detected, had bolted from the blankets and rushed from the room. In an instant we were in pursuit; but he regained his chambers, and double-locked the door before we could overtake him, leaving us to ponder over the insolent tirade we had so patiently submitted to.
That morning the affair got wind all over college. As for us, we were scarcely so much laughed at as the doctor; the world wisely remembering, if such were the nature of our morning’s orisons, we might nearly as profitably have remained snug in our quarters.
Such was our life in Old Trinity; and strange enough it is that one should feel tempted to the confession, but I really must acknowledge these were, after all, happy times, and I look back upon them with mingled pleasure and sadness. The noble lord who so pathetically lamented that the devil was not so strong in him as he used to be forty years before, has an echo in my regrets that the student is not as young in me as when these scenes were enacting of which I write.
THE INVITATION.—THE WAGER.
I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, a few mornings after the mess dinner I have spoken of, when Power came in hastily.
“Ha, the very man!” said he. “I say, O’Malley, here’s an invitation for you from Sir George, to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand civil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not at home when you called yesterday, and all that. By Jove, I know nothing like the favor you stand in; and as for Miss Dashwood, faith! the fair Lucy blushed, and tore her glove in most approved style, when the old general began his laudation of you.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” said I; “that silly affair in the west.”
“Oh, very probably; there’s reason the less for you looking so excessively conscious. But I must tell you, in all fairness, that you have no chance; nothing short of a dragoon will go down.”
“Be assured,” said I, somewhat nettled, “my pretensions do not aspire to the fair Miss Dashwood.”
“Tant mieux et tant pis, mon cher. I wish to Heaven mine did; and, by Saint Patrick, if I only played the knight-errant half as gallantly as yourself, I would not relinquish my claims to the Secretary at War himself.”
“What the devil brought the old general down to your wild regions?” inquired Webber.
“To contest the county.”
“A bright thought, truly. When a man was looking for a seat, why not try a place where the law is occasionally heard of?”
“I’m sure I can give you no information on that head; nor have I ever heard how Sir George came to learn that such a place as Galway existed.”
“I believe I can enlighten you,” said Power. “Lady Dashwood—rest her soul!—came west of the Shannon; she had a large property somewhere in Mayo, and owned some hundred acres of swamp, with some thousand starving tenantry thereupon, that people dignified as an estate in Connaught. This first suggested to him the notion of setting up for the county, probably supposing that the people who never paid in rent might like to do so in gratitude. How he was undeceived, O’Malley there can inform us. Indeed, I believe the worthy general, who was confoundedly hard up when he married, expected to have got a great fortune, and little anticipated the three chancery suits he succeeded to, nor the fourteen rent-charges to his wife’s relatives that made up the bulk of the dower. It was an unlucky hit for him when he fell in with the old ‘maid’ at Bath; and had she lived, he must have gone to the colonies. But the Lord took her one day, and Major Dashwood was himself again. The Duke of York, the story goes, saw him at Hounslow during a review, was much struck with his air and appearance, made some inquiries, found him to be of excellent family and irreproachable conduct, made him an aide-de-camp, and, in fact, made his fortune. I do not believe that, while doing so kind, he could by possibility have done a more popular thing. Every man in the army rejoiced at his good fortune; so that, after all, though he has had some hard rubs, he has come well through, the only vestige of his unfortunate matrimonial connection being a correspondence kept up by a maiden sister of his late wife’s with him. She insists upon claiming the ties of kindred upon about twenty family eras during the year, when she regularly writes a most loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing the latest information from Mayo, with all particulars of the Macan family, of which she is a worthy member. To her constant hints of the acceptable nature of certain small remittances, the poor general is never inattentive; but to the pleasing prospect of a visit in the flesh from Miss Judy Macan, the good man is dead. In fact, nothing short of being broke by general court-martial could complete his sensations of horror at such a stroke of fortune; and I am not certain, if choice were allowed him, that he would not prefer the latter.”
“Then he has never yet seen her?” said Webber.
“Never,” replied Power; “and he hopes to leave Ireland without that blessing, the prospect of which, however remote and unlikely, has, I know well, more than once terrified him since his arrival.”
“I say, Power, and has your worthy general sent me a card for his ball?”
“Not through me, Master Frank.”
“Well, now, I call that devilish shabby, do you know. He asks O’Malley there frommychambers, and never notices the other man, the superior in the firm. Eh, O’Malley, what say you?”
“Why, I didn’t know you were acquainted.”
“And who said we were? It was his fault, though, entirely, that we were not. I am, as I have ever been, the most easy fellow in the world on that score, never give myself airs to military people, endure anything, everything, and you see the result; hard, ain’t it?”
“But, Webber, Sir George must really be excused in this matter. He has a daughter, a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that budding, unsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions; and where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of a casual meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber? If he has not sought you out, then here be his apology.”
“A very strong case, certainly,” said Frank; “but, still, had he confided his critical position to my honor and secrecy, he might have depended on me; now, having taken the other line—”
“Well, what then?”
“Why, he must abide the consequences. I’ll make fierce love to Louisa; isn’t that the name?”
“Lucy, so please you.”
“Well, be it so,—to Lucy,—talk the little girl into a most deplorable attachment for me.”
“But, how, may I ask, and when?”
“I’ll begin at the ball, man.”
“Why, I thought you said you were not going?”
“There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I had not been invited.”
“Then, of course,” said I, “Webber, you can’t think of going, in any case, onmyaccount.”
“My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. I not only shall go, but I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I shall be prime favorite with Sir George, kiss Lucy—”
“Come, come, this is too strong.”
“What do you bet I don’t? There, now, I’ll give you a pony apiece, I do. Do you say done?”
“That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked down-stairs for your pains; are those the terms of the wager?” inquired Power.
“With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, and am not kicked down-stairs for my pains.”
“Then, I say, done.”
“And with you, too, O’Malley?”
“I thank you,” said I, coldly; “I am not disposed to make such a return for Sir George Dashwood’s hospitality as to make an insult to his family the subject of a bet.”
“Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not refuse my chaste salute. Come, Power, I’ll give you the other pony.”
“Agreed,” said he. “At the same time, understand me distinctly, that I hold myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own interference; for if you do kiss her, by Jove! I’ll perform the remainder of the compact.”
“So I understand the agreement,” said Webber, arranging his curls before the looking-glass. “Well, now, who’s for Howth? The drag will be here in half an hour.”
“Not I,” said Power; “I must return to the barracks.”
“Nor I,” said I, “for I shall take this opportunity of leaving my card at Sir George Dashwood’s.”
“I have won my fifty, however,” said Power, as we walked out in the courts.
“I am not quite certain—”
“Why, the devil, he would not risk a broken neck for that sum; besides, if he did, he loses the bet.”
“He’s a devilish keen fellow.”
“Let him be. In any case I am determined to be on my guard here.”
So chatting, we strolled along to the Royal Hospital, when, having dropped my pasteboard, I returned to the college.
THE BALL.
I have often dressed for a storming party with less of trepidation than I felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood’s ball. Since the eventful day of the election I had never seen Miss Dashwood; therefore, as to what precise position I might occupy in her favor was a matter of great doubt in my mind, and great import to my happiness. That I myself loved her, was a matter of which all the badinage of my friends regarding her made me painfully conscious; but that, in our relative positions, such an attachment was all but hopeless, I could not disguise from myself. Young as I was, I well knew to what a heritage of debt, lawsuit, and difficulty I was born to succeed. In my own resources and means of advancement I had no confidence whatever, had even the profession to which I was destined been more of my choice. I daily felt that it demanded greater exertions, if not far greater abilities, than I could command, to make success at all likely; and then, even if such a result were in store, years, at least, must elapse before it could happen; and where would she then be, and where should I? Where the ardent affection I now felt and gloried in,—perhaps all the more for its desperate hopelessness,—when the sanguine and buoyant spirit to combat with difficulties which youth suggests, and which, later, manhood refuses, should have passed away? And even if all these survived the toil and labor of anxious days and painful nights, what of her? Alas, I now reflected that, although only of my own age, her manner to me had taken all that tone of superiority and patronage which an elder assumes towards one younger, and which, in the spirit of protection it proceeds upon, essentially bars up every inlet to a dearer or warmer feeling,—at least, when the lady plays the former part. “What, then, is to be done?” thought I. “Forget her?—but how? How shall I renounce all my plans, and unweave the web of life I have been spreading around me for many a day, without that one golden thread that lent it more than half its brilliancy and all its attraction? But then the alternative is even worse, if I encourage expectations and nurture hopes never to be realized. Well, we meet to-night, after a long and eventful absence; let my future fate be ruled by the results of this meeting. If Lucy Dashwood does care for me, if I can detect in her manner enough to show me that my affection may meet a return, the whole effort of my life shall be to make her mine; if not, if my own feelings be all that I have to depend upon to extort a reciprocal affection, then shall I take my last look of her, and with it the first and brightest dream of happiness my life has hitherto presented.”
It need not be wondered at if the brilliantcoup d’oeilof the ball-room, as I entered, struck me with astonishment, accustomed as I had hitherto been to nothing more magnificent than an evening party of squires and their squiresses or the annual garrison ball at the barracks. The glare of wax-lights, the well-furnished saloons, the glitter of uniforms, and the blaze of plumed and jewelled dames, with the clang of military music, was a species of enchanted atmosphere which, breathing for the first time, rarely fails to intoxicate. Never before had I seen so much beauty. Lovely faces, dressed in all the seductive flattery of smiles, were on every side; and as I walked from room to room, I felt how much more fatal to a man’s peace and heart’s ease the whispered words and silent glances of those fair damsels, than all the loud gayety and boisterous freedom of our country belles, who sought to take the heart by storm and escalade.
As yet I had seen neither Sir George nor his daughter, and while I looked on every side for Lucy Dashwood, it was with a beating and anxious heart I longed to see how she would bear comparison with the blaze of beauty around.
Just at this moment a very gorgeously dressed hussar stepped from a doorway beside me, as if to make a passage for some one, and the next moment she appeared leaning upon the arm of another lady. One look was all that I had time for, when she recognized me.
“Ah, Mr. O’Malley, how happy—has Sir George—has my father seen you?”
“I have only arrived this moment; I trust he is quite well?”
“Oh, yes, thank you—”
“I beg your pardon with all humility, Miss Dashwood,” said the hussar, in a tone of the most knightly courtesy, “but they are waiting for us.”
“But, Captain Fortescue, you must excuse me one moment more. Mr. Lechmere, will you do me the kindness to find out Sir George? Mr. O’Malley—Mr. Lechmere.” Here she said something in French to her companion, but so rapidly that I could not detect what it was, but merely heard the reply,“Pas mal!”—which, as the lady continued to canvass me most deliberately through her eye-glass, I supposed referred to me. “And now, Captain Fortescue—” And with a look of most courteous kindness to me she disappeared in the crowd.
The gentleman to whose guidance I was entrusted was one of the aides-de-camp, and was not long in finding Sir George. No sooner had the good old general heard my name, than he held out both his hands and shook mine most heartily.
“At last, O’Malley; at last I am able to thank you for the greatest service ever man rendered me. He saved Lucy, my Lord; rescued her under circumstances where anything short of his courage and determination must have cost her her life.”
“Ah, very pretty indeed,” said a stiff old gentleman addressed, as he bowed a most superbly powdered scalp before me; “most happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Who is he?” added he, in nearly as loud a tone to Sir George.
“Mr. O’Malley, of O’Malley Castle.”
“True, I forgot; why is he not in uniform?”
“Because, unfortunately, my Lord, we don’t own him; he’s not in the army.”
“Ha! ha! thought he was.”
“You dance, O’Malley, I suppose? I’m sure you’d rather be over there than hearing all my protestations of gratitude, sincere and heartfelt as they really are.”
“Lechmere, introduce my friend, Mr. O’Malley; get him a partner.”
I had not followed my new acquaintance many steps, when Power came up to me. “I say, Charley,” cried he, “I have been tormented to death by half the ladies in the room to present you to them, and have been in quest of you this half-hour. Your brilliant exploit in savage land has made you a regularpreux chevalier; and if you don’t trade on that adventure to your most lasting profit, you deserve to be—a lawyer. Come along here! Lady Muckleman, the adjutant-general’s lady and chief, has four Scotch daughters you are to dance with; then I am to introduce you in all form to the Dean of Something’s niece,—she is a good-looking girl, and has two livings in a safe county. Then there’s the town-major’s wife; and, in fact, I have several engagements from this to supper-time.”
“A thousand thanks for all your kindness in prospective, but I think, perhaps, it were right I should ask Miss Dashwood to dance, if only as a matter of form,—you understand?”
“And if Miss Dashwood should say, ‘With pleasure, sir,’ only as a matter of form,—you understand?” said a silvery voice beside me. I turned, and saw Lucy Dashwood, who, having overheard my free-and-easy suggestion, replied to me in this manner.
I here blundered out my excuses. What I said, and what I did not say, I do not now remember; but certainly, it was her turn now to blush, and her arm trembled within mine as I led her to the top of the room. In the little opportunity which our quadrille presented for conversation, I could not help remarking that, after the surprise of her first meeting with me, Miss Dashwood’s manner became gradually more and more reserved, and that there was an evident struggle between her wish to appear grateful for what had occurred, with a sense of the necessity of not incurring a greater degree of intimacy. Such was my impression, at least, and such the conclusion I drew from a certain quiet tone in her manner that went further to wound my feelings and mar my happiness than any other line of conduct towards me could possibly have effected.
Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when Sir George came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every semblance of high excitement.
“Dear Papa, has anything occurred? Pray what is it?” inquired she.
He smiled faintly, and replied, “Nothing very serious, my dear, that I should alarm you in this way; but certainly, a more disagreeablecontretempscould scarcely occur.”
“Do tell me: what can it be?”
“Read this,” said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note which bore the mark of a red wafer most infernally plain upon its outside.
Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a moment’s silence, instead of participating, as he expected, in her father’s feeling of distress, burst out a-laughing, while she said: “Why, really, Papa, I do not see why this should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a character, as her note evinces, but after a few days—”
“Nonsense, child; there’s nothing in this world I have such a dread of as that confounded woman,—and to come at such a time.”
“When does she speak of paying her visit?”
“I knew you had not read the note,” said Sir George, hastily; “she’s coming here to-night,—is on her way this instant, perhaps. What is to be done? If she forces her way in here, I shall go deranged outright; O’Malley, my boy, read this note, and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humor you see me.”
I took the billet from the hands of Miss Dashwood, and read as follows:—