Produced by David Widger
ARTHUR O’LEARY
HIS WANDERINGS AND PONDERINGS IN MANY LANDS
By Charles James Lever
Edited By His Friend, Harry Lorrequer, Illustrated By George Cruikshank.
New Edition.
London: Henry Colburn, Publisher,
Great Marlborough Street.
1845.
CONTENTS
ARTHUR O’LEARY.
CHAPTER I. THE “ATTWOOD”
CHAPTER II. THE BOAR’S HEAD AT ROTTERDAM
CHAPTER III. VAN HOOGENDORP’S TALE
CHAPTER IV. MEMS. AND MORALIZINGS
CHAPTER V. ANTWERP--“THE FISCHER’S HAUS.”
CHAPTER VI. MR. O’KELLY’S TALE
CHAPTER VII. MR. O’KELLY’S TALE.--CONTINUED
CHAPTER VIII. MR. O’KELLY’S TALE.--CONCLUDED
CHAPTER IX. TABLE-TRAITS
CHAPTER X. A DILEMMA
CHAPTER XI. A FRAGMENT OF FOREST LIFE
CHAPTER XII. CHATEAU LIFE
CHAPTER XIII. THE ABBE’S STORY
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHASE
CHAPTER XV. A NARROW ESCAPE
CHAPTER XVI. A MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE
CHAPTER XVII. THE BORE--A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE
CHAPTER XVIII. THE RETREAT FROM LEIPSIC
CHAPTER XIX. THE TOP OF A DILIGENCE
CHAPTER XX. BONN AND STUDENT LIFE
CHAPTER XXI. THE STUDENT
CHAPTER XXII. SPAS AND GRAND DUKEDOMS
CHAPTER XXIII. THE TRAVELLING PARTY
CHAPTER XXIV. THE GAMBLING-ROOM
CHAPTER XXV. A WATERING-PLACE DOCTOR
CHAPTER XXVI. SIR HARRY WYCHERLEY
CHAPTER XXVII. THE RECOVERY HOUSE
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ‘DREAM OF DEATH’
CHAPTER XXIX. THE STRANGE GUEST
CHAPTER XXX. THE PARK
CHAPTER XXXI. THE BARON’S STORY
CHAPTER XXXII. THE WARTBURG AND EISENACH
CHAPTER XXXIII. “ERFURT”
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE HERR. DIRECTOR KLUG
NOTICE, PRELIMINARY AND EXPLANATORY,
BY THE EDITOR.
When some years ago we took the liberty, in a volume of our so-called
“Confessions,” to introduce to our reader’s acquaintance the gentleman
whose name figures in the title page, we subjoined a brief notice, by
himself, intimating the intention he entertained of one day giving to
the world a farther insight into his life and opinions, under the title
of “Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary.”
It is more than probable that the garbled statement and incorrect
expression of which we ourselves were guilty respecting our friend had
piqued him into this declaration, which, on mature consideration, he
thought fit to abandon. For, from that hour to the present one, nothing
of the kind ever transpired, nor could we ascertain, by the strictest
inquiry, that such a proposition of publication had ever been
entertained in the West-End, or heard of in the “Row.”
The worthy traveller had wandered away to “pastures new,” heaven knows
where! and, notwithstanding repeated little paragraphs in the second
advertizing column of the “Times” newspaper, assuring, “A. O’L. that if
he would inform his friends where a letter would reach, all would be
forgiven,” &c. the mystery of his whereabouts remained unsolved, save by
the chance mention of a north-west passage traveller, who speaks of a
Mr. O’Leary as having presided at a grand bottle-nosed whale dinner in
Behring’s Straits, some time in the autumn of 1840; and an allusion, in
the second volume of the Chevalier de Bertonville’s Discoveries in
Central Africa, to an “Irlandais bien original,” who acted as sponsor to
the son and heir of King Bullanullaboo, in the Chieckhow territory. That
either, or indeed, both, these individuals resolved themselves into our
respected friend, we entertained no doubt whatever; nor did the
information cause us any surprise, far less unquestionably, than had we
heard of his ordering his boots from Hoby, or his coat from Stultz.
Meanwhile time rolled on--and whether Mr. O’Leary had died of the whale
feast, or been eaten himself by his godson, no one could conjecture, and
his name had probably been lost amid the rust of ages, if certain
booksellers, in remote districts, had not chanced upon the announcement
of his volume, and their “country orders” kept dropping in for these
same “Loiterings,” of which the publishers were obliged to confess they
knew nothing whatever.
Now, the season was a dull one; nothing stirring in the literary world;
people had turned from books, to newspapers; a gloomy depression reigned
over the land. The India news was depressing; the China worse; the
French were more insolent than ever; the prices were falling under the
new tariff; pigs looked down, and “Repealers” looked up. The only
interesting news, was the frauds in pork, which turned out to be pickled
negroes and potted squaws. What was to be done? A literary speculation
at such a moment was preposterous; for although in an age of temperance,
nothing prospered but “Punch.”
It occurred to us, “then pondering,” as Lord Brougham would say, that as
these same “Loiterings” had been asked for more than once, and an actual
order for two copies had been seen in the handwriting of a solvent
individual, there was no reason why we should not write them ourselves.
There would be little difficulty in imagining what a man like O’Leary
would say, think, or do, in any-given situation. The peculiarities of
his character might, perhaps, give point to what dramatic people call
“situations,” but yet were not of such a nature as to make their
portraiture a matter of any difficulty.
We confess the thing savoured a good deal of book-making. What of that?
We remember once in a row in Dublin, when the military were called out,
that a sentinel happened to have an altercation with, an old woman of
that class, for which the Irish metropolis used to have a patent, in all
that regards street eloquence and repartee. The soldier, provoked beyond
endurance, declared at last with an oath, “that if she didn’t go away,
he’d drive his bayonet through her.” “Oh, then, the devil thank you for
that same,” responded the hag, “sure, isn’t it your trade?” Make the
application, dear reader, and forgive us for our authorship to order.
Besides, had we not before us the example of Alexandre Dumas, in France,
whose practice it is to amuse the world by certain Souvenirs de
“Voyage,” which he has never made, not even in imagination but which are
only the dressed-up skeletons of other men’s rambles, and which he buys,
exactly as the Jews do old uniforms and court suits, for exportation to
the colonies. And thus while thousands of his readers are sympathizing
with the suffering of the aforesaid Alexandre, in his perilous passage
of the great desert, or his fearful encounter with Norwegian wolves,
little know they that their hero is snugly established in his “entresol”
of the “Rue d’Alger,” lying full length on a spring-cushioned sofa, with
a Manilla weed on his lip, and George Sand’s last bulletin of
wickedness, half cut before him. These “Souvenirs de Voyage” being
nothing more than the adventures and incidents of Messrs. John Doe and
Richard Doe, paragraphed, witticized, and spiced for public taste, by
Alexandre Dumas, pretty much as cheap taverns give “gravy” and
“ox-tail”--the smallest modicum of meat, to the most high-seasoned and
hot-flavoured condiments.
If, then, we had scruples, here was a precedent to relieve our minds--
here a case perfectly in point, at least so far as the legitimacy of the
practice demanded. But, unhappily, it ended there: for although it may
be, and indeed is, very practicable for Monsieur Dumas, by the
perfection of _his “cuisine,”_ to make the meat itself a secondary part
of the matter; yet do we grievously fear that a tureen full of
“O’Leary,” might not be an acceptable dish, because there was a bone of
“Harry Lorrequer” in the bottom.
With all these _pros_ and _cons_ our vain-glorious boast to write the
work in question stared us suddenly in the face; and, really, we felt as
much shame as can reasonably be supposed to visit a man, whose
countenance has been hawked about the streets, and sold in shilling
numbers. What was to be done? There was the public, too; but, like Tony
Lumpkin, we felt we might disappoint the company at the Three Jolly
Pigeons--but could we disappoint ourselves?
Alas! there were some excellent reasons against such a consummation. So,
respected reader, whatever liberties we might take with you, we had to
look nearer home, and bethink us of ourselves. _After all_--and what a
glorious charge to the jury of one’s conscience is your after all!---
what a plenary indulgence against all your sins of commission and
omission!--what a makepeace to self-accusation, and what a salve to
heartfelt repinings!--after all, we did know a great deal about O’Leary:
his life and opinions, his habits and haunts, his prejudices, pleasures,
and predilections: and although we never performed Boz to his Johnson,
still had we ample knowledge of him for all purposes of book-writing;
and there was no reason why we should not assume his mantle, or rather
his Macintosh, if the weather required it.
Having in some sort allayed our scruples in this fashion, and having
satisfied our conscience by the resolve, that if we were not about to
record the actual _res gesto_ of Mr. O’Leary, neither would we set down
anything which _might not_ have been one of his adventures, nor put into
his mouth any imaginary conversations which _he might not_ have
sustained; so that, in short, should the volume ever come under the eyes
of the respected gentleman himself, considerable mystification would
exist, as to whether he did not say, do, and think, exactly as we made
him, and much doubt lie on his mind that he was not the author himself.
We wish particularly to lay stress on the honesty of these our
intentions--the more, as subsequent events have interfered with their
accomplishment; and we can only assure the world of what we would have
done, had we been permitted. And here let us observe, _en passant_, that
if other literary characters had been actuated by similarly honourable
views, we should have been spared those very absurd speeches which
Sallust attributes to his characters in the Catiline conspiracy; and
another historian, with still greater daring, assumes the Prince of
Orange _ought_ to have spoken, at various epochs in the late Belgian
revolution.
With such prospective hopes, then, did we engage in the mystery of these
same “Loiterings,” and with a pleasure such as only men of the pen can
appreciate, did we watch the bulky pile of MS. that was growing up
before us, while the interest of the work had already taken hold of us;
and whether we moved our puppets to the slow figure of a minuet, or
rattled them along at the slap-dash, hurry-scurry, devil-may-care pace,
for which our critics habitually give us credit, we felt that our foot
beat time responsively to the measure, and that we actually began to
enjoy the performance.
In this position stood matters, when early one morning in December the
post brought us an ominous-looking epistle, which, even as we glanced
our eye on the outside, conveyed an impression of fear and misgiving to
our minds. If there are men in whose countenances, as Pitt remarked,
“villany is so impressed, it were impiety not to believe it,” so are
there certain letters whose very shape and colour, fold, seal, and
superscription have something gloomy and threatening--something of
menace and mischief about them. This was one of these: the paper was a
greenish sickly-white, a kind of dyspeptic foolscap; the very mill that
fabricated it might have had the shaking ague. The seal was of bottle-
wax, the impression, a heavy thumb. The address ran, “To H. L.” The
writing, a species of rustic paling, curiously interwoven and gnarled,
to which the thickness of the ink lent a needless obscurity, giving to
the whole the appearance of something like a child’s effort to draw a
series of beetles and cockroaches with a blunt stick; but what most of
all struck terror to our souls, was an abortive effort at the words
“Arthur O’Leary” scrawled in the corner.
What! had he really then escaped the perils of blubber and black men?
Was he alive, and had he come back to catch us, _in delicto_--in the
very fact of editing him, of raising our exhausted exchequer at his
cost, and replenishing our empty coffers under his credit? Our
suspicions were but too true. We broke the seal and spelled as follows--
“Sir--A lately-arrived traveller in these parts brings me intelligence,
that a work is announced for publication by you, under the title of ‘The
Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary,’ containing his opinions, notions,
dreamings, and doings during several years of his life, and in various
countries. Now this must mean me, and I should like to know what are a
man’s own, if his adventures are not? His ongoings, his ‘begebenheiten,’
as the Germans call them, are they not as much his, as his--what shall I
say; his flannel waistcoat or his tobacco-pipe?
“If I have spent many years, and many pounds (of tobacco) in my
explorings of other lands, is it for you to reap the benefit? If I have
walked, smoked, laughed, and fattened from Trolhatten to Tehran, was it
that you should have the profit? Was I to exhibit in ludicrous
situations and extravagant incidents, with ‘illustrations by Phiz,’
because I happened to be fat, and fond of rambling? Or was it my name
only that you pirated, so that Arthur O’Leary should be a type of
something ludicrous, wherever he appeared in company? Or worse still,
was it an attempt to extort money from me, as I understand you once
before tried, by assuming for one of your heroes the name of a most
respectable gentleman in private life? To which of these counts do you
plead guilty?
“Whatever is your plan, here is mine: I have given instructions to my
man of law to obtain an injunction from the Chancellor, restraining you
or any other from publishing these ‘Loiterings.’ Yes; an order of the
court will soon put an end to this most unwarrantable invasion of
private rights. Let us see then if you’ll dare to persist in this
nefarious scheme.
“The Swan-river for you, and the stocks for your publisher, may,
perhaps, moderate your literary and publishing ardour--eh! Master Harry?
Or do you contemplate adding your own adventures beyond seas to the
volume, and then make something of your ‘Confessions of a Convict,’ I
must conclude at once: in my indignation this half hour, I have been
swallowing all the smoke of my meerschaum, and I feel myself turning
round and round like a smoke-jack. Once for all--stop! recall your
announcement, burn your MS., and prostrate yourself in abject humility
at my feet, and with many sighs, and two pounds of shag (to be had at
No. 8, Francis-street, two doors from the lane), you may haply be
forgiven by yours, in wrath,
“Arthur O’Leary.
“Address a line, if in penitence, to me here, where the lovely scenery,
and the society remind me much of Siberia--
“Edenderry, ‘The Pig and Pot-hooks.’”
Having carefully read and re-read this letter, and having laid it before
those whose interests, like our own, were deeply involved, we really for
a time became thoroughly nonplussed. To disclaim any or all of the
intentions attributed to us in Mr. O’Leary’s letter, would have been
perfectly useless, so long as we held to our project of publishing
anything under his name. Of no avail to assure him that our “Loiterings
of Arthur O’Leary” were not his--that our hero was not himself. To
little purpose should we adduce that our Alter Ego was the hero of a
book by the Prebend of Lichfield, and “Charles Lever” given to the world
as a socialist. He cared for nothing of all this; _tenax propositi_, he
would listen to no explanation--unconditional, absolute, Chinese
submission were his only terms, and with these we were obliged to
comply. And yet how very ridiculous was the power he assumed. Was any
thing more common in practice than to write the lives of distinguished
men, even before their death, and who ever heard of the individual
seeking legal redress against his biographer except for libel? “Come,
come, Arthur,” said we to ourselves, “this threat affrights us not. Here
we begin Chap. XIV.--”
Just then we turned our eyes mechanically towards the pile of manuscript
at our elbow, and could not help admiring the philosophy with which _he_
spoke of condemning to the flames the fruit of _our_ labour. Still it
was evident, that Mr. O’Leary’s was no _brutem fulmen_, but very
respectable and downright thunder; and that in fact we should soon be,
where, however interesting it may make a young lady, it by no means
suits an elderly gentleman to be, viz.--in Chancery.
“What’s to be done?” was the question, which like a tennis-ball we
pitched at each other. “We have it,” said we. “We’ll start at once for
Edenderry, and bring this with us,” pointing to our manuscript. “We’ll
show O’Leary how near immortality he was, and may still be, if not
loaded with obstinacy: We’ll read him a bit of our droll, and some
snatches of our pathetic passages. Well show him how the ‘Immortal
George’ intends to represent him. In a word, we’ll enchant him with the
fascinating position to which we mean to exalt him and before the
evening ends, obtain his special permission to deal with him, as before
now we have done with his betters, and--print him.”
Our mind made up, no time was to be lost. We took our place in the Grand
Canal passage-boat for Edenderry; and wrapping ourselves up in our
virtue, and another thin garment they call a Zephyr, began our journey.
We should have liked well, had our object permitted it, to have made
some brief notes of our own “Loiterings.” But the goal of our
wanderings, as well as of our thoughts, was ever before us, and we spent
the day imagining to ourselves the various modes by which we should make
our advances to the enemy, with most hope of success. Whether the
company themselves did not afford any thing very remarkable, or our own
preoccupation prevented our noticing it, certes, we jogged on, without
any consciousness that we were not perfectly alone, and this for some
twenty miles of the way. At last, however, the cabin became intolerably
hot. Something like twenty-four souls were imprisoned in a space ten
feet by three, which the humanity of the company of directors kindly
limits to forty-eight, a number which no human ingenuity could pack into
it, if living. The majority of the passengers were what by courtesy are
called ‘small farmers,’ namely, individuals weighing from eighteen to
six-and-twenty stone; priests, with backs like the gable of a chapel;
and a sprinkling of elderly ladies from the bog towns along the bank,
who actually resembled turf clamps in their proportions. We made an
effort to reach the door, and having at length succeeded, found to our
sorrow that the rain was falling heavily. Notwithstanding this, we
remained without, as long as we could venture, the oppressive heat
within being far more intolerable than even the rain. At length,
however, wet through and cold, we squeezed ourselves into a small corner
near the door, and sat down. But what a change had our unpropitious
presence evoked. We left our fellow-travellers, a noisy, jolly, semi-
riotous party, disputing over the markets, censuring Sir Robert, abusing
the poor-rates, and discussing various matters of foreign and domestic
policy, from Shah Shoojah to subsoil ploughs. A dirty pack of cards, and
even punch, were adding their fascinations to while away the tedious
hours; but now the company sat in solemn silence. The ladies looked
straight before them, without a muscle of their faces moving; the
farmers had lifted the collars of their frieze coats, and concealed
their hands within their sleeves, so as to be perfectly invisible; and
the reverend fathers, putting on dark and dangerous looks, spoke only in
monosyllables, no longer sipped their liquor in comfort, but rang the
bell from time to time, and ordered “another beverage,” a curious
smoking compound, that to our un-Matthewed senses, savoured suspiciously
of whiskey.
It was a dark night when we reached the “Pig and Pot-hooks,” the
hostelry whence Mr. O’Leary had addressed us; and although not yet eight
o’clock, no appearance of light, nor any stir, announced that the family
were about. After some little delay, our summons was answered by a bare-
legged handmaiden, who, to our question if Mr. O’Leary stopped there,
without further hesitation opened a small door to the left, and
introduced us bodily into his august presence.
Our travelled friend was seated, “_more suo_,” with his legs supported
on two chairs, while he himself in chief occupied a third, his wig being
on the arm of that one on which he reposed; a very imposing tankard,
with a floating toast, smoked on the table, and a large collection of
pipes of every grade, from the haughty hubble bubble, to the humble
dudeen, hung around on the walls.
“Ha!” said he, as we closed the door behind us, and advanced into the
room, “and so you are penitent. Well, Hal, I forgive you. It was a
scurvy trick, though; but I remember it no longer. Here, take a pull at
the pewter, and tell us all the Dublin news.”
It is not our intention, dear reader, to indulge in the same
mystification with you, that we practised on our friend Mr. O’Leary--or,
in other words, to invent for your edification, as we confess to have
done for his, all the events and circumstances which might have, but did
not, take place in Dublin for the preceding month. It is enough to say
that about eleven o’clock Mr. O’Leary was in the seventh heaven of
conversational contentment, and in the ninth flagon of purl.
“Open it--let me see it. Come, Hal, divulge at once,” said he, kicking
the carpet-bag that contained our manuscript. We undid the lock, and
emptied our papers before him. His eyes sparkled as the heavy folds fell
over each other on the table, his mouth twitched with a movement of
convulsive pleasure. “Ring the bell, my lad,” said he; “the string is
beside you. Send the master, Mary,” continued he, as the maiden entered.
Peter Mahoon soon made his appearance, rather startled at being summoned
from his bed, and evidencing in his toilette somewhat more of zeal than
dandyism.
“Is the house insured, Peter?” said Mr. O’Leary.
“No, sir,” rejoined he, with a searching look around the room, and a
sniff of his nose, to discover if he could detect the smell of fire.
“What’s the premises worth, Peter?”
“Sorrow one of me knows right, sir. Maybe a hundred and fifty, or it
might bring two hundred pounds.”
“All right,” said O’Leary briskly, as seizing my manuscript with both
hands he hurled it on the blazing turf fire; and then grasping the
poker, stood guard over it, exclaiming as he did so,--“Touch it, and by
the beard of the Prophet I’ll brain you. Now, there it goes, blazing up
the chimney. Look how it floats up there! I never expected to travel
like that anyhow. Eh, Hal? Your work is a brilliant affair, isn’t it?--
and as well puffed as if you entertained every newspaper editor in the
kingdom? And see,” cried he, as he stamped his foot upon the blaze, “the
whole edition is exhausted already--not a copy to be had for any money.”
We threw ourselves back in our chair, and covered our face with our
hands. The toil of many a long night, of many a bright hour of sun and
wind, was lost to us for ever, and we may be pardoned if our grief was
heavy.
“Cheer up, old fellow,” said he, as the last flicker of the burning
paper expired. “You know the thing was bad: it couldn’t be other. That
d----d fly-away harum-scarum style of yours is no more adapted to a work
of real merit, than a Will-o’-the-wisp would be for a light-house.
Another jug, Peter--bring two. The truth is, Hal, I was not so averse to
the publication of my life as to the infernal mess you’d have made of
it. You have no pathos, no tenderness--damn the bit.”
“Come, come,” said we: “it is enough to burn our manuscript, but,
really, as to playing the critic in this fashion----”
“Then,” continued he, “all that confounded folly you deal in, laughing
at the priests--Lord bless you, man! they have more fun, those fellows,
than you, and a score like you. There’s one Father Dolan here would tell
two stories for your one; ay, better than ever you told.”
“We really have no ambition to enter the lists with your friend.”
“So much the better--you’d get the worst of it; and as to knowledge of
character, see now, Peter Mahoon there would teach you human nature; and
if I liked myself to appear in print--”
“Well,” said we, bursting out into a fit of laughter, “that would
certainly be amusing.”
“And so it would, whether you jest or no. There’s in that drawer there,
the materials of as fine a work as ever appeared since Sir John Carr’s
Travels; and the style is a happy union of Goldsmith and Jean Paul--
simple yet aphoristic--profound and pleasing--sparkling like the can
before me, but pungent and racy in its bitterness. Hand me that oak box,
Hal. Which is the key? At this hour one’s sight becomes always
defective. Ah, here it is look there!”
We obeyed the command, and truly our amazement was great, though
possibly not for the reason that Mr. O’Leary could have desired; for
instead of anything like a regular manuscript, we beheld a mass of small
scraps of paper, backs of letters, newspapers, magazines, fly-leaves of
books, old prints, &c., scrawled on, in the most uncouth fashion; and
purporting from the numbers appended to be a continued narration of one
kind or other.
“What’s all this?” said we.
“These,” said he, “are really ‘The Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary.’ Listen
to this. Here’s a bit of Goldsmith for you--
“‘I was born of poor but respectable parents in the county------.’ What
are you laughing at? Is it because I did’nt open with--‘The sun was
setting, on the 25th of June, in the year 1763, as two travellers were
seen,’ &c., &c,? Eh? That’s your way, not mine. A London fellow told me
that my papers were worth five hundred pounds. Come, that’s what I call
something. Now I’ll go over to the ‘Row.’”
“Stop a bit. Here seems something strange about the King of Holland.”
“You mustn’t read them, though. No, no. That’ll never do--no, Hal; no
plagiarism. But, after all, I have been a little hasty with you, Perhaps
I ought not to have burned that thing; you were not to know it was bad.”
“Eh! how?”
“Why, I say, you might not see how absurd it was; so here’s your health,
Hal: either that tankard has been drugged, or a strange change has come
over my feelings. Harry Lorrequer, I’ll make your fortune, or rather
your son’s, for you are a wasteful creature, and will spend the proceeds
as fast as you get them; but the everlastingly-called-for new editions
will keep him in cash all his life. I’ll give you that box and its
contents; yes, I repeat it, it is yours. I see you are overpowered;
there, taste the pewter and you’ll get better presently. In that you’ll
find--a little irregular and carelessly-written perhaps--the sum of my
experience and knowledge of life--all my correspondence, all my private
notes, my opinions on literature, fine arts, politics, and the drama.”
But we will not follow our friend into the soaring realms of his
imaginative flight, for it was quite evident that the tankard and the
tobacco were alone responsible for the lofty promises of his production.
In plain English, Mr. O’Leary was fuddled, and the only intelligible
part of his discourse was, an assurance that his papers were entirely at
our service; and that, as in some three weeks time, he hoped to be in
Africa, having promised to spend the Christmas with Abd-el-Kader, we
were left his sole literary executor, with full power to edit him in any
shape it might please us, lopping, cutting, omitting--anything, even to
adding, or interpolating.
Such were his last orders, and having given them, Mr. O’Leary refilled
his pipe, closed his eyes, stretched out his legs to their fullest
extent, and although he continued at long intervals to evolve a blue
curl of smoke from the corner of his mouth, it was evident he was lost
in the land of dreams.
In two hours afterwards we were on our way back to Dublin, bearing with
us the oaken box, which, however, it is but justice to ourselves to say,
we felt as a sad exchange for our own carefully-written manuscript. On
reaching home, our first care was to examine these papers, and see if
anything could be made of them, which might prove readable;
unfortunately, however, the mass consisted of brief memoranda, setting
forth how many miles Mr. O’Leary had walked on a certain day in the
November of 1803, and how he had supped on camel’s milk with an amiable
family of Bedouins, who had just robbed a caravan in the desert. His
correspondence, was for the most part an angry one with washerwomen and
hotel-keepers, and some rather curious hieroglyphic replies to dinner
invitations from certain people of rank in the Sandwich Islands.
Occasionally, however, we chanced on little bits of narrative, fragments
of stories, some of which his fellow-travellers had contributed, and
brief sketches of places and people that were rather amusing; but so
disjointed, broken up, and unconnected were they all, it was almost
impossible to give them anything like an arrangement, much less anything
like consecutive interest.
All that lay in our power was to select from the whole, certain
portions, which, from their length, promised more of care than the mere
fragments about them, and present them to our readers with this brief
notice of the mode in which we obtained them--our only excuse for a most
irregular and unprecedented liberty in the practice of literature. With
this apology for the incompleteness and abruptness of “the O’Leary
Papers”--which happily we are enabled to make freely, as our friend
Arthur has taken his departure--we offer them to our readers, only
adding, that in proof of their genuine origin, the manuscript can be
seen by any one so desiring it, on application to our publishers; while,
for all their follies, faults, and inaccuracies, we desire to plead our
irresponsibility, as freely, as we wish to attribute any favour the
world may show them, to their real author: and with this last assurance,
we beg to remain, your ever devoted and obedient servant,
ARTHUR O’LEARY.
CHAPTER I. THE “ATTWOOD.”
Old Woodcock says, that if Providence had not made him a Justice of the
Peace, he’d have been a vagabond himself. No such kind interference
prevailed in my case. I was a vagabond from my cradle. I never could be
sent to school, alone, like other children--they always had to see me
there safe, and fetch me back again. The rambling bump monopolized my
whole head. I’m sure my god-father must have been the wandering Jew, or
a king’s messenger. Here I am again, _en route_, and sorely puzzled to
know whither? There’s the fellow for my trunk.
“What packet, sir?”
“Eh? What packet? The vessel at the Tower stairs?”
“Yes, sir; there are two with the steam up, the Rotterdam and the
Hamburgh.”
“Which goes first?”
“Why, I think the Attwood, sir.”
“Well, then, shove aboard the Attwood. Where is she for?”
“She’s for Rotterdam.----He’s a queer cove too,” said the fellow under
his teeth, as he moved out of the room, “and don’t seem to care where he
goes.”
A capital lesson in life may be learned from the few moments preceding
departure from an inn. The surly waiter that always said “coming” when
he was leaving the room, and never came, now grown smiling and smirking;
the landlord expressing a hope to see you again, while he watches your
upthrown eyebrows at the exorbitancy of his bill: the boots attentively
looking from your feet to your face, and back again; the housemaid
passing and repassing a dozen times, on her way, no where, with a look
half saucy, half shy; the landlord’s son, an abortion of two feet high,
a kind of family chief remembrancer, that sits on a high stool in the
bar, and always detects something you have had, that was not “put down
in the bill”--two shillings for a cab, or a “brandy and water;” a curse
upon them all; this poll-tax upon travellers is utter ruin; your bill,
compared to its dependencies, is but Falstaffs “pennyworth of bread,” to
all the score for sack.
Well, here I am at last. “Take care I say! you’ll upset us. Shove off,
Bill; ship your oar,” splash, splash. “Bear a hand. What a noise, they
make,” bang, crash, buzz; what a crowd of men in pilot coats and caps;
women in plaid shawls and big reticules, band-boxes, bags, and babies,
and what higgling for sixpences with the wherrymen.
All the places round the companion are taken by pale ladies in black
silk, with a thin man in spectacles beside them; the deck is littered
with luggage, and little groups seated thereon; some very strange young
gentlemen with many-coloured waistcoats are going to Greenwich, and one
as far as Margate; a widow and daughters, rather prettyish girls, for
Herne Bay; a thin, bilious-looking man of about fifty, with four outside
coats, and a bearskin round his legs, reading beside the wheel,
occasionally taking a sly look at the new arrivals.--I’ve seen him
before; he is the Secretary of Embassy at Constantinople; and here’s a
jolly-looking, rosy-cheeked fellow, with a fat florid face, and two
dashing-looking girls in black velvet. Eh! who’s this? Sir Peter, the
steward calls him; a London Alderman going up the Rhine for two months--
he’s got his courier, and a strong carriage, with the springs well
corded for the _pavé_;--but they come too fast for counting: so now I’ll
have a look after my berth.
Alas! the cabin has been crowded all the while by some fifty others,
wrangling, scolding, laughing, joking, complaining, and threatening, and
not a berth to be had.
“You’ve put me next the tiller,” said one; “I’m over the boiler,”
screamed another.
“I have the pleasure of speaking to Sir Willoughby Steward,” said the
captain, to a tall, gray-headed, soldier-like figure, with a closely-
buttoned blue, frock. “Sir Willoughby, your berth is No. 8.”
“Eh! that’s the way they come it,” whispers a Cockney to his friend.
“That ere chap gets a berth before us all.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says the baronet mildly, “I took mine three
days ago.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean anything,” stammers out the other, and sneaks off.
“Laura-Mariar--where’s Laurar?” calls out a shrill voice from the aft-
cabin.
“Here, Ma,” replies a pretty girl, who is arranging her ringlets at a
glass, much to the satisfaction of a young fellow in a braided frock,
that stands gazing at her in the mirror with something very like a smile
on his lip.
There’s no mistaking that pair of dark-eyed fellows with aquiline noses
and black ill-shaven beards--Hamburgh or Dutch Jews, dealers in smuggled
lace, cigars, and Geneva watches, and occasionally small money-lenders.
How they scan the company, as if calculating the profit they might turn
them to! The very smile they wear seems to say, ‘_Comment c’est doux de
tromper les Chrétiens_.’ But, holloa! there was a splash! we are moving,
and the river is now more amusing than the passengers.
I should like to see the man that ever saw London from the Thames; or
any part of it, save the big dome of St. Paul’s, the top of the
Monument, or the gable of the great black wharf inscribed with “Hodson’s
Pale Ale.” What a devil of a row they do make. I thought we were into
that fellow. See, here’s a wherry actually under our bow; where is she
now? are they all lost already? No! there they go bobbing up and down,
and looking after us, as if asking, why we didn’t sail over them. Ay!
there comes an Indiaman, and that little black slug that ‘s towing her
up against the stream, is one of the Tug Company’s craft; and see how
all the others at anchor keep tossing and pitching about, as we pass by,
like an awkward room full of company, rising at each new arrival.
There’s Greenwich! a fine thing Greenwich. I like the old fellows that
the first lord always makes stand in front, without legs or arms; a
cheery sight: and there’s a hulk, or an hospital ship, or something of
that kind.
“That’s the Hexcellent,” saith a shrill voice behind me.
“Ah! I know her, she’s a revenue cruizer.”
Lord, what liars are the Cockneys! The plot thickens every moment; here
come little bright green and gold things, shooting past, like dragon-
flies skimming the water, steaming down to Gravesend. What a mob of
parasols cover the deck, and what kissing of hands and waving of
handkerchiefs to anonymous acquaintances nowhere. More steamers--here’s
the “Boulogne boat,” followed by the Ostender, and there, rounding the
reach, comes the Ramsgate; and a white funnel, they say, is the Cork
packet; and yonder, with her steam escaping, is the Edinburgh, her deck
crowded with soldiers.
“Port--port it is--steady there--steady.”
“Do you dine, sir!” quoth the steward to the pale gentleman. A faint
“Yes,” “And the ladies too?” A more audible “No.”
“I say, steward,” cries Sir Peter, “what’s the hour for dinner?”
“Four o’clock, sir, after we pass Gravesend.”
“Bring me some brandy and water and a biscuit, then.”
“Lud, Pa!”
“To be sure, dear, we shall be sick in the pool. They say there’s a head
wind.”
How crowded they are on the fore-part of the vessel! six carriages and
eight horses; the latter belong to a Dutch dealer, who, by-the-by, seems
a shrewd fellow, who, well knowing the extreme sympathy between horses
and asses, leaves the care of his, to some Cockneys, who come down every
half hour to look after the tarpaulins, inspect the coverings, see the
knee-caps safe, find ask if they want “‘ay;” and all this, that to some
others on board, they may appear as sporting characters, well versed in
turf affairs, and quite up to stable management.
When the life and animation of the crowded river is passed, how
vexatious it is to hear for the thousandth time the dissertation’s on
English habits, customs, and constitution, delivered by some ill-
informed, underbred fellow or other, to some eager German--a Frenchman
happily is too self-sufficient ever to listen--who greedily swallows the
farrago of absurdity, which, according to the politics of his informant,
represents the nation in a plethora of prosperity, or the last stage of
inevitable ruin. I scarcely know which I detest the more: the insane
toryism of the one, is about as sickening as the rabid radicalism of the
other. The absurd misapprehensions foreigners entertain about us, are,
in nine cases out of ten, communicated by our own people; and in this
way, I have always remarked a far greater degree of ignorance about
England and the English, to prevail among those who have passed some
weeks in the country, than, among such, as had never visited our shores.
With the former the Thames Tunnel is our national boast; raw beef and
boxing our national predilections; the public sale of our wives a
national practice.
“But what’s this? our paddles are backed. Anything wrong, steward?”
“No, sir, only another passenger coming aboard.” “How they pull, and
there’s a stiff sea tunning too. A queer figure that is in the stern
sheets; what a beard he has!”
I had just time for the observation, when a tall, athletic man, wrapped
in a wide blue cloak, sprang on the deck--his eyes were shaded by large
green spectacles and the broad brim of a very projecting hat; a black
beard, a rabbi might have envied, descended from his chin, and hung down
upon his bosom; he chucked a crown-piece to the boatman as he leaned
over the bulwark, and then turning to the steward, called out--“Eh, Jem!
all right?”
“Yes, sir, all right,” said the man, touching his hat respectfully! The
tall figure immediately disappeared down the companion-ladder, leaving
me in the most puzzling state of doubt as to what manner of man he could
possibly be. Had the problem been more easy of solution I should
scarcely have resolved it when he again emerged--but how changed! The
broad beaver had given place to a blue cloth foraging cap with a gold
band around it; the beard had disappeared totally, and left no successor
save a well-rounded chin; the spectacles also had vanished, and a pair
of sharp, intelligent, grey eyes, with a most uncommon degree of
knowingness in their expression, shone forth; and a thin and most
accurately-curled moustache graced his upper lip and gave a character of
Vandykism to his features, which were really handsome. In person he was
some six feet two, gracefully but strongly built; his costume, without
anything approaching conceit, was the perfection of fashionable attire--
even to his gloves there was nothing which D’Orsay could have
criticised; while his walk was the very type of that mode of progression
which is only learned thoroughly by a daily stroll down St. James
Street, and the frequent practice of passing to and from Crockford’s, at
all hours of the day and night.
The expression of his features was something so striking, I cannot help
noting it: there was a jauntiness, an ease, no smirking, half-bred,
self-satisfied look, such as a London linendraper might wear on his trip
to Margate; but a consummate sense of his own personal attractions and
great natural advantages, had given a character to his features which
seemed to say--it’s quite clear there’s no coming up to _me_; don’t try
it--_nascitur non fit_. His very voice implied it. The veriest
commonplace fell from him with a look, a smile, a gesture, a something
or other that made it tell; and men repeated his sayings without
knowing, that his was a liquor, that was lost in decanting. The way he
scanned the passengers, and it was done in a second, was the practised
observance of one, who reads character at a glance. Over the Cockneys,
and they were numerous, his eyes merely passed without bestowing any
portion of attention; while to the lady part of the company his look was
one of triumphant satisfaction, such as Louis XIV. might have bestowed
when he gazed at the thousands in the garden of Versailles, and
exclaimed, “_Oui! ces sont mes sujets_.” Such was the Honourable Jack
Smallbranes, younger son of a peer, ex-captain in the Life Guards,
winner of the Derby, but now the cleared-out man of fashion flying to
the Continent to escape from the Fleet, and cautiously coming aboard in
disguise below Gravesend, to escape the bore of a bailiff, and what he
called the horror of bills “detested.”
We read a great deal about Cincinnatus cultivating his cabbages, and we
hear of Washington’s retirement when the active period of his career had
passed over, and a hundred similar instances are quoted for our
admiration, of men, who could throw themselves at once from all the
whirlwind excitement of great events, and seek, in the humblest and
least obtrusive position, an occupation and an enjoyment. But I doubt
very much if your ex-man of fashion, your _ci-devant_ winner of the
Derby--the adored of Almack’s--the _enfant chéri_ of Crockford’s and the
Clarendon, whose equipage was a model, whose plate was perfection, for
whom life seemed too short for all the fascinations wealth spread around
him, and each day brought the one embarrassment how to enjoy enough. I
repeat it, I doubt much if he, when the hour of his abdication arrives--
and that it will arrive sooner or later not even himself entertains a
doubt--when Holditch protests, and Bevan proceeds; when steeds are sold
at Tattersall’s, and pictures at Christie’s; when the hounds pass over
to the next new victim, and the favourite for the St. Léger, backed with
mighty odds, is now entered under another name; when in lieu of the
bright eyes and honied words that make life a fairy tale, his genii are
black-whiskered bailiffs and auctioneers’ appraisers--if he, when the
tide of fortune sets in so strong against him, can not only sustain
himself for a while against it, and when too powerful at last, can lie
upon the current and float as gaily down, as ever he did joyously, up,
the stream--then, say I, all your ancient and modern instances are far
below him: all your warriors and statesmen are but poor pretenders
compared to him, they have retired like rich shopkeepers, to live on the
interest of their fortune, which is fame; while he, deprived of all the
accessories which gave him rank, place, and power, must seek within his
own resources for all the future springs of his pleasure, and be
satisfied to stand spectator of the game, where he was once the
principal player. A most admirable specimen of this philosophy was
presented by our new passenger, who, as he lounged against the binnacle,
and took a deliberate survey of his fellow-travellers, seemed the very
ideal of unbroken ease and undisturbed enjoyment: he knew he was ruined;
he knew he had neither house in town, or country; neither a steed, nor a
yacht, nor a preserve; he was fully aware, that Storr and Mortimer, who
would have given him a mountain of silver but yesterday, would not trust
him with a mustard-pot today; that even the “legs” would laugh at him if
he offered the odds on the Derby; and yet if you were bound on oath to
select the happiest fellow on board, by the testimony of your eyes, the
choice would not have taken you five minutes. His attitude was ease
itself: his legs slightly crossed, perhaps the better to exhibit a very
well-rounded instep, which shone forth in all the splendour of French
varnish: his travelling cap jauntily thrown on one side, so as to
display to better advantage his perfumed locks, that floated in a
graceful manner somewhat lengthily on his neck; the shawl around his
neck had so much of negligence, as to show that the splendid enamel pin
that fastened it, was a thing of little moment to the wearer: all were
in keeping with the _nonchalant_ ease, and self-satisfaction of his
look, as with half-drooping lids he surveyed the deck, caressing with
his jewelled fingers the silky line of his moustache, and evidently
enjoying in his inmost soul the triumphant scene of conquest his very
appearance excited. Indeed, a less practised observer than himself could
not fail to remark the unequivocal evidences the lady portion of the
community bore to his success: the old ones looked boldly at him with
that fearless intrepidity that characterizes conscious security--their
property was insured, and they cared not how near the fire came to them;
the very young participated in the sentiment from an opposite reason--
theirs was the unconsciousness of danger; but there was a middle term,
what Balzac calls, “_la femme de trente ans_,” and she either looked
over the bulwarks, or at the funnel, or on her book, any where in short
but at our friend, who appeared to watch this studied denial on her
part, with the same kind of enjoyment the captain of a frigate would
contemplate the destruction his broadsides were making on his enemy’s
rigging--and perhaps the latter never deemed his conquest more assured
by the hauling down of he enemy’s colours, than did the “Honourable
Jack,” when a letdown veil convinced him that the lady could bear no
more.
I should like to have watched the proceedings on deck, where, although
no acquaintance had yet been formed, the indications of such were
clearly visible: the Alderman’s daughters evincing a decided preference
for walking on that side where Jack was standing, he studiously
performing some small act of courtesy from time to time as they passed,
removing a seat, kicking any small fragment of rope, &c.; but the motion
of the packet began to advertize me that note-taking was at an end, and
the best thing I could do would be to compose myself.
“What’s the number, sir?” said the steward, as I staggered down the
companion.
“I have got no berth,” said I mournfully.
“A dark horse, not placed,” said the Honourable Jack, smiling pleasantly
as he looked after me, while I threw myself on a sofa, and cursed the
sea.