How many chapters have been written about love verses--and how many
more might be written!--might, would, could, should, or ought to be
written!--I will venture to say, _will_ be written! I have a mind to
fulfil my own prophecy and write one myself; but no--my story must go
on. However, I _will_ say, that it is quite curious in how many ways the
same little bit of paper may influence different people: the poem whose
literary merit may be small becomes precious when some valued hand has
transcribed the lines; and the verses whose measure and meaning viewed
in type might win favour and yield pleasure, shoot poison from their
very sweetness, when read in some particular hand and under particular
circumstances. It was so with the copy of verses Augusta had just
read--they were Fanny Dawson's manuscript--that was certain--and found
in the room of Augusta's lover; therefore Augusta was wretched. But
these same lines had given exquisite pleasure to another person, who was
now nearly as miserable as Augusta in having lost them. It is possible
the reader guesses that person to be Edward O'Connor, for it was he who
had lost the pocket-book in which those (to him) precious lines were
contained; and if the little case had held all the bank-notes he ever
owned in his life, their loss would have been regarded less than that
bit of manuscript, which had often yielded _him_ the most exquisite
pleasure, and was now inflicting on Augusta the bitterest anguish. To
make this intelligible to the reader, it is necessary to explain under
what circumstances the lines were written. At one time, Edward, doubting
the likelihood of making his way at home, was about to go to India and
push his fortunes there; and at that period, those lines, breathing of
farewell--implying the dread of rivals during absence--and imploring
remembrance of his eternal love, were written and given to Fanny; and
she, with that delicacy of contrivance so peculiarly a woman's, hit upon
the expedient of copying his own verses and sending them to him in her
writing, as an indication that the spirit of the lines was her own.
But Edward saw that his father, who was advanced in years, looked upon a
separation from his son as an eternal one, and the thought gave so
much pain, that Edward gave up the idea of expatriation. Shortly after,
however, the misunderstanding with Major Dawson took place, and Fanny
and Edward were as much severed as if dwelling in different zones. Under
such circumstances, those lines were peculiarly precious, and many a
kiss had Edward impressed upon them, though Augusta thought them fitter
for the exercise of her teeth than her lips. In fact, Edward did little
else than think of Fanny; and it is possible his passion might have
degenerated into mere love-sickness, and enfeebled him, had not
his desire of proving himself worthy of his mistress spurred him to
exertion, in the hope of future distinction. But still the tone of
tender lament pervaded all his poems, and the same pocket-book whence
the verses which caused so much commotion fell contained the following
also, showing how entirely Fanny possessed his heart and occupied his
thoughts:--
WHEN THE SUN SINKS TO REST
I
When the sun sinks to rest,
And the star of the west
Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea;
What sweet thoughts arise,
As the dim twilight dies--
For then I am thinking of thee!
Oh! then crowding fast
Come the joys of the past,
Through the dimness of days long gone by,
Like the stars peeping out,
Through the darkness about,
From the soft silent depth of the sky.
II
And thus, as the night
Grows more lovely and bright
With the clust'ring of planet and star,
So this darkness of mine
Wins a radiance divine
From the light that still lingers afar.
Then welcome the night,
With its soft holy light!
In its silence my heart is more free
The rude world to forget,
Where no pleasure I've met
Since the hour that I parted from thee.
But we must leave love verses, and ask pardon for the few remarks which
the subject tempted, and pursue our story.
The first prompting of Augusta's anger, when she had recovered her burst
of passion, was to write “_such a letter_” to Furlong--and she spent
half a day at the work; but she could not please herself--she tore
twenty at least, and determined, at last, not to write at all, but just
wait till he returned and overwhelm him with reproaches. But, though she
could not compose a letter, she composed herself by the endeavour, which
acted as a sort of safety-valve to let off the superabundant steam;
and it is wonderful how general is this result of sitting down to
write angry letters: people vent themselves of their spleen on the
uncomplaining paper, which silently receives words a listener would not.
With a pen for our second, desperate satisfaction is obtained with only
an effusion of ink, and when once the pent-up bitterness has oozed out
in all the blackness of that fluid--most appropriately made of the best
galls--the time so spent, and the “letting of words,” if I may use the
phrase, has cooled our judgment and our passions together; and the
first letter is torn: 't is _too_ severe; we write a second; we blot and
interline till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we
are tired out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by
with a “Pshaw! what's the use of it?” or, “It's not worth my notice;”
or, still better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own
dignity best by writing without temper, though we may be called upon to
be severe.
Furlong at this time was on his road to Dublin in happy unconsciousness
of Augusta's rage against him, and planning what pretty little present
he should send her specially, for his head was naturally running on such
matters, as he had quantities of commissions to execute in the millinery
line for Mrs. O'Grady, who thought it high time to be getting up
Augusta's wedding-dresses, and Andy was to be despatched the following
day to Dublin to take charge of a cargo of bandboxes back from that city
to Neck-or-Nothing Hall. Furlong had received a thousand charges from
the ladies, “to be sure to lose no time” in doing his devoir in their
behalf, and he obeyed so strictly, and was so active in laying milliners
and mercers under contributions, that Andy was enabled to start the day
after his arrival, sorely against Andy's will, for he would gladly have
remained amidst the beauty and grandeur and wonders of Dublin, which
struck him dumb for the day he was amongst them, but gave him food for
conversation for many a day after. Furlong, after racking his invention
about the souvenir to his “dear Gussy,” at length fixed on a fan, as the
most suitable gift; for Gussy had been quizzed at home about “blushing,”
and all that sort of thing, and the puerile perceptions of the _attache_
saw something very smart in sending her wherewith “to hide her blushes.”
Then the fan was the very pink of fans; it had quivers and arrows upon
it, and bunches of hearts looped up in azure festoons, and doves perched
upon them; though Augusta's little sister, who was too young to know
what hearts and doves were, when she saw them for the first time, said
they were pretty little birds picking at apples. The fan was packed up
in a nice case, and then on scented note paper did the dear dandy
indite a bit of namby-pamby badinage to his fair one, which he thought
excessively clever:--
“DEAR DUCKY DARLING,--You know how naughty they are in quizzing you
about a little something, _I won't say what,_ you will guess, I dare
say--but I send you a little toy, _I won't say what,_ on which
Cupid might write this label after the doctor's fashion, 'To be used
occasionally, when the patient is much troubled with the symptoms.'
“Ever, ever, ever yours,
“P.S. Take care how you open it.”
“J.F.”
Such was the note that Handy Andy was given, with particular injunctions
to deliver it the first thing on his arrival at the Hall to Miss
Augusta, and to be sure to take most particular care of the little
case; all which Andy faithfully promised to do. But Andy's usual destiny
prevailed, and an unfortunate exchange of parcels quite upset all
Furlong's sweet little plan of his pretty present and his ingenious
note: for as Andy was just taking his departure, Furlong said he might
as well leave something for him at Reade's, the cutler, as he passed
through College Green, and he handed him a case of razors which wanted
setting, which Andy popped into his pocket, and as the fan case and that
of the razors were much of a size, and both folded up, Andy left the
fan at the cutler's and took the case of razors by way of present
to Augusta. Fancy the rage of a young lady with a very fine pair of
_moustachios_ getting such a souvenir from her lover, with a note, too,
every word of which applied to a beard and a razor, as patly as to a
blush and a fan--and this, too, when her jealousy was aroused and his
fidelity more than doubtful in her estimation.
Great was the row in Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and when, after three days,
Furlong came down, the nature of his reception may be better imagined
than described. It was a difficult matter, through the storm which raged
around him, to explain all the circumstances satisfactorily, but, by
dint of hard work, the verses were at length disclaimed, the razors
disavowed, and Andy at last sent for to “clear matters up.”
Andy was a hopeful subject for such a purpose, and by his blundering
answers nearly set them all by the ears again; the upshot of the affair
was, that Andy, used as he was to good scoldings, never had such a
torrent of abuse poured on him in his life, and the affair ended in
Andy being dismissed from Neck-or-Nothing Hall on the instant; so he
relinquished his greasy livery for his own rags again, and trudged
homewards to his mother's cabin.
“She'll be as mad as a hatter with me,” said Andy; “bad luck to them for
razhirs, they cut me out o' my place: but I often heard cowld steel
is unlucky, and sure I know it now. Oh! but I'm always unfort'nate in
having cruked messages. Well, it can't be helped; and one good thing
at all events is, I'll have time enough now to go and spake to Father
Blake;” and with this sorry piece of satisfaction poor Andy contented
himself.