Edward, on returning to his hotel, found Gusty there before him, in
great delight at having seen a “splendid” horse, as he said, which had
been brought for Edward's inspection, he having written a note on his
arrival in town to a dealer stating his want of a first-rate hunter.
“He's in the stable now,” said Gusty; “for I desired the man to wait,
knowing you would be here soon.”
“I cannot see him now, Gusty,” said Edward: “will you have the kindness
to tell the groom I can look at the horse in his own stables when I wish
to purchase?”
Gusty departed to do the message, somewhat in wonder, for Edward loved
a fine horse. But the truth was, Edward's disposable money, which he had
intended for the purchase of a hunter, had a serious inroad made upon
it by the debts he had discharged for other men, and he was forced
to forego the pleasure he had proposed to himself in the next hunting
season; and he did not like to consume any one's time, or raise false
expectations, by affecting to look at disposable property with the eye
of a purchaser, when he knew it was beyond his reach; and the flimsy
common-places of “I'll think of it,” or “If I don't see something
better,” or any other of the twenty hackneyed excuses which idle people
make, after consuming busy men's time, Edward held to be unworthy. He
could ride a hack and deny himself hunting for a whole season, but
he would not unnecessarily consume the useful time of any man for ten
minutes.
This may be sneered at by the idle and thoughtless; nevertheless, it is
a part of the minor morality which is ever present in the conduct of a
true gentleman.
Edward had promised to join Dick's dinner-party on an impromptu
invitation, and the clock striking the appointed hour warned Edward it
was time to be off; so, jumping up on a jaunting car, he rattled off to
Dick's lodgings, where a jolly party was assembled ripe for fun.
Amongst the guests was a rather remarkable man, a Colonel Crammer, who
had seen a monstrous deal of service--one of Tom Durfy's friends whom he
had asked leave to bring with him to dinner. Of course, Dick's card
and a note of invitation for the gallant colonel were immediately
despatched; and he had but just arrived before Edward, who found a
bustling sensation in the room as the colonel was presented to those
already assembled, and Tom Durfy giving whispers, aside, to each
person touching his friend; such as--“Very remarkable man”--“Seen great
service”--“A little odd or so”--“A fund of most extraordinary anecdote,”
&c., &c.
Now this Colonel Crammer was no other than Tom Loftus, whose
acquaintance Dick wished to make, and who had been invited to the dinner
after a preliminary visit; but Tom sent an excuse in his own name, and
preferred being present under a fictitious one--this being one of the
odd ways in which his humour broke out, desirous of giving people a
“touch of his quality” before they knew him. He was in the habit of
assuming various characters; a methodist missionary--the patentee
of some unheard-of invention--the director of some new joint-stock
company--in short, anything which would give him an opportunity of
telling tremendous bouncers was equally good for Tom. His reason for
assuming a military guise on this occasion was to bother Moriarty, whom
he knew he should meet, and held a special reason for tormenting; and
he knew he could achieve this, by throwing all the stories Moriarty was
fond of telling about his own service into the shade, by extravagant
inventions of “hair-breadth 'scapes” and feats by “flood and
field.” Indeed, the dinner would not be worth mentioning but for the
extraordinary capers Tom cut on the occasion, and the unheard-of lies he
squandered.
Dinner was announced by Andy, and with good appetite soup and fish were
soon despatched; sherry followed as a matter of necessity. The second
course appeared, and was not long under discussion when Dick called for
the “champagne.”
Andy began to drag the tub towards the table, and Dick, impatient of
delay, again called “champagne.”
“I'm bringin' it to you, sir,” said Andy, tugging at the tub.
“Hand it round the table,” said Dick.
Andy tried to lift the tub, “to hand it round the table;” but, finding
he could not manage it, he whispered to Dick, “I can't get it up, sir.”
Dick, fancying Andy meant he had got a flask not in a sufficient state
of effervescence to expel its own cork, whispered in return, “Draw it,
then.”
“I was dhrawin' it to you, sir, when you stopped me.”
“Well, make haste with it,” said Dick.
“Mister Dawson, I'll trouble you for a small slice of the turkey,” said
the colonel.
“With pleasure, colonel; but first do me the honour to take champagne.
Andy--champagne!”
“Here it is, sir!” said Andy, who had drawn the tub close to Dick's
chair.
“Where's the wine, sir?” said Dick, looking first at the tub and then at
Andy. “There, sir,” said Andy, pointing down to the ice. “I put the wine
into it, as you towld me.”
Dick looked again at the tub, and said, “There is not a single bottle
there--what do you mean, you stupid rascal?”
“To be sure, there's no bottle there, sir. The bottles is all on the
sideboord, but every dhrop o' the wine is in the ice, as you towld me,
sir; if you put your hand down into it, you'll feel it, sir.”
The conversation between master and man growing louder as it proceeded
attracted the attention of the whole company, and those near the head
of the table became acquainted as soon as Dick with the mistake Andy had
made, and could not resist laughter; and as the cause of their merriment
was told from man to man, and passed round the board, a roar of laughter
uprose, not a little increased by Dick's look of vexation, which at
length was forced to yield to the infectious merriment around him, and
he laughed with the rest, and making a joke of the disappointment, which
is the very best way of passing one off, he said that he had the honour
of originating at his table a magnificent scale of hospitality; for
though he had heard of company being entertained with a whole hogshead
of claret, he was not aware of champagne being ever served in a tub
before. The company were too determined to be merry to have their
pleasantry put out of tune by so trifling a mishap, and it was generally
voted that the joke was worth twice as much as the wine. Nevertheless,
Dick could not help casting a reproachful look now and then at Andy,
who had to run the gauntlet of many a joke cut at his expense, while
he waited upon the wags at dinner, and caught a lowly muttered anathema
whenever he passed near Dick's chair. In short, master and man were
both glad when the cloth was drawn, and the party could be left to
themselves.
Then, as a matter of course, Dick called on the gentlemen to charge
their glasses and fill high to a toast he had to propose--they would
anticipate to whom he referred--a gentleman who was going to change his
state of freedom for one of a happier bondage, &c., &c. Dick dashed off
his speech with several mirth-moving allusions to the change that was
coming over his friend Tom, and, having festooned his composition
with the proper quantity of “rosy wreaths,” &c., &c., &c., naturally
belonging to such speeches, he wound up with some hearty words--free
from _badinage_, and meaning all they conveyed, and finished with the
rhyming benediction of a “long life and a good wife” to him.
Tom having returned thanks in the same laughing style that Dick proposed
his health, and bade farewell to the lighter follies of bachelorship for
the more serious ones of wedlock, the road was now open for any one
who was vocally inclined. Dick asked one or two, who said they were not
within a bottle of their singing-point yet, but Tom Durfy was sure his
friend the colonel would favour them.
“With pleasure,” said the colonel; “and I'll sing something appropriate
to the blissful situation of philandering in which you have been
indulging of late, my friend. I wish I could give you any idea of the
song as I heard it warbled by the voice of an Indian princess, who
was attached to me once, and for whom I ran enormous risks--but no
matter--that's past and gone, but the soft tones of Zulima's voice will
ever haunt my heart! The song is a favourite where I heard it--on the
borders of Cashmere, and is supposed to be sung by a fond woman in the
valley of the nightingales--'tis so in the original, but as we have
no nightingales in Ireland, I have substituted the dove in the little
translation I have made, which, if you will allow me, I'll attempt.”
Loud cries of “Hear, hear!” and tapping of applauding hands on the table
followed, while the colonel gave a few preliminary hems; and after some
little pilot tones from his throat, to show the way, his voice ascended
in all the glory of song.
THE DOVE-SONG
I
“_Coo! Coo! Coo! Coo!_
Thus did I hear the turtle-dove,
_Coo! Coo! Coo!_
Murmuring forth her love;
And as she flew from tree to tree,
How melting seemed the notes to me--
_Coo! Coo! Coo!_
So like the voice of lovers,
'T was passing sweet to hear
The birds within the covers,
In the spring-time of the year.
II
“_Coo! Coo! Coo! Coo!_
Thus the song's returned again--
_Coo! Coo! Coo!_
Through the shady glen;
But there I wandered lone and sad,
While every bird around was glad.
_Coo! Coo! Coo!_
Thus so fondly murmured they,
_Coo! Coo! Coo!_
While _my_ love was away.
And yet the song to lovers,
Though sad, is sweet to hear,
From birds within the covers,
In the spring-time of the year.”
The colonel's song, given with Tom Loftus' good voice, was received
with great applause, and the fellows all voted it catching, and began
“cooing” round the table like a parcel of pigeons.
“A translation from an eastern poet, you say?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“'T is not very eastern in its character,” said Moriarty. “I mean a
_free_ translation, of course,” added the mock colonel.
“Would you favour us with the song again, in the original?” added
Moriarty.
Tom Loftus did not know one syllable of any other language than his own,
and it would not have been convenient to talk gibberish to Moriarty, who
had a smattering of some of the eastern tongues; so he declined giving
his Cashmerian song in its native purity, because, as he said, he never
could manage to speak their dialect, though he understood it reasonably
well.
“But _there's_ a gentleman, I am sure, will sing some other song--and a
better one, I have no doubt,” said Tom, with a very humble prostration
of his head on the table, and anxious by a fresh song to get out of the
dilemma in which Moriarty's question was near placing him.
“Not a better, colonel,” said the gentleman who was addressed, “but I
cannot refuse your call, and I will do my best; hand me the port wine,
pray; I always take a glass of port before I sing--I think 't is good
for the throat--what do you say, colonel?”
“When I want to sing particularly well,” said Tom, “I drink _canary_.”
The gentleman smiled at the whimsical answer, tossed off his glass of
port, and began.
LADY MINE
“Lady mine! lady mine!
Take the rosy wreath I twine,
All its sweets are less than thine,
Lady, lady mine!
The blush that on thy cheek is found
Bloometh fresh the _whole_ year round;
_Thy_ sweet _breath_ as sweet gives _sound_,
Lady, lady mine!
II
“Lady mine! lady mine!
How I love the graceful vine,
Whose tendrils mock thy ringlets' twine,
Lady, lady mine!
How I love that generous tree,
Whose ripe clusters promise me
Bumpers bright,--to pledge to _thee_,
Lady, lady mine!
III
“Lady mine! lady mine!
Like the stars that nightly shine,
Thy sweet eyes shed light divine,
Lady, lady mine!
And as sages wise, of old,
From the stars could fate unfold,
Thy bright eyes _my_ fortune told,
Lady, lady mine!”
The song was just in the style to catch gentlemen after dinner--the
second verse particularly, and many a glass was emptied of a “bumper
bright,” and pledged to the particular “_thee_,” which each individual
had selected for his devotion. Edward, at that moment, certainly thought
of Fanny Dawson.
Let teetotallers say what they please, there is a genial influence
inspired by wine and song--not in excess, but in that wholesome degree
which stirs the blood and warms the fancy; and as one raises the glass
to the lip, over which some sweet name is just breathed from the depth
of the heart, what libation so fit to pour to absent friends as wine?
What _is_ wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is
there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away,
and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may
be spiritually present, in defiance of space--and fond recollections
cherished in defiance of time.
As the party became more convivial, the mirth began to assume a broader
form. Tom Durfy drew out Moriarty on the subject of his services, that
the mock colonel might throw every new achievement into the shade;
and this he did in the most barefaced manner, but mixing so much of
probability with his audacious fiction, that those who were not up to
the joke only supposed him to be _a very great romancer_; while those
friends who were in Loftus' confidence exhibited a most capacious
stomach for the marvellous, and backed up his lies with a ready
credence. If Moriarty told some fearful incident of a tiger hunt, the
colonel capped it with something more wonderful, of slaughtering lions
in a wholesale way, like rabbits. When Moriarty expatiated on the
intensity of tropical heat, the colonel would upset him with something
more appalling.
“Now, sir,” said Loftus, “let me ask you what is the greatest amount of
heat you have ever experienced--I say _experienced_, not _heard_ of--for
that goes for nothing. I always speak from experience.”
“Well, sir,” said Moriarty, “I have known it to be so hot in India, that
I have had a hole dug in the ground under my tent, and sat in it,
and put a table standing over the hole, to try and guard me from the
intolerable fervour of the eastern sun, and even _then_ I was hot. What
do you say to that, colonel?” asked Moriarty, triumphantly.
“Have you ever been in the West Indies?” inquired Loftus.
“Never,” said Moriarty, who, once entrapped into this admission,
was directly at the colonel's mercy,--and the colonel launched out
fearlessly.
“Then, my good sir, you know nothing of heat. I have seen in the West
Indies an umbrella burned over a man's head.”
“Wonderful!” cried Loftus' backers.
“'T is strange, sir,” said Moriarty, “that we have never seen that
mentioned by any writer.”
“Easily accounted for, sir,” said Loftus. “'T is so common a
circumstance, that it ceases to be worthy of observation. An author
writing of this country might as well remark that the apple-women are to
be seen sitting at the corners of the streets. That's nothing, sir;
but there are two things of which I have personal knowledge, _rather_
remarkable. One day of intense heat (even for that climate) I was on
a visit at the plantation of a friend of mine, and it was so
out-o'-the-way scorching, that our lips were like cinders, and we
were obliged to have black slaves pouring sangaree down our throats by
gallons--I don't hesitate to say gallons--and we thought we could
not have survived through the day; but what could _we_ think of _our_
sufferings, when we heard that several negroes, who had gone to sleep
under the shade of some cocoa-nut trees, had been scalded to death?”
“Scalded?” said his friends; “burnt, you mean.”
“No, scalded; and _how_ do you think? The intensity of the heat had
cracked the cocoa-nuts, and the boiling milk inside dropped down and
produced the fatal result. The same day a remarkable accident occurred
at the battery; the French were hovering round the island at the time,
and the governor, being a timid man, ordered the guns to be always kept
loaded.”
“I never heard of such a thing in a battery in my life, sir,” said
Moriarty.
“Nor I either,” said Loftus, “till then.”
“What was the governor's name, sir?” inquired Moriarty, pursuing his
train of doubt.
“You must excuse me, captain, from naming him,” said Loftus, with
readiness, “after _incautiously_ saying he was _timid_.”
“Hear, hear!” said all the friends.
“But to pursue my story, sir:--the guns were loaded, and with the
intensity of the heat went off, one after another, and quite riddled one
of his Majesty's frigates that was lying in the harbour.”
“That's one of the most difficult riddles to comprehend I ever heard,”
said Moriarty.
“The frigate answered the riddle with her guns, sir, I promise you.”
“What!” exclaimed Moriarty, “fire on the fort of her own king?”
“There is an honest principle exists among sailors, sir, to return fire
under all circumstances, wherever it comes from, friend or foe. Fire, of
which they know the value so well, they won't take from anybody.”
“And what was the consequence?” said Moriarty.
“Sir, it was the most harmless broadside ever delivered from the ports
of a British frigate; not a single house or human being was injured--the
day was so hot that every sentinel had sunk on the ground in utter
exhaustion--the whole population were asleep; the only loss of
life which occurred was that of a blue macaw, which belonged to the
commandant's daughter.”
“Where was the macaw, may I beg to know?” said Moriarty,
cross-questioning the colonel in the spirit of a counsel for the defence
on a capital indictment.
“In the drawing-room window, sir.”
“Then surely the ball must have done some damage in the house?”
“Not the least, sir,” said Loftus, sipping his wine.
“Surely, colonel!” returned Moriarty, warming, “the ball could not have
killed the macaw without injuring the house?”
“My dear sir,” said Tom, “I did not say the _ball_ killed the macaw, I
said the macaw was killed; but _that_ was in consequence of a splinter
from an _epaulement_ of the south-east angle of the fort which the
shot struck and glanced off harmlessly--except for the casualty of the
macaw.”
Moriarty returned a kind of grunt, which implied that, though he could
not further _question_, he did not _believe_. Under such circumstances,
taking snuff is a great relief to a man; and, as it happened, Moriarty,
in taking snuff, could gratify his nose and his vanity at the same time,
for he sported a silver-gilt snuff-box which was presented to him in
some extraordinary way, and bore a grand inscription.
On this “piece of plate” being produced, of course it went round the
table, and Moriarty could scarcely conceal the satisfaction he felt as
each person read the engraven testimonial of his worth. When it had gone
the circuit of the board, Tom Loftus put his hand into his pocket and
pulled out the butt-end of a rifle, which is always furnished with a
small box, cut out of the solid part of the wood and covered with a
plate of brass acting on a hinge. This box, intended to carry small
implements for the use of the rifleman, to keep his piece in order, was
filled with snuff, and Tom said, as he laid it down on the table, “This
is _my_ snuff-box, gentlemen; not as handsome as my gallant friend's at
the opposite side of the table, but extremely interesting to me. It was
previous to one of our dashing affairs in Spain that our riflemen were
thrown out in front and on the flanks. The rifles were supported by the
light companies of the regiments in advance, and it was in the latter
duty I was engaged. We had to feel our way through a wood, and had
cleared it of the enemy, when, as we debouched from the wood on the
opposite side, we were charged by an overwhelming force of Polish
lancers and cuirassiers. Retreat was impossible--resistance almost
hopeless. 'My lads,' said I, 'we must do something _novel_ here, or we
are lost--startle them by fresh practice--the bayonet will no longer
avail you--club your muskets, and hit the horses over the noses, and
they'll smell danger.' They took my advice; of course we first delivered
a withering volley, and then to it we went in flail-fashion, thrashing
away with the butt-ends of our muskets; and sure enough the French were
astonished and driven back in amazement. So tremendous, sir, was the
hitting on our side, that in many instances the butt-ends of the muskets
snapped off like tobacco-pipes, and the field was quite strewn with them
after the affair: I picked one of them up as a little memento of the
day, and have used it ever since as a snuff-box.”
Every one was amused by the outrageous romancing of the colonel but
Moriarty, who looked rather disgusted, because he could not edge in a
word of his own at all; he gave up the thing now in despair, for the
colonel had it all his own way, like the bull in a china-shop; the more
startling the bouncers he told, the more successful were his anecdotes,
and he kept pouring them out with the most astounding rapidity; and
though all voted him the greatest liar they ever met, none suspected he
was not a military man.
Dick wanted Edward O'Connor, who sat beside him, to sing; but Edward
whispered, “For Heaven's sake don't stop the flow of the lava from that
mighty eruption of lies!--he's a perfect Vesuvius of mendacity. You'll
never meet his like again, so make the most of him while you have him.
Pray, sir,” said Edward to the colonel, “have you ever been in any of
the cold climates? I am induced to ask you, from the very wonderful
anecdotes you have told of the hot ones.”
“Bless you, sir, I know every corner about the north pole.”
“In which of the expeditions, may I ask, were you engaged?” inquired
Moriarty.
“In none of them, sir. We knocked up a _little amateur party_, I and a
few curious friends, and certainly we witnessed wonders. You talk here
of a sharp wind; but the wind is so sharp there that it cut off our
beard and whiskers. Boreas is a great barber, sir, with his north pole
for a sign. Then as for frost!--I could tell you such incredible things
of its intensity; our butter, for instance, was as hard as a rock; we
were obliged to knock it off with a chisel and hammer, like a mason at
a piece of granite, and it was necessary to be careful of your eyes at
breakfast, the splinters used to fly about so; indeed, one of the party
_did_ lose the use of his eye from a butter-splinter. But the oddest
thing of all was to watch two men talking to each other: you could
observe the words, as they came out of their mouths, suddenly frozen and
dropping down in little pellets of ice at their feet, so that, after a
long conversation, you might see a man standing up to his knees in his
own eloquence.”
They all roared with laughter at this last touch of the marvellous, but
Loftus preserved his gravity.
“I don't wonder, gentlemen, at your not receiving that as truth--I told
you it was incredible--in short, that is the reason I have resisted
all temptations to publish. Murray, Longmans, Colburn, Bentley, ALL
the publishers have offered me unlimited terms, but I have always
refused--not that I am a rich man, which makes the temptation of the
thousands I might realise the harder to withstand; 't is not that the
gold is not precious to me, but there is something dearer to me
than gold--_it is my character for veracity!_ and therefore, as I am
convinced the public would not believe the wonders I have witnessed,
I confine the recital of my adventures to the social circle. But
what profession affords such scope for varied incident as that of the
soldier? Change of clime, danger, vicissitude, love, war, privation one
day, profusion the next, darkling dangers, and sparkling joys! Zounds!
there's nothing like the life of a soldier! and, by the powers! I'll
give you a song in its praise.”
The proposition was received with cheers, and Tom rattled away these
ringing rhymes--
THE BOWLD SOJER BOY
“Oh there's not a trade that's going
Worth showing,
Or knowing,
Like that from glory growing,
For a bowld sojer boy;
Where right or left we go,
Sure you know,
Friend or foe
Will have the hand or toe
From a bowld sojer boy!
There's not a town we march thro',
But the ladies, looking arch thro'
The window-panes, will search thro'
The ranks to find their joy;
While up the street,
Each girl you meet,
Will look so sly,
Will cry
'My eye!
Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy!'
II
“But when we get the route,
How they pout
And they shout
While to the right about
Goes the bowld sojer boy.
Oh, 'tis then that ladies fair
In despair
Tear their hair,
But 'the divil-a-one I care,'
Says the bowld sojer boy.
For the world is all before us,
Where the landladies adore us,
And ne'er refuse to score us,
But chalk us up with joy;
We taste her tap,
We tear her cap'--
'Oh, that's the chap
For me!'
Says she;
'Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy.'
III
“'Then come along with me,
Gramachree,
And you'll see
How happy you will be
With your bowld sojer boy;
'Faith! if you're up to fun,
With me run;
'T will be done
In the snapping of a gun,'
Says the bowld sojer boy;
'And 't is then that, without scandal,
Myself will proudly dandle
The little farthing candle
Of our mutual flame, my joy!
May his light shine
As bright as mine,
Till in the line
He'll blaze,
And raise
The glory of his corps, like a bowld sojer boy!'”
Andy entered the room while the song was in progress, and handed a
letter to Dick, which, after the song was over, and he had asked pardon
of his guests, he opened.
“By Jove! you sing right well, colonel,” said one of the party.
“I think the gallant colonel's songs nothing in comparison with his
_wonderful_ stories,” said Moriarty.
“Gentlemen,” said Dick, “wonderful as the colonel's recitals have been,
this letter conveys a piece of information more surprising than anything
we have heard this day. That stupid fellow who spoiled our champagne has
come in for the inheritance of a large property.”
“What!--Handy Andy?” exclaimed those who knew his name.
“Handy Andy,” said Dick, “is now a man of fortune!”