THOUGHTS UPON MATRIMONY IN GENERAL, AND IN THE ARMY IN PARTICULAR—THE
KNIGHT OF KERRY AND BILLY M’CABE.
“So,” thought I, as I closed the door of my room behind me, “I am
accepted—the die is cast which makes me a Benedict: yet heaven knows
that never was a man less disposed to be over joyous at his good
fortune!” What a happy invention it were, if when adopting any road in
life, we could only manage to forget that we had ever contemplated any
other! It is the eternal looking back in this world that forms the
staple of all our misery; and we are but ill-requited for such
unhappiness by the brightest anticipations we can conjure up for the
future. How much of all that “past” was now to become a source of
painful recollection, and to how little of the future could I look
forward with even hope!
Our weaknesses are much more constantly the spring of all our
annoyances and troubles than even our vices. The one we have in some
sort of subjection: we are perfectly slaves to the others. This thought
came home most forcibly to my bosom, as I reflected upon the step which
led me on imperceptibly to my present embarrassment. “Well, c’est fini,
now,” said I, drawing upon that bountiful source of consolation ever
open to the man who mars his fortune—that “what is past can’t be
amended;” which piece of philosophy, as well as its twin brother, that
“all will be the same a hundred years hence,” have been golden rules to
me from my childhood.
The transition from one mode of life to another perfectly different has
ever seemed to me a great trial of a man’s moral courage; besides that
the fact of quitting for ever any thing, no matter how insignificant or
valueless, is always attended with painful misgivings. My bachelor life
had its share of annoyances and disappointments, it is true; but, upon
the whole it was a most happy one—and now I was about to surrender it
for ever, not yielding to the impulse of affection and love for one
without whom life were valueless to me, but merely a recompense for the
indulgence of that fatal habit I had contracted of pursuing with
eagerness every shadow that crossed my path. All my early friends—all
my vagrant fancies—all my daydreams of the future I was now to
surrender—for, what becomes of any man’s bachelor friends when he is
once married? Where are his rambles in high and bye-ways when he has a
wife? and what is left for anticipation after his wedding except,
perhaps, to speculate upon the arrangement of his funeral? To a
military man more than to any other these are serious thoughts. All the
fascinations of an army life, in war or peace, lie in the daily, hourly
associations with your brother officers—the morning cigar, the
barrack-square lounge—the afternoon ride—the game of billiards before
dinner—the mess (that perfection of dinner society)—the plans for the
evening—the deviled kidney at twelve—forming so many points of
departure whence you sail out upon your daily voyage through life.
Versus those you have that awful perversion of all that is natural—an
officer’s wife. She has been a beauty when young, had black eyes and
high complexion, a good figure, rather inclined to embonpoint, and a
certain springiness in her walk, and a jauntiness in her air, that are
ever sure attractions to a sub in a marching regiment. She can play
backgammon, and sing “di tanti palpiti,” and, if an Irishwoman, is
certain to be able to ride a steeple-chase, and has an uncle a lord,
who (en parenthese) always turns out to be a creation made by King
James after his abdication. In conclusion, she breakfasts en
papillote—wears her shoes down at heel—calls every officer of the
regiment by his name—has a great taste for increasing his majesty’s
lieges, and delights in London porter. To this genus of Frow I have
never ceased to entertain the most thrilling abhorrence; and yet how
often have I seen what appeared to be pretty and interesting girls fall
into something of this sort! and how often have I vowed any fate to
myself rather than become the husband of a baggage-waggon wife!
Had all my most sanguine hopes promised realizing—had my suit with Lady
Jane been favourable, I could scarcely have bid adieu to my bachelor
life without a sigh. No prospect of future happiness can ever perfectly
exclude all regret at quitting our present state for ever. I am sure if
I had been a caterpillar, it would have been with a heavy heart that I
would have donned my wings as a butterfly. Now the metamorphosis was
reversed: need it be wondered if I were sad?
So completely was I absorbed in my thoughts upon this matter, that I
had not perceived the entrance of O’Leary and Trevanion, who, unaware
of my being in the apartment, as I was stretched upon a sofa in a dark
corner, drew their chairs towards the fire and began chatting.
“Do you know, Mr. Trevanion,” said O’Leary, “I am half afraid of this
disguise of mine. I sometimes think I am not like a Pole; and if she
should discover me”—
“No fear of that in the world; your costume is perfect, your beard
unexceptionable. I could, perhaps, have desired a little less paunch;
but then”—
“That comes of fretting, as Falstaff says; and you must not forget that
I am banished from my country.”
“Now, as to your conversation, I should advise you saying very
little—not one word in English. You may, if you like, call in the
assistance of Irish when hard pressed?
“I have my fears on that score. There is no knowing where that might
lead to discovery. You know the story of the Knight of Kerry and Billy
McCabe?”
“I fear I must confess my ignorance—I have never heard of it.”
“Then may be you never knew Giles Daxon?”
“I have not had that pleasure either.”
“Lord bless me, how strange that is! I thought he was better known than
the Duke of Wellington or the travelling piper. Well, I must tell you
the story, for it has a moral, too—indeed several morals; but you’ll
find that out for yourself. Well, it seems that one day the Knight of
Kerry was walking along the Strand in London, killing an hour’s time,
till the house was done prayers, and Hume tired of hearing himself
speaking; his eye was caught by an enormous picture displayed upon the
wall of a house, representing a human figure covered with long dark
hair, with huge nails upon his hands, and a most fearful expression of
face. At first the Knight thought it was Dr. Bowring; but on coming
nearer he heard a man with a scarlet livery and a cocked hat, call out,
‘Walk in, ladies and gentlemen—the most vonderful curiosity ever
exhibited—only one shilling—the vild man from Chippoowango, in
Africay—eats raw wittles without being cooked, and many other
surprising and pleasing performances.’
“The knight paid his money, and was admitted. At first the crowd
prevented his seeing any thing—for the place was full to suffocation,
and the noise awful—for, besides the exclamations and applause of the
audience, there were three barrel-organs, playing ‘Home, sweet Home!’
and ‘Cherry Ripe,’ and the wild man himself contributed his share to
the uproar. At last, the Knight obtained, by dint of squeezing, and
some pushing a place in the front, when, to his very great horror, he
beheld a figure that far eclipsed the portrait without doors.
“It was a man nearly naked, covered with long, shaggy hair, that grew
even over his nose and cheek bones. He sprang about, sometimes on his
feet, sometimes, all-fours, but always uttering the most fearful yells,
and glaring upon the crowd, in a manner that was really dangerous. The
Knight did not feel exactly happy at the whole proceeding, and began
heartily to wish himself back in the ‘House,’ even upon a committee of
privileges, when, suddenly, the savage gave a more frantic scream than
before, and seized upon a morsel of raw beef, which a keeper extended
to him upon a long fork, like a tandem whip—he was not safe, it
appears, at close quarters;—this he tore to pieces eagerly and devoured
in the most voracious manner, amid great clapping of hands, and other
evidences of satisfaction from the audience. I’ll go, now, thought the
Knight: for, God knows whether, in his hungry moods, he might not fancy
to conclude his dinner by a member of parliament. Just at this instant,
some sounds struck upon his ear that surprised him not a little. He
listened more attentively; and, conceive if you can, his amazement, to
find that, amid his most fearful cries, and wild yells, the savage was
talking Irish. Laugh, if you like; but it’s truth I am telling you;
nothing less than Irish. There he was, jumping four feet high in the
air, eating his raw meat: pulling out his hair by handfuls; and, amid
all this, cursing the whole company to his heart’s content, in as good
Irish as ever was heard in Tralee. Now, though the Knight had heard of
red Jews and white Negroes, he had never happened to read any account
of an African Irishman; so, he listened very closely, and by degrees,
not only the words were known to him, but the very voice was familiar.
At length, something he heard, left no further doubt upon his mind,
and, turning to the savage, he addressed him in Irish, at the same time
fixing a look of most scrutinizing import upon him.
“‘Who are you, you scoundrel’ said the Knight.
“‘Billy M’Cabe your honour.’
“‘And what do you mean by playing off these tricks here, instead of
earning your bread like an honest man?’
“‘Whisht,’ said Billy, ‘and keep the secret. I’m earning the rent for
your honour. One must do many a queer thing that pays two pound ten an
acre for bad land.’
“This was enough: the Knight wished Billy every success, and left him
amid the vociferous applause of a well satisfied audience. This
adventure, it seems, has made the worthy Knight a great friend to the
introduction of poor laws; for, he remarks very truly, ‘more of Billy’s
countrymen might take a fancy to a savage life, if the secret was found
out.’”
It was impossible for me to preserve my incognito, as Mr. O’Leary
concluded his story, and I was obliged to join in the mirth of
Trevanion, who laughed loud and long as he finished it.