A REMINISCENCE.
[Illustration: Harry Proves Himself a Man of Metal]
O’Leary and Trevanion had scarcely left the room when the waiter
entered with two letters—the one bore a German post-mark, and was in
the well-known hand of Lady Callonby—the other in a writing with which
I was no less familiar—that of Emily Bingham.
Let any one who has been patient enough to follow me through these
“Confessions,” conceive my agitation at this moment. There lay my fate
before me, coupled, in all likelihood, with a view of what it might
have been under happier auspices—at least so in anticipation did I read
the two unopened epistles. My late interview with Miss Bingham left no
doubt upon my mind that I had secured her affections; and acting in
accordance with the counsel of Trevanion, no less than of my own sense
of right, I resolved upon marrying her, with what prospect of happiness
I dared not to think of!
Alas! and alas! there is no infatuation like the taste for
flirtation—mere empty, valueless, heartless flirtation. You hide the
dice-box and the billiard queue, lest your son become a gambler—you put
aside the racing calendar, lest he imbibe a jockey predilection—but you
never tremble at his fondness for white muslin and a satin slipper, far
more dangerous tastes though they be, and infinitely more perilous to a
man’s peace and prosperity than all the “queens of trumps” that ever
figured, whether on pasteboard or the Doncaster. “Woman’s my weakness,
yer honor,” said an honest Patlander, on being charged before the lord
mayor with having four wives living; and without having any such
“Algerine act” upon my conscience, I must, I fear, enter a somewhat
similar plea for my downfallings, and avow in humble gratitude, that I
have scarcely had a misfortune through life unattributable to them in
one way or another. And this I say without any reference to country,
class, or complexion, “black, brown or fair,” from my first step forth
into life, a raw sub. in the gallant 4—th, to this same hour, I have no
other avowal, no other confession to make. “Be always ready with the
pistol,” was the dying advice of an Irish statesman to his sons: mine,
in a similar circumstance, would rather be “Gardez vous des femmes,”
and more especially if they be Irish.
There is something almost treacherous in the facility with which an
Irish girl receives your early attentions and appears to like them,
that invariably turns a young fellow’s head very long before he has any
prospect of touching her heart. She thinks it so natural to be made
love to, that there is neither any affected coyness nor any agitated
surprise. She listens to your declaration of love as quietly as the
chief justice would to one of law, and refers the decision to a packed
jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy. Love and
fighting, too, are so intimately united in Ireland, that a courtship
rarely progresses without at least one exchange of shots between some
of the parties concerned. My first twenty-four hours in Dublin is so
pleasantly characteristic of this that I may as well relate it here,
while the subject is before us; besides, as these “Confessions” are
intended as warnings and guides to youth, I may convey a useful lesson,
showing why a man should not “make love in the dark.”
It was upon a raw, cold, drizzling morning in February, 18—, that our
regiment landed on the North-wall from Liverpool, whence we had been
hurriedly ordered to repress some riots and disturbances then agitating
Dublin.
We marched to the Royal Barracks, our band playing Patrick’s Day, to
the very considerable admiration of as naked a population as ever loved
music. The —th dragoons were at the same time quartered there—right
pleasant jovial fellows, who soon gave us to understand that the
troubles were over before we arrived, and that the great city
authorities were now returning thanks for their preservation from fire
and sword, by a series of entertainments of the most costly, but
somewhat incongruous kind—the company being scarce less melee than the
dishes. Peers and playactors, judges and jailors, archbishops, tailors,
attorneys, ropemakers and apothecaries, all uniting in the festive
delight of good feeding, and drinking the “glorious memory”—but of whom
half the company knew not, only surmising “it was something agin the
papists.” You may smile, but these were pleasant times, and I scarcely
care to go back there since they were changed. But to return. The —th
had just received an invitation to a ball, to be given by the high
sheriff, and to which they most considerately said we should also be
invited. This negociation was so well managed that before noon we all
received our cards from a green liveried youth, mounted on a very
emaciated pony—the whole turn-out not auguring flatteringly of the high
sheriff’s taste in equipage.
We dined with the —th, and, as customary before going to an evening
party, took the “other bottle” of claret that lies beyond the frontier
of prudence. In fact, from the lieutenant-colonel down to the
newly-joined ensign, there was not a face in the party that did not
betray “signs of the times” that boded most favourably for the mirth of
the sheriff’s ball. We were so perfectly up to the mark, that our
major, a Connemara man, said, as we left the mess-room, “a liqueure
glass would spoil us.”
In this acme of our intellectual wealth, we started about eleven
o’clock upon every species of conveyance that chance could press into
the service. Of hackney coaches there were few—but in jingles, noddies,
and jaunting-cars, with three on a side and “one in the well,” we
mustered strong—Down Barrack-street we galloped, the mob cheering us,
we laughing, and I’m afraid shouting a little, too—the watchmen
springing their rattles, as if instinctively at noise, and the whole
population up and awake, evidently entertaining a high opinion of our
convivial qualities. Our voices became gradually more decorous,
however, as we approached the more civilized quarter of the town; and
with only the slight stoppage of the procession to pick up an
occasional dropper-off, as he lapsed from the seat of a jaunting-car,
we arrived at length at our host’s residence, somewhere in
Sackville-street.
Had our advent conferred the order of knighthood upon the host, he
could not have received us with more “empressement.” He shook us all in
turn by the hand, to the number of eight and thirty, and then presented
us seriatim to his spouse, a very bejewelled lady of some forty
years—who, what between bugles, feathers, and her turban, looked
excessively like a Chinese pagoda upon a saucer. The rooms were crowded
to suffocation—the noise awful—and the company crushing and elbowing
rather a little more than you expect where the moiety are of the softer
sex. However, “on s’habitue a tout,” sayeth the proverb, and with
truth, for we all so perfectly fell in with the habits of the place,
that ere half an hour, we squeezed, ogled, leered, and drank champagne
like the rest of the corporation.
“Devilish hot work, this,” said the colonel, as he passed me with two
rosy-cheeked, smiling ladies on either arm; “the mayor—that little
fellow in the punch-coloured shorts—has very nearly put me hors de
combat with champagne; take care of him, I advise you.”
Tipsy as I felt myself, I was yet sufficiently clear to be fully alive
to the drollery of the scene before me. Flirtations that, under other
circumstances, would demand the secrecy and solitude of a country green
lane, or some garden bower, were here conducted in all the open
effrontery of wax lights and lustres; looks were interchanged, hands
were squeezed, and soft things whispered, and smiles returned; till the
intoxication of “punch negus” and spiced port, gave way to the far
greater one of bright looks and tender glances. Quadrilles and country
dances—waltzing there was none, (perhaps all for the best)—whist,
backgammon, loo—unlimited for uproar—sandwiches, and warm liquors,
employed us pretty briskly till supper was announced, when a grand
squeeze took place on the stairs—the population tending thitherward
with an eagerness that a previous starvation of twenty-four hours could
alone justify. Among this dense mass of moving muslin, velvet and
broad-cloth, I found myself chaperoning an extremely tempting little
damsel, with a pair of laughing blue eyes and dark eyelashes, who had
been committed to my care and guidance for the passage.
“Miss Moriarty, Mr. Lorrequer,” said an old lady in green and spangles,
who I afterwards found was the lady mayoress.
“The nicest girl in the room,” said a gentleman with a Tipperary
accent, “and has a mighty nice place near Athlone.”
The hint was not lost upon me, and I speedily began to faire l’amiable
to my charge; and before we reached the supper room, learned certain
particulars of her history, which I have not yet forgot. She was, it
seems, sister to a lady then in the room, the wife of an attorney, who
rejoiced in the pleasing and classical appellation of Mr. Mark Anthony
Fitzpatrick; the aforesaid Mark Anthony being a tall, raw-boned,
black-whiskered, ill-looking dog, that from time to time contrived to
throw very uncomfortable looking glances at me and Mary Anne, for she
was so named, the whole time of supper. After a few minutes, however, I
totally forgot him, and, indeed, every thing else, in the fascination
of my fair companion. She shared her chair with me, upon which I
supported her by my arm passed round the back; we eat our pickled
salmon, jelly, blanc mange, cold chicken, ham, and custard; off the
same plate, with an occasional squeeze of the finger, as our hands
met—her eyes making sad havoc with me all the while, as I poured my
tale of love—love, lasting, burning, all-consuming—into her not
unwilling ear.
“Ah! now, ye’r not in earnest?”
“Yes, Mary Anne, by all that’s”—
“Well, there now, don’t swear, and take care—sure Mark Anthony is
looking.”
“Mark Anthony be—”
“Oh! how passionate you are; I’m sure I never could live easy with you.
There, now, give me some sponge cake, and don’t be squeezing me, or
they’ll see you.”
“Yes, to my heart, dearest girl.”
“Och, it’s cheese you’re giving me,” said she, with a grimace that
nearly cured my passion.
“A cottage, a hut, with you—with you,” said I, in a cadence that I defy
Macready to rival—“what is worldly splendour, or the empty glitter of
rank.”
I here glanced at my epaulettes, upon which I saw her eyes rivetted.
“Isn’t the ginger beer beautiful,” said she, emptying a glass of
champagne.
Still I was not to be roused from my trance, and continued my courtship
as warmly as ever.
“I suppose you’ll come home now,” said a gruff voice behind Mary Anne.
I turned and perceived Mark Anthony with a grim look of peculiar
import.
“Oh, Mark dear, I’m engaged to dance another set with this gentleman.”
“Ye are, are ye?” replied Mark, eyeing me askance. “Troth and I think
the gentleman would be better if he went off to his flea-bag himself.”
In my then mystified intellect this west country synonyme for a bed a
little puzzled me.
“Yes sir, the lady is engaged to me: have you any thing to say to
that?”
“Nothing at present, at all,” said Mark, almost timidly.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sobbed Mary Anne; “they’re going to fight, and
he’ll be killed—I know he will.”
For which of us this fate was destined, I stopped not to consider, but
amid a very sufficient patting upon the back, and thumping between the
shoulders, bestowed by members of the company who approved of my
proceedings. The three fiddles, the flute, and bassoon, that formed our
band, being by this time sufficiently drunk, played after a fashion of
their own, which by one of those strange sympathies of our nature,
imparted its influence to our legs, and a country dance was performed
in a style of free and easy gesticulation that defies description. At
the end of eighteen couple, tired of my exertions—and they were not
slight—I leaned my back against the wall of the room, which I now, for
the first time, perceived was covered with a very peculiar and novel
species of hanging—no less than a kind of rough, green baize cloth,
that moved and floated at every motion of the air. I paid little
attention to this, till suddenly turning my head, something gave way
behind it. I felt myself struck upon the back of the neck, and fell
forward into the room, covered by a perfect avalanche of fenders,
fire-irons, frying-pans, and copper kettles, mingled with the lesser
artillery of small nails, door keys, and holdfasts. There I lay amid
the most vociferous mirth I ever listened to, under the confounded
torrent of ironmongery that half-stunned me. The laughter over, I was
assisted to rise, and having drank about a pint of vinegar, and had my
face and temples washed in strong whiskey punch—the allocation of the
fluids being mistaken, I learned that our host, the high sheriff, was a
celebrated tin and iron man, and that his salles de reception were no
other than his magazine of metals, and that to conceal the well filled
shelves from the gaze of his aristocratic guests, they were clothed in
the manner related; which my unhappy head, by some misfortune,
displaced, and thus brought on a calamity scarcely less afflicting to
him than to myself. I should scarcely have stopped to mention this
here, were it not that Mary Anne’s gentle nursing of me in my misery
went far to complete what her fascination had begun; and although she
could not help laughing at the occurrence, I forgave her readily for
her kindness.
“Remember,” said I, trying to ogle through a black eye, painted by the
angle of a register grate—“remember, Mary Anne, I am to see you home.”
“Oh! dear, sir, sure I don’t know how you can manage it—”
Here Mark Anthony’s entrance cut short this speech, for he came to
declare that some of the officers had taken his coach, and was, as
might be supposed, in a towering passion.
“If, sir,” said I, with an air of the most balmy courtesy—“If I can be
of any use in assisting you to see your friends home—”
“Ah! then, ye’r a nice looking article to see ladies home. I wish you
seen yourself this minute,” said he.
As I felt it would be no breach of the unities—time, place, and every
thing considered—to smash his skull, I should certainly have proceeded
to do so, had not a look of the most imploring kind from Mary Anne
restrained me. By this time, he had taken her under the arm, and was
leading her away. I stood irresolute, till a glance from my charmer
caught me; when I rallied at once, and followed them down stairs. Here
the scene was the full as amusing as above; the cloaking, shawling,
shoeing, &c., of the ladies being certainly as mirth-moving a process
as I should wish to see. Here were mothers trying to collect their
daughters, as a hen her chickens, and as in that case, the pursuit of
one usually lost all the others; testy papas swearing, lovers leering,
as they twisted the boas round the fair throats of their sweethearts;
vows of love, mingling with lamentations for a lost slipper, or a stray
mantle. Sometimes the candles were extinguished, and the melee became
greater, till the order and light were restored together. Meanwhile,
each of our fellows had secured his fair one, save myself, and I was
exposed to no small ridicule for my want of savoir faire. Nettled at
this, I made a plunge to the corner of the room, where Mary Anne was
shawling; I recognized her pink sash, threw her cloak over her
shoulders, and at the very moment that Mark Anthony drew his wife’s arm
within his, I performed the same by my friend, and followed them to the
door. Here, the grim brother-in-law turned round to take Mary Anne’s
arm, and seeing her with me, merely gave a kind of hoarse chuckle, and
muttered, “Very well, sir: upon my conscience you will have it, I see.”
During this brief interval, so occupied was I in watching him, that I
never once looked in my fair friend’s face; but the gentle squeeze of
her arm, as she leaned upon me, assured me that I had her approval of
what I was doing.
What were the precise train of my thoughts, and what the subjects of
conversation between us, I am unfortunately now unable to recollect. It
is sufficient to remember, that I could not believe five minutes had
elapsed, when we arrived at York-street. “Then you confess you love
me,” said I, as I squeezed her arm to my side.
“Then, by this kiss,” said I, “I swear, never to relinquish.”—
What I was about to add, I am sure I know not; but true it is, that a
certain smacking noise here attracted Mr. Mark Anthony’s attention, who
started round, looked as full in the face, and then gravely added,
“Enough is as good as a feast. I wish you pleasant drames, Mr. Larry
Kar, if that’s your name; and you’ll hear from me in the morning.”
“I intend it,” said I. “Good night, dearest; think of—” The slam of the
street door in my face spoiled the peroration, and I turned towards
home.
By the time I reached the barracks, the united effects of the
champagne, sherry, and Sheffield iron, had, in a good measure subsided,
and my head had become sufficiently clear to permit a slight retrospect
of the evening’s amusement.
From two illusions I was at least awakened:—First, the high sheriff’s
ball was not the most accurate representation of high society;
secondly, I was not deeply enamoured of Mary Anne Moriarty. Strange as
it may seem, and how little soever the apparent connexion between those
two facts, the truth of one had a considerable influence in deciding
the other. N’importe, said I, the thing is over; it was rather good
fun, too, upon the whole—saving the “chute des casseroles;” and as to
the lady, she must have seen it was a joke as well as myself. At least,
so I am decided it shall be; and as there was no witness to our
conversation, the thing is easily got out of.
The following day, as I was dressing to ride out, my servant announced
no less a person than Mr. Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick, who said “that he
came upon a little business, and must see me immediately.”
Mr. Fitzpatrick, upon being announced, speedily opened his negociation
by asking in very terse and unequivocal phrase, my intentions regarding
his sister-in-law. After professing the most perfect astonishment at
the question, and its possible import, I replied, that she was a most
charming person, with whom I intended to have nothing whatever to do.
“And maybe you never proposed for her at the ball last night?”
“Propose for a lady at a ball the first time I ever met her!”
“Just so. Can you carry your memory so far back? or, perhaps I had
better refresh it;” and he here repeated the whole substance of my
conversation on the way homeward, sometimes in the very words I used.
“But, my dear sir, the young lady could never have supposed I used such
language as this you have repeated?”
“So, then, you intend to break off? Well, then, it’s right to tell you
that you’re in a very ugly scrape, for it was my wife you took home
last night—not Miss Moriarty; and I leave you to choose at your leisure
whether you’d rather be defendant in a suit for breach of promise or
seduction; and, upon my conscience, I think it’s civil in me to give
you a choice.”
What a pretty disclosure was here! So that while I was imaging myself
squeezing the hand and winning the heart of the fair Mary Anne, I was
merely making a case of strong evidence for a jury, that might expose
me to the world, and half ruin me in damages. There was but one course
open—to make a fight for it; and, from what I saw of my friend Mark
Anthony, this did not seem difficult.
I accordingly assumed a high tone—laughed at the entire affair—said it
was a “way we had in the army”—that “we never meant any thing by it,”
&c. &c.
In a few minutes I perceived the bait was taking. Mr. Fitzpatrick’s
west country blood was up: all thought of the legal resource was
abandoned; and he flung out of the room to find a friend, I having
given him the name of “one of ours” as mine upon the occasion.
Very little time was lost, for before three o’clock that afternoon a
meeting was fixed for the following morning at the North Bull; and I
had the satisfaction of hearing that I only escaped the malignant
eloquence of Holmes in the King’s Bench, to be “blazed” at by the best
shot on the western circuit. The thought was no way agreeable, and I
indemnified myself for the scrape by a very satisfactory anathema upon
the high sheriff and his ball, and his confounded saucepans; for to the
lady’s sympathy for my sufferings I attributed much of my folly.
At eight the next morning I found myself standing with Curzon and the
doctor upon that bleak portion of her majesty’s dominion they term the
North Bull, waiting in a chilly rain, and a raw fog, till it pleased
Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick, to come and shoot me—such being the precise
terms of our combat, in the opinion of all parties.
The time, however, passed on, and half-past eight, three quarters, and
at last nine o’clock, without his appearing; when, just as Curzon had
resolved upon our leaving the ground, a hack jaunting-car was seen
driving at full speed along the road near us. It came nearer and at
length drew up; two men leaped off and came towards us; one of whom, as
he came forward, took off his hat politely, and introduced himself as
Mr. O’Gorman, the fighting friend of Mark Anthony.
“It’s a mighty unpleasant business I’m come upon, gentlemen,” said he,
“Mr. Fitzpatrick has been unavoidedly prevented from having the
happiness to meet you this morning—”
“Then you can’t expect us, sir, to dance attendance upon him here
to-morrow,” said Curzon, interrupting.
“By no manner of means,” replied the other, placidly; “for it would be
equally inconvenient for him to be here then. But I have only to say,
maybe you’d have the kindness to waive all etiquette, and let me stand
in his place.”
“Certainly and decidedly not,” said Curzon. “Waive etiquette!—why, sir,
we have no quarrel with you; never saw you before.”
“Well, now, isn’t this hard?” said Mr. O’Gorman, addressing his friend,
who stood by with a pistol-case under his arm; “but I told Mark that I
was sure they’d be standing upon punctilio, for they were English.
Well, sir,” said he, turning towards Curzon, “there’s but one way to
arrange it now, that I see. Mr. Fitzpatrick, you must know, was
arrested this morning for a trifle of £140. If you or your friend
there, will join us in the bail we can get him out, and he’ll fight you
in the morning to your satisfaction.”
When the astonishment this proposal had created subsided, we assured
Mr. O’Gorman that we were noways disposed to pay such a price for our
amusement—a fact that seemed considerably to surprise both him and his
friend—and adding, that to Mr. Fitzpatrick personally, we should feel
bound to hold ourselves pledged at a future period, we left the ground,
Curzon laughing heartily at the original expedient thus suggested, and
I inwardly pronounced a most glowing eulogy on the law of imprisonment
for debt.
Before Mr. Fitzpatrick obtained the benefit of the act, we were ordered
abroad, and I have never since heard of him.