I had heard and read frequently of the exhilarating sensations of horse
exercise. My fellow-students were full of stories of the hunting-field
and the race-course. Wherever, indeed, a horse figured in a narrative,
there was an almost certainty of meeting some incident to stir the
blood and warm up enthusiasm. Even the passing glimpses one caught of
sporting-prints in shop-windows were suggestive of the pleasure imparted
by a noble and chivalrous pastime. I never closed my eyes all night,
revolving such thoughts in my head. I had so worked up my enthusiasm
that I felt like one who is about to cross the frontier of some new land
where people, language, ways, and habits are all unknown to him. “By
this hour to-morrow night,” thought I, “I shall be in the land of
strangers, who have never seen, nor so much as heard of me. There will
invade no traditions of the scoffs and jibes I have so long endured;
none will have received the disparaging estimate of my abilities, which
my class-fellows love to propagate; I shall simply be the traveller
who arrived at sundown mounted on a cream-colored palfrey,--a stranger,
sad-looking, but gentle, withal, of courteous address, blandly demanding
lodging for the night. 'Look to my horse, ostler,' shall I say, as I
enter the honeysuckle-covered porch of the inn. 'Blondel'--I will call
him Blondel--'is accustomed to kindly usage.'” With what quiet dignity,
the repose of a conscious position, do I follow the landlord as he shows
me to my room. It is humble, but neat and orderly. I am contented. I
tell him so. I am sated and wearied of luxury; sick of a gilded and
glittering existence. I am in search of repose and solitude. I order my
tea; and, if I ask the name of the village, I take care to show by my
inattention that I have not heard the answer, nor do I care for it.
Now I should like to hear how they are canvassing me in the bar, and
what they think of me in the stable. I am, doubtless, a peer, or a
peer's eldest son. I am a great writer, the wondrous poet of the day; or
the pre-Raphaelite artist; or I am a youth heart-broken by infidelity in
love; or, mayhap, a dreadful criminal. I liked this last the best, the
interest was so intense; not to say that there is, to men who are not
constitutionally courageous, a strong pleasure in being able to excite
terror in others.
But I hear a horse's feet on the silent street. I look out Day is just
breaking. Tim is holding Blondel at the door. My hour of adventure has
struck, and noiselessly descending the stairs, I issue forth.
“He is a trifle tender on the fore-feet, your honor,” said Tim, as I
mounted; “but when you get him off the stones on a nice piece of soft
road, he 'll go like a four-year-old.”
“But he _is_ young, Tim, isn't he?” I asked, as I tendered him my
half-crown.
“Well, not to tell your honor a lie, he is not,” said Tim, with the
energy of a man whose veracity had cost him little less than a spasm.
“How old would you call him, then?” I asked, in that affected ease that
seemed to say, “Not that it matters to me if he were Methuselah.”
“I could n't come to his age exactly, your honor,” he replied, “but I
remember seeing him fifteen years ago, dancing a hornpipe, more by token
for his own benefit; it was at Cooke's Circus, in Abbey Street, and
there wasn't a hair's difference between him now and then, except,
perhaps, that he had a star on the forehead, where you just see the mark
a little darker now.”
“But that is a star, plain enough,” said I, half vexed.
“Well, it is, and it is not,” muttered Tim, doggedly, for he was not
quite satisfied with my right to disagree with him.
“He's gentle, at all events?” I said, more confidently.
“He's a lamb!” replied Tim. “If you were to see the way he lets the
Turks run over his back, when he's wounded in Timour the Tartar, you
wouldn't believe he was a livin' baste.”
“Poor fellow!” said I, caressing him. He turned his mild eye upon me,
and we were friends from that hour.
What a glorious morning it was, as I gained the outskirts of the city,
and entered one of those shady alleys that lead to the foot of the
Dublin mountains! The birds were opening their morning hymn, and the
earth, still fresh from the night dew, sent up a thousand delicious
perfumes. The road on either side was one succession of handsome villas
or ornamental cottages, whose grounds were laid out in the perfection of
landscape gardening. There were but few persons to be seen at that early
hour, and in the smokeless chimneys and closed shutters I could read
that all slept,--slept in that luxurious hour when Nature unveils, and
seems to revel in the sense of unregarded loveliness. “Ah, Potts,” said
I, “thou hast chosen the wiser part; thou wilt see the world after thine
own guise, and not as others see it.” Has my reader not often noticed
that in a picture-gallery the slightest change of place, a move to
the left or right, a chance approach or retreat, suffices to make what
seemed a hazy confusion of color and gloss a rich and beautiful picture?
So is it in the actual world, and just as much depends on the point
from which objects are viewed. Do not be discouraged, then, by the dark
aspects of events. It may be that by the slightest move to this side or
to that, some unlooked-for sunlight shall slant down and light up all
the scene. Thus musing, I gained a little grassy strip that ran along
the roadside, and, gently touching Blonde! with my heel, he broke out
into a delightful canter. The motion, so easy and swimming, made it a
perfect ecstasy to sit there floating at will through the thin air, with
a moving panorama of wood, water, and mountain around me.
Emerging at length from the thickly wooded plain, I began the ascent of
the Three Rock Mountain, and, in my slackened speed, had full time to
gaze upon the bay beneath me, broken with many a promontory, backed by
the broad bluff of Howth, and the more distant Lambay. No, it is _not_
finer than Naples. I did not say it was; but, seeing it as I then saw
it, I thought it could not be surpassed. Indeed, I went further, and
defied Naples in this fashion:--
“Though no volcano's lurid light
Over thy bine sea steals along,
Nor Pescator beguiles the night
With cadence of his simple song;
“Though none of dark Calabria's daughters
With tinkling lute thy echoes wake,
Mingling their voices with the waters,
As 'neath the prow the ripples break;
“Although no cliffs with myrtle crown'd,
Reflected in thy tide, are seen,
Nor olives, bending to the ground,
Relieve the laurel's darker green;
“Yet--yet--”
Ah, there was the difficulty,--I had begun with the plaintiff, and
I really had n't a word to say for the defendant; and so, voting
comparisons odious, I set forward on my journey.
As I rode into Enniskerry to breakfast, I had the satisfaction of
overhearing some very flattering comments upon Blondel, which rather
consoled me for some less laudatory remarks upon my own horsemanship. By
the way, can there possibly be a more ignorant sarcasm than to say a
man rides like a tailor? Why, of all trades, who so constantly sits
straddle-legged as a tailor? and yet he is especial mark of this
impertinence.
I pushed briskly on after breakfast, and soon found myself in the deep
shady woods that lead to the Dargle. I hurried through the picturesque
demesne, associated as it was with a thousand little vulgar incidents
of city junketings, and rode on for the Glen of the Downs. Blondel and
I had now established a most admirable understanding with each other.
It was a sort of reciprocity by which I bound myself never to control
_him_, he in turn consenting not to unseat _me_. He gave the initiative
to the system, by setting off at his pleasant little rocking canter
whenever he chanced upon a bit of favorable ground, and invariably
pulled up when the road was stony or uneven; thus showing me that he was
a beast with what Lord Brougham would call “a wise discretion.” In like
manner he would halt to pluck any stray ears of wild oats that grew
along the hedge sides, and occasionally slake his thirst at convenient
streamlets. If I dismounted to walk at his side, he moved along unheld,
his head almost touching my elbow, and his plaintive blue eye mildly
beaming on me with an expression that almost spoke,--nay, it did speak.
I 'm sure I felt it, as though I could swear to it, whispering, “Yes,
Potts, two more friendless creatures than ourselves are not easy to
find. The world wants not either of us; not that we abuse it, despise
it, or treat it ungenerously,--rather the reverse, we incline favorably
towards it, and would, occasion serving, befriend it; but we are not,
so to say, 'of it.' There may be, here and there, a man or a horse that
would understand or appreciate us, but they stand alone,--they are not
belonging to classes. They are, like ourselves, exceptional.” If his
expression said this much, there was much unspoken melancholy in his sad
glance, also, which seemed to say, “What a deal of sorrow could I reveal
if I might!--what injuries, what wrong, what cruel misconceptions of
my nature and disposition, what mistaken notions of my character and
intentions! What pretentious stupidity, too, have I seen preferred
before me,--creatures with, mayhap, a glossier coat or a more silky
forelock--” “Ah, Blondel, take courage,--men are just as ungenerous,
just as erring!” “Not that I have not had my triumphs, too,” he seemed
to say, as, cocking his ears, and ambling with a more elevated toss
of the head, his tail would describe an arch like a waterfall; “no
salmon-colored silk stockings danced sarabands on _my_ back; I was
always ridden in the Haute École by Monsieur l'Etrier himself, the
stately gentleman in jackboots and long-waisted dress-coat, whose five
minutes no persuasive bravos could ever prolong.” I thought--nay, I was
certain at times--that I could read in his thoughtful face the painful
sorrows of one who had outlived popular favor, and who had survived to
see himself supplanted and dethroned.
There are no two destinies which chime in so well together as that of
him who is beaten down by sheer distrust of himself, and that of the
man who has seen better days. Although the one be just entering on life,
while the other is going out of it, if they meet on the threshold,
they stop to form a friendship. Now, though Blondel was not a man, he
supplied to my friendlessness the place of one.
The sun was near its setting, as I rode down the little hill into the
village of Ashford, a picturesque little spot in the midst of mountains,
and with a bright clear stream bounding through it, as fearlessly as
though in all the liberty of open country. I tried to make my entrance
what stage people call effective. I threw myself, albeit a little jaded,
into an attitude of easy indifference, slouched my hat to one side, and
suffered the sprig of laburnum, with which I had adorned it, to droop in
graceful guise over one shoulder. The villagers stared; some saluted me;
and taken, perhaps, by the cool acquiescence of my manner, as I returned
the courtesy, seemed well disposed to believe me of some note.
I rode into the little stable-yard of the “Lamb” and dismounted. I
gave up my horse, and walked into the inn. I don't know how others feel
it,--I greatly doubt if they will have the honesty to tell,--but for
myself, I confess that I never entered an inn or an hotel without a
most uncomfortable conflict within: a struggle made up of two very
antagonistic impulses,--the wish to seem something important, and a
lively terror lest the pretence should turn out to be costly. Thus
swayed by opposing motives, I sought a compromise by assuming that I
was incog.; for the present a nobody, to be treated without any
marked attention, and to whom the acme of respect would be a seeming
indifference.
“What is your village called?” I said, carelessly, to the waiter, as he
laid the cloth.
“Ashford, your honor. 'T is down in all the books,” answered the waiter.
“Is it noted for anything, or is there anything remarkable in the
neighborhood?”
“Indeed, there is, sir, and plenty. There's Glenmalure and the Devil's
Glen; and there's Mr. Snow Malone's place, that everybody goes to see:
and there's the fishing of Doyle's river,--trout, eight, nine, maybe
twelve, pounds' weight; and there's Mr. Reeve's cottage--a Swiss cottage
belike--at Kinmacreedy; but, to be sure, there must be an order for
that!”
“I never take much trouble,” I said indolently. “Who have you got in the
house at present?”
“There's young Lord Keldrum, sir, and two more with him, for the
fishing; and the next room to you here, there's Father Dyke, from
Inistioge, and he's going, by the same token, to dine with the Lord
to-day.”
“Don't mention to his Lordship that I am here,” said I, hastily. “I
desire to be quite unknown down here.” The waiter promised obedience,
without vouchsafing any misgivings as to the possibility of his
disclosing what he did not know.
To his question as to my dinner, I carelessly said, as if I were in
a West-end club, “Never mind soup,--a little fish,--a cutlet and a
partridge. Or order it yourself,--I am indifferent.” The waiter had
scarcely left the room when I was startled by the sound of voices
so close to me as to seem at my side. They came from a little wooden
balcony to the adjoining room, which, by its pretentious bow-window,
I recognized to be the state apartment of the inn, and now in the
possession of Lord Keldrum and his party. They were talking away in that
gay, rattling, discursive fashion very young men do amongst each other,
and discussed fishing-flies, the neighboring gentlemen's seats, and the
landlady's niece.
“By the way, Kel,” cried one, “it was in your visit to the bar that you
met your priest, was n't it?”
“Yes; I offered him a cigar, and we began to chat together, and so I
asked him to dine with us to-day.”
“And he refused?”
“Yes; but he has since changed his mind, and sent a message to say he
'll be with us at eight”.
“I should like to see your father's face, Kel, when he heard of your
entertaining the Reverend Father Dyke at dinner.”
“Well, I suppose he would say it was carrying conciliation a little too
far; but as the adage says, _À la guerre_--”
At this juncture, another burst in amongst them, calling out,
“You 'd never guess who 's just arrived here, in strict incog., and
having bribed Mike, the waiter, to silence. Burgoyne!”
“Not Jack Burgoyne?”
“Jack himself. I had the portrait so correctly drawn by the waiter,
that there's no mistaking him; the long hair, green complexion, sheepish
look, all perfect. He came on a hack, a little cream-colored pad he got
at Dycer's, and fancies he's quite unknown.”
“What _can_ he be up to now?”
“I think I have it,” said his Lordship. “Courtenay has got two
three-year-olds down here at his uncle's, one of them under heavy
engagements for the spring meetings. Master Jack has taken a run down to
have a look at them.”
“By Jove, Kel, you 're right! he's always wide awake, and that stupid
leaden-eyed look he has, has done him good service in the world.”
“I say, old Oxley, shall we dash in and unearth him? Or shall we let him
fancy that we know nothing of his being here at all?”
“What does Hammond say?”
“I'd say, leave him to himself,” replied a deep voice; “you can't go and
see him without asking him to dinner; and he 'll walk into us after, do
what we will.”
“Not, surely, if we don't play,” said Oxley.
“Would n't he, though? Why, he 'd screw a bet out of a bishop.”
“I 'd do with him as Tomkinson did,” said his Lordship; “he had him down
at his lodge in Scotland, and bet him fifty pounds that he could
n't pass a week without a wager. Jack booked the bet and won it, and
Tomkinson franked the company.”
“What an artful villain my counterpart must be!” I said. I stared in the
glass to see if I could discover the sheepish-ness they laid such
stress on. I was pale, to be sure, and my hair a light brown, but so was
Shelley's; indeed, there was a wild, but soft expression in my eyes that
resembled his, and I could recognize many things in our natures
that seemed to correspond. It was the poetic dreaminess, the lofty
abstractedness from all the petty cares of every-day life which vulgar
people set down as simplicity; and thus,--
“The soaring thoughts that reached the stare,
Seemed ignorance to them.”
As I uttered the consolatory lines, I felt two hands firmly pressed over
my eyes, while a friendly voice called out, “Found out, old fellow! run
fairly to earth!” “Ask him if he knows you,” whispered another, but in a
voice I could catch.
“Who am I, Jack?” cried the first speaker.
“Situated as I now am,” I replied, “I am unable to pronounce; but of one
thing I am assured,--I am certain I am not called Jack.”
The slow and measured intonation of my voice seemed to electrify them,
for my captor relinquished his hold and fell back, while the two others,
after a few seconds of blank surprise, burst into a roar of laughter; a
sentiment which the other could not refrain from, while he struggled to
mutter some words of apology.
“Perhaps I can explain your mistake,” I said blandly; “I am supposed to
be extremely like the Prince of Salms Hökinshauven--”
“No, no!” burst in Lord Keldrum, whose voice I recognized, “we never saw
the Prince. The blunder of the waiter led us into this embarrassment; we
fancied you were--”
“Mr. Burgoyne,” I chimed in.
“Exactly,--Jack Burgoyne; but you're not a bit like him.”
“Strange, then; but I'm constantly mistaken for him; and when in London,
I 'm actually persecuted by people calling out, 'When did you come up,
Jack?' 'Where do you hang out?' 'How long do you stay?' 'Dine with
me to-day--to-morrow--Saturday?' and so on; and although, as I have
remarked, these are only so many embarrassments for me, they all show
how popular must be my prototype.” I had purposely made this speech of
mine a little long, for I saw by the disconcerted looks of the party
that they did not see how to wind up “the situation,” and, like all
awkward men, I grew garrulous where I ought to have been silent. While
I rambled on, Lord Keldrum exchanged a word or two with one of his
friends; and as I finished, he turned towards me, and, with an air of
much courtesy, said,--
“We owe you every apology for this intrusion, and hope you will pardon
it; there is, however, but one way in which we can certainly feel
assured that we have your forgiveness,--that is, by your joining us. I
see that your dinner is in preparation, so pray let me countermand it,
and say that you are our guest.”
“Lord Keldrum,” said one of the party, presenting the speaker; “my name
is Hammond, and this is Captain Oxley, Coldstream Guards.”
I saw that this move required an exchange of ratifications, and so I
bowed, and said, “Algernon Sydney Potts.”
“There are Staffordshire Pottses?”
“No relation,” I said stiffly. It was Hammond who made the remark, and
with a sneering manner that I could not abide.
“Well, Mr. Potts, it is agreed,” said Lord Keldrum, with his peculiar
urbanity, “we shall see you at eight No dressing. You'll find us in this
fishing-costume you see now.”
I trust my reader, who has dined out any day he pleased and in any
society he has liked these years past, will forgive me if I do not enter
into any detailed account of my reasons for accepting this invitation.
Enough if I freely own that to me, A. S. Potts, such an unexpected honor
was about the same surprise as if I had been announced governor of a
colony, or bishop in a new settlement.
“At eight sharp, Mr. Potts.”
“The next door down the passage.”
“Just as you are, remember!” were the three parting admonitions with
which they left me.