I stood for a minute to gain time for recollection, and examine

the appearance of the building. There was nothing remarkable in the

exterior, and all within the house appeared dark and silent; at least,

the latticed window? were so jealously blinded, that it was impossible

to discover aught of the interior. I took courage--advanced to the

door, and tapped modestly like one rather dubious of admission. Again, I

repeated the knock, and a slight bustle within told that the summons was

heard. Presently a chain was removed, bolts were withdrawn, and an

old man dressed in plain blue livery stood in the doorway, and civilly

inquired my business. My tale was briefly told. The servant bowed, and

left me in the hall, while he went to apprize his master that a late

visitor had arrived. Returning directly, he requested me to follow

him--and leading the way down a long passage, conducted me to a

well-lighted chamber, and announced that Mr. Hartley would wait upon me

immediately.

Here I was, in military parlance, safe within the body of the place,

and all the approaches carried without opposition. So far the work went

bravely on; and, like a prudent soldier, I occupied the interval of

expectation in examining the interior, to enable me if possible to form

some idea of the quality of the inmates.

The room, though small, exhibited good taste and considerable elegance.

The furniture and hangings were designed with great simplicity, but

formed evidently of costly materials. A harp and guitar, numerous

music-books, and several cases filled with well-bound volumes, bespoke

the refinement of the owner. But the pictures were still more striking;

they were generally oil paintings, and framed magnificently; and with

these the walls were completely covered from the ceiling to the very

base. The mantel-piece was still more remarkable. It was crowded with

what are termed articles of _vertu_, being curious carvings in ivory and

porcelain, of great value. There were also some oriental toys in silver

filagree, shell snuff-boxes of unequalled beauty, and others of massive

gold. But what fixed my attention at once, was a cabinet picture of

small size, that rested on the centre of the slab--and which, even to an

unpractised eye, appeared in its style and execution a _chef-d’oeuvre_.

The painting represented a young man, dressed in the fanciful costume

of an Eastern rover, holding a midnight interview with a beautiful girl,

who wore the habit of a _religieuse_. Moonlight, a seashore, a monastic

building half-hidden by trees of tropic growth, with a vessel in the

distance, formed the scene. One arm of the corsair clasped the nun;

while the other pointed to the ship, whose canvas, hanging loosely,

indicated a readiness for sailing--and the rover’s action seemed as if

he was “whispering her fears away,” and urging the novice to accompany

him. The character of both figures was admirably marked. In the rover’s

handsome features there was much to admire, and more to fear.

The expression was that of high courage, mingled with a haughty

recklessness, that might either be caused by personal indifference

to danger or a disregard of suffering in others. But in the beautiful

_religieuse_ there was a confiding love so gentle, so fixed, so

unsuspecting, that one dwelt with pleasure on a face, where every best

property of woman seemed combined.

The dresses of the twain were even more dissimilar than the character

of the features. His costume was a tight jacket and expansive trowsers,

belted with an Indian sash, which, while it displayed the symmetry of

a faultless figure, permitted the wearer to put forth his strength with

graceful freedom. Had his wild profession been doubtful, the Albanian

cap, ornamented pistols, sabre and poniard, would have betrayed his

calling. His beautiful companion wore the dress of the Ursulines; the

back-turned hood displayed the sweetest face imaginable, while the hand

that rested on the rover’s arm, as if to stay his departure, might have

formed a study for Canova.

The picture fascinated me; all was forgotten while I gazed upon it. I

looked again. Despite the darkening influence of sun and storm, a thick

moustache, and foreign costume, the corsair’s aspect was decidedly

British. It was a fair skin embrowned by climate, with which a wild and

martial carriage and hair of raven blackness accorded well.

Wrapped in silent admiration--now gazing on “the bold brigand”--now

enraptured with the sweet gentleness of the confiding girl, who seemed

ready to abandon “home and heaven” for “her wild love,” I did not hear

the door open until the host was almost standing at my side. Addressing

me in a voice of peculiar sweetness, he bade me a warm welcome,

apologized for not receiving me in the hall; and then telling me that

supper was in readiness, he led me with excellent tact into a general

conversation.

We talked on indifferent subjects for a few minutes, while gradually my

self-possession returned. Although described by the unknown as stern and

suspicious, and by Andy as misanthropic and unamiable, my host seemed

kind and hospitable to a marvel. Just then the door opened again, a girl

of remarkable beauty glided in, and Mr. Hartley led her forward. “This,

sir,” said he, “is my daughter; and this gentleman, Isidora, is our

guest.” We both cast down our eyes; she in maiden timidity colouring to

the very brow, and I--I shame to own it--blushing like a country orator

addressing “the unwashed” for the first time. I muttered a confused

apology for an intrusion at that late hour, said something about bad

roads, a lame horse, and Heaven knows what beside, to which she gave

a gentle acceptation. I raised my eyes. By heaven! there stood the

corsair’s mistress! ay, there in youthful loveliness--and the host,--all

his bland expression gone, as, steadily regarding us, he looked with

scornful indifference beneath his coal-black brows (but that his years

doubled the corsair’s in the painting,)--his haughty curl of lip and

eyebrow would have half persuaded me that he had himself been a rover of

the sea.

At this moment, and luckily for me (for I was “regularly bothered,”)

the blue-coated servitor announced supper. I presented my arm to Miss

Hartley, and through a side door we entered the eating room. By a

singular self-command, the host’s features had regained their

previous expression of urbanity; his manner was courteous, his welcome

encouraging, and he seemed the very opposite of Andy Beg’s description,

when he called him repulsive and inhospitable.

Nothing could surpass the neatness of the apartment. In all its

arrangements simplicity had been regarded; yet still there was an

evidence of luxury and wealth in the quantity and massive fashion of

the plate, which seemed better suited to the mansion of a noble than the

retreat of a recluse.

Never did intruder time his visit more opportunely, if the excellence of

a supper were the proof. The meal passed over agreeably, though in point

of performance the actors differed. Miss Hartley ate little, her father

turned out an indifferent trencher-man; but, faith, I made up for this

double deficiency, as the skeleton that left the table of what came

there, a goodly wild-duck, proved. No wonder; since I dined at the

lonely inn, if varied exercise could produce a healthy appetite, mine

should have been in top condition. But hunger has its limit,--mine was

at last appeased; supper removed, wine and fruit were placed upon the

table, and old blue-coat disappeared, leaving me perfectly satisfied

with my quarters, and much more so with my company.

The host having filled his glass, pushed the decanters across the table.

“Come, sir, drink; you will own that Port wine sound, and this Madeira

has circumnavigated the world; but I recommend the Burgundy. Probably,

as it seems the custom of the country, you are not a wine-drinker after

supper, should you therefore prefer them, you will find cognac and

hollands on the buffet.”

Egad, the more I saw of it, the more I admired the establishment.

Burgundy and Madeira that had circumnavigated the world--these formed

very gentlemanly tipple to sport under a racketty old roof, to a

self-invited visitor, who had dropped in, like a priest collecting corn,

with a “God save all here.” Nor did I neglect the invitation. The bottle

passed freely, previous restraint wore away, and some allusion of Mr.

Hartley’s to a military life, led me by degrees into a private history

of my own, until

“I ran it through, even from my boyish days

To the very moment when he bade me tell it.”

I afterwards recollected that some of Mr. Hartley’s questions could only

have been asked by a person to whom the earlier history of my parents

was intimately known, but I did not notice it at the moment.

Charmed at the urbanity of my host, and flattered that my young

Desdemona expressed an interest in my fortunes, and

“Gave me for my pains a world of smiles,”

I became momentarily more intimate and at ease; deciding that the

unknown and his boatman, Andy Beg, were little better than libellers,

when they insinuated aught against the suavity of temper and sociability

of my excellent host.

Isidora had risen to leave the room, and something in her look or

attitude recalled the fascinating picture of the corsair’s mistress to

my memory.

“How like!” I muttered, loud enough to awake the attention of her

father. “I would be sworn that picture on the mantel-piece of the

drawing-room was painted for this young lady,--ay, and bating some

twenty years, the gallant rover looks your very image, sir.”

Never was a more unlucky guess hazarded by a blundering Irishman! Had

lightning struck the building, or a grenade dropped hissing through the

ceiling, the effect could not have caused so fierce an explosion as that

which followed this infelicitous discovery. In a moment a lurid glare

flashed underneath the host’s contracted brows; while Isidora, pale

as marble, leaned against the buffet for support. Persuaded that I had

committed some villanous impertinence, I sprang forward to assist her;

but, with extraordinary strength, her father pushed me like a child

aside, led his daughter from the room, closed the door, and left me

in undisturbed possession, to commune with my own thoughts, and

congratulate myself on the brilliant effect that my first essay as a

connoisseur in painting had produced.

After a short, but to me most painful, interval of suspense, Mr. Hartley

returned. His rage had subsided; every trace of its first violence had

disappeared; but his features wore an expression of stern rebuke, that

made me far more uncomfortable than if personal violence were threatened

for my offending. He leaned his back against the sideboard, and after

regarding me for a minute with a fixed look, thus commenced:--

“Young man, you have wantonly annoyed those who were anxious to show

you kindness; and, by a most unhappy and impertinent allusion to what

concerned _you_ nothing, you have in _me_ roused feelings, which I wish

suppressed for ever, and recalled to my daughter’s memory an event that

can only bring with it painful recollections.”

I listened patiently thus far; but, unable to restrain my feelings,

interrupted the expostulation, while my look and manner evinced that my

contrition was sincere.

“By Heaven, Mr. Hartley, my offence was wholly unintentional! While

waiting for you in the drawing-room, by mere accident I noticed this

unlucky picture. Had I fancied that a secret connexion existed between

that painting and any event of your past life, I should have scorned to

cast an eye upon it, as much as I would to pry into yonder open letter

that lies upon the mantel-piece. I only saw in it, what I considered a

beautiful creation of the fancy; some imaginary scene--”

Suddenly my host interrupted me.--“Creation of the fancy! No, no,

boy; all sad--sad reality! Oh, Heaven, that the scene were indeed

imaginary!”--and, apparently overcome with some fearful recollection,

he turned his face towards the fire, and I could observe a convulsive

shudder creep over him as he writhed in silent agony. I was dreadfully

mortified at the misery which my folly had occasioned, and determined at

once to quit a house in which my visit had proved so mischievous. I went

forward, and took Mr. Hartley’s hand.

“Can you pardon a stupid impertinence of mine, which has unhappily

recalled afflicting recollections? When I am gone, excuse my imprudence

to your daughter, and assure her how sincerely I repent my folly.

And now, farewell, sir,--I feel myself an unwelcome visitor, and will

relieve you of my presence.”

I made a movement towards the door; but my host waved his hand as if to

detain me--

“Stop,” said lie; “it is nearly midnight, and the first place where you

could obtain a lodging is ten miles distant.”

“I have walked twenty before now,” I replied, “to shoot a dozen snipes.”

“The road is bad and difficult to find,” rejoined Mr. Hartley.

“I can rouse a peasant on the way side, and he will guide me.”

“It is dangerous, besides,” added he; “a murder was committed there but

lately.”

“No matter,” I returned; “I have little indeed to lose.”

“You put your trust in honest Juvenal,” said he, with a faint smile.

“‘Cantabit vacuus’--it is a good adage; no security better against

robbery than an empty pocket. But they may knock you on the head, and

discover when too late--that you are not a gauger;” and he gave me a

side look, to see what effect the allusion had.

“Faith, sir,” I returned, “I trust that that mistake shall not occur a

second time, although to it I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Hartley, with real or simulated surprise.

“It is true, sir,” I replied.

“Well, then, sit down and tell me the adventure. Come, my dear boy,”

he added, in tones so soft, so kind, that I was amazed at the sudden

transition from anger to urbanity; “all is over and forgotten. I will

make your peace with Isidora in the morning, and your penalty shall

be--a short lecture and another bottle. You are young--your foot has

only touched the threshold of the stage of life--at your age one sees

only the sun-streak in the sky, but never looks for the cloudbank that

lies behind it. What you to-night intended in idle compliment, exploded

a hidden mine that all but wrecked our friendship in its very opening.

Be advised by one who knows the world, or ought to know it: restrain

curiosity in all that concerns another; and know men well, before you

pry into their secrets. At the conclusion of this lecture my host took

a flask of Burgundy from the sideboard, extracted the cork, and down

we sate _tête-à-tête_ again; and, at his desire, I narrated my evening

encounter with the smugglers.

“Upon my honour,” he observed, as I ended, “a perilous adventure; and,

faith, the scoundrels gave you coarse usage. I know the scene of your

flight; a rough road to gallop over, and the broken bridge, too--did

your horse carry you across that ugly chasm?”

“Took it in stroke, and never touched it with a toe. But for the

villains with the rope, I should have had the race hollow.”

“Ay--these, ‘misbegotten knaves,’ as Jack Falstaff would call them,

they ended the affair effectually. Egad--the rope was an excellent

contrivance to dismount a cavalier. But you must have had a severe fall?

Are you bruised?--are you injured?”

“Not much, I fancy--although I do feel sore and stiff about the back and

shoulders.”

“It must be examined. I shall be leech for the nonce; and I am not a bad

surgeon. Come, let us finish the flask, and then I will show you to a

chamber.”

The time-piece on the chimney-piece chimed three quarters, the wine

disappeared, I rose to retire; when my host took up a chamber-lamp and

led the way. Proceeding along a narrow gallery, we entered an apartment

at its extremity. Mr. Hartley lighted the candles. “These are your

quarters,” said he. “Here make yourself at home, and I will return in a

few minutes and pronounce upon your bruises.”

Nothing could surpass the neatness of my dormitory. The curtains and

bed furniture were chintz, with drawers, cabinets, and wardrobes, all

of Indian workmanship. A glorious fire of bog-deal was blazing in the

grate, and on the table I remarked a dressing-case, with every thing

requisite even for the toilet of a man of fashion--while a morning gown,

slippers, and change of linen, were in process of airing for my service.

But other objects caught my eye. Over the chimney-piece hung a curious

collection of fire-arms; and beside them, some splendid sabres were

suspended. Some were of foreign shape, and richly ornamented with gold

and silver mounting; others, made by English artists, were distinguished

from the rest by their exquisite finish and simplicity, while not a few

bore semblance of great antiquity, and seemed retained rather as objects

of curiosity than use.

On his return, Mr. Hartley found me admiring his armoury; but I neither

hazarded a remark nor dared to ask a question. The lesson I had recently

received would last me for awhile; and had a ghost and goule been

sitting in the corner, _tête-à-tête_, I should have scarcely ventured to

inquire “What the devil brought them there?”

“There are some handsome weapons in that collection?” said the host.

“They appear most valuable,” I replied. “I am not a judge of foreign

arms; but I see some English guns of beautiful workmanship.” Mr.

Hartley passed these lightly by; but taking down a sabre and pistols,

he examined them with marked attention. The latter he replaced, but

retained the sabre in his hand.

“Is that sword a valuable one?” My host started. I felt my face flush.

Had I again committed mischief? But Mr. Hartley, on this score, relieved

me speedily.

“You ask me is this sabre valuable? It is _invaluable_. The blade is of

the purest Damascene. Observe its beautiful tracery; and its temper is

so exquisite, that, without indenting its own edge to the extent of a

pin’s point, I could have once shorn that bar of iron in twain,”--and

he pointed to the grate. A knock was heard at the door. “It is

Dominique--Come in.”

As he spoke, a new and very remarkable personage presented himself. He

was a negro of uncommon height; and if his shape could be relied on,

of herculean strength. His limbs, though too heavy to be graceful, were

finely moulded; his shoulders square, his breast ample. He wore a light

jacket and loose trowsers, and was provided with a china basin, some

phials, and a napkin.

“Now,” said Mr. Hartley, “for our operations. Dominique, assist this

gentleman, remove his coat, and bare his shoulders.”

The negro obeyed, and I submitted to examination.

“Upon my word, you have made little ado about what might have been a

serious injury. Your back and arms are extensively contused, the whole

surface is bruised, and the skin discoloured. Come, we shall take a

little blood, and then embrocate the parts affected.”

I felt inclined to demur against submitting to phlebotomy, but mine was

no common doctor. The negro bound my arm, produced a lancet, opened a

vein with great adroitness, while his master overlooked the operation,

until he thought that I had lost a sufficiency of blood. After a copious

depletion, Dominique lubricated my back with some oily substance; and,

having ascertained that all was correctly done, he assisted me to bed;

while his master bade me a friendly good night, quitted the room, and

both left me “alone in my glory.”

What a “whirligig world” we live in! I was but one day fairly flown upon

it, and what a medley of adventure had it not produced! In the morning,

starting full of “gay hope,” and for the first time master of myself; in

the evening, captive of a gang of ruffians, who, in drunken barbarity,

would have consigned me to the bottom of the lake, with less compunction

than that with which a school-boy drowns a kitten. At night, inmate of a

strange mansion, doubtfully received, half rejected afterwards, and now

domesticated, as if I had been undoubted heir to every barren hill in

view. All this was passing strange; and, lost “in wild conjecture,” and

unable to read riddles, I betook myself quietly to sleep.

If there be faith in strong exercise, a deep potation, and bruised

bones, I ought to have slept soundly,--and so I did; dreaming

nevertheless of nuns and corsairs, smugglers and sacks, wild ducks,

burgundy, bloodletting, and Heaven knows what besides, until a gentle

touch upon the shoulder dispelled these troublous visions, and showed,

by the misty light of a dull October morning, the well-remembered

features of my kind and mysterious host, standing at my bedside.

“Have you rested well?” said the deep voice of Mr. Hartley, in the

gracious tones it could occasionally assume.

“I have slept most soundly; and find myself so far recovered from bruise

and battery, that I could”--

“Run anew the gauntlet as a gauger, and take the broken bridge, in

stroke,” added mine host, with a smile.

“Well, we shall not put you to the test to-day; you must keep quiet; at

least, so says Dominique, your leech. Do you wish to read? you will find

books. Would you write? there are materials in the drawing-room. Would

you shoot--swim--sail? Here are all facilities. Your mare is in my

stable, your cloak-case honestly restored; and, as the stranger avowed

who brought them hither, the steed uninjured and your effects untouched.

I have received important letters, which for a few hours oblige me to

leave home. Before supper you may count upon my return.”

I thanked him warmly for the kind manner in which he pressed my further

stay, but hinted that the time was limited within which I must report

myself at head-quarters.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “I know you must be in Dublin on the 24th; but this

is only the 20th. I will send you off to-morrow,--sounder in bones, and

safer in property, than when you honoured me with a visit.’Tis scarcely

six o’clock. Sleep till Dominique appears. Addio! One word more,--‘tis

cautionary,--we were introduced but yesterday; to-day makes or mars our

friendship!”

Before I could reply, he glided from the chamber, closed the door

softly, and left me to sleep or wake, just as I pleased.

I felt little inclination to court the “drowsy influence” of my pillow;

for the stranger’s parting words, like every thing about him, were a

mystery. Accordingly, I rose, threw aside the curtains, and let as much

light in as an overcast morning would admit through a lattice dimmed

with mist and rain.

It was yet but seven, and some time must elapse before the family would

be afoot. Out of doors, all looked cold and comfortless, and I was

obliged to betake myself to bed again, and there await patiently the

advent of my sable physician.

Sleep I could not; my brain was in a whirl, as the events of yesterday

crossed my mind in fast succession; all, or any, being sufficiently

exciting to stamp the day adventurous to a novice like myself, just

started on the world. But one engrossing recollection obliterated

all the rest, and the picture and supper-scene occupied my thoughts

exclusively.

As I pondered on the singular resemblance between the figures in the

painting and those of Isidora and “mine host,” my eyes involuntarily

rested on the arms which hung above the mantel-pieee. The sabre and

pistols rivetted my attention. They were the very identical weapons with

which the corsair in the picture was accoutred! Hartley’s eulogy upon

the sword, and the boast of his former prowess, confirmed the belief,

that though a “worthy Thane” at present, there was a period when his

calling was but indifferent, and himself, “if a man should speak truly,

little better than one of the wicked.” Just then I heard a gentle tap,

and Dominique made his appearance to ascertain how far I had benefited

by his leech-craft, and if necessary, to assist me at my toilet.

“Your master, Dominique, went early abroad to-day.”

“Yes, sir. He had business at some short distance from the house, but

he will not delay long. How much better your wounds look than could

have been expected from their appearance last night!” and the negro

embrocated my bruises again. “Pray, do you know, sir, any of the persons

who assailed you on the road?”

“Not I, in faith. From what I can collect, I was mistaken for another.”

“It was a bad blunder for you; but, all considered, you have escaped

wonderfully. It was very doubtful whether you could have left your

room this morning; and Miss Isidora begs to know whether you will have

breakfast in your chamber, or venture to the parlour.”

“To the parlour, certainly.” Up I sprang, dressed rapidly, and following

the sable functionary to the end of the corridor; he pointed to the

drawing-room door, bowed, left me, and I entered.

The room was still untenanted, and, to all appearance, precisely as

I had left it the preceding night. Reckless of the confusion it had

already caused, I determined to satisfy my curiosity again, and take

a second peep at the mysterious picture. From the doorway the massive

frame was visible, for my eyes had turned involuntarily to the place

where my thoughts had already wandered. I walked on and stood before the

painting.’Twas passing strange; there was the frame, but both lady and

corsair had vanished; and the parting scene of love had changed to one

of vengeance. How opposite the subject, too--Blue Beard about to shorten

Fatima by the head, for being over curious, like myself, in a strange

house and on a first visit. Was this pointed as a hint to me? I’faith,

it looked very like it, but, before I could determine whether the

painting was designed to convey this silent lesson, a light step behind

announced the presence of Isidora. She had entered from the adjoining

room unperceived, and came to tell me that breakfast waited.

All things considered, the meal passed over with less embarrassment than

might have been expected from a _tête à tête_ between two novices like

us, who had parted in the unpromising manner we had done the night

before. Although timid as one unacquainted with the world will naturally

be when she is first addressed by a stranger, Isidora’s was the

diffidence of maiden modesty rather than _mauvais honte_; while I,

appertaining to that numerous class intituled “bashful Irishmen,”

mustered my small stock of assurance, as I whispered to myself old

Chapman’s lines--

“Ah! crrared sheep’s-head, hast thou liv’d thus long,

And dar’st not look a woman in the face?”

Certain it is, that, after having duly ascertained that my mare and

baggage had passed through the hands of the Philistines uninjured, I

returned gallantly to the drawing-room. There I behaved as a soldier of

promise should do; ending by proposing a walk to the fair hostess, which

invitation on her part was gracefully accepted.

The day had improved considerably; and we strolled arm-in-arm to

the brow of a small hill, which, rising boldly above the copse that

encircled it, commanded a splendid view of a spacious lake, with

woodlands in the foreground and mountains in the distance. This was

a favourite spot, and frequently, as my companion told me, visited by

herself and Mr. Hartley. We placed ourselves on a rustic bench under

the shading of a fine old elm; and, while I could not but admire the

romantic scenery that everywhere met the eye, I marvelled that one who

had mingled in the world, and had ample means to do so--as all about

his domicile inferred--should seclude the young beauty beside me in a

wilderness, fitted for men only of lawless habits and broken fortunes.

“Do you not, at times, find this place solitary, Miss Hartley?” I asked,

in a careless tone.

“It is retired, certainly; but I have been accustomed from my childhood

to retirement,” she replied.

“Yes, but one who has been in the world--”

“Would, no doubt, find this mansion disagreeable. I have been secluded

from infancy.”

“Indeed!”

“For fifteen years I never set my foot beyond the convent garden.”

“Were you intended for a _religieuse?_”

“I believe not.”

“Why, then, seclude you from the world?”

“The cloister is surely the best asylum for those who need protection.”

“You lost your mother when young?”

To judge by its effect on my fair companion, the allusion was

particularly unfortunate. The cheek, “but feebly touched with red” just

now, flushed, and told that I had committed a fresh indiscretion. By a

sudden impulse I seized her hand:--

“Have I again offended? Alas, Miss Hartley, I am inexcusable! But, as it

was perfectly unintentional, may I once more entreat forgiveness?”

[Illustration: 0071]

“For what?” exclaimed the deep voice of my host, as, to our mutual

astonishment and dismay, he stepped from the thicket. In confusion, I

dropped his daughter’s hand.

“Pray, young sir, what may be the offending which required such earnest

supplication to be pardoned?”

“An impertinent question,” I replied.

“Repeat it,” he continued, as he fixed his eye steadily on mine.

“I inquired whether Miss Hartley had not been designed to take the veil,

that for so long a period of her life she had lived the inmate of a

convent.”

“It was a silly and a harmless question,” he answered drily. “Know you

not that it is customary in catholic countries to entrust the daughters

of the noblest families to religious communities for instruction?

Well, Isidora, the pardon may be granted: for it is, possibly, the last

offending he shall perpetrate or you forgive. Come, my girl, dinner has

been ordered two hours earlier than usual, to enable Mr. O’Halloran to

proceed this evening on his route. This may sound inhospitable, sir,

but it is necessary. Isidora, let us look upon that lake, and these

mountains: we look upon them for the last time!”

I started. What did all this mean? I looked at Mr. Hartley, but his face

wore the same expression it always did; and if on the tablet of memory

the past and present were fast careering, the volume was sealed to me.

Dinner was served: it was a hurried and unsocial meal; and when the

cloth was lifted, Isidora left the room.

“Drink, sir,” said the host--“time flies; and in half an hour _you_ will

be on the road, and _I_ preparing for a longer journey. Those pistols on

the table are yours. Fearing lest they had suffered by the night air,

I had them discharged and cleaned.” He got up, took the weapons, and

examined them critically. “From the cypher, I presume them to have been

your father’s.” He sprang the ramrods--“Clean and effective,” he said.

“In travelling, there are two things I never delegate to another--my

horse and my weapons. The first I see attended to before myself; and the

second, I take especial care shall not be found wanting when required.

You will find ammunition in that drawer, and I beg you to excuse me for

five minutes.”

When he was gone, I reloaded my pistols--filled another glass

of wine--wondered what the devil would come next--heard the door

open--looked round, and saw mine host leading his fair daughter in.

“Isidora,” he said, “comes to bid you farewell. I overheard you ask

pardon for some imaginary offending, and she will confirm it. My love,

give the gentleman that ring.”

In deep confusion, the blushing girl pulled a jewel from her finger.

“No--no, love--a diamond would be ill suited for the hand that in a

brief space may be cold upon a battle-field.’Twould be to gorge with

treasure they could not estimate, the human vultures which follow to

batten on kindred carrion. No love, that other. It is, Mr. O’Halloran,

the trophy of an early adventure--a simple hoop of gold--pure as it

comes from the mine. As a remembrance, rich as if it had issued from

Golconda--and as a bauble valueless, and therefore the fitter for a

soldier.”

Isidora placed the keepsake on my finger, and with my lips I pressed her

trembling hand. Her father gave a signal--and she hastily left the room

by one door, as the blue-coated attendant entered by another to say that

“my horse was waiting.”

“I will attend you to the gate,” said my host; and we proceeded down the

long corridor together. At the entrance I found my mare, full of life

and fit for any thing. Blue-coat housed my pistols in the holsters,

Mr. Hartley squeezed my hand, and I sprang into the saddle, muttering

thanks, which mine host returned with something like a blessing. He

turned towards the door--I rode round the angle of the court-yard.

Casting my eyes back I took a last look at the house, and from an

upper window a white arm waved its parting farewell. Who sent that mute

addio?--who--but Isidora!

CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST.

“_Davy_.--Doth the man of war stay all night?

“_Shallow_,--Yes, Davy--I will use him well.”

Shakspeare.

As I rode from Mr. Hartley’s, I could scarcely persuade myself that the

transactions of the last two days were aught but a coinage of the brain,

and took the liberty of respectfully inquiring of myself whether I were

actually _compos mentis_. As I looked around, I received on this point

a mute affirmative. I was sitting in mine own saddle--bestrode the best

mare that ever cleared a broken bridge--identified the holsters at my

pommel--my cloak-bag was duly secured upon its pad--and, stronger proof,

“a gay gold ring” glittered on my finger.

It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the

scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when

the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind,

I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be

traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to

take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and

the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles

were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize,

there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone

accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting

bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and

received an honourable welcome.

Standing at the door, Andy Beg appeared as if he had been for some time

in waiting. He held a letter in his hand, and had a gun-case under his

arm. Having grinned what he intended to be a civil recognition, he

took my pistols and cloak bag, and led the way into this mountain

caravansera. If for me the fatted calf had not been killed, still

preparations had been made for supper--for a Nora Crina sort of cook,

in short petticoats and a gown curiously tucked up, crossed me in the

passage with a brace of moor-fowls ready for the brander. Miss Malone

was stabled as became her worth--and I duly inducted into a cheerful

chamber, the “great one” of the Yellow Lion, and evidently reserved for

honourable guests. Having seated myself before the fire, I broke the

seal of the packet which Andy Beg had delivered, and found it to be a

valedictory epistle from that mysterious personage, Mr. Hartley. The

letter ran thus:--

“Our acquaintance has commenced under such singular circumstances that I

trace in it the hand of destiny--for chance could not have thus brought

us together, when to meet was every thing but impossible. In me, know

one who influences your fortunes--one, who by a breath can confer

or withhold what men erroneously consider the passport to human

happiness--wealth! For the future, I shall watch your career, and every

action of your life shall be under a rigid _surveillance_. Be prudent,

and I promise you a goodly independence. Disappoint my hopes, and you

never see me more. To suppose that youth will not err occasionally,

would be to plead ignorance of what mankind is. But remember, for folly

there is pardon--for vice none. May you pass the ordeal unscathed!

“No one is secure against the frowns of fortune; and it may be decreed

that you shall not escape. Mark me, boy! When friends fall off, the

future is overcast, and all around seems desperate, write freely--let

nothing be held back--and even in that heavy hour I may step between you

and your fate. The address I enclose will always find me.

“Farewell; Isidora sends a kind remembrance.

“Yours, as you conduct yourself,

“John Hartley.”

“P.S.--You admired a gun of Manton’s; I beg you to accept it. You can

safely forward it to Dublin by the stage coach which passes the inn

to-morrow morning.”

Another postscript was annexed: it commanded me to keep profoundly

secret my recent escapade among the smugglers, as well as my subsequent

introduction to this my most mysterious correspondent. To this strange

epistle, I returned a dutiful reply; and having despatched Andy Beg with

my letter, I supped--went to sleep--and dreamed till cockcrow of the

strange _dramatis personae_ who had figured so prominently in my late

adventures.

On the fourth evening I reached the metropolis in safety--reported

myself next morning to the Colonel--obtained a barrack-room in

George’s-street--was introduced to my brother officers, and committed

duly to be drilled. I mounted the “red-rag”--and satisfied myself by a

sly inspection as I passed every hatter’s shop, from the effigy of

the great King William even unto Stephen’s Green, that the jacket was

accurate in its proportions, and conferred immortal honour upon the

builder of the same.

Among some introductory letters, one had been given me by my father,

addressed to a respectable merchant to whom he annually consigned his

wool. His name was Pryme--he lived on one of the quays, was reputed

to be very wealthy, and was a rigid quaker. When I called at his

counting-house I found that he had been absent for a day or two, and

was gone to the country on business; but from his son I received much

civility and any information that I required. The young quaker was a

little older than I, but in height and general appearance singularly

like me. Indeed, we might have passed for twin brothers, had not the cut

and colour of our garments announced that no relationship could exist

between a flashy flanker and a sober youth, whose conversation and outer

man told plainly that he had eschewed the pomps and vanities of this

wicked world. According to my father’s orders, Mr. Pryme was not only

to supply me with good advice, but also to furnish me with money when

required--and one fine evening the young quaker, after mess, visited my

barrack-room, and then and there replenished a treasury which a military

outfit had nearly exhausted.

Of course he was hospitably entertained. The bottle passed freely--some

of the younger hands dropped in--the kettle was put in requisition--and

it was decreed that whisky punch should complete what port wine had

handsomely commenced already.

At eleven o’clock the party were regularly screwed, the quaker worse

than any. We had indulged in divers drunken freaks; and not the least

ridiculous was an interchange of clothes between me and Simon Pure. Our

next proceeding was to seek adventure, and sally forth upon the town;

I attired in a snuff-coloured single-breasted coatee and broad-brimmed

hat, and brother Samuel in full regimentals and a bearskin chaco.

[Illustration: 0077]

Our career was short and brilliant. We managed to get up a row in

Dame-street with a party of college men, bent on the same errand as

ourselves. The watch interfered--we joined our quondam opponents in

a treaty, offensive and defensive, to resist this impertinent

intervention, and the fight for a short time was respectably maintained.

But numbers succeeded. I was stretched _hors de combat_; sundry

belligerents (the quaker included) were captured and carried to the

watch-house, while the remainder, reserving themselves for deeds of

valour on a future day, levanted, and left us to our fate.

Either owing to the severity of the blow, or from the shock of the fall,

after having saluted my mother earth I lay perfectly motionless; while,

alarmed at this proof of prowess, instead of conveying me to durance

vile, the guardians of the night, declaring me dead as Julius Cæsar,

carried me into a neighbouring apothecary’s, to ascertain whether that

disciple of the healing god could minister to mortal wounds, and set

defunct gentlemen safe upon their legs again. The doctor having wiped

and mounted his spectacles, proceeded to what he believed would turn out

a _post mortem_ examination; for after a single glance, he started back

and exclaimed--

“Why, ye villans--every sowl of ye will be hanged! Haven’t ye murdered a

quaker?”

“Not at all,” responded the commander of the faithful. “Sure it was the

quaker that murdered us.”

“Have done, ye scoundrels! He’s a man of peace.”

“Pace or war,” returned a watchman, “he’s the hardest hitter betune this

and Bully’s acre, and that’s a big word. He give me one clip wid the

left hand, and jist look at my eye, af ye plase. By this book,” and

Charlie reverently held up his lantern, “I think it was the crown of my

head that first titched the gravel. It was the clanest knock down I

ivir got--and many’s the floorer I’ve had in my time from thim college

divils. Bad luck attind them night and day--the thieves!”

“Who _is_ the gentleman?” inquired the apothecary.

“Arrah! sorra one of us knows,” was the reply.

“Search his pockets,” said the leech;--“some paper will probably tell.”

The quaker’s coatee forthwith underwent a judicial investigation, and

divers mercantile documents at once established the identity.

“Why,” said the apothecary, “he’s son of Mr. Pryme, the rich merchant,

a man whom every body respects. By my conscience, I have one comfort for

ye. If any thing goes wrong with the boy here, every man Jack of ye is

sure of Botany Bay--ay! and the devil a rap it will cost any of ye for

the passage out.”

“Oh!--murder! murder!” ejaculated sundry voices.

“Whish’t!” said the doctor, for I gave a twist upon the floor, and

muttered--“Fill fair, and be d------d to you.”

“Holy Bridget!” ejaculated the chief of the Charlies--“if ivir I met a

quaker of his kind. He drinks like a fish, and swears like a trooper!”

“All! he’s coming round again,” exclaimed the doctor. “See!--the

colour’s on his cheek. I tell you what you’ll do. Call a chair, carry

him home fur and asy; and, if ye can, smuggle him down the area steps,

for the ould gentleman wouldn’t be overpleased to see him. I’ll drop the

lad a line or two in the morning, and make all right for you.”

Instantly a charlie trotted off, and in a few minutes I was safely

ensconced in a “leathern conveniency” now extinct, which at that time

performed a double duty in transporting beauty to the ball-room, and

drunkards to their cribs.

I was promptly conveyed to my destination; and, by some strange

fatality, a new chief butler that very evening had succeeded the former

“pantler” of Mr. Pryme. I was, of course, personally unknown to’ him;

and having been discreetly slipped down the area steps, it was explained

that “I was rather the worse of liquor, and had been mighty pugnacious

into the bargain.” The butler took me on his back; and without let

or hindrance, I was carried to the chamber of the absent

Samuel--stripped--put to bed,--promised a bowl of whey--and left in

undisputed possession of the dormitory of the drunken quaker.

Two or three hours passed; and how the secret transpired I cannot guess.

I was buried in profound sleep, when lights, flashed across my eyes

and awakened me. Through an opening in the curtains I saw three females

beside the bed; and I also discovered that the apartment was a strange

one.

Surprise or fear will sometimes remove the consequences of inebriety,

and men become suddenly sober. I felt this singular effect. In a moment

after I awoke, I was conscious that I had been lately a victim to “the

rosy god,” and that I was now, in Irish parlance, “just in the very

centre of a hobble.” Dipping my face beneath the counterpane, I murmured

in a growling voice--“The lights! the lights! my head, my head!”

“Ruth,” said the elder female, “remove the candles. Samuel! my son, what

meaneth this? Art thou fallen?”

“Yes,” I groaned; “I had a heavy fall, indeed.”

“Ah! Samuel--would that that groan were the groan of sin, and not of

suffering; and that thy conscience rather than thy stomach were moved.

Speak! How did the enemy overtake thee? Where did he enclose thee in his

net?”

I dipped my head beneath the bed coverings, and, in a husky voice,

muttered--“The barracks in George’s-street.”

“Mercy on us!--Ruth--Rachel. It is the large brick building in which

abide godless men in scarlet. And how, Samuel, did the evil one achieve

thy fall?”

“One said I was floored by a charlie, and another left it upon a clip

from a blackthorn.”

“No, no, Samuel; I ask the carnal means. Was it by that soul-destroying

liquor, wine, or was it by worse?”

“Worse, worse,” I mumbled in reply.

“Oh dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Pryme.

“Ah me!” responded the gentle Rachel.

“Alack, alack! continued the conscientious Ruth.

“Name the snare of the tempter.”

“I’m too bashful,” I grumbled.

Nay, Samuel. Close thy ears, Ruth--avert thy head, Rachel; he would not

have his shame revealed. Was it, Samuel, a dancing Herodias--or some

Delilah, with bewitching looks!

“No, no; worse, worse.”

“Mercy on us! Speak, and name the fatal cause.”

“Punch--punch!--Whisky new--the kettle not boiled--and too much acid,”

came grumbling from below the blankets.

“How fearful is inebriety! Thy very voice, my son, is changed. But

verily, as it is thy first offending, I will pardon it, and give thee

the kiss of peace.”

So saying, she popped her head through the curtains, and bestowed upon

me the reconciliatory _accolade_. After thus sealing my pardon, the

worthy gentlewoman sailed out of the apartment, accompanied by her

handmaid Ruth.

I felt myself in a curious position,--located in a strange house,

ensconced in a comfortable bed from which the right owner would

presently eject me, and watched by a lovely girl of eighteen, on whose

sweet countenance the very imprint of innocence was stamped. And what

was I?--A regular impostor. Well, what was to be done? Should I admit

my villany, and be bundled off direct to Newgate, under a charge of

burglary, or some more felonious intentions? And to whom was this

interesting confession to be made? The old dame?--no, faith--there no

kiss of peace would ratify my pardon. The young one?--pshaw, the very

idea that she had been seated beside the bed of a man in scarlet would

annihilate Rachel on the spot. No doubt a discovery must ensue--but,

like every thing a man dislikes, I determined to procrastinate it and

trust to fortune.

“Samuel,” said the sweetest voice imaginable, “does thy head ache? Let

me apply this essence and passing her hand gently through the curtains,

she bathed my temples with _eau-de-Cologne_. My arm was outside the

coverlid,--she took my hand in hers and pressed it affectionately.

“How feverish!” she murmured. “But here comes Ruth, with something our

mother sends, which will allay thy thirst.”

The stiff-backed abigail deposited the liquid on a table.

“Come, Rachel, sleep will restore thy brother.” Then addressing

herself to me, “Farewell, friend Samuel,--may this be the last of thy

foolishness and after this flattering admonition, she exited from the

chamber, stiff as a ramrod.

“Farewell, dear brother,”--and Rachel again clasped my hand in

hers,--“good night! I trust sincerely I shall find thee better in the

morning.”

“Stop!” I mumbled. “Rachel, _dear,--dear_ Rachel!”

“What, my brother?”

“The--the--the kiss of peace!” I managed to stammer from beneath the bed

coverings.

“Willingly, dear Samuel;” and lips, “full, rosy, ripe,” were artlessly

pressed to mine, while a prayer, pure from a guileless heart, implored

pardon for the past, and a blessing for the future. The next moment the

door was softly closed, and I “left alone in my glory.”

Would it be credited that under such circumstances had the audacity

to sleep? But sleep I did--and when I slept, my head was on a peaceful

pillow, and the kiss of innocence still fragrant on my lips.

CHAPTER VIII. LIFE IN A WATCH-HOUSE

“I’ll ne’er be drunk while I live again but in honest, civil, godly

company, for this trick; if I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that

have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.”--Merry Wives of

Windsor.

Reader,--will you make a clean breast and answer a simple

question?--Were you ever regularly cribbed, and deposited for safe

keeping in a watch-house? Don’t confound places, and suppose for a

moment, that I mean those _réfugia peccatorum_, now-a-days called

“station-houses.” The two are no more alike, than the London Tavern is

to a boiled-beef shop. If you reply to my inquiry in the negative, and

art young, I can only say the mischief is irremediable--and for the best

reason, because watch-houses have been defunct these twenty years.

If, like myself, you are a gentleman of a certain age, and also plead

ignorance--you have nothing left but to mourn over misspent time, and

lament a misfortune, for which no one is blamable but yourself.

Many a jovial hour have I passed in St. Andrews--I don’t mean the Scotch

College so called, but the Dublin watch-house of pleasant memory; and I

have also occasionally favoured with a visit other establishments of

the same kind, where belated gentlemen were sure to find the door open

without having the trouble of knocking twice:--but who, except “upon

compulsion,” would enter a modern bastile? The place is in everything an

abomination, and so republican wherewithal in its regulations, as to

be fitted only for the reception of the _canaille_. There, captains and

cabmen are placed upon a par. “Look to him, jailer,” is the only order

that is attended to; and whether you belong to swells West-end, or the

swell-mob, matters not a brass button. The thing’s similar all through,

and you undergo the same process of purification. You are cooped up all

night, thermometer in summer 110, in winter down to zero--and bundled

before the Beak in the morning all “unkempt” and with “marvellous foul

linen.” Of course, you are not flat enough to give your real name. If

you are a tradesman, why you wish to “come it genteel,” and pass for the

time being as Mr. Ferdinand Fitzsnooks. If, on the contrary, you happen

to be a “top-sawyer,” you descend from your “high estate,” and--though

“Baron or Squire, or Knight of the Shire,”--adopt “for the nonce,” the

simpler appellation of Smith, Brown, or Robinson. Well, in due course,

you are favoured with a hearing--the charges are proven, and the Worthy

Magistrate--he’s always so termed in the Sunday papers--runs you up a

bill as glibly as the waitress of an eating-house. Imprimis, you are

scored down five shillings for being drunk--forty ditto, for assault and

battery--as much more for jingling some Doctor’s bell--and the tale ends

in your five-pound flimsy having got a regular sickener. You fork the

money out, and prepare directly to make your exit; but hold, you are not

safe yet--wait for the parting admonition. Beaky having first premised

that your name is neither Smith, Brown, nor Robinson, is sorry to assure

you that he considers you a disgrace to your family and order--and,

after a flattering panegyric upon his own nice sense of what is due to

public justice, he concludes with a positive assurance, that if you ever

renew your acquaintance with him, so far from standing “betwixt the wind

and your nobility,” you shall have the benefit of a month’s exercise

on the tread-mill, “and no mistake.” And now comes Mr. Ferdinand

Fitzsnooks. He stands forward--but how different is his bearing from

that of the pseudo Mr. Smith, who has just jumped into a cab in waiting,

with coronets emblazoned on the panels. He does not listen to the

charges with inattention; nor does he venture to meet the magistrate’s

eye, as it occasionally is turned to that part of the court where he

stands. He has been silly and noisy and riotous--but he has done no

mischief. He is found guilty, and fined three pounds. The pale girl

behind him--she with the infant in her arms--begins to sob, while

Ferdinand appeals to the bench, and on the plea of a first offence,

solicits a remission of the penalty. But Rhadamanthus is not sterner

than his judge. Pshaw! worthy sir, let him go! he is but a drudge in a

lawyer’s office--his master is strict--he will lose his situation, and

what will that pale girl and her infant do? No; the upright magistrate

is obdurate--and the slang of what “justice requires” is his only

answer to the prisoner’s appeal. The jailer, a filthy, dogged, drunken,

red-nosed brute, taps him on the shoulder and inquires, in pickpocket

parlance, whether he can “stump the rowdy?” A melancholy shake of

the head tells his inability, and he is committed for--what?--want of

money--to the House of Correction for a fortnight. Worthy sir--pause

before you send that silly young man to prison. Look at his wife--she

is barely eighteen--young, pretty, and inexperienced. She has not

a relative in London,--and steeped in poverty and surrounded with

temptations, will you rob her for fourteen days of her protector,

because he cannot command three sovereigns? True, you fined Mr. Smith

two pounds more, and also talked something about the tread-mill--but,

for your very life, you would not have ventured to commit him. I could

show you Mr. Smith’s name in the peerage--ay, and high up, too; and

he could have as easily given you a cheque upon his bankers for five

thousand, as he handed you the penalty of five pounds. And this is

law!--England, England! you call yourself the land of freedom!

But what has all this to do with your story? Reader,--I beg your pardon,

and thank you for the hint.

The hatch of St. Andrew’s watch-house--a sort of outer-door, only

breast-high, but furnished with a row of iron spikes which would

bid defiance to Harlequin himself--was closed--and, a very unusual

occurrence at that late hour, all within the house of durance was quiet.

Peter Bradley, the captain of the hold, was seated on a wooden bench

in his accustomed corner, with a little table before him, on which was

awfully displayed the fatal book in which delinquencies were chronicled,

flanked by a pewter vessel full charged with Sweetman’s XXX. Three

guardians of the night, who formed the jail-guard, sate round the fire

“drawing” a comfortable _dudheine_, and casting, from time to time,

a longing eye at the battered quart deposited beside the elbow of the

commander. There were other occupants--for occasionally melancholy

faces peeped through a grated wicket in the door, which separated the

dungeon-keep from the guard-room,--and from their place of captivity

looked anxiously at the great man seated in the corner, whose nod could

loose or bind. Indeed the task of watch and ward was easy, for the

prisoners were comprised in one solitary group, namely--a drunken

sailor, a fiddler with one leg, and “a maid who loved the moon,” brought

there for fading through a shop-window and making _smithereens_

of divers panes of glass, for which, as, from a lack of the king’s

currency, they could make no proper compensation, they were safely

incarcerated.

Peter Bradley nibbed his pen, laid down his spectacles, gave a heavy

sigh, and then, as if to kill care, took a long and steady pull from

the pewter. “Business,” said the commander, addressing himself to

his myrmidons at the fire, “business is gone to the dogs.’Tis twelve

o’clock!” he continued, as the wooden time-piece above his head

announced the “witching hour.”

“Twelve o’clock! and not a sowl picked up but devils who couldn’t

muster, if it saved them from the gallows, turnpike-money for a

walking-stick. Out with them varmint in the black-hole, Barney Casey;

what use in shuttin’ up craters without a _scultogue_, * and lumbrin the

place wid people who can’t stand a pint of beer.”

* “_Seultogue_, is a monetary phrase, used generally in the

kingdom of Connaught. Its metallic value not being clearly

ascertained, I have doubts whether it would be a legal

tender.”--_Extract from an opinion of Mr. Richard Dunn, the

eminent barrister_.

Barney, obedient to the orders of his chief, made a general jail

delivery. The nymph as she glided out, acknowledged the favour conferred

by dropping a graceful curtsey as she passed “the seat of justice;” the

fiddler as he hopped across the floor, dutifully ducked his head, and

bade a “good night to his Honour;” but the sailor, reckless of the

merciful interposition which had restored him to liberty, and freed him

from all liability incurred for broken glass, consigned all and every in

the watch-house to a climate much hotter than the West Indies, for which

ungrateful and irreligious proceeding, he received a momentum in the

door-way which enabled him, “in double quick,” to reach the opposite

curb-stone. The hatch was thereupon safely locked, and Mr. Bradley again

addressed his brother officials:--

“There’s more beside that’s vexin’ me, boys. I hear they are goin’ to

overhawl us--and sorra a turn, good or bad, that happens through the

night, but must be entered in black and white. Feaks! I thought myself

yesterday, that something was in the wind, for the magistrates were as

short with me as cat’s-hair; and that divil, Artur French, was nearly

hobblin’ me fairly. ‘Who’s this Artur French?’ says Mr. Jones.

“‘Ah, then,’ says I, ‘it’s himself that’s a raal gintleman. Sure, wasn’t

his father Ulick French, of French Hall, and his mother’ ------ --------

‘Don’t bother me about his mother,’ says he, mad as a hatter; ‘Who

is he? what is he?’--‘A collegian, plase ye’r honour.’--‘Ay, and a

promising disciple he is, if I may judge,’ says he, ‘by your watch-book.

Why, he’s wid ye, Mr. Bradley, three times a week. The next time he pays

you a visit, I beg you’ll be good enough to introduce him to me.’”

“Troth; and ye won’t,” observed one of the guard of honour at the

fire-place, as he leisurely recharged his _dudheine_; “he’ll blarney

ye, and git away wid the ould story of both ye’r mothers being Roscommon

women.”

“I wish the Lord would send in a dacent customer, any how, that could

pay his way,” said a second charlie: “if iver I was drier in my life!”

“Feaks!” observed the third, “and it’s myself that has got a cobweb in

my throat. But, whisht! boys--look out there! Who knows our luck yet?”

Up jumped one of the smokers, and craning his head over the hatch,

communicated the gratifying intelligence that the patrol were coming up

with divers delinquents in close custody. The charlies pocketed their

pipes, Mr. Bradley mounted his spectacles, while the shuffling of feet,

and an uproar of many voices talking and arguing at their highest

pitch, joined to the maudlin singing of a noisy drunkard, announced the

immediate approach of a detachment of a body whom poor Burns dreaded and

denounced--

“That black banditti--the city guard.”

“Here they come,” said the charlie at the hatch: “one man in red, either

dead or dead drunk--three shy-looking scamps behind him--and a regular

swell in front. Blessed Bridget! is it him? Be the hole in my coat,

that’s yourself, Artur French, if ye’r ovir ground. May the davil

welcome you, _astore!_

“Then if it is,” said the irritated commandant, “Artur French, you’ll

have a new acquaintance in the morning, before ten o’clock.”

There was no mistake in the identity. A young man dressed in the extreme

of fashion pushed through the watchmen with an air of authority, and

hopping on the bench where Mr. Bradley had hitherto reposed his person

in solitary dignity, seated himself, unbidden, beside this dreaded

functionary, and--

“for no inviting did he wait,”

but seized the sacred pewter, and drained the contents to the very

bottom.

“How thirsty,” said he, “a shindy makes one! Not bad stuff that, Peter.

But, governor, what’s the matter?”--and Mr. French looked steadily in

Mr. Bradley’s face, which had assumed what was intended to pass for an

expression of dignified displeasure. “If you’re not as sour as a Seville

orange to-night! Come, come, old chap, tip us your daddle--give us a

grip of your bunch of fives!”

But Mr. Bradley held back his hand. “I tell ye what, Artur--don’t be

after vexin’ me--I’m in bad temper to-night--and I’ll stand no gammon.”

“Stand your granny!” returned the young _roué_; “I’ll tell ye what I’ll

stand--and that’s more to the purpose. Broiled kidneys, black cockles,

a gallon of heavy wet, and as much punch as you can swim in. Off with ye

to Nosey McKeown’s,”--and crumpling up a pound note, he pitched it into

a watchman’s face,--“See that all comes in hot; and take care that his

daughter Sibby brews the punch. Now, Peter, try and look pleasant. An’t

I better to you than a bad stepson?”--and he punched the commander’s

ribs unceremoniously.

“Arrah--Artur, have done, will ye? What the divil druv ye here the

night, good or bad?” asked the commandant.

“Well, I fancy you have named the gentleman that did it.”

“I say, what brought ye here?”

“Half a score of your scoundrels, Peter. I fell over that cursed fellow

in the red jacket sleeping on the guard bed--and before I could get

fairly on my pins, these villains had me fast.”

“Well, there’s nothing else for it--you must go before Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones may go to Bath; but before Mr. Jones I won’t go.”

“I can’t screen ye longer,” exclaimed the governor.

“Screen me!” exclaimed the prisoner; “why what a pother you make about a

little trifling civility.”

“Trifling civility!” exclaimed’ the astonished constable: “Oh, murder,

murder! there’s nothing like ungratitude. Trifling civility! Och, Artur

French--I have done wid ye. When you were cotched in the garret, drinkin

taa with Mr. Abbot’s maid, who got ye off, Artur? When the sawyer’s arm

was broke in the _roohawn_ at Pie-corner, who got the tinker’s wife

to prove your alabay, and sware she met ye wid Kitty Flanigan, in Mud

Island? When--”

“Arrah, stop man: what’s the use of raking up old yarns? Peter, I always

said you were a decent cove--but they swear you’re doting lately, and

that you’ll never stop till ye turn Methodist. Only for the tender

regard I have for yourself, I would give up your shop altogether, and

take my custom across the water to Mary’s watchhouse. But I can’t forget

old friendship--the more so, when I remember that your mother and mine

were both born in Roscommon.”

A horse-laugh was heard from the fire-place.

“Arrah, have done wid your blarney,” said the commander, testily, “and

nivir mind my mother. What charge is again ye, the night?”

“Nothing--a mere trifle; I was endeavouring to make peace.” returned Mr.

French, with unblushing effrontery.

“Mighty like a whale!” observed the commander, in a side whisper. “I

charge him wid a felonious assault!” exclaimed a voice from behind the

door.

“Step forward, young man.” And the complainant placed himself in front

of Mr. Bradley’s table.

“What’s ye’r charge?” inquired the judge. “What have ye to say agin this

respectable young gentleman, who was strivin’ to bring about pace and

harmony?”

“Pace and harmony!” exclaimed the complainant; “he was the worst of the

whole lot, barrin’ the quaker. There wouldn’t have been a blow, but for

the two of them; and the quaker--”

“The quaker’s not before this court,” said Mr. Bradley, with great

dignity: and yet Mr. Bradley told a fib; for the identical Quaker was

lying sound asleep upon the guard bed. “What charge do you make, young

man?”

“Why that Mr. French, as you call him, split my ear with a black thorn.”

“Oh! you villain!” exclaimed the accused. “Now, Peter, the fellow’s

on his oath. Peter, I leave it to you. On the nick of your sowl, as an

honest man, don’t I always fight with a sapling?”

“He does, in troth!” responded three charlies in a breath.

“Now, Peter, what do you say to that? Wouldn’t that make a man’s hair

stand an end?”

“‘Pon my conscience,” observed Mr. Bradley, “I’m thunderstruck--young

man, what’s ye’r name?”

“Sniggs,” said the complainant.

“What are ye?”

“A tailor, to trade,” replied the accuser.

“Then, Sniggs,” returned Mr. Bradley, “the least I can do is to

transport ye.”

“Transport me!” exclaimed the astonished tailor: “Arrah, for what? Is it

for having my ear split?”

“Hold your tongue; I see, though young, ye’r a hardened offender. Have

ye no conscience,1 man? Oh, murder! to try and sware away the life of an

innicint gintleman!--Is your mother livin’?”

“No,” replied Mr. Sniggs, not exactly comprehending the drift of Mr.

Bradley’s examination.

“Have you sister, or brother?”

“Nather,” returned the quondam accuser; but now, as it would appear, by

some freak of fortune transmuted into the accused.

“Have ye no relashins, good nor bad, ye unfortunit divil?”

“I have,” replied the artist, “a third cousin, a well-behaved girl she

is, and greatly respected by her mistress, who’s married to a tanner in

the Liberty.”

“Well,” said Peter graciously, “on account of that well-behaved girl,

your third cousin, I’ll show mercy to you this time. Turn him out. Go

home and repent, Sniggs: God forgive ye! that’s all I have to say. Be

off wid ye.”

“Arrah, blur and nouns!” ejaculated the disappointed tailor, “and is

that all the satisfaction I’m to get for having my ear slit like a

swallow’s tail?”

“Out with him, I say. Wait till I ketch ye here agen, Sniggs. Be this

book,” (and Peter flourished the empty pewter-pot) “that well-behaved

girl, your third cousin that lives wid the tanner, won’t get you off the

second time. I wish the drink was come. I’m grately fatigued givin’ good

advice--it always laves me dry as a whistle. But what’s to be done wid

the chap in the corner?”

“There’s no use spakin’ to him now,” returned a watchman; “he’s blind

drunk, and fast asleep into the bargain.”

“Did he do much damage?”

“Not he,” returned Mr. French; “poor divil! he couldn’t stand, let alone

strike. At the commencement of the row he was knocked down like a

nine-pin, and I wonder he was not trodden to death. Send him home,

Peter ‘pon my life, it’s dangerous to keep him here.”

“Are ye joking, Artur?”

“No, honour bright, Peter. Look at his buttons, one of ye. What’s the

number of his regiment?”

“The twenty-first.”

“Away with him to George’s-street.”

“Arrah, and upon my conscience, ourselves ought to know the road purty

well. God’s blessin’ attind the Kilkinnys! it was a plasure to do bisnis

wid them;--four or five to be carried home, reglar, at two shillins a

head, and no cobblin’ about the money afterwards. The sergeant of the

guard tallied them as they eame in, and it was only to bring the score

to the quarter-master, and down came the brads in the mornin’. But who’s

to pay for this chap?”

“I,” said the wild collegian, as he tossed a piece of money to the

speaker. “It’s only what one gentleman should do for another, when he’s

too drunk to be able to do it for himself. But here comes supper. I

wonder what became of the quaker. Ah, Peter! he _was_ a trump--and such

a hitter! I’ll respect a quaker while I live. Give me a pull of ‘the

heavy,’ and let us have the cockles while they are hot.”

While Mr. Bradley, with his young and amiable friend, proceeded to

discuss their supper, a couple of watchmen lifted the unfortunate quaker

off the guard-bed. The movement roused him; but it was soon evident that

the late symposium was still uppermost in his brain.

“Come along,” said the charlie; “step out like a man; we’re bringin’ you

home.”

The remark elicited a drunken effort to be melodious--and Mr Pryme sang,

or strove to sing, “We won’t go home till morning.”

“The divil a here ye’ll stay then,” responded his supporters.

“Wine--more wine.--‘Wine cures the gout,’” returned the quaker.

“If it does, sorra touch you’ll have of the disorder for a month of

Sundays. Come along wid him.”

The quaker’s head was still ringing with drunken madrigals, and he

proceeded to chaunt “Old King Cole.”

“Arrah, don’t bother us wid King Cole; but try and put the feet aninder

ye. We’ll bring ye to George’s-street.”

“No,” no muttered the Quaker; “I’ll go home to the Merchants’ Quay.”

“Divil a sich an umproper place ye’ll go near. Haven’t ye been enough

on the _ran-tan_ already the night?” and away they toddled towards the

barracks, which destination was safely reached, and the body of the

pseudo lieutenant delivered to the guard, with an intimation on the part

of the watchmen, that on the morrow particular inquiries should be made

touching the general health of the invalid.

“This must be the officer that joined last week,” said the sergeant.

“Go to his room and find his servant; and first put a knapsack under

his head, and take his stock off. To do him justice, I never saw a more

drunken gentleman.”

When John Crawford was awakened, and had made a personal inspection, to

the utter surprise of the main guard, “pioneers and all,” he repudiated

the sleeping gentleman, and satisfactorily illustrated the old adage,

that the cowl no more constitutes a monk, than a red jacket makes the

soldier. Honest John’s first care was to secure his master’s uniform

from further damage, which he contrived to effect by the substitution of

a shooting jacket; and then, _nemine contradicente_, it was agreed,

that drunken men should be permitted to sleep themselves sober; and that

accordingly, the unhappy puritan should be left in undisturbed repose.

Morning dawned through the guard-room lattice before Samuel Pryme awoke.

If there be a feeling more horrible than another, it is the return of

reason to a drunken neophyte when he wakens after his first debauch. The

quaker stared wildly round him; there were twenty men in the room--all

strangers to him; some sleeping on the wooden bench on which he lay,

and others sitting smoking by the fire. His head was giddy--his brain

wandered--he was tortured with a burning thirst. Where was he? Suddenly

his pale cheeks reddened with shame; he felt like a Hindu who has lost

caste; and, burying his face between his hands, in a smothered voice

that bespoke a consciousness of abasement, while tears fell fast, he

faintly murmured, “Where am I?”

The sergeant laid aside a book which he had been reading in the

window--and, though a rough soldier, he felt sincerely for the penitent.

“Don’t take on so,” said he. “Young folk will be giddy. Bless your

heart--there’s none of our gentlemen that arn’t wildish now and then.

I wish we could get you something to drink; but the canteen is closed.

Would you like to go home? I dare not spare a man; but I’ll send for Mr.

O’Halloran’s servant, and pass him through the gate.” The quaker thanked

him, but declined assistance; asked for and received a draught of water

“cold from the pump,” the sentry unclosed the wicket, and Samuel Pryme

returned to his father’s house, “a sadder, if not a wiser man,” than

when he quitted it the preceding evening.

The clock struck five. Peter Bradley was snoring on his guard-bed, and

Mr. French taking his ease at an unpretending hostelrie in Smock Alley,

not generally known in the fashionable world, but, patronized by the

pleasant part of the community, and ycleped “The Hole in the Wall.” I

felt as much at home in my dormitory as if I had been legal proprietor

of it, while he, unhappy youth! reconnoitred the house from the

outside, with all the suspicion of a man who meditates a burglary on the

premises. In their respective chambers, Mrs. Pryme and her handmaiden

had owned the influence of the drowsy god, and Rachel slumbered with as

safe a conscience as if she had never kissed a fusileer. There is an old

saw, gentle reader, which insinuates that it is prudent occasionally to

allow “sleeping dogs to lie.” We’ll adopt it “for the nonce”--inquire

what had befallen that _alter ego_, my foster-brother, and, with your

gracious permission, follow through the next chapter, the fortunes of

Mark Antony O’Toole.

CHAPTER IX. THE COCK AND PUNCH-BOWL

“_Rosalind_. Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,

And faints for succour.”

“_Corin._ I pity her,

And wish for her sake, more than for my own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her.”

As You Like It.

Although I departed from Kilcullen at cockcrow, Mark Antony O’Toole,

having borrowed some hours from the night, had taken the road before me.

Apprehensive of the desperate lengths to which deserted dairy-maids may

be driven, the fosterer moved off without beat of drum; and the better

to evade pursuit, had Kitty Dwyer attempted to recover the truant, and

“vi et armis” repair her reputation by a sanatory visit to the altar,

Mr. O’Toole prudently declined marching by the mail-coach road, and

masked his retreat with an ability that puzzled the priest himself. But

as it turned out, Mark Antony’s caution was unnecessary. Kitty bore her

bereavement like a Christian woman,--hinted that the sea held as good

fish as ever had been taken yet,--and, from divers hymeneal overtures,

blessed God that she had no grounds for despondency. Aiding and

assisting sound philosophy with “rum and true religion,” she got

over her disappointment--within a fortnight, the false one was

forgotten--Miss Dwyer “open to an offer”--and ready to commit matrimony

at sight.

Two days before his evasion from my father’s house, Mark Antony

had privately despatched his kit by a Dublin carrier, and the few

necessaries required for his journey were formed into a bundle of small

dimensions, and suspended from the extremity of a well-tried shillelagh.

Dressed in a smart morning suit that erstwhile had called me owner,

the fosterer had more than once examined his outer man with evident

satisfaction. His step was light, his breast without a care, and

his pocket heavier than it had ever been before--he went on his way

rejoicing--and when evening began to close, Mark Antony had placed

five-and-twenty miles between him and that ill-requited fair one, whose

only crime was loving “not wisely but too well.”

Half a century ago Irish engineers, in Yankee parlance, were “reg’lar

go-a-heads.” Neither condescending to turn to the right or to the left,

they crossed the country “as God had made it,” took the bull by the

horns, and scorning to steal round a hill they boldly breasted it. The

fosterer had been escalading one of these heights for the last hour,

and, on topping its ridge, overtook two wayfarers of opposite sexes

who had preceded him in the ascent, and were now resting after its

achievement.

Like himself, the travellers were not incommoded with heavy baggage, for

what appeared to be their united kit was even smaller than his own, and

was comprehended within the compass of a faded silk-handkerchief. The

man was stout, undersized, and looked full thirty--the girl seemed

scarcely nineteen--and from their dress and general appearance, the

fosterer was sorely at a loss to decide to what grade of society the

strangers appertained.

The male traveller’s dingy black frock had once seen better days, and

his buff vest and nankeen unmentionables would have been all the better

for a visit to the laundress. His hat was of that order denominated

“shocking bad,” while it seemed doubtful that his boots would bear him

to the end of his journey, and if they did, it would be by an expiring

effort with which their history must close. His complexion was sallow,

his features large, his whiskers black and bushy, he looked a dirty Jew;

and certainly, “take him for all in all,” he was not the sort of person

whom a gentleman would borrow money to entertain.

In every particular the girl was unlike her companion. She was pretty,

tall, fair, and well formed. Her costume--a collection of faded

finery--was tolerably clean; and, poverty apart, her air and address

were those of one who had once moved in a different sphere, and,

to judge by appearances, of one also, upon whom fortune had frowned

severely.

On both sides some civilities were interchanged; and to an inquiry from

the fosterer as to where entertainment and lodgings could be found, the

man pointed out a solitary house at the distance of a mile, intimating

that it was a carman’s stage held by travellers in high estimation. It

was moreover kept by a buxom widow, and denominated.

[Illustration: 0090]

The ice once broken, the dark gentleman became very communicative.

“If you want good fare, prime whisky, and a sound snooze, the Cock’s

your place, sir. The landlady’s a trump, parlour snug, and not a flea if

you searched the beds for a fortnight. Come, my love,” and he addressed

his fair companion, who frowned an angry answer to this term of

endearment,--“you and I are for the same crib, and we’ll give this

gentleman our company.”

The stroller spoke with the volubility of an auctioneer, and thus

continued:--

“This lady, sir, is my sister,--Miss Julia Montague. We are both

professional,--known extensively in the dramatic world,--I, in the

comic line--and Julia, in the musical. Bad spec at Granard--manager

an ass,--played tragedy to please his swivel-eyed wife,--she

Desdemona!--she be forked,--house didn’t draw money to pay

candles,--manager, calls himself Mortimer, right name Malowney, bolted

with any blunt there was--left the company without a _tanner_, and

obliged July and myself to travel here _tandem_,--one leg before the

other. Better luck again,--we’ll both be on the boards of Crow-street

before Christmas--eh, July?”

When the Jew had named the connexion between himself and the wandering

melodist, Mark Antony’s incredulous stare was returned by a look

of contempt directed by the lady at her companion, which disclaimed

relationship altogether; and a trifling incident ended the attempt at

imposition.

A knot of the handkerchief which secured the joint-stock property of

the comedian and the _cantatrice_ had slipped unperceived, and when the

accident was discovered, portions of the wardrobe were seen upon the

road a hundred yards in the rear. Mr. Montague started off to recover

the missing valuables, and Julia and Mark Antony were thus for a brief

space left together. The opportunity was not neglected. The girl, after

a searching glance behind, suddenly addressed the fosterer.

“Stranger, beware!--you know not the scoundrel who has been speaking to

you. He’s all a lie,--a Jew, a sleight-of-hand man, a pickpocket, and

a pugilist. Avoid him, or he’ll cheat you first, and bully you

afterwards.” (A smile from Mark Antony intimated that on the latter

score he was incredulous altogether.) “He followed me without my

knowledge, and joined me on the road. Will you protect me to the next

town? I would not trust myself another hour in that villain’s company.

But soft--he comes,”--and, with ready tact, she changed the conversation

to some common-place occurrence as the Jew hurried up and joined them.

A few minutes more brought them to the Cock and Punch-bowl, which proved

to be a low and straggling edifice situated at the junction of four

roads.

As Mark Antony had rapidly adopted the prejudices of his fair monitress,

he now regarded the Israelite with feelings of aversion and contempt.

To fear he was a stranger--and the very knowledge that the Jew was

a regular prize-fighter, probably occasioned on his part a more

unequivocal display of personal antipathy. On entering the hostlerie,

Mr. O’Toole asked for and obtained a private apartment--ordered supper

for the Prima Donna and himself--intimating plainly to the fat landlady,

that notwithstanding his celebrity in the comic line, Mr. Montague

was not to be a member of the mess--and that, accordingly, the Jew

and himself must remain what they had hitherto been--strangers to each

other.

It was now twilight. The girl, but not without some difficulty, had

recovered her bundle from the sleight-of-hand man, who, after several

audacious attempts at a renewal of acquaintance, which on the part of

the fosterer were as decidedly repulsed, was obliged to put up with a

seat beside the kitchen fire, and there enjoy the tantalizing prospect

of watching the progress of a supper at which his presence had been

interdicted.

A noise outside attracted the fair vocalist and her protector to the

window. It was a recruiting party _en route_ to a neighbouring pattern,

to pick up “food for powder.” There, a festival was held, where fame

spoke truly, love and penance, whisky and broken heads, were all so

agreeably united, that the man who could not be happy at Cahirmore must

be suited only for “stratagems and treasons,” and a personage upon whom

pleasure would be thrown away.

The charge of foot which halted at the Cock and Punchbowl consisted of a

sergeant, whose waist the sash found difficulty to encompass--a brace

of privates too dirty for the ranks, but who crimped inimitably--a boy,

taller than his drum by the head--and a lean and sallow fifer who had

counted forty summers; these with a couple of recruits completed this

“gallant gathering.” On the shoulders of the stouter, the sergeant’s

pack was strapped; while to the honourable keeping of the other, the

commander’s bilboa was entrusted--a weapon, whose unstained steel had

never yet been “incarnadined” with human gore. The soldiers presently

ensconced themselves in a room beneath--Mrs. O’Leary paraded the

expected supper--Mark Antony and his fair friend sealed themselves and

commenced active operations, the fosterer eating as men eat who have

walked thirty miles of Irish measurement, and the vocalist, as if to

her, poor girl! for many a day a comfortable meal had been unknown.

In the mean time the rejected Israelite bade fair to sup with Duke

Humphry. Admission to the state apartment was hopeless, for from thence

he had been peremptorily excluded. In the kitchen, divers hints had been

dropped that his absence would be preferable to his company; and as

Jews don’t list, the soldiers repudiated him altogether. Deeply incensed

against the wandering actress for deserting him in this “his hour of

need,” and stung to the quick by the firmness and contempt with which

Mark Antony repelled all advances towards intimacy, he secretly vowed

vengeance against both. Luckily, a Hebrew’s resources procured him an

unexpected supply. Some countrymen, returning from market, stopped to

refresh themselves by the way. The Jew amused them with his tricks,

and in return _thimble-rigged_ as many sixpences from the farmers, as

enabled him to obtain a lodging in the Cock and Punchbowl for the night.

When supper was removed, and Mrs. O’Leary had produced the necessary

materials for finishing an evening comfortably, at the pressing

invitation of her guest she sat down with the youthful travellers. From

the first, Mark Antony had found favour in the widow’s sight, and a more

extended acquaintance confirmed the early impression. Towards the girl

Mrs. O’Leary evinced a kindly feeling, and proposed that as the house

was crowded, the wayfarer should share her bed--an offer, by Miss Julia

Montague, gratefully accepted.

The buxom widow was a fair specimen of an Irish hostess; and had her

eyes not been as dark as a blackberry and her complexion a gipsy brown,

the old alliteration, “fat, fair, and forty,” would have described

her to a hair. Her comely countenance was rich with archness and

_espieglerie_--and in Jack Falstaff’s vein a lover might have safely

wooed her--You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha--then there’s more sympathy!

“In vino veritas.” Hang that musty proverb! What’s wine to whisky

punch? That is, indeed, the opener of the human heart. Love may be

eschewed--but who is proof against _poteeine_? A hot tumbler would undo

the caution of a Jesuit, and make a Trappist speak out like a man. Mrs.

O’Leary felt the genial influence of _mountain dew_ agreeably diluted;

and in the brief colloquy that ensued, there were but few circumstances

connected with the Cock and Punchbowl which remained a secret to the

fosterer and his wandering friend.

“Mr. O’Toole--there’s an O before your name, I b’lieve--you’re kindly

welcome. Here’s ye’r health--and bad luck to ye if I wish it. As I told

ye, Mr. O’Leary--Lord rest his sowl!--was an ailin’ man, and might have

been my father. Well, after the cold Christmas he went like snow off a

ditch. The Lord sees he had the best of tratement in his last days, wid

a grand wake and a ginteel funeral. I’m a lone woman three years come

Patrick mass--and och! I have had my trouble. A woman’s helpless, Mr.

O’Toole, and that ye know. Well--blessed be God! I’m well to do--owe

nobody a rap--and my carakter’s at the defiance of the parish. But

och! I’m lonely after all; and a pushin’ woman like me requires a man’s

assistance. Not that I’m over anxious to get married; but if a young

man, discreat and well-behaved, would--”

Here a furious knocking of pewter pots upon the tables underneath

interrupted Mrs. O’Leary’s narration, and she made a hasty exit to

attend those turbulent customers, with an intimation however that

she would return anon, and make a clean breast touching her hymeneal

intentions, should “a young man, discreat and well-behaved,” present

himself.

It was quite evident from the hilarious revelry in the kitchen, that the

company below had no sin of omission, as far as drinking went, to answer

for. Indeed it was pretty apparent that they were set in for a regular

carouse. The sergeant and his comrades prudently uniting mirth with

business, had favoured the countrymen with their company, in the double

hope of enjoying a potation, scot-free--and if luck were on their side,

crimping a clod-hopper into the bargain. The antiquated fifer, on his

“ear-piercing” instrument had executed “the Groves of Blarney,” with a

variety of flourishes which elicited a thunder of applause. As to the

commander, he was affability itself--spoke of his “feats of broil,” and

recounted the numerous “battles, sieges, fortunes,” through which he had

passed, with a vividness of description that made the very hair of

the listeners stand on end. Nothing could be more glowing than the

narrative, albeit, it was apocryphal entirely; for during his peaceful

life, he, worthy man, had never witnessed a musket snapped in anger. At

the request of a gentleman, whose solitary stripe announced him to

he still on the lowest step of the ladder of preferment, the sergeant

obliged the company with a rigmarole effusion which he was pleased

to call a song; and it is only necessary to say, that the poetry and

performance were worthy of each other.

THE SERGEANT’S SONG.

Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’

Both to Portingale and Spain;

Drums are batin’, colours flyin’--

And the divil a-back we’ll come again;

So, Love, farewell!

The colonel cries, “Boys are ye ready?”

“We’re at your back, both firm and steady;

Our pouches filt with balls and powther,

And a clane firelock on each shouther.”

Love, farewell!

The mother cries, “Boys, do not wrong me;

Ye wouldn’t take my daughter from me?

If ye do, I will torment yees,

And after death my ghost will haunt yees.”

Love, farewell!

Och, Judy, dear! ve’r young and tender--

When I’m away, ye’ll not surrender;

But hould out like an ancient Roman,

And I’ll make you an honest woman.

Love, farewell!

Och, Judy! should I die in glory,

In the papers ye’ll read my awful story

But I’m so bother’d by your charms,

I’d rather far die in your arms.

Och! Love, farewell!

Great was the applause which the sergeant’s melody drew down, and, what

was probably even more satisfactory to the honest gentleman, a loud

demand arose for a fresh supply of “the raw material and the carouse was

vigorously resumed. Left to themselves, the young travellers had talked

over their meeting on the mountain, and spoke of their journey to

the neighbouring town next day where their road-companionship was to

terminate. The intended parting was not mentioned with indifference, for

the poor girl sighed heavily, her face became sad, and her eyes filled

fast. In a faction fight, where skulls were cracked like walnuts, Mark

Antony was every inch a hero--but his heart was true Milesian, and a

woman’s sorrow rendered it soft as a turnip. He took the wanderer’s hand

affectionately, kissed away the tear that trickled down her cheek, and

endeavoured to dispel her melancholy.

“Cheer up,” he said; “you have happier days before you, and youth enough

to wait for them. How can I serve you, Julia.-’ I know an empty pocket

makes a heavy heart--but we’ll share to the last shilling--” and quick

as lightning a green silk purse that I had given to the fosterer the

night we parted, was transferred from his pocket to the wanderer’s hand.

“Come. Julia,” he continued, “will I bring you home?”

The poor girl shook her head, and gratefully returned the purse.

“Take half, at least,” exclaimed Mark Antony; “there’s only five pounds

in notes, and three guineas and a half in gold. May’be it may carry ye

to your friends--and if it won’t--I’ll list, and that will make up the

difference.”

“Friends!” said the girl, bitterly; “I have no friends: I lost my mother

when an infant; and the cruel desertion of my father broke the old

soldier’s heart. Alas! I feel that I am left alone upon the earth,

without one being who would care for me.”

“A sister, by Heaven!” cried the fosterer. “Am I not also a soldier’s

orphan?”

“Why, ye thundering villain!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Leary, who had stolen

softly up stairs, and caught the Jew with his ear at the key-hole, “Off

wid ye, ye blackavised disciple. Bad luck attend ye, night an’ day,

you ugly thief! Off, I say--” and, suiting the action to the word, she

bestowed a heavy buffet upon the countenance of the Israelite that made

him in no way desirous of abiding another visitation from the widow’s

fist. “Well, dears!” said the jolly hostess as she bustled into the

room: “may’be ye were courtin’ a bit, as young people will at times--and

think of that black-muzzled ruffin lis’ning to every word ye sed! I wish

he was clane out of the house, for he has the gallows in his faee.”

“I wish, indeed,” observed the girl, “that he was gone--I dread that

man.”

“Arrah!” returned the burly widow, “don’t vex ye’rself about him: ye’r

safe wid me--the devil a toe he’ll venture to put near my room. Ye’r

tired, _avourneein_; and come away to ye’r-bed: and if you, Mr. O’Toole,

will jist step down and take an air of the fire below, I’ll make ye

a shake-down here as the house is crowded to the thatch.” Mark Antony

accordingly bade his companion a good night, and descended to the

kitchen, where, by a sort of common consent, the whole of the guests

had united themselves for a general jollification. The whisky now seemed

“uppermost,” and most of the party w’ere as it is termed in Ireland “the

worse of liquor;” but the hilarity was as yet undisturbed,

“And all went merry as a marriage bell.”

The worthy sergeant who, like Bardolph, was “white-livered and

red-faced,” with Pistol’s qualification of having “a killing tongue

and quiet sword,” was evidently the lion of the evening; and being a

romancer of the first magnitude, no man was better suited to fascinate

a company who took delight in listening to deeds of arms. He was

graciously pleased to reply to the inquiry of a recruit, who had

expressed a strong curiosity touching the personal appearance of

Napoleon le grand. Having bolted a dose of alcohol presented to him by a

countryman, and deposited the pewter measure on the table, the commander

thus modestly continued:--

“An’ so ye would like to know what Boney’s like? Well, the divil a man

ye would meet in a day’s walk could tell you that same thing better. He

has a regular gunpowder complexion, a look that would frighten a horse,

and whiskers you could hang your hat upon. Father Abraham’s in the

corner there--and ‘pon my conscience, honest man, ye would be the better

of a barber--are but a joke to them.” And he pointed to the Jew.

“And where did you see him?” inquired a countryman.

“Where did I see him? Where--but in Agypt,” returned the commander.

“Before I was pris’ner five minutes, he sends an aidi-camp

hot-foot--well, up I comes--for there was no use, you know, resistin’.

At first he looked red-pepper at me: ‘Corp’lar Mulrooney,’ says he--and

how the dickens he med my name out, I nivir could lam--‘Mulrooney,’ says

he, ‘for once in ye’r life, tell truth, and shame the divil.--How many

thousand strong are ye?’ ‘Twenty-five thousand,’ says I, strivin’ to

dacave him. ‘Bad luck to the liars!’ says he. ‘Amen,’ says I, just

givin’ the word back to him. ‘Arrah--come,’ says he, ‘don’t be makin’ a

Judy Fitzsummon’s mother of ye’rself, but tell the truth, Mulrooney,

and I’ll make a man of ye: an’ if ye don’t’--sw’aring an oath that I now

disremimber, because it was in Frinch--‘I’ll blow the contents of

this pistol thro’ your scull,’ pulling out one with a barrel like a

blunderbuss. Well, I was rather scared; but, thinks I, there’s nothin’

like being bould. ‘Fire away,’ says I, ‘an’ put ye’r information in

ye’r pocket afterwards; for it’s all ye’ll get from me.’ Bonypart looked

bothered: ‘Be gogstay,” says he, to the aidicamp, ‘that’s cliver of the

corp’lar. Let him off,’ says he; ‘an’ if there’s a drain of spirits in

the bottle, give it to him, the crature, for the day’s hot.’ Wid that,

he pulls out a thirty-shillin’ note. ‘Divil blister the rap I have more,

or ye should have it,’ says he, shakes me dacently by the han’, and

sends me clane back. ‘Pon me soul! Boney’s not a bad man, after all.”

The sergeant’s interview with Napoleon had been listened to with great

attention; and at the production of the pistol of blunderbuss calibre,

the recruits actually turned pale. The Israelite alone exhibited

symptoms of incredulity, but what could be expected from an unbeliever?

As to Mark Antony, he laughed outright;--however, that was an effect

which some of the bloodiest exploits of the gallant sergeant frequently

produced upon his auditory, and accordingly, he, “good easy man,” passed

it by unnoticed. The symposium promised to terminate in harmony and

peace, alas! how delusory that promise proved!

CHAPTER X. FRIENDS MUST PART

“_Hostess_.--Here’s a goodly tumult!--I’ll forswear keeping house,

afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now--”

Shakspeare.

“ There’s a ery and a shout,

And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what it’s about.”

Thomas Ingoldsby.

To judge from external appearances, King George the Third, of blessed

memory, never laid out money to less advantage, than when he

induced private Ulic Flyn of the gallant twenty-seventh, ycleped the

Enniskilleners, to undertake the defence of “his crown and dignity”

for the modest consideration of twelve pounds bounty, and

thirteenpence-halfpenny a day. Although the standard then was low, how

the devil Mr. Flyn contrived to touch it, remained a mystery. Ulic

was barely five feet one, his singular proportions had driven three

sergeants to desperation, to “set him up” was declared to be an

impossibility; he was moreover, too dirty for a pioneer, and to what

military uses he might return, none could even guess.

But it was only for a season that his candle remained under a bushel.

Certes, honest Ulic, _in propriâ persona_, was no hero; to bloodshed

generally he had an invincible antipathy; and had “the imminent deadly

breach” remained unmounted until Mr. Flyn made the essay, it would have

been safe for ever. To a higher order of things his talents appertained;

his crimping was magnificent, and the wariest bog-trotter who ever

dispensed with shoes, had reason to look sharp if he foregathered with

Ulic Flyn over a noggin of whisky, and was not made “food for powder”

afterwards. While the sergeant was narrating his interview with

Napoleon, Ulic continued in deep conference with the most intoxicated

of the countrymen, and had the unhappy bumpkin known the truth, in the

course of his life he had never been in such dangerous company before.

On one flank, Mr. Flyn waited an opportunity to enlist him, and on the

other, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity, was experimentalizing on his

side-pocket. Both were clever in their line, but, as the result proved,

of the twain the Jew was the _abler artiste_.

More than one hint had been already given that the pleasantest company

must part; and, as a speedy movement was at hand, Mr. Flyn redoubled his

exertions to add to the defenders of the realm, and do the state some

service.

“What a life we lead!” he whispered in the countryman’s ear:

“Nothing to do from one end of the year to the other, but eat, drink,

sleep, and clean a musket!--lots of liberty!--go where you like, and--”

“Get crammed into the black-hole on your return, and be kept at

pack-drill with a log upon your leg for a fortnight,” responded the

Israelite with a grin.

Mr. Flyn directed a murderous side-look at the unbeliever, who appeared

determined to render useless all his honourable efforts to uphold the

glory of the land; but still the short gentleman continued to draw a

pleasing and veracious picture of military life.

“Our colonel’s such a trump--a gentleman every inch. He dances with

the sergeants’ wives, calls every man by his right name--Tom, Bill, or

Jerry,--and his purse is always in his fingers. ‘Ulic,’ says he to me,

as I passed him in the barrack yard last Friday, ‘go, drink my health,

ye divil, and if you get glorious, why tell the adjutant that I bid ye

do so,’ and with that he tosses me half-a-crown.”

“Lord! what a wopper!” ejaculated the Jew.

“Why he’s the very terror of the regiment,--orders a man ‘a hundred’

for sneezing on parade, and flogs regularly twice a week to give

the drummers exercise. Take my advice, young man; be off at once, or

that’ere chap will do ye brown.” So saying, he closed his left eye,

rose, and returned to the fire, under the pretence of lighting his pipe;

for having succeeded in drawing out the countryman’s money-bag while

he gave him good advice, the Jew was anxious to move from the immediate

vicinity of the prigged pocket, before the abstraction of its contents

should be discovered. The fifer immediately took the vacant seat, Mr.

Flyn became more eloquent than ever, but the unbeliever had done the

mischief effectually--the bird was scared; and after announcing that he

was “a widow’s son,” the bumpkin stoutly declared that “he would be shot

at for nobody.”

The case seemed hopeless; but Mr. Flyn was not the person to despair.

With affectionate ardour he seized the peasant’s hand, swore that from

first sight he had loved him like a brother, and consequently that they

must have a parting glass. He discovered, unfortunately, that he had no

silver; but the sergeant had enough for all, and he would trouble him to

ask him, the sergeant, for a shilling. The request was made and granted;

the polite commander instantly produced the current coin, Ulic Flyn

called for another pint, the fifer, underneath the table, slily attached

his own cockade to the dexter side of the _caubeeine_ of the “widow’s

son,” while the lance corporal tapped him playfully on the shoulder, and

hailed him for life a camarado.

Dark suspicions flashed across the peasant’s mind. What meaned this

wondrous civility? His eye caught that of the Jew--he remembered the

admonition of the Israelite--and was he “done brown” already? Up he

sprang, desired his companions to come away, and would have bade the

company “a fair good-night,” had not a gentle detainer been laid on.

“Sit down, my boy,” exclaimed the commander. “Drink like a soldier

to-night--and in the morning ye’ll have time enough to take lave of y’er

relashins.”

“Take lave of my relashins!” returned the countryman, as he made a

desperate effort to reach the door--an intention on his part which was

promptly prevented; for on one side he was pinioned by the fifer, on the

other collared by Mr. Flyn, while the commander talked something about

the articles of war, and hinted that mutiny was punishable with death.

[Illustration: 0100]

The countrymen seized the intended hero by one arm, the crimps held on

as doggedly by the other; and as both parties pulled stoutly, it might

have been supposed that they intended to partition the victim between

them. Pushes were succeeded by blows,--the _mêlée_ became general.--Mark

Antony joined the soldiers, the Jew sided with the countrymen, four

or five couples were actively engaged in the centre of the floor--and

divers on both sides, who, either from want of room or inclination

had abstained from a personal display, carried on a sort of guerilla

warfare, and, acting _en tirailleur_, kept up a lively discharge of

turfs and pewter measures, apparently with perfect indifference as to

whether the sculls their missiles might invade should prove Tyrian or

Trojan. While delivering a murderous blow at his opponent, a recruit,

with a sweep of his cudgel, brought down a shelf on which sundry

specimens of the fine arts had been deposited; and, in the very act of

deprecating hostilities, the commander received an erratic visit from

a three-legged stool, which destroyed his perpendicular and sent him

flying through a cupboard. The boy, small as he was, did not escape--he

was driven through his own drum-head; and that stirring instrument of

war was silenced most effectually.

But battles have their limit--men cannot fight for ever,

“The hottest steed will soonest cool;-

The fiercest day with evening closes.”

Irish rows end as quickly as they commence, and the _rookarn’n_ in the

Cock and Punch-bowl at last began to languish. Sundry who had already

figured in the fray, now cried “hold! enough!”--and others who had

saluted their mother earth still remained there recumbent, opining

that under existing circumstances, this position was the safer. Two

combatants however, still remained unsatisfied. They had sought each

other in the conflict; and now, by a sort of general consent, the floor

was abandoned by all the other belligerents, and like bulls in a

china shop, the fosterer and the Israelite were left with the arena to

themselves.

Both were influenced by a deep feeling of personal hostility. The Jew

hated (as Jews only know how to hate) because he had been rivalled and

rejected. The fosterer, more than half in love, abhorred the Israelite

for imagining aught that was injurious against the _cantatrice_ who

had elected him her knight; and further, from a pre-knowledge of Mr.

Montague’s pugilistic accomplishments, Mark Antony was dying for an

opportunity to ascertain whether his own talents in that line had not

been rather overrated, forgetting that in his own country no man is

accounted above his value--be they pugilists or prophets.

But the men were matched unequally; and consequently the conflict

was soon ended. In years the Jew was stale, and in heart a very

coward--while with length and activity, the fosterer was fresh as a

four-year-old and bold as a tiger. The “master of fence” proved not

worth “a dish of stewed prunes”--he turned out nothing but a cur, and

the desperate onslaught of the fosterer at once demolished his defensive

system. The _finale_ was sudden: in a few seconds the unbeliever

lay stretched upon the floor of the Cock and Punch-bowl, and, to all

appearance, defunct as Julius Cæsar. Heaven help him! The chances

against the circumcised sinner were desperate all through.

Mrs. O’Leary was making a radical change in her toilet when she heard

the alarm, and before she was ready for battle, the battle was over.

Down she sallied like a Bacchante. Alas! it was only to see a defeated

Israelite on the floor, and witness a demolition of property, the value

of which was, like pearls, above price.

“Oh, heavenly Antony!” she exclaimed, and clapped her hands wildly

together, “if ivir I underwint such ruination since I was a girl. A

man kilt in the house, and the image of my brother Dick that came from

Philadelphy, all in smithereens!” and she picked up fragments of plaster

of Paris which once had formed “a busto framed with every grace.”

“There’s the Queen of Sheba on the-broad of her back upon the floor, and

the divil a morsel of the Prodigal Son left, good nor bad.” She cast her

eyes doubtfully around her, “Holy Bridget!” she continued, “why the door

of the clock-case is in two halves! Murder! murder!--was ivir a lone

woman brought to sich desalashin, and all done while ye could say Jack

Robison! Arrah! what set ye a fightin’, wid plenty of liquor, and ye

singin’ like blackbirds when I left ye. May the widda’s curse fall on

them, night and day, that caused the skrimmage!” Then turning to the

fosterer, she inquired if he had been wounded in the affray, and with a

marked anxiety Mrs. O’Leary investigated the outer man of Mark Antony.

Perceiving, however, that he was personally undamaged, she continued her

inquiries as to the origin of what she called the _ruchshin_, intending

no doubt to ameree the offender heavily for the losses she had

sustained. Manifold were the causes alleged; but all, and by common

consent, laid the blame on Mr. Montague. He was a Jew, therefore no

allegation against him could be too bad. He was dead, and consequently

he could deny nothing. Accordingly, the downfal of the Queen of Sheba,

the demolition of my brother Dick, and the destruction of the Prodigal

Son, all and every were placed to the account of the defunct, and

carried in the affirmative, _neniine contradicente_.

But Mr. Montague was not dead. Like greater men, finding that the

current of popular opinion had turned against him, he decided that

nothing professional could be effected by a longer sojourn at the Cock

and Punch-bowl, and that the sooner he abdicated the better. Accordingly

while a noisy reconciliation was being effected, Mr. Montague “cut

his lucky,” the belligerents returned to the table,--in a deep “doch

a durris” all animosity was extinguished, and the whole separated as

a Christian company should part, having in due course, and after the

fashion of that pleasant country, drank, fought, committed murder, and

sworn an eternal friendship afterwards.

Morning came, and the hostlerie of Mrs. O’Leary at cock-crow was in a

bustle. The fosterer and his fair companion preparing for the road, and

the sergeant, with his charge of foot, girding up their loins to proceed

to Cahirmore. All however seemed in melancholy mood; some laying it

upon love, while others left it upon liquor. Mark Antony was regularly

bothered; and the actress, poor girl, sadly cast down at the immediate

prospect of parting from one, who had proved himself a kind and generous

protector. Nor had the jolly hostess escaped a visitation of the heart.

What, though for three years she had eschewed all overtures to revisit

the temple of Hymen, and rejected more suitors than Penelope, still the

widow was flesh and blood like other people; and satisfied that in the

person of Mark Antony O’Toole the cardinal virtues were united, she

was ready for matrimony on demand, and prepared on the first summons to

surrender the Cock and Punch-bowl--of course on honourable terms.

All these visitations were of the sentimental order; but those sustained

by the men of war were unhappily corporeal. It is true that the sergeant

had a thick skull, but what chances have skulls with cupboards? and in

the recent collision the skull of the commander was damaged grievously;

the fifer’s mouth was totally destroyed by a flush hit; each of the

recruits had been favoured with a black eye; and, even to the diminutive

drummer, none passed the ordeal unscathed.

Somebody,--I think Shenstone,--after insinuating that he had travelled

“earth’s dull round,” declares that “the warmest welcome’s in an inn.”

Well, that may be the case; but the wayfarer cunningly passes over that

brief but painful moment when the bell is gently touched, and a

bill reluctantly requested with all the indifference a man in such

circumstances can assume. That unlucky period had arrived. The sergeant

inquired “what was to pay?” and the hostess responded, by producing a

huge slate, and pointing to a long array of figures scored to the debit

of the commander. At the sight of this, the countenance of the worthy

man underwent a striking elongation; and he who beneath the withering

glance of the conqueror of Lodi had not blanched, became pale as a

ghost while he gazed on the hieroglyphics of the lady of the Cock and

Punch-bowl. The commander shook his head, and the shake was significant;

while the fifer stoutly affirmed that the whole of the nocturnal

symposium had been charged against the protectors of the realm.

“Arrah, what balderdash!” exclaimed the hostess; “don’t ye see four and

eightpence agin the Carneys, wid a cross upon it, because it’s ped? Mr.

O’Toole goes free; and there’s fairly against ye all, two and fourpence

for ating, and eleven and ninepence for the drink.”

But the charge of foot, even from the drum-boy to the commander,

persisted in protestations of incredulity; and Mrs. O’Leary, irritated

that the accuracy of her reckoning should be doubted, gave indications

of a “flare-up” which might have brought about another general

engagement.

“Bad luck attend yes for a set of thieves! Wasn’t it enough for ye to

tatter my consarn, without bilkin me of my bill?”

In Ireland, questions are answered by interrogatories; and if you ask

the way to a place, the reply will probably be an inquiry as to whether

you “met a donkey on the road, or noticed a blind woman with twins upon

her back?”

“Who tattered y’er consarn?” responded the sergeant.

“Who knocked the fire out of my eye wid a clod of turf as hard as a

paving stone?” inquired a recruit.

“Who druv me thro’ the drum-head?” screamed the boy.

“Who split my lip?” demanded the fifer.

“Don’t be bothering me about y’er drums and y’er misfortins!” replied

the hostess, cold to the losses thus sustained in person and property by

her unhappy visitors; “but for once in y’er lives, be honest, and down

wid the reckoning.”

The sergeant saw that it was idle to remonstrate, and he produced a

one-pound note, called for a pint of whisky, received it and the change,

bolted his “morning”--an example duly followed by all, even to the

drummer; and, accompanied by his gallant following, wended his way in

sadness and silence towards the Pattern of Cahirmore. For once, military

pomp and pride were dispensed with,--the fife was mute, the drum beat

no point of war, and the commander and his charge of foot stole off as

modestly from the hostelrie, as if instead of being engaged over-night

in pointing out the path of glory to the Carneys, they had picked

pockets like the Jew, or robbed the widow’s hen-roost.

The parting between the men of war and the lady of the Cock and

Punch-bowl was not accompanied with any ebullition of “sweet sorrow”

upon either side, the commander hinting that it was his intention to

transfer his patronage to the Cat and Bagpipes for the future; and the

hostess declaring, that “the loss was small, and were he better they

were welcome to him.” But a tenderer trial was at hand; and when Mark

Antony and the fair cantatrice announced that they were about to take

the road, the widow’s grief burst forth.

“Arrah, stay!” she said. “Rest yourselves for a day or two longer. Well,

ye won’t. Put up y’er purse, _astore_. Is it for me to charge craters

of y’er sort for a trifle of entertainment? Sorrow rap I’d take if ye

stay’d here a twelvemonth. The world’s wide; and many a straggler finds

it hard to get across it. Well, jewel! if you stick fast, as many a

man has done before ye, turn back to the widow’s home, and here’s

y’er _ceade fealteagh_ * waiting for ye. When ye want it, ye’ll find

something in the basket,” and she placed a small one in the fosterer’s

hand. “And now, as y’er for goin, may the Lord protect ye both!” Mrs.

O’Leary wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron, kissed the pale

girl affectionately, while the smack she gave Mark Antony might have

been heard distinctly across the road. Next moment the wayfarers were

over the hospitable threshold, and “the world was all before them where

to choose.”

* Anglicè--a warm welcome.

The sky was clear, the country had become picturesque, the birds sang

merrily, the road was sprinkled by an early shower, and on a pleasanter

morning a light-bosomed traveller never wended on his way. Alas!

“The merry heart goes all the day.

But the sad one tires in a mile a;”

and before half the journey was completed, the girl showed symptoms of

fatigue.

“You are weary, Julia,” said the fosterer; “sit down, _avourneein_.

In yonder corner there is a shady bank, and a stream too; ay, and with

water blue and sparkling as your own soft eyes. Come, dearest.”

The pale girl looked steadily and suspiciously at her companion; but

one glance dispelled her fears. The face she scrutinized was honest; and

without hesitation, she quitted the high road, and seated herself on

a fallen tree in the sheltered glade to which Mark Antony had pointed.

Well,--she might do so safely. In grain, the fosterer was a gentleman;

and, for a queen’s ransom, he would not have abused confidence placed in

his honour, or have imagined aught that was evil against a woman whose

helplessness called upon him for protection. He flung himself at her

feet upon the sward, and opening the widow’s basket, produced a chicken,

some oaten cakes, and a _cruiskeeine_ of native whisky. The fowl was

speedily dismembered; the contents of the flask diluted with the clear

cold water of the rivulet; and, with kindly warmth, her companion urged

the wanderer to refresh herself. But, poor girl! her heart was full. She

gently put aside the food presented to her; tears fell fast, and hiding

her face between her hands, she seemed to give way to some secret

sorrow, too deep, too poignant for concealment.

The fosterer, but in vain, endeavoured to cheer her sinking spirits.

The _cruislteeine_ was laid down untasted; and while with youth’s ardent

eloquence, Mark Antony pointed to happiness in the distance, the deep

sobs of his companion told that from her bosom that hope which cheers

the darkest hour of life, was long departed.

“Come, come, Julia,” he said, pressing her hand in his, “why will you be

so down-hearted?”

The poor girl raised her eyes. She did not reply; but her look betrayed

the agony of the heart, and its sad and silent expression had “the

calmness of settled despair.”

“And have you been very--very unfortunate, Julia?” pursued the fosterer.

The wanderer mournfully shook her head.

“And left home, and friends, and--”

“Father!” exclaimed the girl, wildly, with a maniac’s suddenness.

“Were you decoyed away by a villain?

“He who wrecked my peace is in the grave. May Heaven pardon him as

sincerely as I wish it!”

“Probably under the promise of marriage?” said the fosterer, with the

hesitation that a man feels who asks a question which possibly may cause

pain or give offence.

“_The promise!_” exclaimed the girl, while her pale cheeks flushed, and

her eye lightened as if repelling a derogatory insinuation. No, no; it

was indeed a sad reality, although the act was villanous and putting her

hand into her bosom, she drew forth a wedding-ring, secured by a black

ribbon. “There is the token that I was a lawful wife; and there, also, a

memorial that I was a--” She paused.

“What?” exclaimed the fosterer.

“A worthless daughter. _Worthless!_ worse far;--a parricide! Yes, yes; I

murdered him. My misconduct broke his heart. My ingratitude quenched

his broken spirit. I did not drug him to death; but I poisoned his

happiness, and sent him to the grave. Am I not, then, a murderess?”

She flung herself wildly upon the fallen tree, and sobbed convulsively.

“Be calm;” said Mark Antony, pressing her hand; “I have given you pain;

but Heaven knows I would not, if--”

“No, no,” exclaimed the girl, “you meant no harm; but where guilt

abides, the conscience takes alarm. For a sad, sad, twelvemonth your’s

is the only heart that has warmed to me; your’s the only ear to which I

would confide my story. Hear me; and then say whether the crime or

the retribution has been the greater. I am calm; but it seems to me a

melancholy pleasure to disclose to a being who will sympathize, how much

I have sinned, and how much I have suffered.”’ She rose,--walked a few

paces to a rock from which the mountain streamlet dropped into a basin

which itself had formed; and having bathed her aching temples in the

water, returned, and, to a most attentive listener, she thus detailed

her history.

CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF THE WANDERING ACTRESS

“What will not woman, when she loves?

“Yet lost, alas! who can restore her?

She lifts the latch--the wicket moves-

And now the world is all before her.”

Rogers.

I was born in a village on the coast of Sussex. My father, after

five-and-twenty years’ service, had retired from the army on a pension,

with a small sum of money he had saved while acting in the West Indies

as a quarter-master; and settling in his native village, he married the

orphan daughter of a clergyman. The union was happy; and the evening of

an adventurous life promised to wear quietly way. But, like all mortal

expectations, my father’s dream of happiness proved unreal, for my

mother died in giving birth to me, leaving another child behind her,

a boy, two years older than myself. My parents were warmly attached to

each other, and the old soldier felt his bereavement acutely; but he

bore up against his visitation like a man, and endeavoured by a devoted

attachment to the living, to show how fondly he regarded the memory of

the dead.

Indeed, it was little wonder that in my brother and myself, the widower

should centre his affections. No relative of my mother was alive; and

the only kinsman of my father was a half-brother, a dozen years older

than himself; a man in every way unamiable.

Josiah Rawlings was the village lawyer; a being without a heart, or such

a heart as is untouched by the widow’s agony, unmoved by the orphan’s

tears. He was mean, sordid, and vindictive; had realized much wealth;

but on that ill-acquired money, the bitter curses of many a ruined

family were entailed.

Josiah’s appearance was very remarkable. As for as respected height, he

was tall enough for a grenadier, and in his fleshy proportions, light

enough for a jockey. His hollow cheek and small grey eyes were in good

keeping with his gaunt and bony figure; and at a look the stranger would

set him down a knave, a miser, or a union of both.

Never were two persons more opposite in disposition than the brothers.

The lawyer listened without emotion to a tale of sorrow--human suffering

was a matter of indifference to him; while the soldier’s heart was as

open as his honest countenance, and his purse answered the appeal of

poverty to the fullest extent of his means. Unrelieved, no beggar left

his door; and when a comrade eame that way, then indeed the fatted calf

was killed,--for with him my father would have shared his last flask,

ay, and his last shilling.