During the course of Ormond’s tour through Ireland, he frequently found
himself in company with those who knew the history of public affairs
for years past, and were but too well acquainted with the political
profligacy and shameful jobbing of Sir Ulick O’Shane.
Some of these gentlemen, knowing Mr. Ormond to be his ward, refrained,
of course, from touching upon any subject relative to Sir Ulick; and
when Ormond mentioned him, evaded the conversation, or agreed in general
terms in praising his abilities, wit, and address. But, after a day or
two’s journey from Castle Hermitage, when he was beyond his own and the
adjoining counties, when he went into company with those who happened to
know nothing of his connexion with Sir Ulick O’Shane, then he heard
him spoken of in a very different manner. He was quite astonished and
dismayed by the general abuse, as he thought it, which was poured upon
him.
“Well, every man of abilities excites envy--every man who takes a part
in politics, especially in times when parties run high, must expect to
be abused: they must bear it; and their friends must learn to bear it
for them.”
Such were the reflections with which Ormond at first comforted himself.
As far as party abuse went, this was quite satisfactory; even facts, or
what are told as facts, are so altered by the manner of seeing them by
an opposite party, that, without meaning to traduce, they calumniate.
Ormond entrenched himself in total disbelief, and cool assertion of his
disbelief, of a variety of anecdotes he continually heard discreditable
to Sir Ulick. Still he expected that, when he went into other company,
and met with men of Sir Ulick’s own party, he should obtain proofs of
the falsehood of these stories, and by that he might be able, not only
to contradict, but to confute them. People, however, only smiled, and
told him that he had better inquire no farther, if he expected to find
Sir Ulick an immaculate character. Those who liked him best, laughed off
the notorious instances of his public defection of principle, and of
his private jobbing, as good jokes; proofs of his knowledge of the
world--his address, his frankness, his being “not a bit of a hypocrite.”
But even those who professed to like him best, and to be the least
scrupulous with regard to public virtue, still spoke with a sort of
facetious contempt of Sir Ulick, as a thorough-going friend of the
powers that be--as a hack of administration--as a man who knew well
enough what he was about. Ormond was continually either surprised or
hurt by these insinuations. The concurrent testimony of numbers who
had no interest to serve, or prejudice to gratify, operated upon him by
degrees, so as to enforce conviction, and this was still more painful.
Harry became so sore and irritable upon this subject, that he was now
every day in danger of entangling himself in some quarrel in defence of
his guardian. Several times the master of the house prevented this, and
brought him to reason, by representing that the persons who talked of
Sir Ulick were quite ignorant of his connexion with him, and spoke only
according to general opinion, and to the best of their belief, of a
public character, who was fair game. It was, at that time, much the
fashion among a certain set in Dublin, to try their wit upon each other
in political and poetical squibs--the more severe and bitter these
were, the more they were applauded: the talent for invective was in
the highest demand at this period in Ireland; it was considered as the
unequivocal proof of intellectual superiority. The display of it was
the more admired, as it could not be enjoyed without a double portion of
that personal promptitude to give the _satisfaction of a gentleman_,
on which the Irish pride themselves: the taste of the nation, both for
oratory and manners, has become of late years so much more refined, that
when any of the lampoons of that day are now recollected, people are
surprised at the licence of abuse which was then tolerated, and even
approved of in fashionable society. Sir Ulick O’Shane, as a well-known
public character, had been the subject of a variety of puns, bon-mots,
songs, and epigrams, which had become so numerous as to be collected
under the title of Ulysseana. Upon the late separation of Sir Ulick
and his lady, a new edition, with a caricature frontispiece, had been
published; unfortunately for Ormond, this had just worked its way from
Dublin to this part of the country.
It happened one day, at a gentleman’s house where this Ulysseana had not
yet been seen, that a lady, a visitor and a stranger, full of some of
the lines which she had learned by heart, began to repeat them for
the amusement of the tea-table. Ladies do not always consider how
much mischief they may do by such imprudence; nor how they may hazard
valuable lives, for the sake of producing a _sensation_, by the
repetition of _a severe thing_. Ormond came into the room after dinner,
and with some other gentlemen gathered round the tea-table, while the
lady was repeating some extracts from the new edition of the Ulysseana.
The master and mistress of the house made reiterated attempts to stop
the lady; but, too intent upon herself and her second-hand wit to
comprehend or take these hints, she went on reciting the following
lines:--
To serve in parliament the nation,
Sir Ulick read his recantation:
At first he joined the patriot throng,
But soon perceiving he was wrong,
He ratted to the courtier tribe,
Bought by a title and a bribe;
But how that new found friend to bind,
With any oath--of any kind,
Disturb’d the premier’s wary mind.
“_Upon his faith.--Upon his word,_”
Oh! that, my friend, is too absurd.
“_Upon his honour_.”--Quite a jest.
“_Upon his conscience_.”--No such test.
“_By all he has on earth_.”--‘Tis gone.
“_By all his hopes of Heaven_.”--They’re none.
“How then secure him in our pay--
He can’t be trusted for a day?”
How?--When you want the fellow’s throat--
Pay by the job--you have his vote.
Sir Ulick himself, had he been present, would have laughed off the
epigram with the best grace imaginable, and so, in good policy, ought
Ormond to have taken it. But he felt it too much, and was not in the
habit of laughing when he was vexed. Most of the company, who knew any
thing of his connexion with Sir Ulick, or who understood the agonizing
looks of the master and mistress of the house, politely refrained from
smiles or applause; but a cousin of the lady who repeated the lines, a
young man who was one of the hateful tribe of _quizzers_, on purpose to
_try_ Ormond, praised the verses to the skies, and appealed to him for
his opinion.
“I can’t admire them, sir,” replied Ormond.
“What fault can you find with them?” said the young man, winking at the
bystanders.
“I think them _incorrect_, in the first place, sir,” said Ormond, “and
altogether indifferent.”
“Well, at any rate, they can’t be called _moderate_,” said the
gentleman; “and as to incorrect, the substance, I fancy, is correctly
true.”
“_Fancy_, sir!--It would be hard if character were to be at the mercy of
fancy,” cried Ormond, hastily; but checking himself, he, in a mild tone,
added, “before we go any farther, sir, I should inform you that I am a
ward of Sir Ulick O Shane’s.”
“Oh! mercy,” exclaimed the lady, who had repeated the verses; “I am sure
I did not know that, or I would not have said a word--I declare I beg
your pardon, sir.”
Ormond’s bow and smile spoke his perfect satisfaction with the lady’s
contrition, and his desire to relieve her from farther anxiety. So the
matter might have happily ended; but her cousin, though he had begun
merely with an intention to try Ormond’s temper, now felt piqued by
his spirit, and thought it incumbent upon him to persist. Having drunk
enough to be ill-humoured, he replied, in an aggravating and ill-bred
manner, “Your being Sir Ulick O’Shane’s ward may make a difference
in your feelings, sir, but I don’t see why it should make any in my
opinion.”
“In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I think it ought.”
The master of the house now interfered, to explain and pacify, and
Ormond had presence of mind and command enough over himself, to say no
more while the ladies were present: he sat down, and began talking about
some trifle in a gay tone; but his flushed cheek, and altered manner,
showed that he was only repressing other feelings. The carriages of
the visitors were announced, and the strangers rose to depart. Ormond
accompanied the master of the house to hand the ladies to their
carriages. To mark his being in perfect charity with the fair penitent,
he showed her particular attention, which quite touched her; and as he
put her into her carriage, she, all the time, repeated her apologies,
declared it should be a lesson to her for life, and cordially shook
hands with him at parting. For her sake, he wished that nothing more
should be said on the subject.
But, on his return to the hall, he found there the cousin, buttoning on
his great coat, and seeming loath to depart: still in ill-humour, the
gentleman said, “I hope you are satisfied with that lady’s apologies,
Mr. Ormond.”
“I am, sir, perfectly.”
“That’s lucky: for apologies are easier had from ladies than gentlemen,
and become them better.”
“I think it becomes gentlemen as well as ladies to make candid
apologies, where they are conscious of being wrong--if there was no
intention to give offence.”
“_If_ is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take advantage of an
_if_.”
“Am I to suppose then, sir,” said Ormond, “that it was your intention to
offend me?”
“Suppose what you please, sir--I am not in the habit of explanation or
apology.”
“Then, sir, the sooner we meet the better,” said Ormond. In consequence
Ormond applied to an officer who had been present during the
altercation, to be his second. Ormond felt that he had restrained his
anger sufficiently--he was now as firm as he had been temperate. The
parties met and fought: the man who deserved to have suffered, by
the chance of this rational mode of deciding right and wrong, escaped
unhurt; Ormond received a wound in his arm. It was only a flesh wound.
He was at the house of a very hospitable gentleman, whose family were
kind to him; and the inconvenience and pain were easily borne. In the
opinion of all, in that part of the world, who knew the facts, he had
conducted himself as well as the circumstances would permit; and, as it
was essential, not only to the character of a hero, but of a gentleman
at that time in Ireland, to fight a duel, we may consider Ormond as
fortunate in not having been in the wrong. He rose in favour with the
ladies, and in credit with the gentlemen, and he heard no more of the
Ulysseana; but he was concerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish
papers, about the duel that had been fought between M. N. Esq. jun. of
----, and H. O. Esq., in consequence of a dispute that arose about some
satirical verses, repeated by a lady on a certain well-known character,
nearly related to one of the parties. A flaming account of the duel
followed, in which there was the usual newspaper proportion of truth and
falsehood: Ormond knew and regretted that this paragraph must meet
the eyes of his guardian; and still more he was sorry that Dr. Cambray
should see it. He knew the doctor’s Christian abhorrence of the whole
system of duelling; and, by the statement in the papers, it appeared
that that gallant youth, H. O. Esq., to whom the news-writer evidently
wished to do honour, had been far more forward to provoke the fight than
he had been, or than he ought to have been:--his own plain statement
of facts, which he wrote to Dr. Cambray, would have set every thing to
rights, but his letter crossed the doctor’s on the road. As he was now
in a remote place, which the delightful mail coach roads had not then
reached--where the post came in only three days in the week--and where
the mail cart either broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, was
overturned, or robbed, at an average once a fortnight--our hero had no
alternative but patience, and the amusement of calculating dates and
chances upon his restless sofa. His taste for reading enabled him to
pass agreeably some of the hours of bodily confinement, which men, and
young men especially, accustomed to a great deal of exercise, liberty,
and locomotion, generally find so intolerably irksome. At length his
wound was well enough for him to travel--letters for him arrived: a
warm, affectionate one from his guardian; and one from Dr. Cambray,
which relieved his anxiety.
“I must tell you, my dear young friend,” said Dr. Cambray, “that while
you have been defending Sir Ulick O’Shane’s public character (of
which, by-the-by, you know nothing), I have been defending your private
character, of which I hope and believe I know something. The truth is
always known in time, with regard to every character; and therefore,
independently of other motives, moral and religious, it is more prudent
to trust to time and truth for their defence, than to sword and
pistol. I know you are impatient to hear what were the reports to your
disadvantage, and from whom I had them. I had them from the Annalys;
and they heard them in England, through various circuitous channels of
female correspondents in Ireland. As far as we can trace them, we think
that they originated with your old friend Miss Black. The first account
Lady Annaly heard of you after she went to England, was, that you were
living a most dissolute life in the Black Islands, with King Corny,
who was described to be a profligate rebel, and his companion an
ex-communicated catholic priest; king, priest, and _Prince Harry_,
getting drunk together regularly every night of their lives. The next
account which Lady Annaly received some months afterwards, in reply to
inquiries she had made from her agent, was, that it was impossible to
know any thing for certain of Mr. Harry Ormond, as he always kept in the
Black Islands. The report was, that he had lately seduced a girl of the
name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable gardener’s daughter, who was going
to be married to a man of the name of Moriarty Carroll, a person whom
Mr. Ormond had formerly shot in some unfortunate drunken quarrel. The
match between her and Moriarty had been broken off in consequence. The
following year accounts were worse and worse. This Harry Ormond had
gained the affections of his benefactor’s daughter, though, as he had
been warned by her father, she was betrothed to another man. The young
lady was afterwards, by her father’s anger, and by Ormond’s desertion
of her, thrown into the arms of a French adventurer, whom Ormond brought
into the house under pretence of learning French from him. Immediately
after the daughter’s elopement with the French master, the poor father
died suddenly, in some extraordinary manner, when out shooting with this
Mr. Ormond; to whom a considerable landed property, and a large legacy
in money, were, to every body’s surprise, found to be left in a will
which _he_ produced, and which the family did not think fit to dispute.
There were strange circumstances told concerning the wake and burial,
all tending to prove that this Harry Ormond had lost all feeling. Hints
were further given that he had renounced the Protestant religion, and
had turned Catholic for the sake of absolution.”
Many times during the perusal of this extravagant tissue of falsehoods,
Ormond laid down and resumed the paper, unable to refrain from
exclamations of rage and contempt; sometimes almost laughing at the
absurdity of the slander. “After this,” thought he, “who can mind common
reports?--and yet Dr. Cambray says that these excited some prejudice
against me in the mind of Lady Annaly. With such a woman I should
have thought it impossible. Could she believe me capable of such
crimes?--_me_, of whom she had once a good opinion?--_me_, in whose fate
she said she was interested?”
He took Dr. Cambray’s letter again, and read on: he found that Lady
Annaly had not credited these reports as to the atrocious accusations;
but they had so far operated as to excite doubts and suspicions. In
some of the circumstances, there was sufficient truth to colour the
falsehood. For example, with regard both to Peggy Sheridan, and Dora,
the truth had been plausibly mixed with falsehood. The story of Peggy
Sheridan, Lady Annaly had some suspicion might be true. Her ladyship,
who had seen Moriarty’s generous conduct to Ormond, was indignant at his
ingratitude. She was a woman prompt to feel strong indignation against
all that was base; and, when her indignation was excited, she was
sometimes incapable of hearing what was said on the other side of the
question. Her daughter Florence, of a calmer temper and cooler judgment,
usually acted as moderator on these occasions. She could not believe
that Harry Ormond had been guilty of faults that were so opposite to
those which they had seen in his disposition:--violence, not treachery,
was his fault. But why, if there were nothing wrong, Lady Annaly
urged--why did not he write to her, as she had requested he would, when
his plans for his future life were decided?--She had told him that her
son might probably be able to assist him. Why could not he write one
line?
Ormond had heard that her son was ill, and that her mind was so absorbed
with anxiety, that he could not at first venture to intrude upon her
with his selfish concerns. This was his first and best reason; but
afterwards, to be sure, when he heard that the son was better, he might
have written. He wrote at that time such a sad scrawl of a hand--he was
so little used to letter-writing, that he was ashamed to write. Then
it was _too late_ after so long a silence, &c. Foolish as these reasons
were, they had, as we have said before, acted upon our young hero; and
have, perhaps, in as important circumstances, prevented many young men
from writing to friends, able and willing to serve them. It was rather
fortunate for Ormond that slander did not stop at the first plausible
falsehoods: when the more atrocious charges came against him, Miss
Annaly, who had never deserted his cause, declared her absolute
disbelief. The discussions that went on, between her and her mother,
kept alive their interest about this young man. He was likely to have
been forgotten during their anxiety in the son’s illness; but fresh
reports had brought him to their recollection frequently; and when their
friend, Dr. Cambray, was appointed to the living of Castle Hermitage,
his evidence perfectly reinstated Harry in Lady Annaly’s good opinion.
As if to make amends for the injustice she had done him by believing any
part of the evil reports, she was now anxious to see him again. A
few days after Dr. Cambray wrote, Ormond received a very polite and
gratifying letter from Lady Annaly, requesting that, as “Annaly” lay in
his route homewards, he would spend a few days there, and give her
an opportunity of making him acquainted with her son. It is scarcely
necessary to say that this invitation was eagerly accepted.