"That's what I told you, sir," said Goggins to Tom.

"May the divil burn you and your epithalamium!" said Tom Durfy, stamping round the little room.

James Reddy stared in wonder, and Goggins roared, laughing.

"A pretty compliment you've paid me, Mister Reddy, this fine morning," said Tom; "you tell a bailiff where I live, that you may send your infernal verses to me, and you get me arrested."

"Oh, murder!" exclaimed James. "I'm very sorry, my dear Tom; but, at the same time, 't is a capital incident! How it would work up in a farce!"

"How funny it is!" said Tom in a rage, eyeing James as if he could have eaten him. "Bad luck to all poetry and poetasters! By the 'tarnal war, I wish every poet, from Homer down, was put into a mortar and pounded to death!"

James poured forth expressions of sorrow for the mischance; and extremely ludicrous it was to see one man making apologies for trying to pay his friend a compliment; his friend swearing at him for his civility, and the bailiff grinning at them both.

In this triangular dilemma we will leave them for the present.



CHAPTER XLVI

Edward O'Connor, on hearing from Gustavus of the old dowager's disappearance from Neck-or-Nothing Hall, joined in the eager inquiries which were made about her; and his being directed with more method and judgment than those of others, their result was more satisfactory. He soon "took up the trail," to use an Indian phrase, and he and Gusty were not many hours in posting after the old lady. They arrived in town early in the morning, and lost no time in casting about for information.

One of the first places Edward inquired at was the inn where the postchaise generally drove to from the house where the old dowager had obtained her carriage in the country; but there no trace was to be had. Next, the principal hotels were referred to, but as yet without success; when, as they turned into one of the leading streets in continuance of their search, their attention was attracted by a crowd swaying to and fro in that peculiar manner which indicates there is a fight inside of it. Great excitement prevailed on the verge of the crowd, where exclamations escaped from those who could get a peep at the fight.

"The little chap has great heart!" cried one.

"But the sweep is the biggest," said another.

"Well done, Horish!" [Footnote: The name of a celebrated sweep in Ireland, whose name is applied to the whole.] cried a blackguard, who enjoyed the triumph of his fellow. "Bravo! little fellow," rejoined a genteel person, who rejoiced in some successful hit of the other combatant. There is an inherent love in men to see a fight, which Edward O'Connor shared with inferior men; and if he had not peeped into the ring, most assuredly Gusty would. What was their astonishment, when they got a glimpse of the pugilists, to perceive Ratty was one of them— his antagonist being a sweep, taller by a head, and no bad hand at the "noble science."

Edward's first impulse was to separate them, but Gusty requested he would not, saying that he saw by Ratty's eye he was able to "lick the fellow." Ratty certainly showed great fight; what the sweep had in superior size was equalized by the superior "game" of the gentleman-boy, to whom the indomitable courage of a high-blooded race had descended, and who would sooner have died than yield. Besides, Ratty was not deficient in the use of his "bunch of fives," hit hard for his size, and was very agile: the sweep sometimes made a rush, grappled, and got a fall; but he never went in without getting something from Ratty to "remember him," and was not always uppermost. At last, both were so far punished, and the combat not being likely to be speedily ended (for the sweep was no craven), that the bystanders interfered, declaring that "they ought to be separated," and they were.

While the crowd was dispersing, Edward called a coach; and before Ratty could comprehend how the affair was managed, he was shoved into it and driven from the scene of action. Ratty had a confused sense of hearing loud shouts—of being lifted somewhere—of directions given—the rattle of iron steps clinking sharply—two or three fierce bangs of a door that wouldn't shut, and then an awful shaking, which roused him up from the corner of the vehicle into which he had fallen in the first moment of exhaustion. Ratty "shook his feathers," dragged his hair from out of his eyes, which were getting very black indeed, and applied his handkerchief to his nose, which was much in need of that delicate attention; and when the sense of perfect vision was restored to him, which was not for some time (all the colours of the rainbow dancing before Ratty's eyes for many seconds after the fight), what was his surprise to see Edward O'Connor and Gusty sitting on the opposite seat!

It was some time before Ratty could quite comprehend his present situation; but as soon as he was made sensible of it, and could answer, the first questions asked of him were about his grandmother. Ratty fortunately remembered the name of the hotel where she put up, though he had left it as soon as the old lady proceeded to the Castle—had lost his way—and got engaged in a quarrel with a sweep in the meantime.

The coach was ordered to drive to the hotel named; and how the fight occurred was the next question.

"The sweep was passing by, and I called him 'snow-ball,'" said Ratty; "and the blackguard returned an impudent answer, and I hit him."

"You had no right to call him 'snow-ball,'" said Edward.

"I always called the sweeps 'snow-ball' down at the Hall," said Ratty, "and they never answered."

"When you are on your own territory you may say what you please to your dependents, Ratty, and they dare not answer; or to use a vulgar saying, 'A cock may crow on his own dunghill.'"

"I'm no dunghill cock!" said Ratty, fiercely.

"Indeed, you're not," said Edward, laying his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder; "you have plenty of courage."

"I'd have licked him," said Ratty, "if they'd have let me have two or three rounds more."

"My dear boy, other things are needful in this world besides courage. Prudence, temper, and forbearance are required; and this may be a lesson to you, to remember, that, when you get abroad in the world, you are very little cared about, however great your consequence may be at home; and I am sure you cannot be proud about your having got into a quarrel with a sweep."

Ratty made no answer—his blood began to cool—he became every moment more sensible that he had received heavy blows. His eyes became more swollen, he snuffled more in his speech, and his blackened condition altogether, from gutter, soot, and thrashing, convinced him a fight with a sweep was not an enviable achievement.

The coach drew up at the hotel. Edward left Gusty to see about the dowager, and made an appointment for Gusty to meet him at their own lodgings in an hour; while he in the interim should call on Dick Dawson, who was in town on his way to London.

Edward shook hands with Ratty and bade him kindly good bye. "You're a stout fellow, Ratty," said he, "but remember this old saying, 'Quarrelsome dogs get dirty coats.'"

Edward now proceeded to Dick's lodgings, and found him engaged in reading a note from Tom Durfy, dated from the "Bower of Repose," and requesting Dick's aid in his present difficulty.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish," said Dick: "Tom Durfy, who is engaged to dine with me to-day to take leave of his bachelor life, as he is going to be married to-morrow, is arrested, and now in quod, and wants me to bail him."

"The shortest way is to pay the money at once," said Edward; "is it much?"

"That I don't know; but I have not a great deal about me, and what I have I want for my journey to London and my expenses there—not but what I'd help Tom if I could."

"He must not be allowed to remain there, however we manage to get him out," said Edward; "perhaps I can help you in the affair."

"You're always a good fellow, Ned," said Dick, shaking his hand warmly.

Edward escaped from hearing any praise of himself by proposing they should repair at once to the sponging-house, and see how matters stood. Dick lamented he should be called away at such a moment, for he was just going to get his wine ready for the party—particularly some champagne, which he was desirous of seeing well iced; but as he could not wait to do it himself, he called Andy, to give him directions about it, and set off with Edward to the relief of Tom Durfy.

Andy was once more in service in the Egan family; for the Squire, on finding him still more closely linked by his marriage with the desperate party whose influence over Andy was to be dreaded, took advantage of Andy's disgust against the woman who had entrapped him, and offered to take him off to London instead of enlisting; and as Andy believed he would be there sufficiently out of the way of the false Bridget, he came off at once to Dublin with Dick, who was the pioneer of the party to London.

Dick gave Andy the necessary directions for icing the champagne, which he set apart and pointed out most particularly to our hero, lest he should make a mistake and perchance ice the port instead.

After Edward and Dick had gone, Andy commenced operations according to orders. He brought a large tub up-stairs containing rough ice, which excited Andy's wonder, for he never had known till now that ice was preserved for and applied to such a use, for an ice-house did not happen to be attached to any establishment in which he had served.

"Well, this is the quarest thing I ever heerd of," said Andy. "Musha! what outlandish inventions the quolity has among them! They're not contint with wine, but they must have ice along with it—and in a tub, too! —just like pigs!—throth it's a dirty thrick, I think. Well, here goes!" said he; and Andy opened a bottle of champagne, and poured it into the tub with the ice. "How it fizzes!" said Andy, "Faix, it's almost as lively as the soda-wather that bothered me long ago. Well, I know more about things now; sure it's wondherful how a man improves with practice!"—and another bottle of champagne was emptied into the tub as he spoke. Thus, with several other complacent comments upon his own proficiency, Andy poured half-a-dozen of champagne into the tub of ice, and remarked, when he had finished his work, that he thought it would be "mighty cowld on their stomachs."

Dick and Edward all this time were on their way to the relief of Tom Durfy, who, though he had cooled down from the boiling-pitch to which the misadventure of the morning had raised him, was still simmering, with his elbows planted on the rickety table in Mr. Goggins' "bower," and his chin resting on his clenched hands. It was the very state of mind in which Tom was most dangerous.

At the other side of the table sat James Reddy, intently employed in writing; his pursed mouth and knitted brows bespoke a labouring state of thought, and the various crossings, interlinings, and blottings gave additional evidence of the same, while now and then a rush at a line which was knocked off in a hurry, with slashing dashes of the pen, and fierce after-crossings of t's, and determined dottings of i's, declared some thought suddenly seized, and executed with bitter triumph.

"You seem very happy in yourself in what you are writing," said Tom. "What is it? Is it another epithalamium?"

"It is a caustic article against the successful men of the day," said Reddy; "they have no merit, sir—none. 'T is nothing but luck has placed them where they are, and they ought to be exposed." He then threw down his pen as he spoke, and, after a silence of some minutes, suddenly put this question to Tom:

"What do you think of the world?"

"'Faith, I think it so pleasant a place," said Tom, "that I'm confoundedly vexed at being kept out of it by being locked up here; and that cursed bailiff is so provokingly free-and-easy—coming in here every ten minutes, and making himself at home."

"Why, as for that matter, it is his home, you must remember."

"But while a gentleman is here for a period," said Tom, "this room ought to be considered his, and that fellow has no business here—and then his bows and scrapes, and talking about the feelings of a gentleman, and all that—'t is enough to make a dog beat his father. Curse him! I'd like to choke him."

"Oh! that's merely his manner," said James.

"Want of manners, you mean," said Tom. "Hang me, if he comes up to me with his rascally familiarity again, but I'll kick him down stairs."

"My dear fellow, you are excited," said Reddy; "don't let these sublunary trifles ruffle your temper—you see how I bear it; and to recall you to yourself, I will remind you of the question we started from, 'What do you think of the world?' There's a general question—a broad question, upon which one may talk with temper and soar above the petty grievances of life in the grand consideration of so ample a subject. You see me here, a prisoner like yourself, but I can talk of the world. Come, be a calm philosopher, like me! Answer, what do you think of the world?"

"I've told you already," said Tom; "it's a capital place, only for the bailiffs."

"I can't agree with you," said James. "I think it one vast pool of stagnant wretchedness, where the malaria of injustice holds her scales suspended, to poison rising talent by giving an undue weight to existing prejudices."

To this lucid and good-tempered piece of philosophy, Tom could only answer, "You know I am no poet, and I cannot argue with you but, 'pon my soul, I have known, and do know, some uncommon good fellows in the world."

"You're wrong, you're wrong, my unsuspecting friend. 'T is a bad world, and no place for susceptible minds. Jealousy pursues talent like its shadow—superiority alone wins for you the hatred of inferior men. For instance, why am I here? The editor of my paper will not allow my articles always to appear;—prevents their insertion, lest the effect they would make would cause inquiry, and tend to my distinction; and the consequence is, that the paper I came to uphold in Dublin is deprived of my articles, and I don't get paid; while I see inferior men, without asking for it, loaded with favour; they are abroad in affluence, and I in captivity and poverty. But one comfort is, even in disgrace I can write, and they shall get a slashing."

Thus spoke the calm philosopher, who gave Tom a lecture on patience.

Tom was no great conjuror; but at that moment, like Audrey, "he thanked the gods he was not poetical." If there be any one thing more than another to make an "every-day man" content with his average lot, it is the exhibition of ambitious inferiority, striving for distinction it can never attain; just given sufficient perception to desire the glory of success, without power to measure the strength that can achieve it; like some poor fly, which beats its head against a pane of glass, seeing the sunshine beyond, but incapable of perceiving the subtle medium which intervenes— too delicate for its limited sense to comprehend, but too strong for its limited power to pass. But though Tom felt satisfaction at that moment, he had too good feeling to wound the self-love of the vain creature before him; so, instead of speaking what he thought, viz., "What business have you to attempt literature, you conceited fool?" he tried to wean him civilly from his folly by saying, "Then come back to the country, James; if you find jealous rivals here, you know you were always admired there."

"No, sir," said James; "even there my merit was unacknowledged."

"No! no!" said Tom.

"Well, underrated, at least. Even there, that Edward O'Connor, somehow or other, I never could tell why—I never saw his great talents— but somehow or other, people got it into their heads that he was clever."

"I tell you what it is," said Tom, earnestly, "Ned-of-the-Hill has got into a better place than people's heads—he has got into their hearts!"

"There it is!" exclaimed James, indignantly. "You have caught up the cuckoo-cry—the heart! Why, sir, what merit is there in writing about feelings which any common labourer can comprehend? There's no poetry in that; true poetry lies in a higher sphere, where you have difficulty in following the flight of the poet, and possibly may not be fortunate enough to understand him—that's poetry, sir."

"I told you I am no poet," said Tom; "but all I know is, I have felt my heart warm to some of Edward's songs, and, by jingo, I have seen the women's eyes glisten, and their cheeks flush or grow pale, as they have heard them—and that's poetry enough for me."

"Well, let Mister O'Connor enjoy his popularity, sir, if popularity it may be called, in a small country circle—let him enjoy it—I don't envy him his, though I think he was rather jealous about mine."

"Ned jealous!" exclaimed Tom, in surprise.

"Yes, jealous; I never heard him say a kind word of any verses I ever wrote in my life; and I am certain he has most unkind feelings towards me."

"I tell you what it is," said Tom, "getting up" a bit; "I told you I don't understand poetry, but I do understand what's an infinitely better thing, and that's fine, generous, manly feeling; and if there's a human being in the world incapable of wronging another in his mind or heart, or readier to help his fellow-man, it is Edward O'Connor: so say no more, James, if you please."

Tom had scarcely uttered the last word, when the key was turned in the door.

"Here's that infernal bailiff again!" said Tom, whose irritability, increased by Reddy's paltry egotism and injustice, was at its boiling- pitch once more. He planted himself firmly in his chair, and putting on his fiercest frown, was determined to confront Mister Goggins with an aspect that should astonish him.

The door opened, and Mister Goggins made his appearance, presenting to the gentlemen in the room the hinder portion of his person, which made several indications of courtesy performed by the other half of his body, while he uttered the words, "Don't be astonished, gentlemen; you'll be used to it by-and-by." And with these words he kept backing towards Tom, making these nether demonstrations of civility, till Tom could plainly see the seams in the back of Mr. Goggins's pantaloons.

Tom thought this was some new touch of the "free-and-easy" on Mister Goggins's part, and, losing all command of himself, he jumped from his chair, and with a vigorous kick gave Mister Goggins such a lively impression of his desire that he should leave the room, that Mister Goggins went head foremost down the stairs, pitching his whole weight upon Dick Dawson and Edward O'Connor, who were ascending the dark stairs, and to whom all his bows had been addressed. Overwhelmed with astonishment and twelve stone of bailiff, they were thrown back into the hall, and an immense uproar in the passage ensued.

Edward and Dick were near coming in for some hard usage from Goggins, conceiving it might be a preconcerted attempt on the part of his prisoners and their newly arrived friends to achieve a rescue; and while he was rolling about on the ground, he roared to his evil-visaged janitor to look to the door first, and keep him from being "murthered" after.

Fortunately no evil consequences ensued, until matters could be explained in the hall, and Edward and Dick were introduced to the upper room, from which Goggins had been so suddenly ejected.

There the bailiff demanded in a very angry tone the cause of Tom's conduct; and when it was found to be only a mutual misunderstanding —that Goggins wouldn't take a liberty with a gentleman "in defficulties" for the world, and that Tom wouldn't hurt a fly, "only under a mistake" —matters were cleared up to the satisfaction of all parties, and the real business of the meeting commenced:—that was to pay Tom's debt out of hand; and when the bailiff saw all demands, fees included, cleared off, the clouds from his brow cleared off also, he was the most amiable of sheriff's officers, and all his sentimentality returned.

Edward did not seem quite to sympathise with his amiability, so Goggins returned to the charge, while Tom and Dick were exchanging a few words with James Reddy.

"You see, sir," said Goggins, "in the first place, it is quite beautiful to see the mind in adversity bearing up against the little antediluvian afflictions that will happen occasionally, and then how fine it is to remark the spark of generosity that kindles in the noble heart and rushes to the assistance of the destitute! I do assure you, sir, it is a most beautiful sight to see the gentlemen in defficulties waitin' here for their friends to come to their relief, like the last scene in Blue Beard, where sister Ann waves her han'kerchief from the tower —the tyrant is slain—and virtue rewarded!

"Ah, sir!" said he to Edward O'Connor, whose look of disgust at the wretched den caught the bailiff's attention, "don't entertain an antifassy from first imprissions, which is often desaivin'. I do pledge you my honour, sir, there is no place in the 'varsal world where human nature is visible in more attractive colours than in this humble retrait."

Edward could not conceal a smile at the fellow's absurdity, though his sense of the ridiculous could not overcome the disgust with which the place inspired him. He gave an admonitory touch to the elbow of Dick Dawson, who, with his friend Tom Durfy, followed Edward from the room, the bailiff bringing up the rear, and relocking the door on the unfortunate James Reddy, who was left "alone in his glory," to finish his slashing article against the successful men of the day. Nothing more than words of recognition had passed between Reddy and Edward. In the first place, Edward's appearance at the very moment the other was indulging in illiberal observations upon him rendered the ill-tempered poetaster dumb; and Edward attributed this distance of manner to a feeling of shyness which Reddy might entertain at being seen in such a place, and therefore had too much good breeding to thrust his civility on a man who seemed to shrink from it; but when he left the house he expressed his regret to his companions at the poor fellow's unfortunate situation.

It touched Tom Durfy's heart to hear these expressions of compassion coming from the lips of the man he had heard maligned a few minutes before by the very person commiserated, and it raised his opinion higher of Edward, whose hand he now shook with warm expressions of thankfulness on his own account, for the prompt service rendered to him. Edward made as light of his own kindness as he could, and begged Tom to think nothing of such a trifle.

"One word I will say to you, Durfy, and I'm sure you'll pardon me for it."

"Could you say a thing to offend me?" was the answer.

"You are to be married soon, I understand?"

"To-morrow," said Tom.

"Well, my dear Durfy, if you owe any more money, take a real friend's advice, and tell your pretty good-hearted widow the whole amount of your debts before you marry her."

"My dear O'Connor," said Tom, "the money you've lent me now is all I owe in the world; 't was a tailor's bill, and I quite forgot it. You know, no one ever thinks of a tailor's bill. Debts, indeed!" added Tom, with surprise; "my dear fellow, I never could be much in debt, for the devil a one would trust me."

"An excellent reason for your unencumbered state," said Edward, "and I hope you pardon me."

"Pardon!" exclaimed Tom, "I esteem you for your kind and manly frankness."

In the course of their progress towards Dick's lodgings, Edward reverted to James Reddy's wretched condition, and found it was but some petty debt for which he was arrested. He lamented, in common with Dick and Tom, the infatuation which made him desert a duty he could profitably perform by assisting his father in his farming concerns, to pursue a literary path, which could never be any other to him than one of thorns.

As Edward had engaged to meet Gusty in an hour, he parted from his companions and pursued his course alone. But, instead of proceeding immediately homeward, he retraced his steps to the den of the bailiff and gave a quiet tap at the door. Mister Goggins himself answered to the knock, and began a loud and florid welcome to Edward, who stopped his career of eloquence by laying a finger on his lip in token of silence. A few words sufficed to explain the motive of his visit. He wished to ascertain the sum for which the gentleman up-stairs was detained. The bailiff informed him; and the money necessary to procure the captive's liberty was placed in his hand.

The bailiff cast one of his melodramatic glances at Edward, and said, "Didn't I tell you, sir, this was the place for calling out the noblest feelings of human nature?"

"Can you oblige me with writing materials?" said Edward.

"I can, sir," said Goggins, proudly, "and with other materials too, if you like—and 'pon my honour, I'll be proud to drink your health, for you're a raal gintleman." [Footnote: The name given in Ireland to the necessary materials for the compounding of whisky-punch.]

Edward, in the civilest manner, declined the offer, and wrote, or rather tried to write, the following note, with a pen like a skewer, ink something thicker than mud, and on whity-brown paper:—

"DEAR SIR,—I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken in your temporary want of money. You can repay me at your convenience. Yours,

"E. O'C."

Edward left the den, and so did James Reddy soon after—a better man. Though weak, his heart was not shut to the humanities of life—and Edward's kindness, in opening his eyes to the wrong he had done one man, induced in his heart a kinder feeling towards all. He tore up his slashing article against successful men. Would that every disappointed man would do the same.

The bailiff was right: even so low a den as his becomes ennobled by the presence of active benevolence and prejudice reclaimed.



CHAPTER XLVII

Edward, on returning to his hotel, found Gusty there before him, in great delight at having seen a "splendid" horse, as he said, which had been brought for Edward's inspection, he having written a note on his arrival in town to a dealer stating his want of a first-rate hunter.

"He's in the stable now," said Gusty; "for I desired the man to wait, knowing you would be here soon."

"I cannot see him now, Gusty," said Edward: "will you have the kindness to tell the groom I can look at the horse in his own stables when I wish to purchase?"

Gusty departed to do the message, somewhat in wonder, for Edward loved a fine horse. But the truth was, Edward's disposable money, which he had intended for the purchase of a hunter, had a serious inroad made upon it by the debts he had discharged for other men, and he was forced to forego the pleasure he had proposed to himself in the next hunting season; and he did not like to consume any one's time, or raise false expectations, by affecting to look at disposable property with the eye of a purchaser, when he knew it was beyond his reach; and the flimsy common-places of "I'll think of it," or "If I don't see something better," or any other of the twenty hackneyed excuses which idle people make, after consuming busy men's time, Edward held to be unworthy. He could ride a hack and deny himself hunting for a whole season, but he would not unnecessarily consume the useful time of any man for ten minutes.

This may be sneered at by the idle and thoughtless; nevertheless, it is a part of the minor morality which is ever present in the conduct of a true gentleman.

Edward had promised to join Dick's dinner-party on an impromptu invitation, and the clock striking the appointed hour warned Edward it was time to be off; so, jumping up on a jaunting car, he rattled off to Dick's lodgings, where a jolly party was assembled ripe for fun.

Amongst the guests was a rather remarkable man, a Colonel Crammer, who had seen a monstrous deal of service—one of Tom Durfy's friends whom he had asked leave to bring with him to dinner. Of course, Dick's card and a note of invitation for the gallant colonel were immediately despatched; and he had but just arrived before Edward, who found a bustling sensation in the room as the colonel was presented to those already assembled, and Tom Durfy giving whispers, aside, to each person touching his friend; such as —"Very remarkable man"—"Seen great service"—"A little odd or so"—"A fund of most extraordinary anecdote," &c., &c.

Now this Colonel Crammer was no other than Tom Loftus, whose acquaintance Dick wished to make, and who had been invited to the dinner after a preliminary visit; but Tom sent an excuse in his own name, and preferred being present under a fictitious one—this being one of the odd ways in which his humour broke out, desirous of giving people a "touch of his quality" before they knew him. He was in the habit of assuming various characters; a methodist missionary—the patentee of some unheard-of invention—the director of some new joint-stock company—in short, anything which would give him an opportunity of telling tremendous bouncers was equally good for Tom. His reason for assuming a military guise on this occasion was to bother Moriarty, whom he knew he should meet, and held a special reason for tormenting; and he knew he could achieve this, by throwing all the stories Moriarty was fond of telling about his own service into the shade, by extravagant inventions of "hair-breadth 'scapes" and feats by "flood and field." Indeed, the dinner would not be worth mentioning but for the extraordinary capers Tom cut on the occasion, and the unheard-of lies he squandered.

Dinner was announced by Andy, and with good appetite soup and fish were soon despatched; sherry followed as a matter of necessity. The second course appeared, and was not long under discussion when Dick called for the "champagne."

Andy began to drag the tub towards the table, and Dick, impatient of delay, again called "champagne."

"I'm bringin' it to you, sir," said Andy, tugging at the tub.

"Hand it round the table," said Dick.

Andy tried to lift the tub, "to hand it round the table;" but, finding he could not manage it, he whispered to Dick, "I can't get it up, sir."

Dick, fancying Andy meant he had got a flask not in a sufficient state of effervescence to expel its own cork, whispered in return, "Draw it, then."

"I was dhrawin' it to you, sir, when you stopped me."

"Well, make haste with it," said Dick.

"Mister Dawson, I'll trouble you for a small slice of the turkey," said the colonel.

"With pleasure, colonel; but first do me the honour to take champagne. Andy—champagne!"

"Here it is, sir!" said Andy, who had drawn the tub close to Dick's chair.

"Where's the wine, sir?" said Dick, looking first at the tub and then at Andy. "There, sir," said Andy, pointing down to the ice. "I put the wine into it, as you towld me."

Dick looked again at the tub, and said, "There is not a single bottle there—what do you mean, you stupid rascal?"

"To be sure, there's no bottle there, sir. The bottles is all on the sideboord, but every dhrop o' the wine is in the ice, as you towld me, sir; if you put your hand down into it, you'll feel it, sir."

The conversation between master and man growing louder as it proceeded attracted the attention of the whole company, and those near the head of the table became acquainted as soon as Dick with the mistake Andy had made, and could not resist laughter; and as the cause of their merriment was told from man to man, and passed round the board, a roar of laughter uprose, not a little increased by Dick's look of vexation, which at length was forced to yield to the infectious merriment around him, and he laughed with the rest, and making a joke of the disappointment, which is the very best way of passing one off, he said that he had the honour of originating at his table a magnificent scale of hospitality; for though he had heard of company being entertained with a whole hogshead of claret, he was not aware of champagne being ever served in a tub before. The company were too determined to be merry to have their pleasantry put out of tune by so trifling a mishap, and it was generally voted that the joke was worth twice as much as the wine. Nevertheless, Dick could not help casting a reproachful look now and then at Andy, who had to run the gauntlet of many a joke cut at his expense, while he waited upon the wags at dinner, and caught a lowly muttered anathema whenever he passed near Dick's chair. In short, master and man were both glad when the cloth was drawn, and the party could be left to themselves.

Then, as a matter of course, Dick called on the gentlemen to charge their glasses and fill high to a toast he had to propose—they would anticipate to whom he referred—a gentleman who was going to change his state of freedom for one of a happier bondage, &c., &c. Dick dashed off his speech with several mirth-moving allusions to the change that was coming over his friend Tom, and, having festooned his composition with the proper quantity of "rosy wreaths," &c., &c., &c., naturally belonging to such speeches, he wound up with some hearty words— free from badinage, and meaning all they conveyed, and finished with the rhyming benediction of a "long life and a good wife" to him.

Tom having returned thanks in the same laughing style that Dick proposed his health, and bade farewell to the lighter follies of bachelorship for the more serious ones of wedlock, the road was now open for any one who was vocally inclined. Dick asked one or two, who said they were not within a bottle of their singing-point yet, but Tom Durfy was sure his friend the colonel would favour them.

"With pleasure," said the colonel; "and I'll sing something appropriate to the blissful situation of philandering in which you have been indulging of late, my friend. I wish I could give you any idea of the song as I heard it warbled by the voice of an Indian princess, who was attached to me once, and for whom I ran enormous risks—but no matter—that's past and gone, but the soft tones of Zulima's voice will ever haunt my heart! The song is a favourite where I heard it—on the borders of Cashmere, and is supposed to be sung by a fond woman in the valley of the nightingales— 'tis so in the original, but as we have no nightingales in Ireland, I have substituted the dove in the little translation I have made, which, if you will allow me, I'll attempt."

Loud cries of "Hear, hear!" and tapping of applauding hands on the table followed, while the colonel gave a few preliminary hems; and after some little pilot tones from his throat, to show the way, his voice ascended in all the glory of song.

THE DOVE-SONG

I

"Coo! Coo! Coo! Coo! Thus did I hear the turtle-dove, Coo! Coo! Coo! Murmuring forth her love; And as she flew from tree to tree, How melting seemed the notes to me— Coo! Coo! Coo! So like the voice of lovers, 'T was passing sweet to hear The birds within the covers, In the spring-time of the year.

II

"Coo! Coo! Coo! Coo! Thus the song's returned again— Coo! Coo! Coo! Through the shady glen; But there I wandered lone and sad, While every bird around was glad. Coo! Coo! Coo! Thus so fondly murmured they, Coo! Coo! Coo! While my love was away. And yet the song to lovers, Though sad, is sweet to hear, From birds within the covers, In the spring-time of the year."

The colonel's song, given with Tom Loftus' good voice, was received with great applause, and the fellows all voted it catching, and began "cooing" round the table like a parcel of pigeons.

"A translation from an eastern poet, you say?"

"Yes," said Tom.

"'T is not very eastern in its character," said Moriarty. "I mean a free translation, of course," added the mock colonel.

"Would you favour us with the song again, in the original?" added Moriarty.

Tom Loftus did not know one syllable of any other language than his own, and it would not have been convenient to talk gibberish to Moriarty, who had a smattering of some of the eastern tongues; so he declined giving his Cashmerian song in its native purity, because, as he said, he never could manage to speak their dialect, though he understood it reasonably well.

"But there's a gentleman, I am sure, will sing some other song—and a better one, I have no doubt," said Tom, with a very humble prostration of his head on the table, and anxious by a fresh song to get out of the dilemma in which Moriarty's question was near placing him.

"Not a better, colonel," said the gentleman who was addressed, "but I cannot refuse your call, and I will do my best; hand me the port wine, pray; I always take a glass of port before I sing—I think 't is good for the throat—what do you say, colonel?"

"When I want to sing particularly well," said Tom, "I drink canary."

The gentleman smiled at the whimsical answer, tossed off his glass of port, and began.

LADY MINE

"Lady mine! lady mine! Take the rosy wreath I twine, All its sweets are less than thine, Lady, lady mine! The blush that on thy cheek is found Bloometh fresh the whole year round; Thy sweet breath as sweet gives sound, Lady, lady mine!

II

"Lady mine! lady mine! How I love the graceful vine, Whose tendrils mock thy ringlets' twine, Lady, lady mine! How I love that generous tree, Whose ripe clusters promise me Bumpers bright,—to pledge to thee, Lady, lady mine!

III

"Lady mine! lady mine! Like the stars that nightly shine, Thy sweet eyes shed light divine, Lady, lady mine! And as sages wise, of old, From the stars could fate unfold, Thy bright eyes my fortune told, Lady, lady mine!"

The song was just in the style to catch gentlemen after dinner—the second verse particularly, and many a glass was emptied of a "bumper bright," and pledged to the particular "thee," which each individual had selected for his devotion. Edward, at that moment, certainly thought of Fanny Dawson.

Let teetotallers say what they please, there is a genial influence inspired by wine and song—not in excess, but in that wholesome degree which stirs the blood and warms the fancy; and as one raises the glass to the lip, over which some sweet name is just breathed from the depth of the heart, what libation so fit to pour to absent friends as wine? What is wine? It is the grape present in another form; its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away, and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may be spiritually present, in defiance of space—and fond recollections cherished in defiance of time.

As the party became more convivial, the mirth began to assume a broader form. Tom Durfy drew out Moriarty on the subject of his services, that the mock colonel might throw every new achievement into the shade; and this he did in the most barefaced manner, but mixing so much of probability with his audacious fiction, that those who were not up to the joke only supposed him to be a very great romancer; while those friends who were in Loftus' confidence exhibited a most capacious stomach for the marvellous, and backed up his lies with a ready credence. If Moriarty told some fearful incident of a tiger hunt, the colonel capped it with something more wonderful, of slaughtering lions in a wholesale way, like rabbits. When Moriarty expatiated on the intensity of tropical heat, the colonel would upset him with something more appalling.

"Now, sir," said Loftus, "let me ask you what is the greatest amount of heat you have ever experienced—I say experienced, not heard of—for that goes for nothing. I always speak from experience."

"Well, sir," said Moriarty, "I have known it to be so hot in India, that I have had a hole dug in the ground under my tent, and sat in it, and put a table standing over the hole, to try and guard me from the intolerable fervour of the eastern sun, and even then I was hot. What do you say to that, colonel?" asked Moriarty, triumphantly.

"Have you ever been in the West Indies?" inquired Loftus.

"Never," said Moriarty, who, once entrapped into this admission, was directly at the colonel's mercy,—and the colonel launched out fearlessly.

"Then, my good sir, you know nothing of heat. I have seen in the West Indies an umbrella burned over a man's head."

"Wonderful!" cried Loftus' backers.

"'T is strange, sir," said Moriarty, "that we have never seen that mentioned by any writer."

"Easily accounted for, sir," said Loftus. "'T is so common a circumstance, that it ceases to be worthy of observation. An author writing of this country might as well remark that the apple-women are to be seen sitting at the corners of the streets. That's nothing, sir; but there are two things of which I have personal knowledge, rather remarkable. One day of intense heat (even for that climate) I was on a visit at the plantation of a friend of mine, and it was so out-o'-the-way scorching, that our lips were like cinders, and we were obliged to have black slaves pouring sangaree down our throats by gallons—I don't hesitate to say gallons—and we thought we could not have survived through the day; but what could we think of our sufferings, when we heard that several negroes, who had gone to sleep under the shade of some cocoa-nut trees, had been scalded to death?"

"Scalded?" said his friends; "burnt, you mean."

"No, scalded; and how do you think? The intensity of the heat had cracked the cocoa-nuts, and the boiling milk inside dropped down and produced the fatal result. The same day a remarkable accident occurred at the battery; the French were hovering round the island at the time, and the governor, being a timid man, ordered the guns to be always kept loaded."

"I never heard of such a thing in a battery in my life, sir," said Moriarty.

"Nor I either," said Loftus, "till then."

"What was the governor's name, sir?" inquired Moriarty, pursuing his train of doubt.

"You must excuse me, captain, from naming him," said Loftus, with readiness, "after incautiously saying he was timid."

"Hear, hear!" said all the friends.

"But to pursue my story, sir:—the guns were loaded, and with the intensity of the heat went off, one after another, and quite riddled one of his Majesty's frigates that was lying in the harbour."

"That's one of the most difficult riddles to comprehend I ever heard," said Moriarty.

"The frigate answered the riddle with her guns, sir, I promise you."

"What!" exclaimed Moriarty, "fire on the fort of her own king?"

"There is an honest principle exists among sailors, sir, to return fire under all circumstances, wherever it comes from, friend or foe. Fire, of which they know the value so well, they won't take from anybody."

"And what was the consequence?" said Moriarty.

"Sir, it was the most harmless broadside ever delivered from the ports of a British frigate; not a single house or human being was injured—the day was so hot that every sentinel had sunk on the ground in utter exhaustion —the whole population were asleep; the only loss of life which occurred was that of a blue macaw, which belonged to the commandant's daughter."

"Where was the macaw, may I beg to know?" said Moriarty, cross-questioning the colonel in the spirit of a counsel for the defence on a capital indictment.

"In the drawing-room window, sir."

"Then surely the ball must have done some damage in the house?"

"Not the least, sir," said Loftus, sipping his wine.

"Surely, colonel!" returned Moriarty, warming, "the ball could not have killed the macaw without injuring the house?"

"My dear sir," said Tom, "I did not say the ball killed the macaw, I said the macaw was killed; but that was in consequence of a splinter from an epaulement of the south-east angle of the fort which the shot struck and glanced off harmlessly—except for the casualty of the macaw."

Moriarty returned a kind of grunt, which implied that, though he could not further question, he did not believe. Under such circumstances, taking snuff is a great relief to a man; and, as it happened, Moriarty, in taking snuff, could gratify his nose and his vanity at the same time, for he sported a silver-gilt snuff-box which was presented to him in some extraordinary way, and bore a grand inscription.

On this "piece of plate" being produced, of course it went round the table, and Moriarty could scarcely conceal the satisfaction he felt as each person read the engraven testimonial of his worth. When it had gone the circuit of the board, Tom Loftus put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the butt-end of a rifle, which is always furnished with a small box, cut out of the solid part of the wood and covered with a plate of brass acting on a hinge. This box, intended to carry small implements for the use of the rifleman, to keep his piece in order, was filled with snuff, and Tom said, as he laid it down on the table, "This is my snuff-box, gentlemen; not as handsome as my gallant friend's at the opposite side of the table, but extremely interesting to me. It was previous to one of our dashing affairs in Spain that our riflemen were thrown out in front and on the flanks. The rifles were supported by the light companies of the regiments in advance, and it was in the latter duty I was engaged. We had to feel our way through a wood, and had cleared it of the enemy, when, as we debouched from the wood on the opposite side, we were charged by an overwhelming force of Polish lancers and cuirassiers. Retreat was impossible—resistance almost hopeless. 'My lads,' said I, 'we must do something novel here, or we are lost—startle them by fresh practice—the bayonet will no longer avail you—club your muskets, and hit the horses over the noses, and they'll smell danger.' They took my advice; of course we first delivered a withering volley, and then to it we went in flail-fashion, thrashing away with the butt-ends of our muskets; and sure enough the French were astonished and driven back in amazement. So tremendous, sir, was the hitting on our side, that in many instances the butt-ends of the muskets snapped off like tobacco-pipes, and the field was quite strewn with them after the affair: I picked one of them up as a little memento of the day, and have used it ever since as a snuff-box."

Every one was amused by the outrageous romancing of the colonel but Moriarty, who looked rather disgusted, because he could not edge in a word of his own at all; he gave up the thing now in despair, for the colonel had it all his own way, like the bull in a china-shop; the more startling the bouncers he told, the more successful were his anecdotes, and he kept pouring them out with the most astounding rapidity; and though all voted him the greatest liar they ever met, none suspected he was not a military man.

Dick wanted Edward O'Connor, who sat beside him, to sing; but Edward whispered, "For Heaven's sake don't stop the flow of the lava from that mighty eruption of lies!—he's a perfect Vesuvius of mendacity. You'll never meet his like again, so make the most of him while you have him. Pray, sir," said Edward to the colonel, "have you ever been in any of the cold climates? I am induced to ask you, from the very wonderful anecdotes you have told of the hot ones."

"Bless you, sir, I know every corner about the north pole."

"In which of the expeditions, may I ask, were you engaged?" inquired Moriarty.

"In none of them, sir. We knocked up a little amateur party, I and a few curious friends, and certainly we witnessed wonders. You talk here of a sharp wind; but the wind is so sharp there that it cut off our beard and whiskers. Boreas is a great barber, sir, with his north pole for a sign. Then as for frost!—I could tell you such incredible things of its intensity; our butter, for instance, was as hard as a rock; we were obliged to knock it off with a chisel and hammer, like a mason at a piece of granite, and it was necessary to be careful of your eyes at breakfast, the splinters used to fly about so; indeed, one of the party did lose the use of his eye from a butter-splinter. But the oddest thing of all was to watch two men talking to each other: you could observe the words, as they came out of their mouths, suddenly frozen and dropping down in little pellets of ice at their feet, so that, after a long conversation, you might see a man standing up to his knees in his own eloquence."

They all roared with laughter at this last touch of the marvellous, but Loftus preserved his gravity.

"I don't wonder, gentlemen, at your not receiving that as truth—I told you it was incredible—in short, that is the reason I have resisted all temptations to publish. Murray, Longmans, Colburn, Bentley, ALL the publishers have offered me unlimited terms, but I have always refused—not that I am a rich man, which makes the temptation of the thousands I might realise the harder to withstand; 't is not that the gold is not precious to me, but there is something dearer to me than gold—it is my character for veracity! and therefore, as I am convinced the public would not believe the wonders I have witnessed, I confine the recital of my adventures to the social circle. But what profession affords such scope for varied incident as that of the soldier? Change of clime, danger, vicissitude, love, war, privation one day, profusion the next, darkling dangers, and sparkling joys! Zounds! there's nothing like the life of a soldier! and, by the powers! I'll give you a song in its praise."

The proposition was received with cheers, and Tom rattled away these ringing rhymes—

THE BOWLD SOJER BOY

"Oh there's not a trade that's going Worth showing, Or knowing, Like that from glory growing, For a bowld sojer boy; Where right or left we go, Sure you know, Friend or foe Will have the hand or toe From a bowld sojer boy! There's not a town we march thro', But the ladies, looking arch thro' The window-panes, will search thro' The ranks to find their joy; While up the street, Each girl you meet, Will look so sly, Will cry 'My eye! Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy!'

II

"But when we get the route, How they pout And they shout While to the right about Goes the bowld sojer boy. Oh, 'tis then that ladies fair In despair Tear their hair, But 'the divil-a-one I care,' Says the bowld sojer boy. For the world is all before us, Where the landladies adore us, And ne'er refuse to score us, But chalk us up with joy; We taste her tap, We tear her cap'— 'Oh, that's the chap For me!' Says she; 'Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy.'

III

"'Then come along with me, Gramachree, And you'll see How happy you will be With your bowld sojer boy; 'Faith! if you're up to fun, With me run; 'T will be done In the snapping of a gun,' Says the bowld sojer boy; 'And 't is then that, without scandal, Myself will proudly dandle The little farthing candle Of our mutual flame, my joy! May his light shine As bright as mine, Till in the line He'll blaze, And raise The glory of his corps, like a bowld sojer boy!'"

Andy entered the room while the song was in progress, and handed a letter to Dick, which, after the song was over, and he had asked pardon of his guests, he opened.

"By Jove! you sing right well, colonel," said one of the party.

"I think the gallant colonel's songs nothing in comparison with his wonderful stories," said Moriarty.

"Gentlemen," said Dick, "wonderful as the colonel's recitals have been, this letter conveys a piece of information more surprising than anything we have heard this day. That stupid fellow who spoiled our champagne has come in for the inheritance of a large property."

"What!—Handy Andy?" exclaimed those who knew his name.

"Handy Andy," said Dick, "is now a man of fortune!"



CHAPTER XLVIII

It was a note from Squire Egan which conveyed the news to Dick that caused so much surprise; the details of the case were not even hinted at; the bare fact alone was mentioned, with a caution to preserve it still a secret from Andy, and appointing an hour for dinner at "Morrison's" next day, at which hotel the Squire expected to arrive from the country, with his lady and Fanny Dawson, en route for London. Till dinner-time, then, the day following, Dick was obliged to lay by his impatience as to the "why and wherefore" of Andy's sudden advancement; but, as the morning was to be occupied with Tom Durfy's wedding, Dick had enough to keep him engaged in the meantime.

At the appointed hour a few of Tom's particular friends were in attendance to witness the ceremony, or, to use their own phrase, "to see him turned off," and among them was Tom Loftus. Dick was holding out his hand to "the colonel," when Tom Durfy stepped between, and introduced him under his real name. The masquerading trick of the night before was laughed at, with an assurance from Dick that it only fulfilled all he had ever heard of the Protean powers of a gentleman whom he so much wished to know. A few minutes' conversation in the recess of a window put Tom Loftus and Dick the Devil on perfectly good terms, and Loftus proposed to Dick that they should execute the old-established trick on a bridegroom, of snatching the first kiss from the bride.

"You must get in Tom's way," said Loftus, "and I'll kiss her."

"Why, the fact is," said Dick, "I had proposed that pleasure to myself; and, if it's all the same to you, you can jostle Tom, and I'll do the remainder in good style, I promise you."

"That I can't agree to," said Loftus; "but as it appears we both have set our heart on cheating the bridegroom, let us both start fair, and 't is odd if between us Tom Durfy is not done"

This was agreed upon, and many minutes did not elapse till the bride made her appearance, and "hostilities were about to commence." The mutual enemy of the "high contracting parties" first opened his book, and then his mouth, and in such solemn tones, that it was enough to frighten even a widow, much less a bachelor. As the ceremony verged to a conclusion, Tom Loftus and Dick the Devil edged up towards their 'vantage-ground on either side of the blooming widow, now nearly finished into a wife, and stood like greyhounds in the slip, ready to start after puss (only puss ought to be spelt here with a B). The widow, having been married before, was less nervous than Durfy, and, suspecting the intended game, determined to foil both the brigands, who intended to rob the bridegroom of his right; so, when the last word of the ceremony was spoken, and Loftus and Dick made a simultaneous dart upon her, she very adroitly ducked, and allowed the two "ruggers and rievers" to rush into each other's arms, and rub their noses together, while Tom Durfy and his blooming bride sealed their contract very agreeably without their noses getting in each other's way.

Loftus and Dick had only a laugh at their own expense, instead of a kiss at Tom's, upon the failure of their plot; but Loftus, in a whisper to Dick, vowed he would execute a trick upon the "pair of them" before the day was over.

There was a breakfast as usual, and chicken and tongue and wine, which, taken in the morning, are provocative of eloquence; and, of course, the proper quantity of healths and toasts were executed selon la reglei, it was time for the bride and bridegroom to bow and blush and curtsey out of the room, and make themselves food for a paragraph in the morning papers, under the title of the "happy pair," who set off in a handsome chariot, &c., &c.

* * * * *

Tom Durfy had engaged a pretty cottage in the neighbourhood of Clontarf to pass the honeymoon. Tom Loftus knew this, and knew, moreover, that the sitting-room looked out on a small lawn which lay before the house, screened by a hedge from the road, but with a circular sweep leading up to the house, and a gate of ingress and egress at either end of the hedge. In this sitting-room Tom, after lunch, was pressing his lady fair to take a glass of champagne, when the entrance-gate was thrown open, and a hackney jaunting-car with Tom Loftus and a friend or two upon it, driven by a special ragamuffin blowing a tin horn, rolled up the skimping avenue, and as it scoured past the windows of the sitting-room, Tom Loftus and the other passengers kissed hands to the astonished bride and bridegroom, and shouted, "Wish you joy!"

The thing was so sudden that Durfy and the widow, not seeing Loftus, could hardly comprehend what it meant, and both ran to the window; but just as they reached it, up drove another car, freighted with two or three more wild rascals who followed the lead which had been given them; and as a long train of cars were seen in the distance all driving up to the avenue, the widow, with a timid little scream, threw her handkerchief over her face and ran into a corner. Tom did not know whether to laugh or be angry, but, being a good-humoured fellow, he satisfied himself with a few oaths against the incorrigible Loftus, and when the cortege had passed, endeavoured to restore the startled fair one to her serenity.

* * * * *

Squire Egan and party arrived at the appointed hour at their hotel, where Dick was waiting to receive them, and, of course, his inquiries were immediately directed to the extraordinary circumstance of Andy's elevation, the details of which he desired to know. These we shall not give in the expanded form in which Dick heard them, but endeavour to condense, as much as possible, within the limits to which we are prescribed.

The title of Scatterbrain had never been inherited directly from father to son; it had descended in a zigzag fashion, most appropriate to the name, nephews and cousins having come in for the coronet and the property for some generations. The late lord had led a roue bachelor life up to the age of sixty, and then thought it not worth while to marry, though many mammas and daughters spread their nets and arrayed their charms to entrap the sexagenarian.

The truth was, he had quaffed the cup of licentious pleasure all his life, after which he thought matrimony would prove insipid. The mere novelty induces some men, under similar circumstances, to try the holy estate; but matrimony could not offer to Lord Scatterbrain the charms of novelty, for he had been once married, though no one but himself was cognisant of the fact.

The reader will certainly say, "Here's an Irish bull; how could a man be married, without, at least, a woman and a priest being joint possessors of the secret?"

Listen, gentle reader, and you shall hear how none but Lord Scatterbrain knew Lord Scatterbrain was married.

There was nothing at which he ever stopped for the gratification of his passions—no wealth he would not squander, no deceit he would not practise, no disguise he would not assume. Therefore, gold, and falsehood, and masquerading were extensively employed by this reckless roue in the service of Venus, in which service, combined with that of Bacchus, his life was entirely passed.

Often he assumed the guise of a man in humble life, to approximate some object of his desire, whom fine clothes and bribery would have instantly warned and in too many cases his artifices were successful. It was in one of these adventures he cast his eyes upon the woman hitherto known in this story under the name of the Widow Rooney; but all his practices against her virtue were unavailing, and nothing but a marriage could accomplish what he had set his fancy upon but even this would not stop him, for he married her.

The Widow Rooney has appeared no very inviting personage through these pages, and the reader may wonder that a man of rank could proceed to such desperate lengths upon such slight temptation; but, gentle reader, she was young and attractive when she was married—never to say handsome, but good-looking decidedly, and with that sort of figure which is comprehended in the phrase "a fine girl."

And has that fine girl altered into the Widow Rooney? Ah! poverty and hardship are sore trials to the body as well as to the mind. Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind, have to do with the attractions which command our admiration. Many a hand moulded by nature to give elegance of form to a kid glove, is "stinted of its fair proportion" by grubbing toil. The foot which might have excited the admiration of a ball-room, peeping under a flounce of lace in a satin shoe, and treading the mazy dance, will grow coarse and broad by tramping in its native state over toilsome miles, bearing perchance to a market town some few eggs, whose whole produce would not purchase the sandal-tie of my lady's slipper; will grow red and rough by standing in wet trenches, and feeling the winter's frost. The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems. Cheeks formed as fresh for dimpling blushes, eyes as well to sparkle, and lips to smile, as those which shed their brightness and their witchery in the tapestried saloon, will grow pale with want, and forget their dimples, when smiles are not there to wake them; lips become compressed and drawn with anxious thought, and eyes the brightest are quenched of their fires by many tears.

Of all these trials poor Widow Rooney had enough. Her husband, after living with her a month, in the character of a steward to some great man in a distant part of the country, left her one day for the purpose of transacting business at a fair, which, he said, would require his absence for some time. At the end of a week, a letter was sent to her, stating that the make-believe steward had robbed his master extensively, and had fled to America, whence he promised to write to her, and send her means to follow him, requesting, in the meantime, her silence, in case any inquiry should be made about him. This villanous trick was played off the more readily, from the fact that a steward had absconded at the time, and the difference in the name the cruel profligate accounted for by saying that, as he was hiding at the moment he married her, he had assumed another name.

The poor deserted girl, fully believing this trumped-up tale, obeyed with unflinching fidelity the injunctions of her betrayer; and while reports were flying abroad of the absconded steward, she never breathed a word of, what had been confided to her, and accounted for the absence of "Rooney" in various ways of her own; so that all trace of the profligate was lost, by her remaining inactive in making the smallest inquiry about him, and her very fidelity to her betrayer became the means of her losing all power of procuring his discovery. For months she trusted all was right; but when moon followed moon, and she gave birth to a boy without hearing one word of his father, misgiving came upon her, and the only consolation left her was, that, though she was deserted, and a child left on her hands, still she was an honest woman. That child was the hero of our tale. The neighbours passed some ill-natured remarks about her, when it began to be suspected that her husband would never let her know more about him; for she had been rather a saucy lady, holding up her nose at poor men, and triumphing in her catching of the "steward," a man well to do in the world; and it may be remembered, that this same spirit existed in her when Andy's rumoured marriage with Matty gave the prospect of her affairs being retrieved, for she displayed her love of pre-eminence to the very first person who gave her the good news. The ill-nature of her neighbours, however, after the birth of her child and the desertion of her husband, inducing her to leave the scene of her unmerited wrongs and annoyances, she suddenly decamped, and, removing to another part of Ireland, the poor woman began a life of hardship, to support herself and rear the offspring of her unfortunate marriage. In this task she was worthily assisted by one of her brothers, who pitied her condition, and joined her in her retreat. He married in course of time, and his wife died in giving birth to Oonah, who was soon deprived of her other parent by typhus fever, that terrible scourge of the poor; so that the praiseworthy desire of the brother to befriend his sister only involved her, as it happened, in the deeper difficulty of supporting two children instead of one. This she did heroically, and the orphan girl rewarded her, by proving a greater comfort than her own child; for Andy had inherited in all its raciness the blood of the Scatterbrains, and his deeds, as recorded in this history, prove he was no unworthy representative of that illustrious title. To return to his father—who had done the grievous wrong to the poor peasant girl: he lived his life of profligacy through, and in a foreign country died at last; but on his death-bed the scourge of conscience rendered every helpless hour an age of woe. Bitterest of all was the thought of the wife deceived, deserted, and unacknowledged. To face his last account with such fearful crime upon his head he dared not, and made all the reparation now in his power, by avowing his marriage in his last will and testament, and giving all the information in his power to trace his wife, if living, or his heir, if such existed. He enjoined, by the most sacred injunctions upon him to whom the charge was committed, that neither cost nor trouble should be spared in the search, leaving a large sum in ready money besides, to establish the right, in case his nephew disputed the will. By his own order, his death was kept secret, and secretly his agent set to work to discover any trace of the heir. This, in consequence of the woman changing her place of abode, became more difficult and it was not until after very minute inquiry that some trace was picked up, and a letter written to the parish priest of the district to which she had removed, making certain general inquiries. It was found, on comparing dates some time after, that it was this very letter to Father Blake which Andy had purloined from the post-office, and the Squire had thrown into the fire; so that our hero was very near, by his blundering, destroying his own fortune. Luckily for him, however, an untiring and intelligent agent was engaged in his cause, and a subsequent inquiry, and finally a personal visit to Father Blake, cleared the matter up satisfactorily, and the widow was enabled to produce such proof of her identity, and that of her son, that Handy Andy was indisputably Lord Scatterbrain; and the whole affair was managed so secretly, that the death of the late lord, and the claim of title and estates in the name of the rightful heir, were announced at the same moment; and the "Honourable Sackville," instead of coming into possession of the peerage and property, and fighting his adversary at the great advantage of possession, could only commence a suit to drive him out, if he sued at all.

Our limits compel us to this brief sketch of the circumstances through which Handy Andy was entitled to and became possessed of a property and a title, and we must now say something of the effects produced by the intelligence on the parties most concerned.

The Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain, on the advice of high legal authority, did not attempt to dispute a succession of which such satisfactory proofs existed, and, fortunately for himself, had knocked up a watering-place match, while he was yet in the bloom of heirship presumptive to a peerage, with the daughter of an English millionaire.

When the Widow Rooney heard the extraordinary turn affairs had taken, her emotions, after the first few hours of pleasurable surprise, partook of regret rather than satisfaction. She looked upon her past life of suffering, and felt as if Fate had cheated her. She, a peeress, had passed her life in poverty and suffering, with contempt from those over whom she had superior rights; and the few years of the prosperous future before her offered her poor compensation for the pinching past. But after such selfish considerations, the maternal feeling came to her relief, and she rejoiced that her son was a lord. But then came the terrible thought of his marriage to dash her joy and triumph.

This was a source of grief to Oonah as well. "If he wasn't married," she would say to herself, "I might be Lady Scatterbrain;" and the tears would burst through poor Oonah's fingers as she held them up to her eyes and sobbed heavily, till the poor girl would try to gather consolation from the thought that, maybe, Andy's altered circumstances would make her disregarded. "There would be plenty to have him now," thought she, "and he wouldn't think of me, maybe—so 't is well as it is."

When Andy heard that he was a lord—a real lord—and, after the first shock of astonishment, could comprehend that wealth and power were in his possession, he, though the most interested person, never thought, as the two women had done, of the desperate strait in which his marriage placed him, but broke out into short peals of laughter, and exclaimed in the intervals, "that it was mighty quare;" and when, after much questioning, any intelligible desire he had could be understood, the first one he clearly expressed was "to have a goold watch."

He was made, however, to understand that other things than "goold watches" were of more importance; and the Squire, with his characteristic good nature, endeavoured to open Andy's comprehension to the nature of his altered situation. This, it may be supposed, was rather a complicated piece of work, and too difficult to be set down in black and white; the most intelligible portions to Andy were his immediate removal from servitude, and a ready-made suit of gentlemanly apparel, which made Andy pay several visits to the looking-glass. Good-natured as the Squire was, it would have been equally awkward to him as to Andy for the newly fledged lord, though a lord, to have a seat at his table, neither could he remain in an inferior position in his house; so Dick, who loved fun, volunteered to take Andy under his especial care to London, and let him share his lodgings, as a bachelor may do many things which a man surrounded by his family cannot. Besides, in a place distant from such extraordinary chances and changes as those which befell our hero, the sudden and startling difference of position of the parties not being known renders it possible for a gentleman to do the good-natured thing which Dick undertook, without compromising himself. In Dublin it would not have done for Dick Dawson to allow the man who would have held his horse the day before, to share the same board with him merely because Fortune had played one of her frolics and made Andy a lord; but in London the case was different.

To London therefore they proceeded. The incidents of the journey, sea- sickness included, which so astonished the new traveller, we pass over, as well as the numberless mistakes in the great metropolis, which afforded Dick plentiful amusement, though, in truth, Dick had better objects in view than laughing at Andy's embarrassments in his new position. He really wished to help him in the difficult path into which the new lord had been thrust, and did this in a merry sort of way more successfully than by serious drilling. It was hard to break Andy of the habit of saying "Misther Dick," when addressing him, but, at last, "Misther Dawson" was established. Eating with his knife, drinking as loudly as a horse, and other like accomplishments, were not so easily got under, yet it was wonderful how much he improved, as his shyness grew less, and his consciousness of being a lord grew stronger.

But, if the good nature of Dick had not prompted him to take Andy into training, the newly discovered nobleman would not have long been in want of society. It was wonderful how many persons were eager to show civility to his lordship, and some amongst them even went so far as to discover relationship. Plenty were soon ready to take Lord Scatterbrain here, and escort him there, accompany him to exhibitions and other public places, and charmed all the time with his lordship's remarks—"they were so original"—"quite delightful to meet something so fresh"—"how remarkably clever the Irish were!" Such were among the observations his ignorant blunders produced; and he who, as Handy Andy, had been anathematised all his life as a "stupid rascal," "a blundering thief," "a thick-headed brute," &c., under the title of Lord Scatterbrain all of a sudden was voted "vastly amusing—a little eccentric, perhaps, but so droll—in fact, so witty!" This was all very delightful for Andy —so delightful that he quite forgot Bridget rhua. But that lady did not leave him long in his happy obliviousness. One day, while Dick was absent, and Andy rocking on a chair before the fire, twirling the massive gold chain of his gold watch round his forefinger, and uncoiling it again, his repose was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Bridget herself, accompanied by Shan More and a shrimp of a man in rusty black, who turned out to be a shabby attorney who advanced money to convey his lady client and her brother to London, for the purpose of making a dash at the lord at once, and securing a handsome sum by a coup de main.

Andy, though taken by surprise, was resolute. Bitter words were exchanged; and as they seemed likely to lead to blows, Andy prudently laid hold of the poker, and, in language not quite suited to a noble lord, swore he would see what the inside of Shan More's head was made of, if he attempted to advance upon him. Bridget screamed and scolded, while the attorney endeavoured to keep the peace, and, beyond everything, urged Lord Scatterbrain to enter at once into written engagements for a handsome settlement upon his "lady."

"Lady!" exclaimed Andy; "oh!—a pretty lady she is!"

"I'm as good a lady as you are a lord, anyhow," cried Bridget.

"Altercation will do no good, my lord and my lady," said the attorney; "let me suggest the propriety of your writing an engagement at once;" and the little man pushed pen, ink, and paper towards Andy.

"I can't, I tell you!" cried Andy.

"You must!" roared Shan More.

"Bad luck to you, how can I when I never larned?"

"Your lordship can make your mark," said the attorney.

"'Faith I can—with a poker," cried Andy; "and you'd better take care, master parchment. Make my mark, indeed!—do you think I'd disgrace the House o' Peers by lettin' on that a lord couldn't write?—Quit the buildin', I tell you!"

In the midst of the row, which now rose to a tremendous pitch, Dick returned; and after a severe reprimand to the pettifogger for his sinister attempt on Andy, referred him to Lord Scatterbrain's solicitor. It was not such an easy matter to silence Bridget, who extended her claws towards her lord and master in a very menacing manner, calling down bitter imprecations on her own head if she wouldn't have her rights.

Every now and then between the bursts of the storm Andy would exclaim, "Get out!"

"My lord," said Dick, "remember your dignity."

"Av coorse!" said Andy; "but still she must get out!"

The house was at last cleared of the uproarious party; but though Andy got rid of their presence, they left their sting behind. Lord Scatterbrain felt, for the first time, that a lord can be very unhappy.

Dick hurried him away at once to the chambers of the law agent, but he, being closeted on some very important business with another client on their arrival, returned an answer to their application for a conference, which they forwarded through the double doors of this sanctum by a hard- looking man with a pen behind his ear, that he could not have the pleasure of seeing them till the next morning. Lord Scatterbrain passed a more unhappy night than he had ever done in his life—even than that when he was tied up to the old tree—croaked at by ravens, and the despised of rats.

Negotiations were opened the next day between the pettifogger on Bridget's side and the law agent of the noble lord, and the arguments, pro and con., lay thus:

In the first place, the opening declaration was—Lord Scatterbrain never would live with the aforesaid Bridget.

Answered—that nevertheless, as she was his lawful wife, a provision suitable to her rank must be made.

They (the claimants) were asked to name a sum.

The sum was considered exorbitant; it being argued that when her husband had determined never to live with her, he was in a far different condition, therefore it was unfair to seek so large a separate maintenance now.

The pettifogger threatened that Lady Scatterbrain would run in debt, which Lord Scatterbrain must discharge. My Lord's agent suggested that my Lady would be advertised in the public papers, and the public cautioned against giving her credit.

A sum could not be agreed upon, though a fair one was offered on Andy's part; for the greediness of the pettifogger, who was to have a share of the plunder, made him hold out for more, and negotiations were broken off for some days.

Poor Andy was in a wretched state of vexation. It was bad enough that he was married to this abominable woman, without an additional plague of being persecuted by her. To such an amount this rose at last, that she and her big brother dodged him every time he left the house, so that in self- defence he was obliged to become a close prisoner in his own lodgings. All this at last became so intolerable to the captive, that he urged a speedy settlement of the vexatious question, and a larger separate maintenance was granted to the detestable woman than would otherwise have been ceded, the only stipulation of a stringent nature made being, that Lord Scatterbrain should be free from the persecutions of his hateful wife for the future.



CHAPTER XLIX

Squire Egan, with his lady and Fanny Dawson, had now arrived in London; Murtough Murphy, too, had joined them, his services being requisite in working the petition against the return of the sitting member for the county. This had so much promise of success about it, that the opposite party, who had the sheriff for the county in their interest, bethought of a novel expedient to frustrate the petition when a reference to the poll was required.

They declared the principal poll-book was lost.

This seemed not very satisfactory to one side of the committee, and the question was asked, "how could it be lost?" The answer was one which Irish contrivance alone could have invented: "It fell into a pot of broth, and the dog ate it." [Footnote: If not this identical answer, something like it was given on a disputed Irish election, before a Committee of the House of Commons.]

This protracted the contest for some time; but eventually, in spite of the dog's devouring knowledge so greedily, the Squire was declared duly elected and took the oaths and his seat for the county.

It was hard on Sackville Scatterbrain to lose his seat in the house and a peerage, nearly at once; but the latter loss threw the former so far into the shade, that he scarcely felt it. Besides, he could console himself with having buttered his crumbs pretty well in the marriage-market; and, with a rich wife, retired from senatorial drudgery to private repose, which was much more congenial to his easy temper.

But while the Squire's happy family circle was rejoicing in his triumph— while he was invited to the Speaker's dinners, and the ladies were looking forward to tickets for "the lantern," their pleasure was suddenly dashed by fatal news from Ireland.

A serious accident had befallen Major Dawson—so serious, that his life was despaired of; and an immediate return to Ireland by all who were interested in his life was the consequence.

Though the suddenness of this painful event shocked his family, the act which caused it did not surprise them; for it was one against which Major Dawson had been repeatedly cautioned, involving a danger he had been affectionately requested not to tempt; but the habitual obstinacy of his nature prevailed, and he persisted in doing that which his son—and his daughters—and friends—prophesied would kill him some time or other, and did, at last. The Major had three little iron guns, mounted on carriages, on a terrace in front of his house; and it was his wont to fire a salute on certain festival days from these guns, which, from age and exposure to the weather, became dangerous to use. It was in vain that this danger was represented to him. He would reply, with his accustomed "Pooh, pooh! I have been firing these guns for forty years, and they won't do me any harm now."

This was the prime fault of the Major's character. Time and circumstances were never taken into account by him; what was done once, might be done always—ought to be done always. The bare thought of change of any sort, to him, was unbearable; and whether it was a rotten old law or a rotten old gun, he would charge both up to the muzzle and fire away, regardless of consequences. The result was, that on a certain festival his favourite gun burst in discharging; and the last mortal act of which the Major was conscious, was that of putting the port-fire to the touchhole, for a heavy splinter of iron struck him on the head, and though he lived for some days afterwards, he was insensible. Before his children arrived he was no more; and the only duty left them to perform was the melancholy one of ordering his funeral.

The obsequies of the old Major were honoured by a large and distinguished attendance from all parts of the country; and amongst those who bore the pall was Edward O'Connor, who had the melancholy gratification of testifying his respect beside the grave of Fanny's father, though the severe old man had banished him from his presence during his lifetime.

But now all obstacle to the union of Edward and Fanny was removed; and after the lapse of a few days had softened the bitter grief which this sudden bereavement of her father had produced, Edward received a note from Dick, inviting him to the manor-house, where all would be glad to see him.

In a few minutes after the receipt of that note Edward was in his saddle, and swiftly leaving the miles behind him till, from the top of a rising ground, the roof of the manor-house appeared above the trees in which it was embosomed. He had not till then slackened his speed; but now drawing rein, he proceeded at a slower pace towards the house he had not entered for some years, and the sight of which awakened such varied emotions.

To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart. There is a mixed sense of regret and rejoicing, which struggle for predominance; we rejoice that our term of exile has expired, but we regret the years which that exile has deducted from the brief amount of human life, never to be recalled, and therefore as so much lost to us. We think of the wrong or the caprice of which we have been the victims, and thoughts will stray across the most confiding heart, if friends shall meet as fondly as they parted; or if time, while impressing deeper marks upon the outward form, may have obliterated some impressions within. Who has returned after years of absence, however assured of the unflinching fidelity of the love he left behind, without saying to himself, in the pardonable yearning of affection, "Shall I meet smiles as bright as those that used to welcome me? Shall I be pressed as fondly within the arms whose encompassment were to me the pale of all earthly enjoyment?"

Such thoughts crowded on Edward as he approached the house. There was not a lane, or tree, or hedge, by the way, that had not for him its association. He reached the avenue gate; as he flung it open he remembered the last time he passed it; Fanny had then leaned on his arm. He felt himself so much excited, that, instead of riding up to the house, he took the private path to the stables, and throwing down the reins to a boy, he turned into a shrubbery and endeavoured to recover his self-command before he should present himself. As he emerged from the sheltered path and turned into a walk which led to the garden, a small conservatory was opened to his view, awaking fresh sensations. It was in that very place he had first ventured to declare his love to Fanny. There she heard and frowned not; there, where nature's choicest sweets were exhaling, he had first pressed her to his heart, and thought the balmy sweetness of her lips beyond them all. He hurried forward in the enthusiasm the recollection recalled, to enter that spot consecrated in his memory; but on arriving at the door, he suddenly stopped, for he saw Fanny within. She was plucking a geranium—the flower she had been plucking some years before, when Edward said he loved her. She, all that morning, had been under the influence of feelings similar to Edward's; had felt the same yearnings—the same tender doubts—the same fond solicitude that he should be the same Edward from whom she parted. But she thought of more than this; with the exquisitely delicate contrivance belonging to woman's nature, she wished to give him a signal of her fond recollection, and was plucking the flower she gathered when he declared his love, to place on her bosom when they should meet. Edward felt the meaning of her action, as the graceful hand broke the flower from its stem. He would have rushed towards her at once, but that the deep mourning in which she was arrayed seemed to command a gentler approach; for grief commands respect. He advanced softly—she heard a gentle step behind her—turned—uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and sank into his arms! In a few moments she recovered her consciousness, and opening her sweet eyes upon him, breathed softly, "dear Edward!"—and the lips which, in two words, had expressed so much, were impressed with a fervent kiss in the blessed consciousness of possession, on that very spot where the first timid and doubting word of love had been spoken.

In that moment he was rewarded for all his years of absence and anxiety. His heart was satisfied; he felt he was dear as ever to the woman he idolised, and the short and hurried beating of both their hearts told more than words could express. Words!—what were words to them?— thought was too swift for their use, and feeling too strong for their utterance; but they drank from each other's eyes large draughts of delight, and, in the silent pressure of each other's welcoming embrace, felt how truly they loved each other.

He led her gently from the conservatory, and they exchanged words of affection "soft and low," as they sauntered through the wooded path which surrounded the house. That live-long day they wandered up and down together, repeating again and again the anxious yearnings which occupied their years of separation, yet asking each other was not all more than repaid by the gladness of the present—

"Yet how painful has been the past!" exclaimed Edward.

"But now!" said Fanny, with a gentle pressure of her tiny hand on Edward's arm, and looking up to him with her bright eyes—"but now!"

"True, darling!" he cried; "'tis ungrateful to think of the past while enjoying such a present and with such a future before me. Bless that cheerful heart, and those hope-inspiring glances! Oh, Fanny! in the wilderness of life there are springs and palm-trees—you are both to me! and heaven has set its own mark upon you in those laughing blue eyes which might set despair at defiance."

"Poetical as ever, Edward!" said Fanny, laughing.

"Sit down, dearest, for a moment, on this old tree, beside me; 'tis not the first time I have strung rhymes in your presence and your praise." He took a small note-book from his pocket, and Fanny looked on smilingly as Edward's pencil rapidly ran over the leaf and traced the lover's tribute to his mistress.

THE SUNSHINE IN YOU

I

"It is sweet when we look round the wide world's waste To know that the desert bestows The palms where the weary heart may rest, The spring that in purity flows. And where have I found In this wilderness round That spring and that shelter so true; Unfailing in need, And my own, indeed?— Oh! dearest, I've found it in you!

II

"And, oh when the cloud of some darkening hour O'ershadows the soul with its gloom, Then where is the light of the vestal pow'r, The lamp of pale Hope to illume? Oh! the light ever lies In those bright fond eyes, Where Heaven has impressed its own blue As a seal from the skies As my heart relies On that gift of its sunshine in you!"

Fanny liked the lines, of course. "Dearest," she said, "may I always prove sunshine to you! Is it not a strange coincidence that these lines exactly fit a little air which occurred to me some time ago?"

"'Tis odd," said Edward; "sing it to me, darling."

Fanny took the verses from his hand, and sung them to her own measure. Oh, happy triumph of the poet!—to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves! Edward caught up the strain, adding his voice to hers in harmony, and thus they sauntered homewards, trolling their ready-made duet together. There were not two happier hearts in the world that day than those of Fanny Dawson and Edward O'Connor.



CHAPTER L

Respect for the memory of Major Dawson of course prevented the immediate marriage of Edward and Fanny; but the winter months passed cheerfully away in looking forward to the following autumn which should witness the completion of their happiness. Though Edward was thus tempted by the society of the one he loved best in the world, it did not make him neglect the duties he had undertaken in behalf of Gustavus. Not only did he prosecute his reading with him regularly, but he took no small pains in looking after the involved affairs of the family, and strove to make satisfactory arrangements with those whose claims were gnawing away the estate to nothing. Though the years of Gusty's minority were but few, still they would give the estate some breathing-time; and creditors, seeing the minor backed by a man of character, and convinced a sincere desire existed to relieve the estate of its encumbrances and pay all just claims, presented a less threatening front than hitherto, and listened readily to such terms of accommodation as were proposed to them. Uncle Robert (for the breaking of whose neck Ratty's pious aspirations had been raised) behaved very well on the occasion. A loan from him, and a partial sale of some of the acres, stopped the mouths of the greedy wolves who fatten on men's ruin, and time and economy were looked forward to for the discharge of all other debts. Uncle Robert, having so far acted the friend, was considered entitled to have a partial voice in the ordering of things at the Hall; and having a notion that an English accent was genteel, he desired that Gusty and Ratty should pass a year under the roof of a clergyman in England, who received a limited number of young gentlemen for the completion of their education. Gustavus would much rather have remained near Edward O'Connor, who had already done so much for him; but Edward, though he regretted parting with Gustavus, recommended him to accede to his uncle's wishes, though he did not see the necessity of an Irish gentleman being ashamed of his accent.

The visit to England, however, was postponed till the spring, and the winter months were used by Gustavus in availing himself as much as he could of Edward's assistance in putting him through his classics, his pride prompting him to present himself creditably to the English clergyman.