Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

But even already I grow impatient with myself while I speak of these things. How poor, how vapid, and how meagre is the effort to recall the wit that set the table in a roar! Not only is memory wanting, but how can one convey the incessant roll of fun, the hailstorm of pleasantry, that rattled about our ears; each good thing that was uttered ever suggesting something still better; the brightest fancy and the most glowing imagination stimulated to their utmost exercise; while powers of voice, of look, and of mimicry unequalled, lent all their aid to the scene.

While I sat entranced and delighted with all I saw and all I heard, I had not remarked that O’Grady had been addressing the chair for some time previous.

‘Reverend brother,’ replied the prior, ‘the prayer of thy petition is inadmissible. The fourth rule of our faith says, de confessione: No subject, mirthful, witty, or jocose, known to, or by, any member of the order, shall be withheld from the brotherhood under a penalty of the heaviest kind. And it goes on to say, that whether the jest involve your father or your mother, your wife, your sister, or the aunt from whom you expect a legacy, no exception can be made. What you then look for is clearly impossible; make a clean breast of it, and begin.’

This being a question of order, a silence was soon established, when, what was my horror to find that Phil O’Grady began the whole narrative of my mother’s letter on the subject of the Rooneys! Not limiting himself, however, to the meagre document in question, but colouring the story with all the force of his imagination, he displayed to the brethren the ludicrous extremes of character personated by the London fine lady and the Dublin attorney’s wife. Shocked as I was at first, he had not proceeded far, when I was forced to join the laughter. The whole table pounced upon the story. The Rooneys were well known to them all; and the idea of poor Paul, who dispensed his hospitalities with a princely hand, having his mansion degraded to the character of a chop-house, almost convulsed them with laughter.

‘I am going over to London next week,’ said Parsons, ‘with old Lambert; and if I thought I should meet this Lady Charlotte Hinton, I’d certainly contrive to have him presented to her as Mr. Paul Rooney.’

This observation created a diversion in favour of my lady-mother, to which I had the satisfaction of listening without the power to check.

‘She has,’ said Dawson, ‘most admirable and original views about Ireland; and were it only for the fact of calling on the Rooneys for their bill, she deserves our gratitude. I humbly move, therefore, that we drink to the health of our worthy sister, Lady Charlotte Hinton.’

The next moment found me hip-hipping, in derision, to my mother’s health, the only consolation being that I was escaping unnoticed and unknown.

‘Well, Barrington, the duke was delighted with the corps; nothing could be more soldierlike than their appearance, as they marched past.’

‘Ah, the attorneys’, isn’t it – the Devil’s Own, as Curran calls them?’

‘Yes, and remarkably well they looked. I say, Parsons, you heard what poor Rooney said when Sir Charles Asgill read aloud the general order complimenting them: “May I beg, Sir Charles,” said he, “to ask if the document in your hand be an attested copy?”’

‘Capital, ‘faith! By-the-bye, what’s the reason, can any one tell me, Paul has never invited me to dine for the last two years?’

‘Indeed!’ said Curran; ‘then your chance is a bad one, for the statute of limitations is clearly against you.’

‘Ah, Kellar, the Rooneys have cut all their low acquaintances, and your prospects look very gloomy. You know what took place between Paul and Lord Manners?’

‘No, Barrington; let’s hear it, by all means!’

‘Paul had met him at Kinnegad, where both had stopped to change horses. “A glass of sherry, my lord?” quoth Paul, with a most insinuating look.

‘“No, sir, thank you,” was the distant reply.

‘“A bowl of gravy, then, my lord?” rejoined he. ‘“Pray, excuse me,” more coldly than before.

‘“Maybe a chop and a crisped potato would tempt your lordship?”

‘“Neither, sir, I assure you.”

‘“Nor a glass of egg-flip?” repeated Paul, in an accent bordering on despair.

‘“Nor even the egg-flip,” rejoined his lordship, in the most pompous manner.

‘“Then, my lord,” said Paul, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking him firmly in the face, “I’ve only to say, the ‘onus’ is now on you.” With which he stalked out of the room, leaving the chancellor to his own reflections.’

‘Brethren, the saint!’ cried out the prior, as he rose from the chair.

‘The saint! the saint!‘re-echoed from lip to lip; and at the same moment the door opened, and a monk appeared, bearing a silver image of St. Patrick, about a foot and a half high, which he deposited in the middle of the table with the utmost reverence. All the monks rose, filling their pipkins, while the junior of the order, a fat little monk with spectacles, began the following ditty, in which all the rest joined, with every energy of voice and manner: —

I‘When St. Patrick our order created,And called us the Monks of the Screw,Good rules he revealed to our abbotTo guide us in what we should do.II‘But first he replenished his fountainWith liquor the best in the sky,And he swore by the word of his saintshipThat fountain should never run dry.III‘My children, be chaste, till you ‘re tempted;While sober, be wise and discreet;And humble your bodies with fastingWhene’er you ‘ve nothing to eat.IV‘Then be not a glass in the convent,Except on a festival, found;And this rule to enforce, I ordain itA festival all the year round.’

A hip, hip, hurrah! that made the very saint totter on his legs, shook the room; and once more the reverend fathers reseated themselves to resume their labours.

Again the conversation flowed cm in its broader channel; and scarcely was the laughter caused by one anecdote at an end when another succeeded, the strangest feature of all this being that he who related the story was, in almost every instance, less the source of amusement to the party than they who, listening to the recital, threw a hundred varied lights upon it, making even the tamest imaginable adventure the origin of innumerable ludicrous situations and absurd fancies. Besides all this, there were characteristic differences in the powers of the party, which deprived the display of any trace or appearance of sameness: the epigrammatic terseness and nicety of Curran; the jovial good-humour and mellow raciness of Lawrence Parsons; the happy facility of converting all before him into a pun or a repartee, so eminently possessed by Toler; and, perhaps more striking than all, the caustic irony and piercing sarcasm of Plunket’s wit – relieved and displayed one another, each man’s talent having only so much of rivalry as to excite opposition and give interest to the combat, yet never by any accident originating a particle of animosity, or even eliciting a shade of passing irritation.

With what pleasure could I continue to recount the stories, the songs, the sayings, I listened to! With what satisfaction do I yet look back upon that brilliant scene, nearly all the actors in which have since risen to high rank and eminence in the country! How often, too, in their bright career, when I have heard the warm praise of the world bestowed upon their triumphs and their successes, has my memory carried me back to that glorious night, when with hearts untrammelled by care, high in hope, and higher in ambition, these bright spirits sported in all the wanton exuberance of their genius, scattering with profusion the rich ore of their talent, careless of the depths to which the mine should be shafted hereafter! Yes, it is true there were giants in those days. However much one may be disposed to look upon the eulogist of the past, as one whose fancy is more ardent than his memory is tenacious, yet with respect to this, there is no denial of the fact, that great convivial gifts, great conversational power, no longer exist as they did some thirty or forty years ago. I speak more particularly of the country where I passed my youth – of Ireland. And who that remembers those names I have mentioned; who that can recall the fascination, and charm, which almost every dinner-party of the day could boast; who that can bring to mind the brilliancy of Curran, the impetuous power of Plunket, or the elegance of manner and classical perfection of wit that made Burke the Cicero of his nation; who, I say, with all these things before his memory, can venture to compare the society of that period with the present? No, no; the grey hairs that mingle with our brown may convict us of being a prejudiced witness, but we would call into court every one whose testimony is available, and confidently await the verdict.

‘And so they ran away!’ said the prior, turning towards a tall, gaunt-looking monk, who with a hollow voice and solemn manner was recording the singular disappearance of the militia regiment he commanded on the morning they were to embark for England. ‘The story we heard,’ resumed the prior, ‘was, that when drawn up in the Fifteen Acres, one of the light company caught sight of a hare, and flung his musket at it; that the grenadiers followed the example, and that then the whole battalion broke loose, with a loud yell, and set off in pursuit – ’

‘No, sir,’ said the gaunt man, waving his hand to suppress the laughter around him. ‘They were assembled on the lighthouse wall, as it might be here, and we told them off by tallies as they marched on board, not perceiving, however, that as fast as they entered the packet on one side they left it on the opposite, there being two jolly-boats in waiting to receive them; and as it was dusk at the time, the scheme was undetected, until the corporal of a flank company shouted out to them to wait for him, that being his boat. At this time we had fifty men of our four hundred and eighty.’

‘Ay, ay, holy father,’ cried the prior, as he helped himself to a devilled bone, ‘your fellows were like the grilled bone before me – when they were mustered, they would not wait to be peppered?

This sally produced a roar of laughter, not the less hearty that the grim-visaged hero it was addressed to never relaxed a muscle of his face.

It was now late, and what between the noise, the wine, and the laughter, my faculties were none of the clearest. Without having drunk much, I felt all the intoxication of liquor, and a whirlwind of confusion in my ideas, that almost resembled madness. To this state one part of their proceedings in a great measure contributed; for every now and then, on some signal from the prior, the whole party would take hands and dance round the table to the measure of an Irish jig, wilder and even more eccentric than their own orgies. Indeed, I think this religious exercise finished me; for after the third time of its performance, the whole scene became a confused and disturbed mass, and amid the crash of voices, the ringing of laughter, the tramping of feet, I sank into something which, if not sleep, was at least unconsciousness; and thus is a wet sponge drawn over the immediately succeeding portion of my history.

Some faint recollection I have of terrifying old Corny by my costume; but what the circumstances, or how they happened, I cannot remember. I can only call to mind one act in vindication of my wisdom – I went to bed.

CHAPTER XVIII. A CONFIDENCE

I slept late on the morning after my introduction to the Monks of the Screw, and probably should have continued to indulge still longer, had not O’Grady awoke me.

‘Come, Jack,’ he cried, ‘this is the third time I have been here to-day. I can’t have mercy on you any longer; so rub your eyes, and try if you can’t wake sufficiently to listen to me. I have just received my appointment as captain in the Forty-first, with an order to repair immediately to Chatham to join the regiment, which is under orders for foreign service.’

‘And when do you go, Phil?’

‘To-night at eight o’clock. A private note from a friend at the Horse Guards tells me not to lose a moment; and as I shall have to wait on the duke to thank him for his great kindness to me, I have no time to spare.’

This news so stunned me that for a moment or two I couldn’t reply. O’Grady perceived it, and, patting me gaily on the shoulder, said —

‘Yes, Jack, I am sorry we are to separate. But as for me, no other course was open; and as to you, with all your independence from fortune, and with all your family influence to push your promotion, the time is not very distant when you will begin to feel the life you are leading vapid and tiresome. You will long for an excitement more vigorous and more healthy in its character; and then, my boy, my dearest hope is that we may be thrown once more together.’

Had my friend been able at the moment to have looked into the secret recesses of my heart and read there my inmost thoughts, he could not more perfectly have depicted my feelings, nor pictured the impressions that, at the very moment he spoke, were agitating my mind. The time he alluded to had indeed arrived. The hour had come when I wished to be a soldier in more than the mere garb; but with that wish came linked another even stronger still; and this was, that, before I went on service, I should once more see Louisa Bellew, explain to her the nature and extent of my attachment to her, and obtain, if possible, some pledge on her part that, with the distinction I hoped to acquire, I should look to the possession of her love as my reward and my recompense. Young as I was, I felt ashamed at avowing to O’Grady the rapid progress of my passion. I had not courage to confess upon what slight encouragement I built my hopes, and at the same time was abashed at being compelled to listen tamely to his prophecy, when the very thoughts that flashed across me would have indicated my resolve.

While I thus maintained an awkward silence, he once more resumed —

‘Meanwhile, Jack, you can serve me, and I shall make no apologies for enlisting you. You’ve heard me speak of this great Loughrea steeplechase: now, somehow or other, with my usual prudence, I have gone on adding wager to wager, until at last I find myself with a book of some eight hundred pounds – to lose which at a moment like this, I need not say, would almost ruin all my plans. To be free of the transaction, I this morning offered to pay half forfeit, and they refused me. Yes, Hinton, they knew every man of them the position I stood in. They saw that not only my prospects but my honour was engaged; that before a week I should be far away, without any power to control, without any means to observe them. They knew well that, thus circumstanced, I must lose; and that if I lost, I must sell my commission, and leave the army beggared in character and in fortune.’

‘And now, my dear friend,’ said I, interrupting, ‘how happens it that you bet with men of this stamp? I understood you it was a friendly match, got up at a dinnerparty.’

‘Even so, Jack. The dinner was in my own rooms, the claret mine, the men my friends. You may smile, but so the world is pleased to call those with whom from day to day we associate, with no other bond of union than the similarity of a pursuit which has nothing more reprehensible in it than the character of the intimacies it engenders. Yes, Hinton, these are my sporting friends, sipping my wine while they plot my ruin. Conviviality with them is not the happy abandonment to good fellowship and enjoyment, but the season of cold and studied calculation – the hour when, unexcited themselves, they trade upon the unguarded and unwary feelings of others. They know how imperative is the code of honour as regards a bet, and they make a virtue to themselves in the unflinching firmness of their exaction, as a cruel judge would seek applause for the stern justice with which he condemns a felon. It is usual, however, to accept half forfeit in circumstances like these of mine: the condition did not happen to be inserted, and they rejected my offer.’

‘Is this possible,’ said I, ‘and that these men call themselves your friends?’

‘Yes, Jack; a betting-book is like Shylock’s bond, and the holder of one pretty much about as merciful as the worthy Israelite. But come, come! it is but boyish weakness in one like me to complain of these things; nor, indeed, would I speak of them now, but with the hope that my words may prove a warning to you, while they serve to explain the service I look for from you, and give you some insight into the character of those with whom you ‘ll have to deal.’

‘Only tell me,’ said I, ‘only explain, my dear O’Grady, what I can do, and how; it is needless for me to say I ‘m ready.’

‘I thought as much. Now listen to me. When I made this unlucky match it was, as I have said, over a dinnerparty, when, excited by wine and carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, I made a proposition which, with a calmer head, I should never have ventured. For a second or two it was not accepted, and Mr. Burke, of whom you ‘ve heard me speak, called out from the end of the table, “A sporting offer, by Jove! and I’ll ride for you myself.” This I knew was to give me one of the first horsemen in Ireland; so, while filling my glass and nodding to him, accepted his offer, I cried out, “Two to one against any horse named at this moment!” The words were not spoken when I was taken up, at both sides of the table; and as I leaned across to borrow a pencil from a friend, I saw that a smile was curling every lip, and that Burke himself endeavoured with his wine-glass to conceal the expression of his face. I needed no stronger proof that the whole match had been a preconcerted scheme between the parties, and that I had fallen into a snare laid purposely to entrap me. It was too late, however, to retract; I booked my bets, drank my wine, congeed my friends, went to bed, and woke the next morning to feel myself a dupe.

‘But come, Jack; at this rate I shall never have done. The match was booked, the ground chosen, Mr. Burke to be my jockey, and, in fact, everything arranged, when, what was my surprise, my indignation, to find that the horse I destined for the race (at the time in possession of a friend) was bought up for five hundred and sent off to England! This disclosed to me how completely I was entrapped. Nothing remained for me then but to purchase one which offered at the moment! and this one, I ‘ve told you already, has the pleasant reputation of being the most wicked devil and the hardest to ride in the whole west; in fact, except Burke himself, nobody would mount him on a road, and as to crossing a country with him, even he, they say, has no fancy for it. In any case, he made it the ground of a demand which I could not refuse – that, in the event of my winning, he was to claim a third of the stakes. At length the horse is put in training, improves every hour, and matters seem to be taking a favourable turn. In the midst of this, however, the report reaches me, as you heard yourself yesterday morning, that Burke will not ride. However I affected to discredit it at the moment, I had great difficulty to preserve the appearance of calm. This morning settles the question by this letter: —

‘“Red House, Wednesday Morning.”

‘“Dear Sir, – A friendly hint has just reached me that I am to be arrested on the morning of the Loughrea race for a trifle of a hundred and eighteen pounds and some odd shillings. If it suits your convenience to pay the money, or enter into bail for the amount, I’ll be very happy to ride your horse; for, although I don’t care for a double ditch, I’ve no fancy to take the wall of the county jail, even on the back of as good a horse as Moddiridderoo. – Yours truly, Ulick Burke.”’

‘Well,’ said I, as, after some difficulty, I spelled through this ill-written and dirty epistle, ‘and what do you mean to do here?’

‘If you ask me,’ said Phil, ‘what I ‘d like to do, I tell you fairly it would be to horsewhip my friend Mr. Burke as a preliminary, pay the stakes, withdraw my horse, and cut the whole concern; but my present position is, unhappily, opposed to each of these steps. In the first place, a rencontre with Burke would do me infinite disservice at the Horse Guards, and as to the payment of eight hundred pounds, I don’t think I could raise the money, unless some one would advance five hundred of it for a mortgage on Corny Delany. But to be serious, Jack – and, as time passes, I must be serious – I believe the best way on this occasion is to give Burke the money (for as to the bill, that’s an invention); yet as I must start to-night for England, and the affair will require some management, I must put the whole matter into your hands, with full instructions how to act.’

‘I am quite ready and willing,’ said I; ‘only give me the carte du pay.’

‘Well, then, my boy, you’ll go down to Loughrea for me the day before the race, establish yourself as quietly as you can in the hotel, and, as the riders must be named on the day before the running, contrive to see Mr. Burke, and inform him that his demand will be complied with. Have no delicacy with him – it is a mere money question; and although by the courtesy of the turf he is a gentleman, yet there is no occasion to treat him with more of ceremony than is due to yourself in your negotiation. This letter contains the sum he mentions. In addition to that, I have inclosed a bank cheque for whatever you like to give him; only remember one thing, Hinton —he must ride, and I must win.’

All the calmness with which O’Grady had hitherto spoken deserted him at this moment; his face became scarlet, his brow was bent, and his lip quivered with passion, while, as he walked the room with hurried steps he muttered between his teeth —

‘Yes, though it cost my last shilling, I’ll win the race! They thought to ruin me; the scheme was deeply laid and well planned too, but they shall fail. No, Hinton,’ resumed he in a louder tone – ‘no, Hinton; believe me, poor man that I am, this is not with me a question of so many pounds: it is the wounded amour propre of a man who, all through his life, held out the right hand of fellowship to those very men who now conspire to be his ruin. And such, my dear boy, such, for the most part, are the dealings of the turf. I do not mean to say that men of high honour and unblemished integrity are not foremost in the encouragement of a sport which, from its bold and manly character, is essentially an English one; but this I would assert, that probity, truth, and honour are the gifts of but a very small number of those who make a traffic of the turf, and are, what the world calls, “racing men.” And oh how very hard the struggle, how nice the difficulty, of him who makes these men his daily companions, to avoid the many artifices which the etiquette of the racecourse permits, but which the feelings of a gentleman would reject as unfair and unworthy! How contaminating that laxity of principle that admits of every stratagem, every trick, as legitimate, with the sole proviso that it be successful! And what a position is it that admits of no alternative save being the dupe or the blackleg! How hard for the young fellow entering upon life with all the ardour, all the unsuspecting freshness of youth about him, to stop short at one without passing on to the other stage! How difficult, with offended pride and wounded self-love, to find himself the mere tool of sharpers! How very difficult to check the indignant spirit, that whispers retaliation by the very arts by which he has been cheated! Is not such a trial as this too much for any boy of twenty? and is it not to be feared that, in the estimation he sees those held in whose blackguardism is their pre-eminence, a perverted ambition to be what is called a sharp fellow may sap and undermine every honourable feeling of the heart, break down the barriers of rigid truth and scrupulous fidelity, teaching him to exult at what formerly he had blushed, and to recognise no folly so contemptible as that of him who believes the word of another? Such a career as this has many a one pursued, abandoning bit by bit every grace, every virtue, and every charm of his character, that, at the end, he should come forth a “sporting gentleman.”’

He paused for a few seconds, and then, turning towards me, added, in a voice tremulous from emotion, ‘And yet, my boy, to men like this I would now expose you! No, no, Jack; I’ ll not do it. I care not what turn the thing may take; I ‘ll not embitter my life with this reflection.’ He seized the letter, and crushing it in his hand, walked towards the window.