✓ 
 
■ THE 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 OF 
 
 MARIA EDGEWORTH 
 
 IN TWELVE VOLUMES 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 ENNUI 
 
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 Aid'^r 
 
 £-5 
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 Tutta la gente in lieta fronte udiva 
 Le graziose e finte istorielle, 
 
 Ed i difetti altrui tosto scopriva 
 Ciascuno, e non i proprj espressi in quelle 
 O se de’ proprj sospettava, ignoti 
 Credeali a ciascun altro, e a se sol noti. 
 
 BOSTON COT 1 T?r *E LIBRARY 
 CHESTNU i MASS. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/ennuiOOedge 
 
W Harvey. 
 
 The daughter, a beautiful girl, kneeling beside him, 
 held the light for the young man, who was reading 
 her brothers letter. 
 
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 & & RY $* & ^ ^ 
 
 i£» $fr & $* $3 &y $3 ^3 " 
 
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 .C.TILNEY- Pt'i 
 
 Ooo^- 
 
 monument belonging to the Glen.fh.oni family, 
 "was observed that I wished 1 b address the 
 mul-titu.de, the moving waves were stilled, and there was a dead 
 silence . 
 
 'V%london**v 
 
 J.M.DENT & C? ALDINE HOUSE 
 
 NEW YORK : DODD MEAD 
 
 <£> clS9Sd C$3 tfy % 
 
PR.HW'I 
 
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 /M*> 
 
NOTE. 
 
 O F the Tales of Fashionable Life , of which Ennui 
 is the first, only the larger ones are at present 
 intended to be included in this edition of Maria 
 Edgeworth’s works. The various stories comprised in 
 this series were written between the appearance of 
 Leonora in 1 806 and the publication of the last of the 
 series in 1812. The whole eight stories of which 
 this series consists were issued in six volumes, the first 
 three in 1809, and three other volumes in 1812. The 
 preface which her father wrote to the first portion is 
 here reprinted, and will give all the information needed 
 in connection with the present volume and the scope 
 of this series of stories as a whole. 
 
 The following is a list of the principal editions of 
 Ennui : — 
 
 Ennui, forming Vol. I. of Tales of Fashionable Life by 
 Maria Edgeworth, 6 vols., London, 1809-12 
 (second and third editions bearing same dates). 
 
 another edition, London, 1815. 
 
 with Almeria (forming Vol. VII. of Tales and 
 
 Miscellaneous Pieces by Maria Edgeworth, 14 
 vols.), London, 1825. 
 
 with The Dun (forming Vol. VI. of Novels 
 
 Hi 
 
IV 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 and Tales of Maria Edgeworth, 18 vols. ), 
 London, 1832-33. 
 
 Many reprints from the stereotype plates of this edition 
 have been issued in various forms, and with 
 varying arrangement of the stories. 
 
 Translated into French in 1817. 
 
 F. J. S. 
 
ORIGINAL PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 TALES OF FASHIONABLE LIFE. 
 
 M Y daughter asks me for a Preface to the following 
 volumes ; from a pardonable weakness she calls 
 upon me for parental protection : but, in fact, 
 the public judges of every work, not from the sex, but 
 from the merit of the author. 
 
 What we feel, and see, and hear, and read, affects 
 our conduct from the moment when we begin till the 
 moment when we cease to think. It has therefore been 
 my daughter’s aim to promote, by all her writings, the 
 progress of education from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Miss Edgeworth’s former works consist of tales for 
 children — of stories for young men and women — and 
 of tales suited to that great mass which does not move 
 in the circles of fashion. The present volumes are 
 intended to point out some of those errors to which 
 the higher classes of society are disposed. 
 
 All the parts of this series of moral fictions bear 
 upon the faults and excellencies of different ages and 
 classes ; and they have all arisen from that view of 
 society which we have laid before the public in more 
 didactic works on education. In the Parent’s Assist- 
 
 v 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ant, in Moral and in Popular Tales, it was my 
 daughter’s aim to exemplify the principles contained 
 in Practical Education. In these volumes, and in 
 others which are to follow, she endeavours to dissemi- 
 nate, in a familiar form, some of the ideas that are 
 unfolded in Essays on Professional Education. 
 
 The first of these stories is called 
 
 Ennui. — The causes, curses, and cure of this disease 
 are exemplified, I hope, in such a manner, as not to 
 make the remedy worse than the disease. Thiebauld 
 tells us, that a prize-essay on Ennui was read to the 
 Academy of Berlin, which put all the judges to sleep. 
 
 The Dun — is intended as a lesson against the 
 common folly of believing that a debtor is able by a 
 few cant phrases to alter the nature of right and 
 wrong. We had once thoughts of giving to these 
 books the title of Fashionable Tales : alas ! the 
 Dun could never have found favour with fashionable 
 readers. 
 
 Manoeuvring — is a vice to which the little great 
 have recourse, to show their second-rate abilities. 
 Intrigues of gallantry upon the Continent frequently 
 lead to political intrigue : amongst us the attempts 
 to introduce this improvement of our manners have 
 not yet been successful ; but there are, however, some, 
 who, in everything they say or do, show a predilec- 
 tion for “ left-handed wisdom.” It is hoped that the 
 picture here represented of a manceuvrer has not been 
 made alluring. 
 
 Almeria — gives a view of the consequences which 
 usually follow the substitution of the gifts of fortune 
 in the place of merit ; and shows the meanness of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vli 
 
 those who imitate manners and haunt company above 
 their station in society. 
 
 Difference of rank is a continual excitement to 
 laudable emulation ; but those who consider the being 
 admitted into circles of fashion as the summit of 
 human bliss and elevation, will here find how griev- 
 ously such frivolous ambition may be disappointed and 
 chastised. 
 
 I may be permitted to add a word on the respect 
 with which Miss Edgeworth treats the public — their 
 former indulgence has not made her careless or presum- 
 ing. The dates subjoined to these stories show, that 
 they have not been hastily intruded upon the reader. 
 
 Richard Lovell Edgeworth. 
 
 Edgeworthsto wn , 
 March 1809 . 
 
ENNUI; 
 
 OR, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE EARL OF GLENTHORN. 
 
 “‘Que faites-vous k Potzdam?’ demandois-je un jour au 
 Prince Guillaume. ‘ Monsieur,’ me r£pondit-il, ‘ nous passons 
 notre vie a conjuguer tous le meme verbe; Je m'ennuie , tu 
 t'ennuies , il sennuie> nous nous ennuyons , vous vous ennuyez , 
 Us s'ennuient ; je m' ennuyois, je m ennuierai,' ” &c. 
 
 Thiebauld, M6m. de Frederick le Grand. 
 
 Chapter u 
 
 B RED up in luxurious indolence, I was sur- 
 rounded by friends who seemed to have no 
 business in this world but to save me the 
 trouble of thinking or acting for myself ; and I was 
 confirmed in the pride of helplessness by being con- 
 tinually reminded that I was the only son and heir of 
 the Earl of Glenthorn. My mother died a few weeks 
 after I was born ; and I lost my father when I was 
 very young. I was left to the care of a guardian, 
 who, in hopes of winning my affection, never con- 
 trolled my wishes or even my whims : I changed 
 schools and masters as often as I pleased, and con- 
 sequently learned nothing. At last I found a private 
 tutor who suited me exactly, for he was completely of 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 my own opinion, “that everything which the young 
 Earl of Glenthorn did not know by the instinct of 
 genius was not worth his learning.” Money could 
 purchase a reputation for talents, and with money I 
 was immoderately supplied ; for my guardian expected 
 to bribe me with a part of my own fortune, to forbear 
 inquiring what had become of a certain deficiency in 
 the remainder. This tacit compact I perfectly under- 
 stood : we were consequently on the most amicable 
 terms imaginable, and the most confidential ; for I 
 thought it better to deal with my guardian than with 
 Jews. Thus at an age when other young men are 
 subject to some restraint, either from the necessity of 
 their circumstances, or the discretion of their friends, 
 I became completely master of myself and of my 
 fortune. My companions envied me ; but even their 
 envy was not sufficient to make me happy. Whilst 
 yet a boy, I began to feel the dreadful symptoms of 
 that mental malady which baffles the skill of medicine, 
 and for which wealth can purchase only temporary 
 alleviation. For this complaint there is no precise 
 English name ; but, alas ! the foreign term is now 
 naturalized in England. Among the higher classes, 
 whether in the wealthy or the fashionable world, who 
 is unacquainted with ennui P At first I was un- 
 conscious of being subject to this disease ; I felt that 
 something was the matter with me, but I did not know 
 what : yet the symptoms were sufficiently marked. I 
 was afflicted with frequent fits of fidgeting, yawning, 
 and stretching, with a constant restlessness of mind and 
 body ; an aversion to the place I was in, or the thing 
 I was doing, or rather to that which was passing before 
 my eyes, for I was never doing anything ; I had an 
 utter abhorrence and an incapacity of voluntary exertion. 
 Unless roused by external stimulus, I sank into that 
 kind of apathy, and vacancy of ideas, vulgarly known 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 3 
 
 by the name of a brown study . If confined in a room 
 
 for more than half an hour by bad weather or other 
 contrarieties, I would pace backwards and forwards, 
 like the restless cavia in his den, with a fretful, un- 
 meaning pertinacity. I felt an insatiable longing for 
 something new, and a childish love of locomotion. 
 
 My physician and my guardian, not knowing what 
 else to do with me, sent me abroad. I set out upon 
 my travels in my eighteenth year, attended by my 
 favourite tutor as my companion . We perfectly agreed 
 in our ideas of travelling ; we hurried from place to 
 place as fast as horses and wheels, and curses and 
 guineas, could carry us. Milord Anglois rattled over 
 half the globe without getting one inch farther from his 
 ennui. Three years were to be consumed before I 
 should be of age. What sums did I spend during this 
 interval in expedition-money to Time ! but the more I 
 tried to hasten him, the slower the rogue went. I lost 
 my money and my temper. 
 
 At last the day for which I had so long panted 
 arrived — I was twenty-one ! and I took possession of 
 my estate. The bells rang, the bonfires blazed, the 
 tables were spread, the wine flowed, huzzas resounded, 
 friends and tenants crowded about me, and nothing but 
 the voice of joy and congratulation was to be heard. 
 The bustle of my situation kept me awake for some 
 weeks ; the pleasure of property was new, and, as long 
 as the novelty lasted, delightful. I cannot say that I 
 was satisfied ; but my mind was distended by the sense 
 of the magnitude of my possessions. I had large estates 
 in England ; and in one of the remote maritime coun- 
 ties of Ireland, I was lord over an immense territory, 
 annexed to the ancient castle of Glenthorn ; — a noble 
 pile of antiquity ! worth ten degenerate castles of 
 modern days. It was placed in a bold romantic situa- 
 tion ; at least as far as I could judge of it by a picture, 
 
4 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 said to be a striking likeness, which hung in my hall at 
 Sherwood Park in England. I was born in Ireland, 
 and nursed, as I was told, in an Irish cabin ; for my 
 father had an idea that this would make me hardy : he 
 left me with my Irish nurse till I was two years old, 
 and from that time forward neither he nor I ever 
 revisited Ireland. He had a dislike to that country, 
 and I grew up in his prejudices. I declared that I 
 would always reside in England. Sherwood Park, my 
 English country-seat, had but one fault ; it was com- 
 pletely finished. The house was magnificent, and in 
 the modern taste ; the furniture fashionably elegant, 
 and in all the gloss of novelty. Not a single luxury 
 omitted ; not a fault could be found by the most fas- 
 tidious critic. My park, my grounds, displayed all the 
 beauties of nature and of art, judiciously combined. 
 Majestic woods, waving their dark foliage, overhung 
 
 But I will spare my readers the description, for I 
 
 remember falling asleep myself whilst a poet was read- 
 ing to me an ode on the beauties of Sherwood Park. 
 These beauties too soon became familiar to my eye ; 
 and even the idea of being the proprietor of this en- 
 chanting place soon palled upon my vanity. Every 
 casual visitor, all the strangers, even the common 
 people, who were allowed once a week to walk in my 
 pleasure-grounds, enjoyed them a thousand times more 
 than I could. I remember, that, about six weeks after 
 I came to Sherwood Park, I one evening escaped from 
 the crowds of friends who filled my house, to indulge 
 myself in a solitary, melancholy walk. I saw at some 
 distance a party of people, who were coming to admire the 
 place ; and to avoid meeting them I took shelter under 
 a fine tree, the branches of which, hanging to the ground, 
 concealed me from the view of passengers. Thus seated, 
 I was checked in the middle of a desperate yawn, by- 
 hearing one among the party of strangers exclaiming — 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 S 
 
 “ How happy the owner of this place must be ! ” 
 
 Yes, had 1 known how to enjoy the goods of life, 
 I might have been happy ; but want of occupation, 
 and antipathy to exertion, rendered me one of the 
 most miserable men upon earth. Still I imagined 
 that the cause of my discontent proceeded from some 
 external circumstance. Soon after my coming of age, 
 business of various sorts required my attention ; papers 
 were to be signed, and lands were to be let : these 
 things appeared to me terrible difficulties. Not even 
 that minister of state, who so feelingly describes his 
 horror at the first appearance of the secretary with the 
 great portfolio, ever experienced sensations so oppressive 
 as mine were, when my steward began to talk to me 
 of my own affairs. In the peevishness of my indolence, 
 I declared that I thought the pains overbalanced the 
 pleasures of property. Captain Crawley, a friend — 
 a sort of a friend — a humble companion of mine, a 
 gross, unblushing, thorough-going flatterer, happened 
 to be present when I made this declaration : he kindly 
 undertook to stand between me and the shadow of 
 trouble. I accepted this offer. 
 
 “Ay, Crawley/’ said I, “do see and settle with 
 these people.” 
 
 I had not the slightest confidence in the person 
 into whose hands, to save myself from the labour of 
 thinking, I thus threw all my affairs ; but I satisfied 
 my understanding by resolving that, when I should 
 have leisure, I would look out for an agent upon whom 
 I could depend. 
 
 I had now been nearly two months at Sherwood 
 Park; too long a time, I thought, to remain in any 
 place, .and I was impatient to get away. My steward, 
 who disliked the idea of my spending my summers 
 at home, found it easy to persuade me that the water 
 on my estate had a brackish unwholesome taste. The 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 man who told me this stood before me in perfect 
 health, though he had drunk this insalubrious water 
 all his life : but it was too laborious a task for my 
 intellects to compare the evidence of my different 
 senses, and I found it most easy to believe what I 
 heard, though it was in direct opposition to what I saw. 
 Away I hurried to a watering-place , after the example 
 of many of my noble contemporaries, who leave their 
 delightful country-seats, to pay, by the inch, for being 
 squeezed up in lodging-houses, with all imaginable 
 inconvenience, during the hottest months in summer. 
 I whiled away my time at Brighton, cursing the heat 
 of the weather, till the winter came, and then cursing 
 the cold, and longing for the London winter. 
 
 The London winter commenced; and the young 
 Earl of Glenthorn, and his entertainments, and his 
 equipages, and extravagance, were the conversation of 
 all the world, and the joy of the newspapers. The 
 immense cost of the fruit at my desserts was recorded ; 
 the annual expence of the vast nosegays of hot-house 
 flowers worn daily by the footmen who clung behind 
 my coach was calculated ; the hundreds of wax-lights, 
 which burned nightly in my house, were numbered by 
 the idle admirers of folly ; and it was known by every- 
 body that Lord Glenthorn suffered nothing but wax 
 to be burned in his stables ; that his servants drank 
 nothing but claret and champagne ; that his liveries, 
 surpassing the imagination of ambassadors, vied with 
 regal magnificence, whilst their golden trappings could 
 have stood even the test of Chinese curiosity. My 
 coachmaker’s bill for this year, if laid before the public, 
 would amuse and astonish sober-minded people, as 
 much as some charges which have lately appeared in 
 our courts of justice for extraordinary coaches and very 
 extraordinary landaus . I will not enter into the detail 
 of my extravagance in minor articles of expence ; 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 1 
 
 these, I thought, could never be felt by such a fortune 
 as that of the Earl of Glenthorn ; but, for the informa- 
 tion of those who have the same course to run or to 
 avoid, I should observe, that my diurnal visits to 
 jewellers’ shops amounted, in time, to sums worth 
 mentioning. Of the multitude of baubles that I 
 bought, the rings, the seals, the chains, I will give no 
 account ; it would pass the belief of man, and the 
 imagination of woman. Those who have the least 
 value for their time have usually the greatest number 
 of watches, and are the most anxious about the exact- 
 ness of their going. I and my repeaters were my 
 own plagues, and the profit of all the fashionable 
 watchmakers, whose shops I regularly visited for a 
 lounge. My history, at this period, would be a com- 
 plete lounger’s journal ; but I will spare my readers 
 this diary. I wish, however, as I have had ample 
 experience, to impress it on the minds of all whom 
 it may concern, that a lounger of fortune must be 
 extravagant. I went into shops merely to pass an 
 idle hour, but I could not help buying something ; 
 and I was ever at the mercy of tradesmen, who took 
 advantage of my indolence, and who thought my 
 fortune inexhaustible. I really had not any taste for 
 expence ; but I let all who dealt with me, especially 
 my servants, do as they pleased, rather than be at 
 the trouble of making them do as they ought. They 
 assured me, that Lord Glenthorn must have such and 
 such things, and must do so and so ; and I quietly 
 submitted to this imaginary necessity. 
 
 All this time I was the envy of my acquaintance ; 
 but I was more deserving of their compassion. With- 
 out anxiety or exertion, I possessed everything they 
 wanted ; but then I had no motive — -I had nothing 
 to desire. I had an immense fortune, and I was the 
 Earl of Glenthorn : my title and wealth were sufficient 
 
8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 distinctions ; how could I be anxious about my boots, 
 or the cape of my coat, or any of those trifles which 
 so happily interest and occupy the lives of fashionable 
 young men, who have not the misfortune to possess 
 large estates ? Most of my companions had some real 
 or imaginary grievance, some old uncle or father, some 
 cursed profession to complain of ; but I had none. 
 They had hopes and fears ; but I had none. I was 
 on the pinnacle of glory, which they were endeavouring 
 to reach ; and I had nothing to do but to sit still, and 
 enjoy the barrenness of the prospect. 
 
 In this recital I have communicated, I hope, to 
 my readers some portion of that ennui which I en- 
 dured ; otherwise they cannot form an adequate idea 
 of my temptation to become a gambler. I really had 
 no vice, nor any of those propensities which lead to 
 vice ; but ennui produced most of the effects that are 
 usually attributed to strong passions or a vicious dis- 
 position. 
 
 C I) a p t e x t j. 
 
 “ O ! ressource assume, 
 
 Viens ranimer leur langueur desoeuvz^e : 
 
 Leur ame vide est du moins amus6e 
 Par l’avarice en plaisir d£guis£e.” 
 
 G AMING relieved me from that insuperable list- 
 lessness by which I was oppressed. I became 
 interested — I became agitated ; in short, I found 
 a new kind of stimulus, and I indulged in it most 
 intemperately. I grew immoderately fond of that 
 which supplied me with sensations. My days and 
 nights were passed at the gaming-table. I remember 
 once spending three days and three nights in the 
 hazard-room of a well-known house in St. James’s- 
 street: the shutters were closed, the curtains down, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 9 
 
 and we had candles the whole time ; even in the 
 adjoining rooms we had candles, that when our doors 
 were opened to bring in refreshments, no obtrusive 
 gleam of daylight might remind us how the hours had 
 passed. How human nature supported the fatigue, I 
 know not. We scarcely allowed ourselves a moment’s 
 pause to take the sustenance our bodies required. At 
 last, one of the markers, who had been in the room 
 with us the whole time, declared that he could hold 
 out no longer, and that sleep he must. With difficulty 
 he obtained an hour’s truce : the moment he got out 
 of the room he fell asleep, absolutely at the very 
 threshold of our door. By the rules of the house he 
 was entitled to a bonus on every transfer of property 
 at the hazard-table ; and he had made, in the course 
 of these three days, upwards of three hundred pounds. 
 Sleep and avarice had struggled to the utmost, but, 
 with his vulgar habits, sleep prevailed. We were wide 
 awake. I shall never forget the figure of one of my 
 noble associates, who sat holding his watch, his eager 
 eyes fixed upon the minute-hand whilst he exclaimed 
 continually, “ This hour will never be over ! ” Then 
 he listened to discover whether his watch had stopped ; 
 then cursed the lazy fellow for falling asleep, protest- 
 ing that, for his part, he never would again consent 
 to such waste of time. The very instant the hour 
 was ended, he ordered “ that dog ” to be awakened, 
 and to work we went. At this sitting ^35,000 were 
 lost and won. I was very fortunate, for I lost a mere 
 trifle — ten thousand pounds ; but I could not expect 
 
 to be always so lucky. Now we come to the old 
 
 story of being ruined by play. My English John 
 o’ -the- Scales warned me that he could advance no 
 more money ; my Irish agent, upon whom my drafts 
 had indeed been unmerciful, could not oblige me any 
 longer, and he threw up his agency, after having 
 
10 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 made his fortune at my expence. I railed, but rail- 
 ing would not pay my debts of honour. I inveighed 
 against my grandfather for having tied me up so tight ; 
 I could neither mortgage nor sell : my Irish estate 
 would have been sold instantly, had it not been settled 
 upon a Mr Delamere. The pleasure of abusing him, 
 whom I had never seen, and of whom I knew nothing 
 but that he was to be my heir, relieved me wonder- 
 fully. He died, and left only a daughter, a mere 
 child. My chance of possessing the estate in fee- 
 simple increased : I sold this increased value to the 
 Jews, and gamed on. Miss Delamere, some time after- 
 wards, had the small- pox. Upon the event of her 
 illness I laid bets to an amazing amount. 
 
 She recovered. No more money could be raised, 
 and my debts were to be paid. In this dilemma I 
 recollected that I once had a guardian, and that I had 
 never settled accounts with him. Crawley, who con- 
 tinued to be my factotum and flatterer in ordinary and 
 extraordinary, informed me, upon looking over these 
 accounts, that there was a mine of money due to me, 
 if I could but obtain it by law or equity. To law I 
 went : and the anxiety of a lawsuit might have, in some 
 degree, supplied the place of gambling, but that all 
 my business was managed for me by Crawley, and I 
 charged him never to mention the subject to me till 
 a verdict should be obtained. 
 
 A verdict was obtained against me. It was proved 
 in open court, by my own witnesses, that I was a fool ; 
 but as no judge, jury, or chancellor, could believe that 
 I was so great a fool as my carelessness indicated, my 
 guardian stood acquitted in equity of being so great a 
 rogue as he really was. What was now to be done ? 
 I saw my doom. As a highwayman knows that he 
 must come to the gallows at last, and acts accordingly, 
 so a fashionably extravagant youth knows that, sooner 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 n 
 
 or later, he must come to matrimony. No one could 
 have more horror of this catastrophe than I felt ; but it 
 was in vain to oppose my destiny. My opinion of 
 women had been formed from the commonplace jests 
 of my companions, and from my own acquaintance with 
 the worst part of the sex. I had never felt the passion 
 of love, and, of course, believed it to be something that 
 might have existed in former ages, but that it was in 
 our days quite obsolete, at least, among the knowing 
 part of the world. In my imagination young women 
 were divided into two classes ; those who were to be 
 purchased, and those who were to purchase. Between 
 these two classes, though the division was to be marked 
 externally by a certain degree of ceremony, yet I was 
 internally persuaded, that there was no essential differ- 
 ence. In my feelings towards them there was some 
 distinction ; of the first class I was tired, and of the 
 second I was afraid. Afraid ! Yes — afraid of being 
 taken in. With these fears, and these sentiments, I 
 was now to choose a wife. I chose her by the nume- 
 ration table : Units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of 
 thousands, hundreds of thousands. I was content, in 
 the language of the newspapers, to lead to the Hymeneal 
 altar any fashionable fair one whose fortune came under 
 the sixth place of figures. No sooner were my disposi- 
 tions known than the friends of a young heiress, who 
 wanted to purchase a coronet, settled a match between 
 us. My bride had one hundred wedding-dresses, 
 elegant as a select committee of dressmakers and mil- 
 liners, French and English, could devise. The least 
 expensive of these robes, as well as I remember, cost 
 fifty guineas : the most admired came to about five 
 hundred pounds, and was thought, by the best judges 
 in these matters, to be wonderfully cheap, as it was of 
 lace such as had never before been trailed in English 
 dust even by the lady of a nabob. These things were 
 
12 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 shown in London as a spectacle for some days, by the 
 dressmaker, who declared that she had lost many a 
 night’s rest in contriving how to make such a variety of 
 dresses sufficiently magnificent and distinguished. The 
 jewellers also requested and obtained permission to 
 exhibit the different sets of jewels : these were so 
 numerous that Lady Glenthorn scarcely knew them all. 
 One day, soon after her marriage, somebody at court, 
 observing that her diamonds were prodigiously fine, 
 asked where she bought them. “ Really,” said she, 
 “ I cannot tell. I have so many sets, I declare I 
 don’t know whether ids my Paris, or my Hamburgh, 
 or my London set.” 
 
 Poor young creature ! I believe her ehief idea of 
 happiness in marriage was the possession of the jewels 
 and paraphernalia of a countess — I am sure it was the 
 only hope she could have, that was likely to be realized, 
 in marrying me. I thought it manly and fashionable 
 to be indifferent, if not contemptuous to my wife : I 
 considered her only as an encumbrance, that I was 
 obliged to take along with my fortune. Beside the 
 disagreeable ideas generally connected with the word 
 'wife, I had some peculiar reasons for my aversion to 
 my Lady Glenthorn. Before her friends would suffer 
 me to take possession of her fortune, they required 
 from me a solemn oath against gambling : so I was 
 compelled to abjure the hazard-table and the turf, the 
 only two objects in life that could keep me awake. 
 This extorted vow I set down entirely to my bride’s 
 account ; and I therefore became even more averse to 
 her than men usually are who marry for money. Yet 
 this dislike subsided. Lady Glenthorn was only 
 childish — I, of an easy temper. I thought her ridicu- 
 lous, but it was too much trouble to tell her so continu- 
 ally. I let the occasions pass, and even forgot her 
 ladyship, when she was not absolutely in my way. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 13 
 
 She was too frivolous to be hated, and the passion of 
 hatred was not to be easily sustained in my mind. The 
 habit of ennui was stronger than all my passions put 
 together. 
 
 Cfupter iiu 
 
 “ Or realize what we think fabulous, 
 
 I’ th’ bill of fare of Eliogabalus.” 
 
 A FTER my marriage, my old malady rose to an 
 insupportable height. The pleasures of the 
 table were all that seemed left to me in life. 
 Most of the young men of any ton , either were, or 
 pretended to be, connoisseurs in the science of good 
 eating. Their talk was of sauces and of cooks, what 
 dishes each cook was famous for ; whether his forte lay 
 in white sauces or brown, in soups, lentilles, fricandeaus, 
 bechemele , matelotes , daubes , c. Then the history 
 and genealogy of the cooks came after the discussion 
 
 of the merit of the works ; whom my Lord C 9 s 
 
 cook lived with formerly — what my Lord D gave 
 
 his cook — where they met with these great geniuses, 
 &c. I cannot boast that our conversation at these 
 select dinners, from which the ladies were excluded, 
 was very entertaining ; but true good eaters detest wit 
 at dinner-time, and sentiment at all times. I think I 
 observed that amongst these cognoscenti there was 
 scarcely one to whom the delicacy of taste did not 
 daily prove a source of more pain than pleasure. There 
 was always a cruel something that spoiled the rest ; or 
 if the dinner were excellent, beyond the power of the 
 most fastidious palate to condemn, yet there was the 
 hazard of being placed far from the favourite dish, or 
 the still greater danger of being deputed to carve at the 
 head or foot of the table. How I have seen a heavy 
 
14 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 nobleman, of this set, dexterously manoeuvre to avoid 
 the dangerous honour of carving a haunch of venison ! 
 “ But, good Heavens ! ” said I, when a confidential 
 whisper pointed out this first to my notice, “ why does 
 he not like to carve ? — he would have it in his power 
 to help himself to his mind, which nobody else can do 
 so well.” — “No ! if he carves, he must give the nice 
 bits to others ; everybody here understands them as 
 well as he — each knows what is upon his neighbour’s 
 plate, and what ought to be there, and what must be in 
 the dish.” I found that it was an affair of calculation 
 — a game at which nobody can cheat without being 
 discovered and disgraced. I emulated, and soon equalled 
 my experienced friends. I became a perfect epicure, 
 and gloried in the character, for it could be supported 
 without any intellectual exertion, and it was fashionable. 
 I cannot say that I could ever eat as much as some of 
 my companions. One of them I once heard to exclaim, 
 after a monstrous dinner, “ I wish my digestion was 
 equal to my appetite.” I would not be thought to 
 exaggerate, therefore I shall not recount the wonders 
 I have seen performed by these capacious heroes of the 
 table. After what I have beheld, to say nothing of 
 what I have achieved, I can believe anything that is 
 related of the capacity of the human stomach. I can 
 credit even the account of the dinner which Madame 
 de Bavi£re affirms she saw eaten by Lewis the Four- 
 teenth ; viz,, “ quatre assiettes des differentes soupes ; 
 un faisan tout entier ; un perdrix ; une grande assiette 
 pleine de salade ; du mouton coupe dans son jus avec 
 de l’ail ; deux bons moiceaux de jambon ; une assiette 
 pleine de patisserie ; du fruit et des confitures ! ” Nor 
 can I doubt the accuracy of the historian, who assures 
 us that a Roman emperor,* one of the most moderate 
 
 * Clodius Albinus. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 15 
 
 of those imperial gluttons, took for his breakfast, 500 
 figs, 100 peaches, 10 melons, 100 beccaficoes, and 
 400 oysters. 
 
 Epicurism was scarcely more prevalent during the 
 decline of the Roman Empire than it is at this day 
 amongst some of the wealthy and noble youths of 
 Britain. Not one of my select dinner-party but 
 would have been worthy of a place at the turbot 
 consultation immortalized by the Roman satirist. A 
 friend of mine, a bishop, one day went into his 
 kitchen, to look at a large turbot, which the cook 
 was dressing. The cook had found it so large that 
 he had cut off the fins: “What a shame!” cried 
 the bishop ; and immediately calling for the cook’s 
 apron, he spread it before his cassock, and actually 
 sewed the fins again to the turbot with his own epis- 
 copal hands. 
 
 If I might judge from my own experience, I should 
 attribute fashionable epicurism in a great measure to 
 ennui. Many affect it, because they have nothing 
 else to do ; and sensual indulgences are all that exist 
 for those who have not sufficient energy to enjoy in- 
 tellectual pleasures. I dare say, that if Heliogabalus 
 could be brought in evidence in his own case, and 
 could be made to understand the meaning of the 
 word ennui, he would agree with me in opinion, that 
 it was the cause of half his vices. His offered reward 
 for the discovery of a new pleasure is stronger evidence 
 than any confession he could make. I thank God 
 that I was not born an emperor, or I might have 
 become a monster. Though not in the least inclined 
 to cruelty, I might have acquired the taste for it, 
 merely for desire of the emotion which real tragedies 
 excite. Fortunately, I was only an earl and an 
 epicure. 
 
 My indulgence in the excesses of the table injured 
 
i6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 my health ; violent bodily exercise was necessary to 
 counteract the effects of intemperance. It was my 
 maxim, that a man could never eat or drink too 
 much, if he would but take exercise enough. I 
 killed fourteen horses,* and survived ; but I grew 
 tired of killing horses, and I continued to eat im- 
 moderately. I was seized with a nervous complaint, 
 attended with extreme melancholy. Frequently the 
 thoughts of putting an end to my existence occurred ; 
 and I had many times determined upon the means ; 
 but very small, and apparently inadequate and ridicu- 
 lous motives, prevented the execution of my design. 
 Once I was kept alive by a piggery , which I wanted 
 to see finished. Another time, I delayed destroying 
 myself, till a statue, which I had just purchased at 
 a vast expence, should be put up in my Egyptian 
 salon . By the awkwardness of the unpacker, the 
 statue’s thumb was broken. This broken thumb 
 saved my life ; it converted ennui into anger. Like 
 Montaigne and his sausage, I had now something 
 to complain of, and I was happy. But at last my 
 anger subsided, the thumb would serve me no longer 
 as a subject of conversation, and I relapsed into 
 silence and black melancholy. I was “ a’ weary of 
 the sun ; 99 my old thoughts recurred. At this time 
 I was just entering my twenty-fifth year. Rejoicings 
 were preparing for my birthday. My Lady Glen- 
 thorn had prevailed upon me to spend the summer 
 at Sherwood Park, because it was new to her. She 
 filled the house with company and noise ; but this 
 only increased my discontent. My birthday arrived 
 
 * I was not the nobleman, who laid a wager, that he could 
 ride a fine horse to death in fifteen minutes. Indeed, I must do 
 myself the justice to say, that I rejoiced at this man’s losing his 
 bet. He blew the horse in four minutes, and killed it ; but it did 
 not die within the time prescribed by the bet. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 17 
 
 — I wished myself dead — and I resolved to shoot 
 myself at the close of the day. I put a pistol into 
 my pocket, and stole out towards the evening, un- 
 observed by my jovial companions. Lady Glenthorn 
 and her set were dancing, and I was tired of these 
 sounds of gaiety. I took the private way to the 
 forest, which was near the house ; but one of my 
 grooms met me with a fine horse, which an old tenant 
 had just sent as a present on my birthday. The 
 horse was saddled and bridled; the groom held the 
 stirrup, and up I got. The fellow told me the 
 private gate was locked, and I turned as he pointed 
 to go through the grand entrance. At the outside 
 of the gate sat upon the ground, huddled in a great 
 red cloak, an old woman, who started up and sprang 
 forwards the moment she saw me, stretching out 
 her arms and her cloak with one and the same 
 motion. 
 
 “ Ogh ! is it you I see ? ” cried she, in a strong 
 Irish tone. 
 
 At this sound and this sight, my horse, who was 
 shy, backed a little. I called to the woman to stand 
 out of my way. 
 
 “ Heaven bless your sweet face ! I’m the nurse that 
 suckled yees when ye was a baby in Ireland. .Many’s 
 the day I’ve been longing to see you,” continued she, 
 clasping her hands, and standing her ground in the 
 middle of the gateway, regardless of my horse, which 
 I was pressing forward. 
 
 “ Stand out of the way, for God’s sake, my good 
 woman, or I shall certainly ride over you. So ! so ! 
 so ! ” said I, patting my restless horse. 
 
 “ Oh ! he’s only shy, God bless him ! he’s as quiet 
 now as a lamb ; and kiss one or other of yees , I must,” 
 cried she, throwing her arms about the horse’s neck. 
 
 The horse, unaccustomed to this mode of saluta- 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 tion, suddenly plunged, and threw me. My head fell 
 against the pier of the gate. The last sound I heard 
 was the report of a pistol ; but I can give no account 
 of what happened afterwards. I was stunned by my 
 fall, and senseless. When I opened my eyes, I found 
 myself stretched on one of the cushions of my landau, 
 and surrounded by a crowd of people, who seemed to 
 be all talking at once : in the buzz of voices I could 
 not distinguish anything that was said, till I heard 
 Captain Crawley’s voice above the rest, saying — 
 u Send for a surgeon instantly : but it’s all over ! 
 it’s all over ! Take the body the back way to the 
 banqueting-house ; I must run to Lady Glenthorn.” 
 
 I perceived that they thought me dead. I did not 
 at this moment feel that I was hurt. I was curious to 
 know what they would all do ; so I closed my eyes 
 again before any one perceived that I had opened them. 
 I lay motionless, and they proceeded with me, accord- 
 ing to Captain Crawley’s orders, to the banqueting- 
 house. When we arrived there, my servants laid me 
 on one of the Turkish sofas ; and the crowd, after 
 having satisfied their curiosity, dropped off one by one, 
 till I was left with a single footman and my steward. 
 
 “ I don’t believe he’s quite dead,” said the footman, 
 “ for his heart beats.” 
 
 “ Oh, he’s the same as dead, for he does not stir 
 hand or foot, and his skull, they say, is fractured for 
 certain ; but it will all be seen when the surgeon comes. 
 I am sure he will never do. Crawley will have every- 
 thing his own way now, and I may as well decamp.” 
 
 “ Ay ; and among them,” said the footman, “ I 
 only hope I may get my wages.” 
 
 “ What, a fool that Crawley made of my lord ! ” 
 said the steward. 
 
 “ What a fool my lord made of himself,” said the 
 footman, “to be ruled, and let all his people be ruled, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I 9 
 
 by such an upstart! With your leave, Mr Turner, 
 I’ll just run to the house to say one word to James, 
 and be back immediately.” 
 
 “No, no, you must stay, Robert, whilst I step' 
 home to lock my places, before Crawley begins to 
 rummage.” 
 
 The footman was now left alone with me. Scarcely 
 had the steward been gone two minutes, when I heard 
 a low voice near me saying, in a tone of great anxiety, 
 “ Is he dead ? ” 
 
 I half opened my eyes to see who it was that spoke. 
 The’ voice came from the door which was opposite to 
 me ; and whilst the footman turned his back, I raised 
 my head, and beheld the figure of the old woman, who 
 had been the cause of my accident. She was upon 
 her knees on the threshold — her arms crossed over her 
 breast. I never shall forget her face, it was so ex- 
 pressive of despair. 
 
 “ Is he dead ? ” she repeated. 
 
 “ I tell you yes,” replied the footman. 
 
 “For the love of God, let me come in, if he is 
 here,” cried she. 
 
 “ Come in, then, and stay here whilst I run to the 
 house.” * 
 
 The footman ran off ; and my old nurse, on seeing 
 me, burst into an agony of grief. I did not under- 
 stand one word she uttered, as she spoke in her native 
 language ; but her lamentations went to my heart, for 
 they came from hers. She hung over me, and I felt 
 her tears dropping upon my forehead. I could not 
 refrain from whispering, “ Don’t cry- — I am alive.” 
 
 * If any one should think it impossible that a man of Lord 
 Glenthorn’s consequence should, at the supposed moment of 
 his death, thus be neglected, let them recollect the scenes that 
 followed the death of Tiberius — of Henry the Fourth of France 
 —of William Rufus, and of George the Second. 
 
20 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Blessings on him ! 99 exclaimed she, starting back : 
 she then dropped down on her knees to thank God. 
 Then calling me by every fondling name that nurses 
 use to their children, she begged my forgiveness, and 
 alternately cursed herself and prayed for me. 
 
 The strong affections of this poor woman touched 
 me more than anything I had ever yet felt in my life ; 
 she seemed to be the only person upon earth who 
 really cared for me ; and in spite of her vulgarity, and 
 my prejudice against the tone in which she spoke, 
 she excited in my mind emotions of tenderness and 
 gratitude. “ My good woman, if I live, I will do 
 something for you : tell me what I can do/’ said I. 
 u Live ! live ! God bless you, live ; that’s all in the 
 wide world I want of you, my jewel ; and, till you 
 are well, let me watch over you at nights, as I used to 
 do when you were a child, and I had you in my arms 
 all to myself, dear.” 
 
 Three or four people now ran into the room, to 
 get before Captain Crawley, whose voice was heard 
 at this instant at a distance. I had only time to 
 make the poor woman understand that I wished to 
 appear to be dead ; she took the hint with surprising 
 quickness. Captain Crawley came up the steps, talk- 
 ing in the tone of a master to the steward and people 
 who followed. 
 
 “What is this old hag doing here? Where is 
 Robert ? Where is Thomas ? I ordered them to 
 stay till I came. Mr Turner, why did not you stay ? 
 What ! has not the coroner been here yet ? The 
 coroner must see the body, I tell you. Good God ! 
 What a parcel of blockheads you all are ! How 
 many times must I tell you the same thing ? Nothing 
 can be done till the coroner has seen him ; then we’ll 
 talk about the funeral, Mr Turner — one thing at a 
 time. Everything shall be done properly, Mr Turner. 
 
ENNUI, 
 
 21 
 
 Lady Glenthorn trusts everything to me — Lady Glen- 
 thorn wishes that I should order everything/’ 
 
 “To be sure — no doubt — very proper — I don’t say 
 against that.” 
 
 “ But,” continued Crawley, turning towards the sofa 
 upon which I lay, and seeing Ellinor kneeling beside 
 me, “ what keeps this old Irish witch here still ? 
 What business have you here, pray ; and who are 
 you, or what are you ? ” 
 
 “ Plase your honour, I was his nurse formerly, and 
 so had a nat’ral longing to see him once again before 
 I would die.” 
 
 “ And did you come all the way from Ireland on 
 this wise errand ? ” 
 
 “Troth I did — every inch of the way from his 
 own sweet place.” 
 
 “Why, you are little better than a fool, I think,” 
 said Crawley. 
 
 “ Little better, plase your honour ; but I was always 
 so about them childer that I nursed.” 
 
 “ Childer ! Well, get along about your business 
 now ; you see your nursing is not wanted here.” 
 
 “ I’ll not stir out of this, while he is here,” said 
 my nurse, catching hold of the leg of the sofa, and 
 clinging to it. 
 
 “ You’ll not stir, you say,” cried Captain Crawley. 
 “ Turn her out ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, sure you would not have the cru’lty to turn 
 his old nurse out before he’s even cowld. And won’t 
 you let me see him buried ? ” 
 
 “ Out with her ! out with her ! the old Irish hag ! 
 We’ll have no howling here. Out with her, John ! ” 
 said Crawley to my groom. 
 
 The groom hesitated, I fancy ; for Crawley re- 
 peated the order more imperiously : “Out with her ! 
 or go yourself.” 
 
22 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ May be it’s you that will go first yourself,” said she. 
 “ Go first myself ! ” cried Captain Crawley furiously : 
 “ Are you insolent to me P” 
 
 “ And are not you cru’l to me, and to my child I 
 nursed, that lies all as one as dead before you, and was 
 a good friend to you in his day, no doubt ? ” 
 
 Crawley seized hold of her ; but she resisted with 
 so much energy, that she dragged along with her the 
 sofa to which she clung, and on which I lay. 
 
 “ Stop ! ” cried I, starting up. There was sudden 
 silence. I looked round, but could not utter another 
 syllable. Now, for the first time, I was sensible that 
 I had been really hurt by the fall. My head grew 
 giddy, and my stomach sick. I just saw Crawley’s 
 fallen countenance, and him and the steward looking at 
 one another ; they were like hideous faces in a dream. 
 I sank back. 
 
 “ Ay, lie down, my darling ; don’t be disturbing 
 yourself for such as them,” said my nurse. “ Let 
 them do what they will with me ; it’s little I’d care 
 for them, if you were but once in safe hands.” 
 
 I beckoned to the groom, who had hesitated to 
 turn out Ellinor, and bid him go to the housekeeper, 
 and have me put to bed. “ She,” added I, pointing 
 to my old nurse, “ is to sit up with me at night.” It 
 was all I could say. What they did with me after- 
 wards, I do not know ; but I was in my bed, and a 
 bandage was round my temples, and my poor nurse 
 was kneeling on one side of the bed, with a string of 
 beads in her hand ; and a surgeon and physician, and 
 Crawley and my Lady Glenthorn were on the other 
 side, whispering together. The curtain was drawn 
 between me and them ; but the motion I made on 
 wakening was instantly observed by Crawley, who 
 immediately left the room. Lady Glenthorn drew 
 back my curtain, and began to ask me how I did : 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 23 
 
 but when I fixed my eyes upon her, she sunk upon 
 the bed, trembling violently, and could not finish her 
 sentence. I begged her to go to rest, and she retired. 
 The physician ordered that I should be kept quiet, 
 and seemed to think I was in danger. I asked what 
 was the matter with me ? and the surgeon, with a very 
 grave face, informed me that I had an ugly contusion 
 on my head. I had heard of a concussion of the 
 brain ; but I did not know distinctly what it was, 
 and my fears were increased by my ignorance. The 
 life which, but a few hours before, I had been on the 
 point of voluntarily destroying, because it was insupport- 
 ably burdensome, I was now, the moment it was in 
 danger, most anxious to preserve ; and the interest which 
 I perceived others had in getting rid of me increased 
 my desire to recover. My recovery was, however, for 
 some time doubtful. I was seized with a fever, which 
 left me in a state of alarming debility. My old nurse, 
 whom I shall henceforward call by her name of Ellinor, 
 attended me with the most affectionate solicitude during 
 my illness ; * she scarcely stirred from my bedside, 
 night or day ; and, indeed, when I came to the use of 
 
 * “For fostering, I did never hear or read, that it was in use 
 or reputation in any country, barbarous or civil, as it hath been, 
 and yet is, in Ireland. * * * In the opinion of this people, 
 fostering hath always been a stronger alliance than blood ; and 
 the foster-children do love and are beloved of their foster-fathers 
 and their sept (or clan ) more than of their natural parents and 
 kindred ; and do participate of their means more frankly, and 
 do adhere unto them, in all fortunes, with more affection and 
 constancy. ************* Such a general custom in a 
 kingdom, in giving and taking children to foster, making such 
 a firm alliance as it doth in Ireland, was never seen or heard of 
 in any other country of the world beside.” — Davies. 
 
 See in Lodge’s Peerage of Ireland an account of an Irish 
 nurse, who went from Kerry to France, and from France to 
 Milan, to see her foster-son, the Lord Thomas Fitzmaurice; 
 and to warn him that his estate was in danger from an heir-at- 
 law, who had taken possession of it in his absence. The 
 nurse, being very old, died on her return home. 
 
24 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 my senses, she was the only person whom I really 
 liked to have near me. I knew that she was sincere ; 
 and, however unpolished her manners, and however 
 awkward her assistance, the good-will with which it 
 was given, made me prefer it to the most delicate 
 and dexterous attentions which I believed to be in- 
 terested. The very want of a sense of propriety, and 
 the freedom with which she talked to me, regard- 
 less of what was suited to her station, or due to my 
 rank, instead of offending or disgusting me, became 
 agreeable ; besides, the novelty of her dialect, and of 
 her turn of thought, entertained me as much as a 
 sick man could be entertained. I remember once 
 her telling me, that, “if it plased God, she would 
 like to die on a Christmas-day, of all days ; becaase 
 the gates of Heaven, they say, will be open all that 
 day ; and who knows but a body might slip in un - 
 knownst P ” When she sat up with me at nights, 
 she talked on eternally ; for she assured me there 
 was nothing like talking, as she had found, to put 
 one asy asleep . I listened or not, just as I liked ; 
 
 any way she was contint . She was inexhaustible in 
 her anecdotes of my ancestors, all tending to the 
 honour and glory of the family ; she had also an 
 excellent memory for all the insults, or traditions of 
 insults, which the Glenthorns had received for many 
 ages back, even to the times of the old kings of 
 Ireland ; long and long before they stooped to be 
 lorded; when their “names, which it was a pity 
 and a murder, and moreover a burning shame, to 
 change, was O’Shaughnessy.” She was well stored 
 with histories of Irish and Scottish chiefs. The 
 story of O’Neill, the Irish black-beard, I am sure 
 I ought to remember, for Ellinor told it to me at 
 least six times. Then she had a large assortment 
 of fairies and shadowless witches, and banshees ; and 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 2 5 
 
 besides, she had legions of spirits and ghosts, and 
 haunted castles without end, my own castle of Glen- 
 thorn not excepted, in the description of which she 
 was extremely eloquent ; she absolutely excited in 
 my mind some desire to see it. For many a long 
 year, she said, it had been her nightly prayer, that 
 she might live to see me in my own castle ; and 
 often and often she was coming over to England to 
 tell me so, only her husband, as long as he lived, 
 would not let her set out on what he called a fool’s 
 errand : but it pleased God to take him to Himself 
 last fair day, and then she resolved that nothing 
 should hinder her to be with her own child against 
 his birthday : and now, could she see me in my own 
 Castle Glenthorn, she would die contint — and what a 
 pity but I should be in it ! I was only a lord, as 
 she said, in England ; but I could be all as one as a 
 king in Ireland. 
 
 Eliinor impressed me with the idea of the sort of 
 feudal power I should possess in my vast territory, 
 over tenants who were almost vassals, and amongst a 
 numerous train of dependents. We resist the efforts 
 made by those who, we think, exert authority or 
 employ artifice to change our determinations ; whilst 
 the perverse mind insensibly yields to those, who 
 appear not to have power, or reason, or address, suffi- 
 cient to obtain a victory. I should not have heard 
 any human being with patience try to persuade me 
 to go to Ireland, except this ignorant poor nurse, 
 who spoke, as I thought, merely from the instinct of 
 affection to me and to her native country. I promised 
 her that I would, some time or other , visit Glenthorn 
 Castle : but this was only a vague promise, and it 
 was but little likely that it should be accomplished. 
 As I regained my strength, my mind turned, or rather 
 was turned, to other thoughts. 
 
26 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 Chapter tin 
 
 O NE morning — it was the day after my physicians 
 had pronounced me out of all danger — Crawley 
 sent me a note by Ellinor, congratulating me 
 upon my recovery, and begging to speak to me for half 
 an hour. I refused to see him ; and said, that I was 
 not yet well enough to do business. The same morn- 
 ing Ellinor came with a message from Turner, my 
 steward, who, with his humble duty, requested to see 
 me for five minutes, to communicate to me something of 
 importance. I consented to see Turner. He entered 
 with a face of suppressed joy and affected melancholy. 
 
 “ Sad news I am bound in duty to be the bearer of, 
 my lord. I was determined, whatever came to pass, 
 however, not to speak till your honour was out of 
 danger, which, I thank Heaven, is now the case, and 
 I am happy to be able to congratulate your lordship 
 
 upon looking as well as ” 
 
 “ Never mind my looks. I will excuse your con- 
 gratulations, Mr Turner,” said I impatiently ; for the 
 recollection of the banqueting-house, and the under- 
 taker, whom Turner was so eager to introduce, came 
 full into my mind. “ Go on, if you please ; five 
 minutes is all I am at present able to give to any busi- 
 ness, and you sent me word you had something of 
 importance to communicate.” 
 
 “True, my lord; but in case your lordship is not 
 at present well enough, or not so disposed, I will wait 
 your lordship’s leisure.” 
 
 “Now or never, Mr Turner. Speak, but speak at 
 once.” 
 
 “ My lord, I would have done so long ago, but was 
 loth to make mischief ; and besides, could not believe 
 what I heard whispered, and would scarce believe what 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 27 
 
 I verily saw ; though now, as I cannot reasonably have 
 a doubt, I think it would be a sin, and a burden upon 
 my conscience, not to speak ; only that I am unwilling 
 to shock your lordship too much, when but just recover- 
 ing, for that is not the time one would wish to tell or 
 to hear disagreeable things.” 
 
 “ Mr Turner, either come to the point at once, or 
 leave me ; for I am not strong enough to bear this sus- 
 pense.” 
 
 “ I beg pardon, my lord : why then, my lord, the 
 point is Captain Crawley.” 
 
 “ What of him ? I never desire to hear his name 
 again.” 
 
 “ Nor I, I am sure, my lord ; but there are some in 
 the house might not be of our opinion.” 
 
 “Who? you sneaking fellow; speak out, can’t 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ My lady — my lord Now it is out. She’ll go 
 
 off with him this night, if not prevented.” 
 
 My surprise and indignation were as great as if I had 
 always been the fondest and the most attentive of hus- 
 bands. I was at length roused from that indifference 
 and apathy into which I had sunk ; and though I had 
 never loved my wife, the moment I knew she was lost 
 to me for ever was exquisitely painful. Astonishment, 
 the sense of disgrace, the feeling of rage against that 
 treacherous parasite by whom she had been seduced, 
 all combined to overwhelm me. I could command my 
 voice only enough to bid Turner leave the room, and 
 tell no one that he had spoken to me on this subject. 
 “Not a soul,” he said, “should be told, or could 
 guess it.” 
 
 Left to my own reflections, as soon as the first 
 emotions of anger subsided, I blamed myself for my 
 conduct to Lady Glenthorn. I considered that she 
 had been married to me by her friends, when she was 
 
28 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 too young and too childish to judge for herself ; that 
 from the first day of our marriage I had never made 
 the slightest effort to win her affections, or to guide 
 her conduct; that, on the contrary, I had shown her 
 marked indifference, if not aversion. With fashion- 
 able airs, I had professed, that provided she left me at 
 liberty to spend the large fortune which she brought 
 me, and in consideration of which she enjoyed the 
 title of Countess of Glenthorn, I cared for nothing 
 farther. With the consequences of my neglect I now 
 reproached myself in vain. Lady Glenthorn’ s im- 
 mense fortune had paid my debts, and had for two 
 years supplied my extravagance, or rather my in- 
 dolence : little remained, and she was now, in her 
 twenty-third year, to be consigned to public disgrace, 
 and to a man whom I knew to be destitute of honour 
 and feeling. I pitied her, and resolved to go instantly 
 and make an effort to save her from destruction. 
 
 Ellinor, who watched all Crawley’s motions, in- 
 formed me, that he was gone to a neighbouring town, 
 and had left word that he should not be home till after 
 dinner. Lady Glenthorn was in her dressing-room, 
 which was at a part of the house farthest from that 
 which I now inhabited. I had never left my room 
 since my illness, and had scarcely walked farther than 
 from my bed to my arm-chair ; but I was so much 
 roused by my feelings at this instant, that, to Ellinor’ s 
 great astonishment, I started from my chair, and, for- 
 bidding her to follow me, walked without any assistance 
 along the corridor, which led to the back-stairs, and 
 to Lady Glenthorn’ s apartment. I opened the private 
 door of her dressing-room suddenly — the room was in 
 great disorder — her woman was upon her knees packing 
 a trunk : Lady Glenthorn was standing at a table, with 
 a parcel of open letters before her, and a diamond neck- 
 lace in her hand. She started at the sight of me as if 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 2 9 
 
 she had beheld a ghost : the maid screamed, and ran 
 to a door at the farther end of the room, to make her 
 escape, but that was bolted. Lady Glenthorn was 
 pale and motionless, till I approached ; and then, re- 
 collecting herself, she reddened all over, and thrust 
 the letters into her table- drawer. Her woman, at the 
 same instant, snatched a casket of jewels, swept up in 
 her arms a heap of clothes, and huddled them alto- 
 gether into the half-packed trunk. 
 
 “ Leave the room,” said I to her sternly. She 
 locked the trunk, pocketed the key, and obeyed. 
 
 I placed a chair for Lady Glenthorn, and sat down 
 myself. We were almost equally unable to stand. 
 We were silent for some moments. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon the ground, and she leaned her head upon 
 her hand in an attitude of despair. I could scarcely 
 articulate ; but making an effort to command my voice, 
 I at last said — 
 
 “ Lady Glenthorn, I blame myself more than you 
 for all that has happened.” 
 
 “For what?” said she, making a feeble attempt 
 at evasion, yet at the same time casting a guilty look 
 towards the drawer of letters. 
 
 “ You have nothing to conceal from me,” said I. 
 
 “ Nothing ! ” said she, in a feeble voice. 
 
 “ Nothing,” said I ; “for I know everything ” 
 — she started — “and am willing to pardon every- 
 thing.” 
 
 She looked up in my face astonished. “ I am con- 
 scious,” continued I, “that you have not been well 
 treated by me. You have had much reason to com- 
 plain of my neglect. To this I attribute your error. 
 F or get the past — I will set you the example. Promise 
 me never to see the man more, and what has happened 
 shall never be known to the world.” 
 
 She made me no answer, but burst into a flood of 
 
3 ° 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 tears. She seemed incapable of decision, or even of 
 thought. I felt suddenly inspired with energy. 
 
 “ Write this moment,” continued I, placing a pen 
 and ink before her, “write to forbid him ever to 
 return to this house, or ever more to appear in your 
 presence. If he appears in mine, I know how to 
 chastise him, and to vindicate my own honour. To 
 preserve your reputation, I refrain, upon these condi- 
 tions, from making my contempt of him public.” 
 
 I put a pen into Lady Glenthorn’s hand ; but 
 she trembled so that she could not write. She made 
 several ineffectual attempts, then tore the paper ; and 
 again giving way to tears, exclaimed, “ I cannot write 
 — I cannot think — I do not know what to say. Write 
 what you will, and I will sign it.” 
 
 “ I write to Captain Crawley ! Write what I will ! 
 Lady Glenthorn, it must be your will to write, not 
 mine. If it be not your will, say so.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I do not say so — I do not say that . Give 
 me a moment’s time. I do not know what I say. I 
 have been very foolish — very wicked. You are very 
 good — but it is too late : it will all be known. Crawley 
 will betray me ; he will tell it to Mrs Mattocks : so 
 whichever way I turn, I am undone. Oh ! what will 
 become of me ? ” 
 
 She wrung her hands and wept, and was for an 
 hour in this state, in all the indecision and imbecility 
 of a child. At last, she wrote a few scarcely legible 
 lines to Crawley, forbidding him to see or think of 
 her more. I despatched the note, and she was full 
 of penitence, and gratitude, md tears. The next 
 morning, when I wakened, I in my turn received a 
 note from her ladyship. 
 
 “ Since I saw you Captain Crawley has convinced 
 me that I am his wife, in the eye of Heaven , and I 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 31 
 
 therefore desire a divorce, as much as your whole 
 conduct , since my marriage, convinces me you must 
 in your hearty whatever may be your motives to pretend 
 otherwise. Before you receive this I shall be out of 
 your way and beyond your reach ; so do not think of 
 pursuing one who is no longer 
 
 “ Yours, 
 
 “ A. Crawley.” 
 
 After reading this note, I thought not of pursuing 
 or saving Lady Glenthorn. I was as anxious for a 
 divorce as she could be. Some months afterwards the 
 affair was brought to a public trial. When the cause 
 came on, so many circumstances were brought in miti- 
 gation of damages, to prove my utter carelessness 
 respecting my wife’s conduct, that a suspicion of 
 collusion arose. From this imputation I was clear in 
 the opinion of all who really knew me ; and I repelled 
 the charge publicly, with a degree of indignation that 
 surprised all who knew the usual apathy of my temper. 
 I must observe, that during the whole time my divorce- 
 bill was pending, and whilst I was in the greatest 
 possible anxiety, my health was perfectly good. But 
 no sooner was the affair settled, and a decision made 
 in my favour, than I relapsed into my old nervous 
 complaints. 
 
32 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 Chapter to. 
 
 “ ’Twas doing nothing was his curse ; — 
 
 Is there a vice can plague us worse ? 
 
 The wretch who digs the mine for bread, 
 
 Or ploughs, that others may be fed, 
 
 Feels less fatigue than that decreed 
 To him who cannot think or read.” 
 
 I LLNESS was a sort of occupation to me, and I was 
 always sorry to get well. When the interest of 
 being in danger ceased, I had no other to supply its 
 place. I fancied that I should enjoy my liberty after 
 my divorce ; but “ even freedom grew tasteless/* I 
 do not recollect anything that wakened me from my 
 torpor, during two months after my divorce, except a 
 violent quarrel between all my English servants and 
 my Irish nurse. Whether she assumed too much, 
 upon the idea that she was a favourite, or whether 
 national prejudice was alone the cause of the hatred 
 that prevailed against her, I know not ; but they one 
 and all declared that they could not, and would not, 
 live with her. She expressed the same dislike to 
 consorting with them ; “ but would put up with worse, 
 ay, with the devils themselves, to oblige my honour, 
 and to lie under the same roof wid my honour.* * 
 
 The rest of the servants laughed at her blunders. 
 This she could bear with good-humour ; but when 
 they seriously affected to reproach her with having, 
 by her uncouth appearance, at her first presenting her- 
 self at Sherwood Park, endangered my life, she 
 retorted, “ And who cared for him in the wide world 
 but I, amongst you all, when he lay for dead ? I ask 
 you that,** said she. 
 
 To this there was no reply ; and they hated her the 
 more for their having been silenced by her shrewdness. 
 I protected her as long as I could ; but, for the sake of 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 33 
 
 peace, I at last yielded to the combined forces of the 
 steward’s room and the servants’ hall, and despatched 
 Ellinor to Ireland, with a renewal of the promise that 
 I would visit Glenthorn Castle this year or the next. 
 To comfort her at parting, I would have made her a 
 considerable present ; but she would take only a few 
 guineas, to bear her expences back to her native place. 
 The sacrifice I made did not procure me a peace of any 
 continuance in my own house : ruined by indulgence, 
 and by my indolent, reckless temper, my servants were 
 now my masters. In a large, ill-regulated establish- 
 ment, domestics become, like spoiled children, discon- 
 tented, capricious, and the tyrants over those who have 
 not the sense or steadiness to command. I remember 
 one delicate puppy parted with me, because, as he in- 
 formed me, the curtains of his bed did not close at the 
 foot ; he had never been used to such a thing, and had 
 told the housekeeper so three times, but could obtain no 
 redress, which necessitated him to beg my permission to 
 retire from the service. 
 
 In his stead another coxcomb came to offer himself, 
 who, with an incomparable easy air, begged to know 
 whether I wanted a man of figure or a man of parts P 
 For the benefit of those to whom this fashionable classi- 
 fication of domestics may not be familiar, I should ob- 
 serve, that the department of a man of figure is specially 
 and solely to announce company on gala days ; the 
 business of the man of parts is multifarious : to write 
 cards of invitation, to speak to impertinent tradesmen, 
 to carry confidential messages, et cetera. Now, where 
 there is an et cetera in an agreement, there is always an 
 opening for dispute. The functions of the man of parts 
 not being accurately defined, I unluckily required from 
 him some service which was not in his bond ; I believe 
 it was to go for my pocket handkerchief : “ He could 
 not possibly do it, because it was not his business ; ” 
 
34 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 and I, the laziest of mortals, after waiting a full quarter 
 of an hour, whilst they were settling whose business it 
 was to obey me, was forced to get up and go for what 
 I wanted. I comforted myself by the recollection of 
 the poor king of Spain and le hr aster. With a regal 
 precedent I could not but be satisfied. All great people, 
 said I to myself, are obliged to submit to these incon- 
 veniences. I submitted with so good a grace, that my 
 submission was scarcely felt to be a condescension. My 
 bachelor s house soon exhibited in perfection “ High 
 Life below Stairs.” 
 
 It is said that a foreign nobleman permitted his 
 servants to take their own way so completely, that 
 one night he and his guests being kept waiting an 
 unconscionable time for supper, he at last went down- 
 stairs to inquire into the cause of the delay : he found 
 the servant, whose business it was to take up supper, 
 quietly at cards with a large party of his friends. The 
 man coolly remonstrated, that it was impossible to leave 
 his game unfinished. The master candidly acknow- 
 ledged the force of his plea ; but insisted upon the man’s 
 going upstairs to lay the cloth for supper, whilst he took 
 his cards, sat down, and finished the game for him. 
 
 The suavity of my temper never absolutely reached 
 this degree of complaisance. My home was disagree- 
 able to me : I had not the resolution to remove the 
 causes of the discontents. Every day I swore I would 
 part with all these rascals the next morning ; but still 
 they staid. Abroad I was not happier than at home. 
 I was disgusted with my former companions : they had 
 convinced me, the night of my accident at Sherwood 
 Park, that they cared not whether I was alive or dead ; 
 and ever since that time I had been more and more 
 struck with their selfishness as well as folly. It was 
 inexpressibly fatiguing and irksome to me to keep 
 up a show of good fellowship and joviality with 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 35 
 
 these people, though I had not sufficient energy to 
 make the attempt to quit them. When these dashers 
 and loungers found that I was not always at their dis- 
 posal, they discovered that Glenthorn had always some- 
 thing odd about him ; that Glenthorn had always a 
 melancholy turn ; that it ran in the family, See. Satisfied 
 with these phrases, they let me take my own way, and 
 forgot my existence. Public amusements had lost 
 their charm ; I had sufficient steadiness to resist the 
 temptation to game ; but, for want of stimulus, I could 
 hardly endure the tedium of my days. At this period 
 of my life, ennui was very near turning into misanthropy. 
 I balanced between becoming a misanthrope and a 
 democrat. 
 
 Whilst I was in this critical state of ineptitude, my 
 attention was accidentally roused by the sight of a 
 boxing-match. My feelings were so much excited, 
 and the excitation was so delightful, that I was now 
 in danger of becoming an amateur of the pugilistic art. 
 It did not occur to me, that it was beneath the dignity 
 of a British nobleman to learn the vulgar terms of the 
 boxing trade . I soon began to talk very knowingly of 
 
 first-rate bruisers , game men, and pleasing fighters ; 
 making play — beating a man under the ropes — sparring — 
 rallying — sawing — and chopping . What farther pro- 
 ficiency I might have made in this language, or how 
 long my interest in these feats of prize-fighters might 
 have continued, had I been left to myself, I cannot 
 determine ; but I was unexpectedly seized with a fit 
 of national shame, on hearing a foreigner of rank and 
 reputation express astonishment at our taste for these 
 savage spectacles. It was in vain that I repeated the 
 arguments of some of the parliamentary panegyrist? 
 of boxing and bull-baiting ; and asserted, that these 
 diversions render a people hardy and courageous. My 
 opponent replied, that he did not perceive the necessary 
 
36 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 connexion between cruelty and courage ; that he did 
 not comprehend how the standing by in safety to see 
 two men bruise each other almost to death could evince 
 or inspire heroic sentiments or warlike dispositions. 
 He observed, that the Romans were most eager for 
 the fights of gladiators during the reigns of the most 
 effeminate and cruel emperors, and in the decline of 
 all public spirit and virtue. These arguments would 
 have probably made but a feeble impression on an 
 understanding like mine, unaccustomed to general reason- 
 ing, and on a temper habituated to pursue, without 
 thought of consequences, my immediate individual 
 gratification ; but it happened that my feelings were 
 touched at this time by the dreadful sufferings of one 
 of the pugilistic combatants. He died a few hours 
 after the battle. He was an Irishman : most of the 
 spectators being English, and triumphing in the victory 
 of their countryman, the poor fellow’s fate was scarcely 
 noticed. I spoke to him a little while before he died, 
 and found that he came from my own county. His 
 name was Michael Noonan. He made it his dying 
 request, that I would carry half-a-guinea, the only 
 money he possessed, to his aged father, and a silk 
 handkerchief he had worn round his neck, to his sister. 
 Pity for this unfortunate Irishman recalled Ireland to 
 my thoughts. Many small reasons concurred to make 
 me now desirous of going to that country. I should 
 get rid at once of a tormenting establishment, and of 
 servants, without the odium of turning them away ; for 
 most of them declined going into banishment, as they 
 called it. Beside this, I should leave my companions, 
 with whom I was disgusted. I was tired of England, 
 and wanted to see something new, even if it were to be 
 worse than what I had seen before. These were not 
 my ostensible reasons : I professed to have more exalted 
 motives for my journey. It was my duty, I said, to 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 37 
 
 visit my Irish estate, and to encourage my tenantry, 
 by residing some time among them. Duties often 
 spring up to our view at a convenient opportunity. 
 Then my promise to poor Ellinor ; it was impossible 
 for a man of honour to break a promise, even to an old 
 woman : in short, when people are determined upon 
 any action, they seldom fail to find arguments capable 
 of convincing them that their resolution is reasonable. 
 Mixed motives govern the conduct of half mankind ; so 
 I set out upon my journey to Ireland. 
 
 Chapter Pi* 
 
 “ Es tu contente k la fleur de tes ans? 
 
 As tu des gouts et des amusemens ? 
 
 Tu dois mener une assez douce vie. 
 
 L’autre en' deux mots repondait ‘ Jd m’ennuie.’ 
 
 C’est un grand mal, dit la fee, et je croi 
 Qu’un beau secret est de rester chez soi.” 
 
 I WAS detained six days by contrary winds at 
 Holyhead. Sick of that miserable place, in my 
 ill-humour I cursed Ireland, and twice resolved 
 to return to London : but the wind changed, my 
 carriage was on board the packet ; so I sailed and 
 landed safely in Dublin. I was surprised by the 
 excellence of the hotel at which I was lodged. I 
 had not conceived that such accommodation could 
 have been found in Dublin. The house had, as I 
 was told, belonged to a nobleman : it was fitted up 
 and appointed with a degree of elegance, and even 
 magnificence, beyond what I had been used to in the 
 most fashionable hotels in London. 
 
 66 Ah ! sir,” said an Irish gentleman, who found 
 me in admiration upon the staircase, “ this is all very 
 good, very fine, but it is too good and too fine to last ; 
 
38 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 come here again in two years, and I am afraid you 
 will see all this going to rack and ruin. This is too 
 often the case with us in Ireland : we can project, but 
 we can’t calculate ; we must have everything upon too 
 large a scale. We mistake a grand beginning for a 
 good beginning. We begin like princes, and we end 
 like beggars.” 
 
 I rested only a few days in a capital, in which, I 
 took it for granted, there could be nothing worth 
 seeing by a person who was just come from London. 
 In driving through the streets, I was, however, sur- 
 prised to see buildings, which my prejudices could 
 scarcely believe to be Irish. I also saw some things, 
 which recalled to my mind the observations I had 
 heard at my hotel. I was struck with instances of 
 grand beginnings and lamentable want of finish, with 
 mixture of the magnificent and the paltry ; of admir- 
 able and execrable taste. Though my understanding 
 was wholly uncultivated, these things struck my eye. 
 Of all the faculties of my mind, my taste had been 
 most exercised, because its exercise had given me least 
 trouble. 
 
 Impatient to see my own castle, I left Dublin. I 
 was again astonished by the beauty of the prospects, 
 and the excellence of the roads. I had in my igno- 
 rance believed that I was never to see a tree in Ireland, 
 and that the roads were almost impassable. With 
 the promptitude of credulity, I now went from one 
 extreme to the other : I concluded that we should 
 travel with the same celerity as upon the Bath road ; 
 and I expected, that a journey for which four days 
 had been allotted might be performed in two. Like 
 all those who have nothing to do anywhere, I was 
 always in a prodigious hurry to get from place to 
 place ; and I ever had a noble ambition to go over as 
 much ground as possible in a given space of time. I 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 39 
 
 travelled in a light barouche, and with my own horses. 
 My own man (an Englishman), and my cook (a 
 Frenchman), followed in a hackney chaise; I cared 
 not how, so that they kept up with me ; the rest was 
 their affair. At night, my gentleman complained 
 bitterly of the Irish post carriages, and besought me 
 to let him follow at an easier rate the next day ; but 
 to this I could by no means consent : for how could I 
 exist without my own man and my French cook ? In 
 the morning, just as I was ready to set off, and had 
 thrown myself back in my carriage, my Englishman 
 and Frenchman came to the door, both in so great a 
 rage, that the one was inarticulate and the other un- 
 intelligible. At length the object of their indignation 
 spoke for itself. From the inn yard came a hackney 
 chaise, in a most deplorable crazy state ; the body 
 mounted up to a prodigious height, on unbending 
 springs, nodding forwards, one door swinging open, 
 three blinds up, because they could not be let down, 
 the perch tied in two places, the iron of the wheels 
 half off, half loose, wooden pegs for linch-pins, and 
 ropes for harness. The horses were worthy of the 
 harness ; wretched little dog - tired creatures, that 
 looked as if they had been driven to the last gasp, and 
 as if they had never been rubbed down in their lives ; 
 their bones starting through their skin ; one lame, 
 the other blind ; one with a raw back, the other with 
 a galled breast ; one with his neck poking down over 
 his collar, and the other with his head dragged for- 
 ward by a bit of a broken bridle, held at arm’s length 
 by a man dressed like a mad beggar, in half a hat 
 and half a wig, both awry in opposite directions ; a 
 long tattered greatcoat, tied round his waist by a 
 hay-rope ; the jagged rents in the skirts of his coat 
 showing his bare legs marbled of many colours ; while 
 something like stockings hung loose about his ankles. 
 
40 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 The noises he made by way of threatening or en- 
 couraging his steeds, I pretend not to describe. 
 
 In an indignant voice I called to the landlord, “ I 
 hope these are not the horses — I hope this is not the 
 chaise, intended for my servants.” 
 
 The innkeeper, and the pauper who was preparing 
 to officiate as postilion, both in the same instant ex- 
 claimed, “ Sorrow better chaise in the county ! ” 
 
 “ Sorrow ! 99 said I ; “ what do you mean by 
 sorrow ? ” 
 
 “ That there’s no better, plase your honour, can be 
 seen. We have two more, to be sure; but one has 
 no top, and the other no bottom. Any way there’s 
 no better can be seen than this same.” * 
 
 “ And these horses ! ” cried I ; “why, this horse 
 is so lame he can hardly stand.” 
 
 “ Oh, plase your honour, tho’ he can’t stand, he’ll 
 go fast enough. He has a great deal of the rogue in 
 him, plase your honour. He’s always that way at 
 first setting out.” 
 
 “ And that wretched animal with the galled breast! ” 
 “ He’s all the better for it, when once he warms ; 
 it’s he that will go with the speed of light, plase your 
 honour. Sure, is not he Knockecroghery ? and didn’t 
 I give fifteen guineas for him, barring the luck penny, 
 at the fair of Knockecroghery, and he rising four year 
 old at the same time ? ” 
 
 I could not avoid smiling at this speech : but my 
 gentleman , maintaining his angry gravity, declared, in a 
 sullen tone, that he would be cursed if he went with 
 such horses ; and the Frenchman, with abundance of 
 gesticulation, made a prodigious chattering, which no 
 mortal understood. 
 
 “ Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do,” said Paddy ; 
 
 Verbatim, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 41 
 
 “ you’ll take four, as becomes gentlemen of your 
 quality, and you’ll see how we’ll powder along.” 
 
 And straight he put the knuckle of his forefinger 
 in his mouth, and whistled shrill and strong ; and in a 
 moment, a whistle somewhere out in the fields answered 
 him. 
 
 I protested against these proceedings, but in vain ; 
 before the first pair of horses were fastened to the 
 chaise, up came a little boy with the others fresh 
 from the plough. They were quick enough in put- 
 ting these to ; yet how they managed it with their 
 tackle, I know not. “ Now we’re fixed handsomely,” 
 said Paddy. 
 
 “ But this chaise will break down the first mile.” 
 
 “ Is it this chaise, plase your honour ? I’ll engage 
 it will go the world’s end. The universe wouldn’t 
 break it down now ; sure it was mended but last 
 night.” 
 
 Then seizing his whip and reins in one hand, he 
 clawed up his stockings with the other : so with one 
 easy step he got into his place, and seated himself, 
 coachman-like, upon a well-worn bar of wood, that 
 served as a coach-box. “ Throw me the loan of a 
 trusty Bartly, for a cushion,” said he. A frieze coat 
 was thrown up over the horses’ heads — Paddy caught 
 it. “ Where are you, Hosey ? ” cried he. “ Sure 
 I’m only rowling a wisp of straw on my leg,” replied 
 Hosey. “ Throw me up,” added this paragon of 
 postilions, turning to one of the crowd of idle by- 
 standers. “ Arrah, push me up, can’t ye ? ” 
 
 A man took hold of his knee, and threw him upon 
 the horse : he was in his seat in a trice ; then cling- 
 ing by the mane of his horse, he scrambled for the 
 bridle, which was under the other horse’s feet — reached 
 it, and, well satisfied with himself, looked round at 
 Paddy, who looked back to the chaise-door at my 
 
42 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 angry servants, “ secure in the last event of things.” 
 In vain the Englishman in monotonous anger, and 
 the Frenchman in every note of the gamut, abused 
 Paddy : necessity and wit were on Paddy’s side ; he 
 parried all that was said against his chaise, his horses, 
 himself, and his country, with invincible comic dexte- 
 rity, till at last both his adversaries, dumbfoundered, 
 clambered into the vehicle, where they were instantly 
 shut up in straw and darkness. Paddy, in a triumphant 
 tone, called to my postilions, bidding them “ get on, and 
 not be stopping the way any longer.” 
 
 Without uttering a syllable, they drove on ; but 
 they could not, nor could I, refrain from looking back 
 to see how those fellows would manage. We saw the 
 fore-horses make towards the right, then to the left, 
 and every way but straightforwards ; whilst Paddy 
 bawled to Hosey — “ Keep the middle of the road, 
 can’t ye ? I don’t want ye to draw a pound at-all- 
 at-all.” 
 
 At last, by dint of whipping, the four horses were 
 compelled to set off in a lame gallop ; but they stopped 
 short at a hill near the end of the town, whilst a shout- 
 ing troop of ragged boys followed, and pushed them 
 fairly to the top. Half an hour afterwards, as we 
 were putting on our drag-chain to go down another 
 steep hill — to my utter astonishment, Paddy, with his 
 horses in full gallop, came rattling and chehupping past 
 us. My people called to warn him that he had no 
 drag : but still he cried “ Never fear ! ” and shaking 
 the long reins, and stamping with his foot, on he went 
 thundering down the hill. My Englishmen were 
 aghast. 
 
 “ The turn yonder below, at the bottom of the hill, 
 is as sharp and ugly as ever I see,” said my postilion, 
 after a moment’s stupified silence. “ He will break 
 their necks, as sure as my name is John.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 43 
 
 Quite the contrary : when we had dragged and un- 
 dragged, and came up with Paddy, we found him 
 safe on his legs, mending some of his tackle very 
 quietly. 
 
 “ If that had broke as you were going down the 
 steep hill,” said I, “ it would have been all over with 
 you, Paddy.” 
 
 “ That’s true, plase your honour : but it never 
 happened me going down hill — nor never will, by the 
 blessing of God, if I’ve any luck.” 
 
 With this mixed confidence in a special providence, 
 and in his own good luck, Paddy went on, much to my 
 amusement. It was his glory to keep before us ; and 
 he rattled on till he came to a narrow part of the road, 
 where they were rebuilding a bridge. Here there was 
 a dead stop. Paddy lashed his horses, and called them 
 all manner of names ; but the wheel-horse, Knocke- 
 croghery, was restive, and at last began to kick most 
 furiously. It seemed inevitable that the first kick 
 which should reach the splinter-bar, at which it was 
 aimed, must demolish it instantly. My English 
 gentleman and my Frenchman both put their heads out 
 of the only window which was pervious, and called 
 most manfully to be let out. “ Never fear,” said 
 Paddy. To open the door for themselves was beyond 
 their force or skill. One of the hind wheels, which 
 had belonged to another carriage, was too high to suffer 
 the door to be opened, and the blind at the other side 
 prevented their attempts, so they were close prisoners. 
 The men who had been at work on the broken bridge 
 came forward, and rested on their spades to see the 
 battle. As my carriage could not pass, I was also 
 compelled to be a spectator of this contest between man 
 and horse. 
 
 “ Never fear,” reiterated Paddy ; “ I’ll engage I’ll 
 be up wid him. Now for it, Knockecroghery ! Oli 
 
44 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 the rogue, he thinks he has me at a nonplush , but I’ll 
 show him the differ” 
 
 After this brag of war, Paddy whipped, Knocke- 
 croghery kicked ; and Paddy, seemingly unconscious 
 of danger, sat within reach of the kicking horse, twitch- 
 ing up first one of his legs, then the other, and shifting 
 as the animal aimed his hoofs, escaping every time as it 
 were by miracle. With a mixture of temerity and 
 presence of mind, which made us alternately look upon 
 him as a madman and a hero, he gloried in the danger, 
 secure of success, and of the sympathy of the spectators. 
 
 “ Ah ! didn’t I compass him cleverly then ? Oh 
 the villain, to be browbating me ! I’m too cute for 
 him yet. See there, now, he’s come to ; and I’ll be 
 his bail he’ll go asy enough wid me. Ogh ! he has 
 a fine spirit of his own, but it’s I that can match him : 
 ’twould be a poor case if a man like me cou’dn’t match 
 a horse any way, let alone a mare, which this is, or it 
 never would be so vicious.” 
 
 After this hard-fought battle, and suitable rejoicing 
 for the victory, Paddy walked his subdued adversary 
 on a few yards to allow us to pass him ; but, to the 
 dismay of my postilions, a hay-rope was at this instant 
 thrown across the road, before our horses, by the road- 
 makers, who, to explain this proceeding, cried out, 
 “ Plase your honour, the road is so dry, we’d expect a 
 trifle to wet it.” 
 
 “ What do these fellows mean ? ” said I. 
 
 “ It’s only a tester or a hog they want, your honour, 
 to give ’em to drink your honour’s health,” said 
 Paddy. 
 
 “ A hog to drink my health ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, that is a thirteen, plase your honour ; all as 
 one as an English shilling.” 
 
 I threw them a shilling : the hay- rope was with- 
 drawn, and at last we went on. We heard no more 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 45 
 
 of Paddy till evening. He came in two hours after 
 us, and expected to be doubly paid for driving my 
 honour s gentlemen so well. 
 
 I must say that on this journey, though I met with 
 many delays and disasters ; though one of my horses 
 was lamed in shoeing by a smith, who came home 
 drunk from a funeral ; and though the back pannel of 
 my carriage was broken by the pole of a chaise ; and 
 though one day I went without my dinner at a large 
 desolate inn, where nothing was to be had but whiskey ; 
 and though one night I lay in a little smoky den, in 
 which the meanest of my servants in England would 
 have thought it impossible to sleep ; and though I 
 complained bitterly, and swore it was impracticable for 
 a gentleman to travel in Ireland ; yet I never remember 
 to have experienced, on any journey, less ennui. # I 
 
 * Since Lord Glenthorn’s Memoirs were published, the editor 
 has received letters and information from the east, west, north, 
 and south of Ireland, on the present state of posting in that 
 country. The following is one of the many, which is vouched 
 by indisputable authority as a true and recent anecdote, given 
 in the very words in which it was related to the editor. . . . Mr 
 ****, travelling in Ireland, having got into a hackney chaise, 
 was surprised to hear the driver knocking at each side of the 
 carriage. “What are you doing?” — “Ain’t I nailing your 
 honour up?” — “ Why do you nail me up? I don’t wish to be 
 nailed up.” — “ Augh ! would your honour have the doors fly off 
 the hinges?” When they came to the end of the stage, Mr 
 **** begged the man to unfasten the doors. “ Ogh ! what 
 would I be taking out the nails for, to be racking the doors ? ” — 
 “ How shall I get out then?” — “ Can’t your honour get out of 
 the window like any other jantleman f ” Mr **** began the 
 operation ; but, having forced his head and shoulder out, could 
 get no farther, and called again to the postilion. “ Augh, did 
 any one ever see any one get out of a chay head foremost ? 
 Can’t your honour put out your feet first, like a Christian?” 
 
 Another correspondent from the south relates, that when he 
 refused to go on till one of the four horses, who wanted a shoe, 
 was shod, his two postilions in his hearing commenced thus : 
 “ Paddy, where will I get a shoe, and no smith nigh hand?” — 
 “ Why, don’t you see yon jantleman' s horse in the field ; can't 
 you go and unshoe him?” — “ True for ye,” said Jem; “but 
 
46 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 was out of patience twenty times a day, but I certainly 
 felt no ennui ; and I am convinced that the benefit 
 some patients receive from a journey is in an inverse pro- 
 portion to the ease and luxury of their mode of travel- 
 ling. When they are compelled to exert their faculties, 
 and to use their limbs, they forget their nerves, as I 
 did. Upon this principle I should recommend to 
 wealthy hypochondriacs a journey in Ireland, preferably 
 to any country in the civilised world. I can promise 
 them, that they will not only be moved to anger often 
 enough to make their blood circulate briskly, but they 
 will even, in the acme of their impatience, be thrown 
 into salutary convulsions of laughter, by the comic 
 concomitants of their disasters : besides, if they have 
 hearts, their best feelings cannot fail to be awakened by 
 the warm, generous hospitality, they will receive in this 
 country, from the cabin to the castle. 
 
 Late in the evening of the fourth day, we came to 
 an inn on the verge of the county where my estate 
 was situate. It was one of the wildest parts of 
 Ireland. We could find no horses, nor accommoda- 
 tions of any sort, and we had several miles farther to 
 go. For our only comfort, the dirty landlady, who 
 had married the hostler, and wore gold drop ear-rings, 
 reminded us, that, “ Sure, if we could but wait an hour, 
 and take a fresh egg, we should have a fine moon.” 
 
 that horse’s shoe will never fit him.” — “ Augh ! you can but try 
 it,” said Paddy. — So the gentleman’s horse was actually unshod, 
 and his shoe put upon the hackney horse ; and, fit or not fit, 
 Paddy went off with it. 
 
 Another gentleman, travelling in the north of Ireland in a 
 hackney chaise during a storm of wind and rain, found that 
 two of the windows were broken, and two could not by force or 
 art of man be pulled up : he ventured to complain to his Paddy 
 of the inconvenience he suffered from the storm pelting in his 
 face. His consolation was, “Augh! God bless your honour, 
 and can’t you get out and set behind the carriage, and you’ll 
 not get a drop at all, I’ll engage.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 47 
 
 After many fruitless imprecations, my French cook 
 was obliged to mount one of my saddle horses ; my 
 groom was left to follow us the next day ; I let my 
 gentleman sit on the barouche box, and proceeded 
 with my own tired horses. The moon, which my 
 landlady had promised me, rose, and I had a full view 
 of the face of the country. As we approached my 
 maritime territories, the cottages were thinly scattered, 
 and the trees had a stunted appearance ; they all 
 slanted one way, from the prevalent winds that blew 
 from the ocean. Our road presently stretched along 
 the beach, and I saw nothing to vary the prospect 
 but rocks, and their huge shadows upon the water. 
 The road being sandy, the feet of the horses made no 
 noise, and nothing interrupted the silence of the night 
 but the hissing sound of the carriage-wheels passing 
 through the sand. 
 
 “ What o’clock is it now, think you, John ? ” said 
 one of my postilions to the other. 
 
 “Past twelve, for sartain” said John; “and this 
 bees a strange Irish place,” continued he, in a drawl- 
 ing voice ; “ with no possible way o’ getting at it, as 
 I see.” John, after a pause, resumed, “ I say, 
 Timothy, to the best of my opinion, this here road 
 is leading on us into the sea.” John replied, “ That 
 he did suppose there might be such a thing as a boat 
 farther on, but where he could not say for sartain .” 
 Dismayed and helpless, they at last stopped to con- 
 sult whether they had come the right road to the 
 house. In the midst of their consultation there came 
 up an Irish carman, whistling as he walked beside his 
 horse and car. 
 
 “ Honest friend, is this the road to Glenthorn 
 Castle?” 
 
 “To Glenthorn, sure enough, your honour.” 
 
 “ Whereabouts is the castle ? ” 
 
4 8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Forenent you, if you go on to the turn.” 
 
 “ Forenent you ! ” As the postilions pondered upon 
 this word, the carman, leaving his horse and car, 
 turned back to explain by action what he could not 
 make intelligible by words. 
 
 “ See, isn’t here the castle ? ” cried he, darting 
 before us to the turn of the road, where he stood 
 pointing at what we could not possibly see, as it was 
 hid by a promontory of rock. When we reached the 
 spot where he was stationed, we came full upon the 
 view of Glenthorn Castle : it seemed to rise from the 
 sea, abrupt and insulated, in all the gloomy grandeur 
 of ancient times, with turrets and battlements, and a 
 huge gateway, the pointed arch of which receded in 
 perspective between the projecting towers. 
 
 “ It’s my lord himself, I’m fond to believe ! ” said 
 our guide, taking off his hat ; “ I had best step on and 
 tell ’em at the castle.” 
 
 “No, my good friend, there is no occasion to 
 trouble you farther ; you had better go back to 
 your horse and car, which you have left on the 
 road.” 
 
 “ Oh ! they are used to that, plase your honour ; 
 they’ll go on very quite , and I’ll run like a redshank 
 with the news to the castle.” 
 
 He ran on before us with surprising velocity, whilst 
 our tired horses dragged us slowly through the sand. 
 As we approached, the gateway of the castle opened, 
 and a number of men, who appeared to be dwarfs 
 when compared with the height of the building, came 
 out with torches in their hands. By their bustle, 
 and the vehemence with which they bawled to one 
 another, one might have thought that the whole castle 
 was in flames ; but they were only letting down a 
 drawbridge. As I was going over this bridge, a case- 
 ment window opened in the castle ; and a voice, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 49 
 
 which I knew to be old Ellinor’s, exclaimed, “ Mind 
 the big hole in the middle of the bridge, God bless 
 yees / ” 
 
 I passed over the broken bridge, and through the 
 massive gate, under an arched way, at the farthest 
 end of which a lamp had just been lighted : then I 
 came into a large open area, the court of the castle. 
 The hollow sound of the horses’ feet, and of the 
 carriage rumbling over the drawbridge, was immedi- 
 ately succeeded by the strange and eager voices of 
 the people, who filled the court with a variety of 
 noises, contrasting, in the most striking manner, with 
 the silence in which we had travelled over the sands. 
 The great effect that my arrival instantaneously pro- 
 duced upon the multitude of servants and dependents, 
 who issued from the castle, gave me an idea of my 
 own consequence beyond anything which I had ever 
 felt in England. These people seemed “ born for 
 my use : ” the officious precipitation with which they 
 ran to and fro ; the style in which they addressed 
 me ; some crying, “ Long life to the Earl of Glen- 
 thorn ! 99 some blessing me for coming to reign over 
 them ; all together gave more the idea of vassals than 
 of tenants, and carried my imagination centuries back 
 to feudal times. 
 
 The first person I saw on entering the hall of my 
 castle was poor Ellinor : she pushed her way up to 
 me — 
 
 “’Tis himself!” cried she. Then turning about 
 suddenly, “ I’ve seen him in his own castle — I’ve seen 
 him ; and if it pleases God this minute to take me to 
 himself, I would die with pleasure.” 
 
 “ My good Ellinor,” said I, touched to the heart 
 by her affection, “ my good Ellinor, I hope you will 
 live many a happy year ; and if I can contribute ” 
 
 “ And himself to speak to me so kind before them 
 
 D 
 
5 ° 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 all ! ” interrupted she. “ Oh ! this is too much — 
 quite too much ! ” She burst into tears ; and, hiding 
 her face with her arm, made her way out of the hall. 
 
 The flights of stairs which I had to ascend, and the 
 length of galleries through which I was conducted, 
 before I reached the apartment where supper was 
 served, gave me a vast idea of the extent of my 
 castle ; but I was too much fatigued to enjoy fully 
 the gratifications of pride. To the simple pleasures of 
 appetite I was more sensible : I ate heartily of one of 
 the most profusely hospitable suppers that ever was 
 prepared for a noble baron, even in the days when 
 oxen were roasted whole. Then I grew so sleepy, 
 that I was impatient to be shown to my bed. I was 
 ushered through another suite of chambers and galleries ; 
 and, as I was traversing one of these, a door of some 
 strange dormitory opened, and a group of female heads 
 were thrust out, in the midst of which I could dis- 
 tinguish old Ellinor’s face ; but, as I turned my head, 
 the door closed so quickly, that I had no time to 
 speak : I only heard the words, “ Blessings on him ! 
 that’s he ! 79 
 
 I was so sleepy, that I rejoiced having escaped an 
 occasion where I might have been called upon to speak, 
 yet I was really grateful to my poor nurse for her 
 blessing. The state tower, in which, after reiterated 
 entreaties, I was at last left alone to repose, was hung 
 with magnificent, but ancient tapestry. It was so like 
 a room in a haunted castle, that if I had not been too 
 much fatigued to think of anything, I should certainly 
 have thought of Mrs Radclifle. I am sorry to say that 
 I have no mysteries, or even portentous omens, to 
 record of this night ; for the moment that I lay down 
 in my antiquated bed, I fell into a profound sleep. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 51 
 
 Chapter biU 
 
 W HEN I awoke, I thought that I was on ship- 
 board ; for the first sound I heard was that 
 of the sea booming against the castle walls. 
 I arose, looked out of the window of my bedchamber, 
 and saw that the whole prospect bore an air of savage 
 wildness. As I contemplated the scene, my imagina- 
 tion was seized with the idea of remoteness from 
 civilized society : the melancholy feeling of solitary 
 grandeur took possession of my soul. 
 
 From this feeling I was relieved by the affectionate 
 countenance of my old nurse, who at this instant put 
 her head half in at the door. 
 
 “ I only just made bold to look in at the fire, to see 
 did it burn, because I lighted it myself, and would not 
 be blowing of it for fear of wakening you.” 
 
 “Come in, Ellinor, come in,” said I. “Come 
 quite in.” 
 
 “ I will, since you’ve nobody with you that I need 
 be afraid of,” said she, looking round satisfied, when 
 she saw my own man was not in the room. 
 
 “ You need never be afraid of anybody, Ellinor, 
 whilst I am alive,” said I ; “ for I will always protect 
 you. I do not forget your conduct, when you thought 
 I was dead in the banqueting-room.” 
 
 “ Oh ! don’t be talking of that ; thanks be to God 
 there was nothing in it ! I see you well now. Long 
 life to you ! Sure you must have been tired to death 
 last night, for this morning early you lay so quite , 
 sleeping like an angel ; and I could see a great like- 
 ness in yees to what you were when you were a child 
 in my arms.” 
 
 “ But sit down, sit down, my good Ellinor,” said I, 
 “and let us talk a little of your own affairs.” 
 
52 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ And are not these my own affairs ? 99 said she, 
 rather angrily. 
 
 “ Certainly ; but I mean, that you must tell me how 
 you are going on in the world, and what I can do to 
 make you comfortable and happy.” 
 
 “ There’s one thing would make me happy,” said 
 she. 
 
 “ Name it,” said I. 
 
 “To be let light your fire myself every morning, 
 and open your shutters, dear.” 
 
 I could not help smiling at the simplicity of the 
 request. I was going to press her to ask something 
 of more consequence, but she heard a servant coming 
 along the gallery, and, starting from her chair, she ran 
 and threw herself upon her knees before the fire, blow- 
 ing it with her mouth with great vehemence. 
 
 The servant came to let me know that Mr M‘Leod, 
 my agent, was waiting for me in the breakfast-room. 
 
 “And will I be let light your fire then every 
 morning ? ” said Ellinor eagerly, turning as she knelt. 
 
 “ And welcome,” said I. 
 
 “ Then you won’t forget to speak about it for me,” 
 said she, “else may be I won’t be let up by them 
 English. God bless you, and don’t forget to speak 
 for me.” 
 
 “ I will remember to speak about it,” said I ; but I 
 went downstairs and forgot it. 
 
 Mr M‘Leod, v/hom I found reading the newspaper 
 in the breakfast-room, seemed less affected by my pre- 
 sence than anybody I had seen since my arrival. He 
 was a hard-featured, strong-built, perpendicular man, 
 with a remarkable quietness of deportment : he spoke 
 with deliberate distinctness, in an accent slightly Scotch ; 
 and, in speaking, he made use of no gesticulation, but 
 held himself surprisingly still. No part of him but his 
 eyes moved, and they had an expression of slow, but 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 53 
 
 determined good sense. He was sparing of his words ; 
 but the few that he used said much, and went directly 
 to the point. He pressed for the immediate examina- 
 tion and settlement of his accounts : he enumerated 
 several things of importance, which he had done for 
 my service : but he did this without pretending the 
 slightest attachment to me ; he mentioned them only 
 as proofs of his having done his duty to his employer, 
 for which he neither expected nor would accept of 
 thanks. He seemed to be cold and upright in his 
 mind as in his body. I was not influenced in his 
 favour even by his striking appearance of plain-dealing, 
 so strong was the general abhorrence of agents which 
 Crawley’s treachery had left in my mind. The excess 
 of credulity, when convinced of its error, becomes the 
 extreme of suspicion. Persons not habituated to reason 
 often argue absurdly, because, from particular instances, 
 they deduce general conclusions, and extend the result 
 of their limited experience of individuals indiscriminately 
 to whole classes. The labour of thinking was so great 
 to me, that having once come to a conclusion upon 
 any subject, I would rather persist in it, right or wrong, 
 than be at the trouble of going over the process again 
 to revise and rectify my judgment. 
 
 Upon this occasion national prejudice heightened the 
 prepossession which circumstances had raised. Mr 
 M‘Leod was not only an 'agent, but a Scotchman ; 
 and I had a notion that all Scotchmen were crafty : 
 therefore I concluded that his blunt manner was assumed, 
 and his plain-dealing but a more refined species of 
 policy. 
 
 After breakfast he laid before me a general statement 
 of my affairs ; obliged me to name a day for the exa- 
 mination of his accounts ; and then, without express- 
 ing either mortification or displeasure at the coldness 
 of my behaviour, or at my evident impatience of his 
 
S4 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 presence, he, unmoved of spirit, rang for his horse, wished 
 me a good morning, and departed. 
 
 By this time my castle-yard was filled with a crowd 
 of “ greatcoated suitors,’ ’ who were all come to see — 
 could they see my lordship P or waiting just to say two 
 words to my honour. In various lounging attitudes, 
 leaning against the walls, or pacing backwards and 
 forwards before the window, to catch my eye, they, 
 with a patience passing the patience of courtiers, waited, 
 hour after hour, the live-long day, for their turn, or 
 their chance, of an audience. I had promised myself 
 the pleasure of viewing my castle this day, and of 
 taking a ride through my grounds ; but that was totally 
 out of the question. I was no longer a man with a 
 will of my own, or with time at my own disposal. 
 
 u Long may you live to reign over us ! ” was the 
 signal that I was now to live, like a prince, only for 
 the service of my subjects. How these subjects of 
 mine had contrived to go on for so many years in my 
 absence, I was at a loss to conceive ; for, the moment 
 I was present, it seemed evident that they could not 
 exist without me. 
 
 One had a wife and six childer , and not a spot in 
 the wide world to live in, if my honour did not let 
 him live under me, in any bit of a skirt of the estate 
 that would feed a cow. 
 
 Another had a brother in jail, who could not be 
 got out without me. 
 
 Another had three lives dropped in a lase for ever ; 
 another wanted a renewal ; another a farm ; another 
 a house ; and one expected my lard would make his 
 son an exciseman ; and another that I would make 
 him a policeman ; and another was racked , if I did 
 not settle the mearing between him and Corny Cork- 
 ran ; and half a hundred had given in proposials to 
 the agent for lands that would be out next May ; 
 
ENNUI* 
 
 ss 
 
 and half a hundred more came with legends of tra- 
 ditionary promises from the old lord , my lordship' s 
 father that was : and for hours I was forced to listen 
 to long stories out of the face , in which there was 
 such a perplexing and provoking mixture of truth 
 and fiction, involved in language so figurative, and 
 tones so new to my English ears, that, with my 
 utmost patience and strained attention, I could com- 
 prehend but a very small portion of what was said 
 to me. 
 
 Never were my ears so weary any day of my life 
 as they were this day. I could not have endured the 
 fatigue, if I had not been supported by the agreeable 
 idea of my own power and consequence ; a power 
 seemingly next to despotic. This new stimulus sus- 
 tained me for three days that I was kept a state- 
 prisoner in my own castle, by the crowds who came 
 to do me homage, and to claim my favour and pro- 
 tection. In vain every morning was my horse led 
 about saddled and bridled ; I never was permitted 
 to mount. On the fourth morning, when I felt sure 
 of having despatched all my tormentors, I was in 
 astonishment and despair on seeing my levee crowded 
 with a fresh succession of petitioners. I gave orders 
 to my people to say that I was going out, and abso- 
 lutely could see nobody. I supposed that they did 
 not understand what my English servants said, for 
 they never stirred from their posts. On receiving a 
 second message, they acknowledged that they under- 
 stood the first ; but replied, that they could wait there 
 till my honour came back from my ride. With 
 difficulty I mounted my horse, and escaped from the 
 closing ranks of my persecutors. At night I gave 
 directions to have the gates kept shut, and ordered 
 the porter not to admit anybody at his peril. When 
 I got up, I was delighted to see the coast clear ; but 
 
56 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 the moment I went out, lo ! at the outside of the 
 gate, the host of besiegers were posted, and in my 
 lawn, and along the road, and through the fields, 
 they pursued me ; and when I forbade them to speak 
 to me when I was on horseback, the next day I found 
 parties in ambuscade, who laid wait for me in silence, 
 with their hats off, bowing and bowing, till I could 
 not refrain from saying, “Well, my good friend, 
 what do you stand bowing there for ? ” Then I 
 was fairly prisoner, and held by the bridle for an 
 hour. 
 
 In short, I found that I was now placed in a situa- 
 tion where I could hope neither for privacy nor lei- 
 sure ; but I had the joys of power, my rising passion 
 for which would certainly have been extinguished in 
 a short time by my habitual indolence, if it had not 
 been kept alive by jealousy of Mr McLeod. 
 
 One day, when I refused to hear an importunate . 
 tenant, and declared that I had been persecuted with 
 petitioners ever since my arrival, and that I was ab- 
 solutely tired to death, the man answered, “True for 
 ye , my lard ; and it’s a shame to be troubling you this 
 way. Then, may be, it’s to Mr McLeod I’ll go ? 
 Sure the agent will do as well, and no more about 
 it. Mr M‘Leod will do everything the same way as 
 usual.” 
 
 “ Mr M‘Leod will do everything ! ” said I hastily : 
 
 “ no, by no means.” 
 
 “ Who will we speak to, then ? ” said the man. 
 
 “To myself,” said I, with as haughty a tone as 
 Louis XIV. could have assumed, when he announced 
 to his court his resolution to be his own minister. 
 After this intrepid declaration to act for myself, I 
 could not yield to my habitual laziness. So much 
 had my pride been hurt, as well as my other feelings, 
 by Captain Crawley’s conduct, that I determined to 
 
ENNUt. 57 
 
 show the world I was not to be duped a second time 
 by an agent. 
 
 When, on the day appointed, Mr M‘Leod came 
 to settle accounts with me, I, with an air of self- 
 important capability, as if I had been all my life 
 used to look into my own affairs, sat down to inspect 
 the papers ; and, incredible as it may appear, I went 
 through the whole at a sitting, without a single yawn ; 
 and, for a man who never before had looked into an 
 account, I understood the nature of debtor and creditor 
 wonderfully well : but, with my utmost desire to 
 evince my arithmetical sagacity, I could not detect the 
 slightest error in the accounts ; and it was evident that 
 Mr M‘Leod was not Captain Crawley ; yet, rather 
 than believe that he could be both an agent and an 
 honest man, I concluded, that if he did not cheat me 
 out of my money, his aim was to cheat me out of power ; 
 and, fancying that he wished to be a man of influence 
 and consequence in the county, I transferred to him in- 
 stantly the feelings that were passing in my own mind, 
 and took it for granted that he must be actuated by a 
 love of power in everything that he did apparently for 
 my service. 
 
 About this time I remember being much disturbed 
 in my mind, by a letter which Mr M‘Leod received 
 in my presence, and of which he read to me only a 
 part : I never rested till I saw the whole. The 
 epistle proved well worth the trouble of deciphering ; 
 it related merely to the paving of my chicken-yard. 
 Like the King of Prussia,* who was said to be so 
 jealous of power, that he wanted to regulate all the 
 mouse-traps in his dominions, I soon engrossed the 
 management of a perplexing multiplicity of minute 
 insignificant details. Alas ! I discovered to my cost, 
 
 Mirabeau, Secret Memoirs. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 58 
 
 that trouble is the inseparable attendant upon power : 
 and many times, in the course of the first ten days of 
 my reign, I was ready to give up my dignity from 
 excessive fatigue. 
 
 Chapter totij. 
 
 E ARLY one morning, after having passed a feverish 
 night, tortured in my dreams by the voices and 
 faces of the people who had surrounded me the 
 preceding day, I was awakened by the noise of some- 
 body lighting my fire. I thought it was Ellinor ; and 
 the idea of the disinterested affection of this poor woman 
 came full into my mind, contrasted in the strongest 
 manner with the recollection of the selfish encroaching 
 people by whom, of late, I had been worried. 
 
 “ How do you do, my good Ellinor ? ” said I ; “ I 
 have not seen anything of you this week past.” 
 
 “ It’s not Ellinor at all, my lard,” said a new voice. 
 “And why so? Why does not Ellinor light my 
 fire?” 
 
 “ Myself does not know, my lard.” 
 
 “ Go for her directly.” 
 
 “ She’s gone home these three days, my lard.” 
 
 “ Gone ! is she sick ? ” 
 
 “Not as I know on, my lard. Myself does not 
 know what ailed her, except she would be jealous of 
 my lighting the fire. But I can’t say what ailed her ; 
 for she went away without a word good or bad, when 
 she seen me lighting this fire, which I did by the 
 housekeeper’s orders.” 
 
 I now recollected poor Ellinor’s request, and re- 
 proached myself for having neglected to fulfil my 
 promise, upon an affair which, however trifling in 
 itself, appeared of consequence to her. In the course 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 59 
 
 of my morning’s ride I determined to call upon her at 
 her own house, and make my apologies ; but first 1 
 satisfied my curiosity about a prodigious number of 
 parks and towns which I had heard of upon my estate. 
 Many a ragged man had come to me, with the modest 
 request that I would let him one of the parks near the 
 town. The horse-park, the deer-park, the cow-park, 
 were not quite sufficient to answer the ideas I had 
 attached to the word park : but I was quite astonished 
 and mortified when I beheld the bits and corners of 
 land near the town of Glenthorn, on which these high- 
 sounding titles had been bestowed ; — just what would 
 feed a cow is sufficient in Ireland to constitute a park. 
 
 When I heard the names of above a hundred towns 
 on the Glenthorn estate, I had an exalted idea of my 
 own territories ; and I was impatient to make a pro- 
 gress through my dominions : but, upon visiting a few 
 of these places, my curiosity was satisfied. Two or 
 three cabins gathered together were sufficient to con- 
 stitute a town, and the land adjoining thereto is called 
 a town-land. The denominations of these town-lands 
 having continued from generation to generation, ac- 
 cording to ancient surveys of Ireland, it is sufficient to 
 show the boundaries of a town-land, to prove that there 
 must be a town ; and a tradition of a town continues to 
 be satisfactory, even when only a single cabin remains. 
 I turned my horse’s head away in disgust from one of 
 these traditionary towns, and desired a boy to show me 
 the way to Ellinor O’Donoghoe’s house. 
 
 “ So I will, plase your honour, my lard ; sure I’ve 
 a right to know, for she’s my own granny.” 
 
 The boy, or, as he was called, the gossoon, ran 
 across some fields where there was abundance of fern 
 and of rabbits. The rabbits, sitting quietly at the 
 entrance of their holes, seemed to consider themselves 
 as proprietors of the soil, and me and my horse as 
 
6o 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 intruders. The boy apologised for the number of 
 rabbit-holes on this part of the estate : “ It would 
 not be so, my lard, if I had a gun allowed me by the 
 gamekeeper, which he would give me if he knew it 
 would be plasing to your honour. ” The ingenuity 
 with which even the young boys can introduce their 
 requests in a favourable moment sometimes provoked 
 me, and sometimes excited my admiration. This boy 
 made his just at the time he was rolling out of my 
 way a car that stopped a gap in the hedge; and he 
 was so hot and out of breath with running in my 
 service, that I could not refuse him a token to the 
 gamekeeper that he might get a gun as soon as I under- 
 stood what it meant. 
 
 We came to Ellinor’s house, a wretched-looking, 
 low, and mud- walled cabin ; at one end it was propped 
 by a buttress of loose stones, upon which stood a goat 
 reared on his hind legs, to browse on the grass that 
 grew on the house-top. A dunghill was before the 
 only window, at the other end of the house, and 
 close to the door was a puddle of the dirtiest of 
 dirty water, in which ducks were dabbling. At my 
 approach there came out of the cabin a pig, a calf, a 
 lamb, a kid, and two geese, all with their legs tied ; 
 followed by turkeys, cocks, hens, chickens, a dog, a 
 cat, a kitten, a beggar-man, a beggar-woman with a 
 pipe in her mouth, children innumerable, and a stout 
 girl with a pitchfork in her hand ; all together more 
 than I, looking down upon the roof as I sat on 
 horseback, and measuring the superficies with my eye, 
 could have possibly supposed the mansion capable of 
 containing. I asked if Ellinor O’Donoghoe was at 
 home; but the dog barked, the geese cackled, the 
 turkeys gobbled, and the beggars begged, with one 
 accord, so loudly, that there was no chance of my 
 being heard. When the girl had at last succeeded in 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 6l 
 
 appeasing them all with her pitchfork, she answered, 
 that Ellinor O’Donoghoe was at home, but that she 
 was out with the potatoes ; and she ran to fetch her, 
 after calling to the boys , who was within in the room 
 smoking , to come out to his honour. As soon as they 
 had crouched under the door, and were able to stand 
 upright, they welcomed me with a very good grace, 
 and were proud to see me in the kingdom . I asked 
 if they were all Ellinor’s sons ? 
 
 “ All entirely,” was the first answer. 
 
 “ Not one but one,” was the second answer. The 
 third made the other two intelligible. 
 
 “ Plase your honour, we are all her sons-in-law, 
 except myself, who am her lawful son.” 
 
 “ Then you are my foster-brother ? ” 
 
 “ No, plase your honour, it’s not me, but my 
 brother, and he’s not in it. ,} 
 
 66 Not in it P ” 
 
 “ No, plase your honour ; because he’s in the forge 
 up abowN 
 
 “ Abow ! ” said I ; “ what does he mean ? ” 
 
 “ Sure he’s the blacksmith, my lard.” 
 
 “ And what are you ? ” 
 
 “I’m Ody, plase your honour ; the short for Owen.” 
 “ And what is your trade ? ” 
 
 “ Trade, plase your honour, I was bred to none, 
 more than another ; but expects, only that my mother’s 
 not willing to part me, to go into the militia next 
 month ; and I’m sure she’d let me, if your honour’s 
 lordship would spake a word to the colonel, to see to 
 get me made a serjeant immadiately .” 
 
 As Ody made his request all his companions came 
 forward in sign of sympathy, and closed round my 
 horse’s head to make me sinsible of their expectations : 
 but at this instant Ellinor came up, her old face colour- 
 ing all over with joy when she saw me. 
 
62 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ So, Ellinor,” said I, “ you were affronted, I hear, 
 and left the castle in anger ? ” 
 
 “ In anger ! And if I did, more shame for me — 
 but anger does not last long with me any way ; and 
 against you, my lord, dear, how could it ? Oh, think 
 how good he is, coming to see me in such a poor 
 place ! ” 
 
 “ I will make it a better place for you, Ellinor,’ ’ 
 said I. Far from being eager to obtain promises, she 
 still replied, that “ all was good enough for her.” I 
 desired that she would come and live with me at the 
 castle, till a better house than her present habitation 
 could be built for her ; but she seemed to prefer this 
 hovel. I assured her that she should be permitted to 
 light my fire. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s better for me not,” said she ; “ better 
 keep out of the way. I could not be asy if I got 
 any one ill-will.” 
 
 I assured her that she should be at liberty to do just 
 as she liked : and whilst I rode home T was planning 
 a pretty cottage for her near the porter’s lodge. I 
 was pleased with myself for my gratitude to this poor 
 woman. Before I slept, I actually wrote a letter, 
 which obtained for Ody the honour of being made 
 
 a serjeant in the militia ; and Ellinor, dazzled by 
 
 this military glory, was satisfied that he should leave 
 home, though he was her favourite. 
 
 “Well, let him leave me then,” said she; “I 
 won’t stand in his light. I never thought of my living 
 to see Ody a serjeant. Now, Ody, have done being 
 wild, honey-dear, and be a credit to your family, and 
 to his honour’s commendation — God bless him for ever 
 for it ! F rom the very first I knew it was he that 
 
 had the kind heart.” 
 
 I am not sure that it was a very good action to 
 get a man made a serjeant, of whom I knew nothing 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 63 
 
 but that he was son to my nurse. Self-complacency, 
 however, cherished my first indistinct feelings of 
 benevolence. Though not much accustomed to reflect 
 upon my own sensations, I think I remember, at this 
 period, suspecting that the feeling of benevolence is 
 a greater pleasure than the possession of barouches 
 and horses, and castles, and parks — greater even than 
 the possession of power. Of this last truth, however, 
 I had not as yet a perfectly clear conception. Even 
 in my benevolence I was as impatient and unreasonable 
 as a child. Money, I thought, had the power of 
 Aladdin’s lamp, to procure with magical celerity the 
 gratification of my wishes. I expected that a cottage 
 for Ellinor should rise out of the earth at my command. 
 But the slaves of Aladdin’s lamp were not Irishmen. 
 The delays, and difficulties, and blunders, in the execu- 
 tion of my orders, provoked me beyond measure ; and 
 it would have been difficult for a cool spectator to 
 decide, whether I or my workmen were most in fault ; 
 they for their dilatory habits, or I for my impatient 
 temper. 
 
 “Well, plase your honour, when the pratees are 
 set, and the turf cut, we’ll fall-to at Ellinor’s 
 house.” 
 
 “ Confound the potatoes and the turf ! you must 
 fall-to , as you call it, directly.” 
 
 “Is it without the lime, and plase your honour ? 
 Sure that same is not drawn yet, nor the stones quarried, 
 since it is of stone it will be — nor the foundations 
 itself dug, and the horses were all putting out dung.” 
 
 Then after the bog and the potatoes came funerals 
 and holidays innumerable. The masons were idle one 
 week waiting for the mortar, and the mortar another 
 week waiting for the stones, and then they were at 
 a stand for the carpenter when they came to the door- 
 case, and the carpenter was looking for the sawyer, 
 
64 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 and the sawyer was going to have the saw mended. 
 Then there was a stop again at the window-sills for 
 the stone-cutter, and he was at the quarter-sessions, 
 processing his brother for tin and tinpence , hay-money . 
 And when, in spite of all delays and obstacles, the 
 walls reached their destined height, the roof was a 
 new plague ; the carpenter, the slater, and the nailer, 
 were all at variance, and I cannot tell which was the 
 most provoking rogue of the three. At last, however, 
 the house was roofed and slated : then I would not 
 wait till the walls were dry before I plastered, and 
 papered, and furnished it. I fitted it up in the most 
 elegant style of English cottages ; for I was determined 
 that Ellinor’s habitation should be such as had never 
 been seen in this part of the world. The day when 
 it was finished, and when I gave possession of it to 
 Ellinor, paid me for all my trouble ; I tasted a species 
 of pleasure that was new to me, and which was the 
 sweeter from having been earned with some difficulty. 
 And now, when I saw a vast number of my tenants 
 assembled at a rural feast which I gave on Ellinor’s 
 installation , my benevolence enlarged, even beyond the 
 possibility of its gratification, and I wished to make 
 all my dependents happy, provided I could accomplish 
 it without much trouble. The method of doing good, 
 which seemed to require the least exertion, and which 
 I, therefore, most willingly practised, was giving away 
 money. I did not wait to inquire, much less to exa- 
 mine into the merits of the claimants ; but, without 
 selecting proper objects, I relieved myself from the 
 uneasy feeling of pity, by indiscriminate donations to 
 objects apparently the most miserable. 
 
 I was quite angry with Mr M‘Leod, my agent, 
 and considered him as a selfish, hard-hearted miser, 
 because he did not seem to sympathise with me, or 
 to applaud my generosity. I was so much irritated 
 
ENNUI. 65 
 
 by his cold silence, that I could not forbear pressing 
 him to say something. 
 
 “/ doubt , then/’ said he, “ since you desire me 
 to speak my mind, my lord, I doubt whether the best 
 way of encouraging the industrious is to give premiums 
 to the idle.” 
 
 “ But, idle or not, these poor wretches are so miser- 
 able, that I cannot refuse to give them something ; and, 
 surely, when one can do it so easily, it is right to relieve 
 misery. Is it not ? ” 
 
 “ Undoubtedly, my lord ; but the difficulty is, to 
 relieve present misery, without creating more in future. 
 Pity for one class of beings sometimes makes us cruel 
 to others. I am told that there are some Indian 
 Brahmins so very compassionate, that they hire beggars 
 to let fleas feed upon them : I doubt whether it might 
 not be better to let the fleas starve.” 
 
 I did not in the least understand what Mr M‘Leod 
 meant: but I was soon made to comprehend it, by 
 crowds of eloquent beggars, who soon surrounded me : 
 many who had been resolutely struggling with their 
 difficulties, slackened their exertions, and left their 
 labour for the easier trade of imposing upon my cre- 
 dulity. The money I had bestowed was wasted at 
 the dram-shop, or it became the subject of family 
 quarrels ; and those whom I had relieved returned to 
 my honour , with fresh and insatiable expectations. 
 All this time my industrious tenants grumbled, because 
 no encouragement was given to them ; and, looking 
 upon me as a weak, good-natured fool, they combined 
 in a resolution to ask me for long leases, or reduction 
 of rent. 
 
 The rhetoric of my tenants succeeded in some in- 
 stances ; and again I was mortified by Mr M^eod’s 
 silence. I was too proud to ask his opinion. I 
 ordered, and was obeyed, A few leases for long 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 terms were signed and sealed ; and when I had thus 
 my own way completely, I could not refrain from 
 recurring to Mr M‘Leod ? s opinion. 
 
 “ I doubt, my lord,” said he, “ whether this measure 
 may be as advantageous as you hope. These fellows, 
 these middle-men, will underset the land, and live in 
 idleness, whilst they rack a parcel of wretched under- 
 tenants.” 
 
 “ But they said they would keep the land in their 
 own hands, and improve it ; and that the reason why 
 they could not afford to improve before was, that they 
 had not long leases.” 
 
 “ It may be doubted whether long leases alone will 
 make improving tenants ; for in the next county to us, 
 there are many farms of the dowager Lady Ormsby’s 
 land let at ten shillings an acre, and her tenantry are 
 beggars : and the land now, at the end of the leases, is 
 worn-out, and worse than at their commencement.” 
 
 I was weary listening to this cold reasoning, and 
 resolved to apply no more for explanations to Mr 
 M‘Leod ; yet in my indolence I wanted the support 
 of his approbation, at the very time I was jealous of 
 his interference. 
 
 At one time I had a mind to raise the wages of 
 labour; but Mr M‘Leod said, “It might he doubted 
 whether the people would not work less, when they 
 could with less work have money enough to support 
 them.” 
 
 I was puzzled : and then I had a mind to lower 
 the wages of labour, to force them to work or starve. 
 Still provoking Mr M‘Leod said, “ It might he doubted 
 whether it would not be better to leave them alone.” 
 
 I gave marriage-portions to the daughters of my 
 tenants, and rewards to those who had children ; for 
 I had always heard that legislators should encourage 
 population. 
 
Ennui. 
 
 67 
 
 Still Mr M‘Leod hesitated to approve; he ob- 
 served, “that my estate was so populous, that the 
 complaint in each family was, that they had not land 
 for the sons. It might he doubted whether, if a farm 
 could support but ten people, it were wise to encourage 
 the birth of twenty. It might he doubted whether it 
 were not better for ten to live, and be well fed, than 
 for twenty to be born, and to be half- starved.” 
 
 To encourage manufactures in my town of Glen- 
 thorn, I proposed putting a clause in my leases, com- 
 pelling my tenants to buy stuffs and linens manufactured 
 at Glenthorn, and nowhere else. Stubborn M‘Leod, 
 as usual, began with, “ I doubt whether that will not 
 encourage the manufacturers at Glenthorn to make bad 
 stuffs and bad linen, since they are sure of a sale, and 
 without danger of competition.” 
 
 At all events, I thought my tenants would grow 
 rich and independent , if they made everything at home 
 that they wanted : yet Mr M‘Leod perplexed me by 
 his “ doubt whether it would not be better for a man 
 to buy shoes, if he could buy them cheaper than he 
 could make them.” He added something about the 
 division of labour, and Smith’s Wealth of Nations ; to 
 which I could only answer — “ Smith’s a Scotchman.” 
 I cannot express how much I dreaded Mr M*Leod’s 
 I doubt — and — It may be doubted . 
 
 From the pain of doubt, and the labour of thought, 
 I was soon most agreeably reprieved by the company 
 of a Mr Hardcastle, whose visits I constantly en- 
 couraged by a most gracious reception. Mr Hardcastle 
 was the agent of the dowager Lady Ormsby, who had 
 a large estate in my neighbourhood : he was the very 
 reverse of my Mr M‘Leod in his deportment and con- 
 versation. Talkative, self-sufficient, peremptory, he 
 seemed not to know what it was to doubt ; he con- 
 sidered doubt as a proof of ignorance, imbecility, or 
 
68 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 cowardice. “ Can any man doubt P ” was his usual 
 beginning. On every subject of human knowledge, 
 taste, morals, politics, economy, legislation ; on all 
 affairs, civil, military, or ecclesiastical, he decided at 
 once in the most confident tone. Yet he “ never read, 
 not he ! ” he had nothing to do with books ; he con- 
 sulted only his own eyes and ears, and appealed only 
 to common sense. As to theory, he had no opinion of 
 theory ; for his part, he only pretended to understand 
 practice and experience — and his practice was confined 
 steadily to his own practice, and his experience uni- 
 formly to what he had tried at New-town-Hardcastle. 
 
 At first I thought him a mighty clever man, and 
 I really rejoiced to see my doubter silenced. After 
 dinner, when he had finished speaking in this de- 
 cisive manner, I used frequently to back him with a 
 — Very true — very fair — very clear — though I under- 
 stood what he said as little as he did himself ; but it 
 was an ease to my mind to have a disputed point 
 settled — and I filled my glass with an air of triumph, 
 whilst M‘Leod never contradicted my assertions, nor 
 controverted Mr Hardcastle’s arguments. There 
 was still an air of content and quiet self - satisfac- 
 tion in M‘Leod’s very silence, which surprised and 
 vexed me. 
 
 One day, when Hardcastle was laying down the 
 law upon several subjects in his usual dictatorial 
 manner, telling us how he managed his people, and 
 what order he kept them in, I was determined that 
 M‘Leod should not enjoy the security of his silence, 
 and I urged him to give us his general opinion, as 
 to the means of improving the poor people in Ire- 
 land. 
 
 “ I doubt,” said M‘Leod, “ whether anything effec- 
 tual can be done, till they have a better education.” 
 
 “ Education ! — Pshaw ! — There it is now — these 
 
ENNUI, 
 
 69 
 
 book- men,” cried Hardcastle : “ Why, my dear sir, 
 can any man alive, who knows this country, doubt 
 that the common people have already too much edu- 
 cation, as it is called — a vast deal too much ? Too 
 many of them know how to read, and write, and cipher, 
 which I presume is all you mean by education.” 
 
 “Not entirely,” said M‘Leod; “a good education 
 comprehends something more.” 
 
 “ The more the worse,” interrupted Hardcastle. 
 “The more they know, the worse they are, sir, de- 
 pend on that ; I know the people of this country, 
 sir ; I have a good right to know them, sir, being 
 born amongst them, and bred amongst them ; so I 
 think I may speak with some confidence on these 
 matters. And I give it as my decided humble 
 opinion, founded on irrefragable experience, which 
 is what I always build upon, that the way to ruin 
 the poor of Ireland would be to educate them, sir. 
 Look at the poor scholars, as they call themselves ; 
 and what are they? a parcel of young vagabonds in 
 rags, with a book under their arm instead of a spade 
 or a shovel, sir. And what comes of this ? that 
 they grow up the worst-disposed, and the most 
 troublesome seditious rascals in the community. I 
 allow none of them about New- town- Hardcastle — 
 none — banished them all. Useless vagrants — hornets 
 — vipers, sir : and show me a quieter, better-man - 
 aged set of people than I have made of mine. I 
 go upon experience, sir ; and that’s the only thing 
 to go upon ; and I’ll go no farther than New-town- 
 Hardcastle : if that won’t bring conviction home to 
 you, nothing will.” 
 
 “ I never was at New-town-Hardcastle,” said 
 M‘Leod drily. 
 
 “Well, sir, I hope it will not be the case long. 
 But in the meantime, my good sir, do give me leave to 
 
70 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 put it to your own common sense, what can reading or 
 writing do for a poor man, unless he is to be a bailiff 
 or an exciseman ? and you know all men can’t expect 
 to be bailiffs or excisemen. Can all the book-learning 
 in the world, sir, dig a poor man’s potatoes for him, or 
 plough his land, or cut his turf? Then, sir, in this 
 country, where’s the advantage of education, I humbly 
 ask ? No, sir, no, trust me — keep the Irish common 
 people ignorant, and you keep ’em quiet ; and that’s 
 the only way with them ; for they are too quick and 
 smart, as it is, naturally. Teach them to read and 
 write, and it’s just adding fuel to fire — fire to gun- 
 powder, sir. Teach them anything, and directly you 
 set them up : now it’s our business to keep them down , 
 unless, sir, you’d wish to have your throat cut. Edu- 
 cation, sir ! Lord bless your soul, sir ! they have a 
 great deal too much ; they know too much already, 
 which makes them so refractory to the laws, and so 
 idle. I will go no further than New-town-Hardcastle, 
 to prove all this. So, my good sir,” concluded he 
 triumphantly, “ education, I grant you, is necessary for 
 the rich ; but tell me, if you can, what’s the use of 
 education to the poor ? ” 
 
 “Much the same, I apprehend, as to the rich,” 
 answered M‘Leod. “ The use of education, as I 
 understand it, is to teach men to see clearly, and to 
 follow steadily, their real interests. All morality, you 
 know, is comprised in this definition ; and ” 
 
 “Very true, sir; but all this can never apply to 
 the poor in Ireland.” 
 
 “ Why, sir ; are they not men ? ” 
 
 “ Men, to be sure ; but not like men in Scotland. 
 The Irish know nothing of their interests ; and as to 
 morality, that’s out of the question : they know nothing 
 about it, my dear sir.” 
 
 “ That is the very thing of which I complain,” said 
 
ENNUI. 71 
 
 M‘Leod. “They know nothing, because they have 
 been taught nothing.” 
 
 “ They cannot be taught, sir.” 
 
 “ Did you ever try ? ” 
 
 “ I did , sir, no later than last week. A fellow that 
 I caught stealing my turf, instead of sending him to 
 jail, I said to him, with a great deal of lenity, My 
 honest fellow, did you never hear of the eighth com- 
 mandment, 6 Thou shalt not steal ’ ? He confessed he 
 had ; but did not know it was the eighth. I showed 
 it to him, and counted it to him myself ; and set him, 
 for a punishment, to get his whole catechism. Well, 
 sir, the next week I found him stealing my turf again ! 
 and when I caught him by the wrist in the fact, he 
 said, it was because the priest would not let him learn 
 the catechism I gave him, because it was a Protestant 
 one. Now you see, sir, there’s a bar for ever to all 
 education.” 
 
 Mr M‘Leod smiled, said something about time and 
 patience, and observed, “ that one experiment was not 
 conclusive against a whole nation.” Anything like a 
 general argument, Mr Hardcastle could not compre- 
 hend. He knew every blade of grass within the reach 
 of his tether, but could not reach an inch beyond. 
 Anything like an appeal to benevolent feelings was lost 
 upon him ; for he was so frank in his selfishness, that 
 he did not even pretend to be generous. By sundry 
 self-complacent motions he showed, whilst his adversary 
 spoke, that he disdained to listen almost as much as to 
 read : but, as soon as M‘Leod paused, he said, “What 
 you observe, sir, may possibly be very true ; but I have 
 made up my mind.” Then he went over and over 
 again his assertions, in a louder and a louder voice, end- 
 ing with a tone of interrogation that seemed to set all 
 answer at defiance — “What have you to answer to 
 me now, sir ? — Can any man alive doubt this, sir ? ” 
 
72 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 M‘Leod was perfectly silent. The company broke 
 up ; and, as we were going out of the room, I 
 maliciously asked M‘Leod, why he, who could say so 
 much in his own defence, had suffered himself to be so 
 completely silenced ? He answered me, in his low 
 deliberate voice, in the words of Moli£re — “ * Qu’est- 
 ce que la raison avec un filet de voix contre une gueule 
 comme celle-la ? ’ At some other time/’ added Mr 
 McLeod, “ my sentiments shall be at your lordship’s 
 disposal.” 
 
 Indolent persons love positive people, when they are 
 of their own opinion ; because they are saved the 
 trouble of developing their thoughts, or supporting their 
 assertions : but the moment the positive differs in 
 sentiment from the indolent man, there is an end of 
 the friendship. The indolent man then hates his 
 pertinacious adversary as much as he loved his sturdy 
 friend. So it happened between Mr Hardcastle and 
 me. This gentleman was a prodigious favourite with 
 me, so long as his opinions were not in opposition to 
 my own ; but an accident happened, which brought 
 his love of power and mine into direct competition, 
 and then I found his peremptory mode of reasoning 
 and his ignorance absurd and insufferable. 
 
 Before I can do justice to my part of this quarrel, 
 I must explain the cause of the interest which I took 
 in behalf of the persons aggrieved. During the time 
 that my first hot fit of benevolence was on me, I was 
 riding home one evening after dining with Mr Hard- 
 castle, and I was struck with the sight of a cabin, more 
 wretched than any I had ever before beheld : the 
 feeble light of a single rush-candle through the window 
 revealed its internal misery. 
 
 “ Does anybody live in that hovel ? ” said I. 
 
 “ Ay, sure, does there : the Noonans, plase your 
 honour,” replied a man on the road. Noonans ! I 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 73 
 
 recollected the name to be that of the pugilist, who 
 had died in consequence of the combat at which I 
 had been present in London ; who had, with his 
 dying breath, besought me to convey his only half- 
 guinea and his silk handkerchief to his poor father 
 and sister. I alighted from my horse, asking the 
 man, at the same time, if the son of this Noonan had 
 not died in England. 
 
 “ He had, sir, a son in England, Mick Noonan, 
 who used to send him odd guineas, I mind , and was 
 a good lad to his father , though wild ; and there’s 
 been no account of him at-all-at-all this long while : 
 but the old man has another boy, a sober lad, who’s 
 abroad with the army in the East Indies ; and it’s 
 he that is the hope of the family. And there’s 
 the father — and old as he is, and poor, and a cripple, 
 I’d engage there is not a happier man in the three 
 counties at this very time speaking : for it is just 
 now I seen young Jemmy Riley, the daughter’s 
 bachelor , go by with a letter. What news? says 
 I. Great news! says he: a letter from Tom 
 Noonan to his father ; and I’m going in to read it 
 for him.” 
 
 By the time my voluble informant had come to 
 this period, I had reached the cabin door. Who 
 could have expected to see smiles and hear exclama- 
 tions of joy under such a roof ? 
 
 I saw the father, with his hands clasped in ecstasy, 
 and looking up to heaven, with the strong expression 
 of delight in his aged countenance. I saw every line 
 of his face ; for the light of the candle was full upon 
 it. The daughter, a beautiful girl, kneeling beside 
 him, held the light for the young man, who was read- 
 ing her brother’s letter. I was sorry to interrupt them. 
 
 “ Your honour’s kindly welcome,” said the old man, 
 making an attempt to rise. 
 
74 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Pray, don’t let me disturb you.” 
 
 “ It was only a letter from a boy of mine that’s 
 over the seas we was reading,” said the old man. 
 “ A better boy to an ould father, that’s good for 
 nothing now in this world, never was, plase your 
 honour. See what he has sent me : a draught here 
 for ten guineas out of the little pay he has. God for 
 ever bless him ! — as he surely will.” 
 
 After a few minutes’ conversation, the old man’s 
 heart was so much opened towards me, that he 
 talked as freely as if he had known me for years. I 
 led to the subject of his other son Michael, who 
 was mentioned in the letter as a wild chap. “ Ah ! 
 your honour, that’s what lies heaviest on my heart, 
 and will to my dying day, that Mick, before he 
 died, which they say he did surely a twelvemonth 
 ago, over there in England, never so much as sent 
 me one line, good or bad, or his sister a token to 
 remember him by even ! ” 
 
 “ Had he but sent us the least bit of a word, or 
 the least token in life, I had been content,” said the 
 sister, wiping her eyes : “ we don’t so much as know 
 how he died.” 
 
 I took this moment to relate the circumstances of 
 Michael Noonan’s death ; and when I told them of 
 his dying request about the half-guinea and the silk 
 handkerchief, they were all so much touched, that 
 they utterly forgot the ten-guinea draught, which I 
 saw on the ground, in the dirt, under the old man’s 
 feet, whilst he contemplated the half-guinea which 
 his poor Michael had sent him : repeating, “ Poor 
 fellow ! poor fellow ! ’twas all he had in the world. 
 God bless him ! — Poor Michael ! he was a wild 
 chap ! but none better to his parents than he while 
 the life was in him. Poor Michael ! ” 
 
 In no country have I found such strong instances of 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 75 
 
 filial affection as in Ireland. Let the sons go where 
 they may, let what will befall them, they never forget 
 their parents at home : they write to them constantly 
 the most affectionate letters, and send them a share of 
 whatever they earn. 
 
 When I asked the daughter of this Noonan, why 
 she had not married ? the old man answered, “ That’s 
 her own fault — if it be a fault to abide by an old 
 father. She wastes her youth here, in the way your 
 honour sees, tending him who has none other to mind 
 him.” 
 
 “ Oh ! let alone that ,” said the girl, with a cheerful 
 smile ; “ we be too poor to think of marrying yet, by 
 a great deal ! so, father dear, you’re no hindrance any 
 way. For don’t I know, and doesn’t Jemmy there 
 know, that it’s a sin and a shame, as my mother 
 used to say, for them that have nothing to marry and 
 set up housekeeping, like the rogue that ruined my 
 father?” 
 
 “That’s true,” said the young man, with a heavy 
 sigh ; “ but times will mend, or we’ll strive and mend 
 them, with the blessing of God.” 
 
 I left this miserable hut in admiration of the gene- 
 rosity of its inhabitants. I desired the girl to come 
 to Glenthorn Castle the next day, that I might give 
 her the silk handkerchief which her poor brother had 
 sent her. The more I inquired into the circumstances 
 of this family, the more cause I found for pity and 
 approbation. The old man had been a good farmer 
 in his day, as the traditions of the aged, and the 
 memories of the young, were ready to witness ; but 
 he was unfortunately joined in co-partnership with a 
 drunken rogue, who ran away, and left an arrear of 
 rent, which ruined Noonan. Mr Hardcastle, the 
 agent, called upon him to pay it, and sold all that 
 the old man possessed ; and this being insufficient to 
 
76 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 discharge the debt, he was forced to give up his 
 farm, and retire, with his daughter, to this hovel ; 
 and soon afterwards he lost the use of his side by a 
 paralytic stroke. 
 
 I was so much pleased with the goodness of these 
 poor people, that, in despite of my indolent disposi- 
 tion, I bestirred myself the very next day to find a 
 better habitation for them on my own estate. I settled 
 them, infinitely to their satisfaction, in a small farm ; 
 and the girl married her lover, who undertook to 
 manage the farm for the old man. To my utter sur- 
 prise, I found that Mr Hardcastle was affronted by the 
 part I took in this affair. He complained that I had 
 behaved in a very ungentlemanlike manner, and had 
 spirited the tenants away from Lady Ormsby’ s estate, 
 against the regulation which he had laid down for all 
 the tenants not to emigrate from the estate . Jemmy Riley, 
 it seems, was one of the cotters on the Ormsby estate, a 
 circumstance with which I was unacquainted ; indeed 
 I scarcely at that time understood what was meant by 
 a cotter , Mr Hardcastle’ s complaint, in matter and 
 manner, was unintelligible to me ; but I was quite con- 
 tent to leave off visiting him, as he left off visiting me 
 — but here the matter did not stop. This over-wise 
 and over-busy gentleman took upon him, amongst other 
 offices, the regulation of the markets in the town of 
 Ormsby ; and as he apprehended, for reasons best and 
 only known to himself, a year of scarcity, he thought 
 fit to keep down the price of oats and potatoes. He 
 would allow none to be sold in the market of Ormsby 
 but at the price which he stipulated. The poor people 
 grumbled, and, to remedy the injustice, made private 
 bargains with each other. He had information of this, 
 and seized the corn that was selling above the price he 
 had fixed. Young Riley, Noonan’s son-in-law, came 
 to me to complain, that his little oats were seized and 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 77 
 
 detained. I remonstrated — Hardcastle resented the 
 appeal to me, and bid him wait and be damned. The 
 young man, who was rather of a hasty temper, and who 
 did not much like either to wait or be damned, seized 
 his own oats, and was marching off, when they were 
 recaptured by Hardcastle’ s bailiff, whom young Riley 
 knocked down ; and who, as soon as he got up again, 
 went straight , and swore examinations against Riley. 
 Then I was offended, as I had a right to be, by the 
 custom of the country, with the magistrate who took 
 an examination against my tenant without writing first 
 to me. Then there was a race between the examina- 
 tions of my justice of peace and his justice of peace. 
 My indolence was conquered by my love of power : 
 I supported the contest: the affair came before our 
 grand jury : I conquered, and Mr Hardcastle was 
 ever after, of course, my enemy. To English ears the 
 possessive pronouns my and his may sound extraordi- 
 nary, prefixed to a justice of peace ; but, in many parts 
 of Ireland, this language is perfectly correct. A great 
 man talks of making a justice of the peace with perfect 
 confidence ; a very great man talks with as much cer- 
 tainty of making a sheriff ; and a sheriff makes the jury ; 
 and the jury makes the law. We must not forget, 
 however, that, in England, during the reign of Eliza- 
 beth, a member of Parliament defined a justice of peace 
 to be “ an animal, who for half a dozen chickens will 
 dispense with half a dozen penal statutes.” Time is 
 necessary to enforce the sanctions of legislation and 
 civilisation — But I am anticipating reflections which I 
 made at a much later period of my life. To return to 
 my history. 
 
 My benevolence was soon checked by slight dis- 
 appointments. Ellinor’s cottage, which I had taken so 
 much pains to build, became a source of mortification 
 to me. One day I found my old nurse sitting at her 
 
78 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 wheel, in the midst of the wreck and litter of all sorts 
 of household furniture, singing her favourite song of 
 
 “ There was a lady lov’d a swine : 
 
 Honey ! says she, 
 
 I’ll give ye a silver trough. 
 
 Hunk / says he ! ” 
 
 Ellinor seemed, alas ! to have as little taste for the 
 luxuries with which I had provided her as the pig had 
 for the silver trough. What I called conveniences 
 were to her encumbrances : she had not been used to 
 them ; she was put out of her way ; and it was a daily 
 torment to one of her habits, to keep her house clean 
 and neat. There may be, as some philosophers assure 
 us that there is, an innate love of order in the human 
 mind ; but of this instinctive principle my poor Ellinor 
 was totally destitute. Her ornamented farmhouse 
 became, in a wonderfully short time, a scene of dirt, 
 rubbish, and confusion. There was a partition between 
 two rooms, which had been built with turf or peat, 
 instead of bricks, by the wise economy I had employed. 
 Of course, this was pulled down to get at the turf. 
 The stairs also were pulled down and burned, though 
 there was no scarcity of firing. As the walls were 
 plastered and papered before they were quite dry, the 
 paper grew mouldy, and the plaster fell off. In the 
 hurry of finishing, some of the woodwork had but one 
 coat of paint. In Ireland they have not faith in the 
 excellent Dutch proverb, “ Paint costs nothing .” I 
 could not get my workmen to give a second coat of 
 paint to any of the sashes, and the wood decayed: 
 divers panes of glass in the windows were broken, and 
 their places filled up with shoes, an old hat, or a bundle 
 of rags. Some of the slates were blown off one windy 
 night : the slater lived at ten miles’ distance, and before 
 the slates were replaced, the rain came in, and Ellinor 
 was forced to make a bedchamber of the parlour, and 
 
ENNtri. 
 
 70 
 
 then of the kitchen, retreating from corner to corner as 
 the rain pursued, till, at last, when “ it would come 
 every way upon her bed,” she petitioned me to let her 
 take the slates off and thatch the house ; for a slated 
 house, she said, was never so warm as a tatched cabin ; 
 and as there was no smoke, she was kilt with the 
 cowld . 
 
 In my life I never felt so angry. I was ten times 
 more angry than when Crawley ran away with my 
 wife. In a paroxysm of passion, I reproached Ellinor 
 with being a savage, an Irishwoman, and an ungrate- 
 ful fool. 
 
 “ Savage I am, for anything I know ; and fool I 
 am, that’s certain ; but ungrateful I am not,” said she, 
 bursting into tears. She went home and took to her 
 bed ; and the next thing I heard from her son was, 
 “ that she was lying in the rheumatism , which had kept 
 her awake many a long night, before she would come 
 to complain to my honour of the house, in dread that I 
 should blame myself for sending of her into it afore it 
 was dry.” 
 
 The rheumatism reconciled me immediately to Ellinor ; 
 I let her take her own way, and thatch the house, and 
 have as much smoke as she pleased, and she recovered. 
 But I did not entirely recover my desire to do 
 good to my poor tenants. After forming, in the first 
 enthusiasm of my benevolence, princely schemes for 
 their advantage, my ardour was damped, and my zeal 
 discouraged, by a few slight disappointments. 
 
 I did not consider, that there is often, amongst 
 uncultivated people, a mixture of obstinate and lazy 
 content, which makes them despise the luxuries of 
 their richer neighbours $ like those mountaineers, who, 
 proud of their own hard fare, # out of a singular species 
 
 * See Philosophical Transactions, vol. lxvii. part 2, Sir 
 George Shuckburgh’s observations to ascertain the height of 
 
8c 
 
 £NNUt. 
 
 of contempt, call the inhabitants of the plains mange - 
 rotis, “ eaters of roast meat.” I did not consider, that 
 it must take time to change local and national habits 
 and prejudices ; and that it is necessary to raise a taste 
 for comforts, before they can be properly enjoyed. 
 
 In the pettishness of my disappointment, I decided 
 that it was in vain to attempt to improve and civilise 
 such people as the Irish. I did not recollect, perhaps 
 at that time I did not know, that even in the days 
 of the great Queen Elizabeth, “ the greatest part of the 
 buildings in the cities and good towns of England 
 consisted only of timber, cast over with thick clay to 
 keep out the wind. The new houses of the nobility 
 were indeed either of brick or stone ; and glass windows 
 were then beginning to be used in England :”f and 
 clean rushes were strewed over the dirty floors of the 
 royal palace. In the impatience of my zeal for improve- 
 ment, I expected to do the work of two hundred years 
 in a few months : and because I could not accelerate 
 the progress of refinement in this miraculous manner, I 
 was out of humour with myself and with a whole nation. 
 So easily is the humanity of the rich and great disgusted 
 and discouraged ! as if any people could be civilised in 
 a moment, and at the word of command of ignorant 
 pride or despotic benevolence. 
 
 mountains — for a full account of the cabin of a couple of Alpine 
 shepherdesses. 
 
 f See Harrison. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 81 
 
 Chapter tp. 
 
 “ He saw — and but that admiration 
 Had been too active, too like passion, 
 
 Or had he been to ton less true, 
 
 Cupid had shot him through and through.” 
 
 I HAVE not thought it necessary to record every 
 visit that I received from all my country neigh- 
 bours ; but I must now mention one, which led to 
 important consequences ; a visit from Sir Harry Ormsby, 
 a very young dashing man of fortune, who, in expecta- 
 tion of the happy moment when he should be of age, 
 resided with his mother, the dowager Lady Ormsby. 
 Her ladyship had heard that there had been some 
 disagreement between her agent, Mr Hardcastle, and 
 my people ; but she took the earliest opportunity of ex- 
 pressing her wishes, that our families should be on an 
 amicable footing. 
 
 Lady Ormsby was just come to the country, with a 
 large party of her fashionable friends — some Irish, some 
 English : Lord and Lady Kilrush ; my Lady Kildan- 
 gan, and her daughter the Lady Geraldine ********* . 
 the knowing widow O’Connor ; the English dasher , 
 Lady Hauton ; the interesting Mrs Norton, sepa- 
 rated but not parted from her husband ; the pleasant 
 Miss Bland ; the three Miss Ormsbys, better known 
 by the name of the Swanlinbar Graces ; two English 
 aides-de-camp from the Castle, and a brace of briga- 
 diers ; beside other men of inferior note. 
 
 I perceived that Sir Harry Ormsby took it for 
 granted that I must be acquainted with the preten- 
 sions of all these persons to celebrity ; his talkative- 
 ness and my taciturnity favoured me so fortunately, that 
 he never discovered the extent of my ignorance. He 
 was obligingly impatient to make me personally ac- 
 quainted “ with those of whom I must have heard so 
 
 F 
 
L 
 
 8 2 ENNUI. 
 
 much in England.” Observing that Ormsby Villa 
 was too far from Glenthorn Castle for a morning visit, 
 he pressed me to waive ceremony, and to do Lady 
 Ormsby and him the honour of spending a week with 
 them, as soon as I could make it convenient. I ac- 
 cepted this invitation, partly from a slight emotion of 
 curiosity, and partly from my habitual inability to resist 
 any reiterated importunity. 
 
 Arrived at Ormsby Villa, and introduced to this 
 crowd of people, I was at first disappointed by seeing 
 nothing extraordinary. I expected that their manners 
 would have been as strange to me as some of their names 
 appeared : but whether it was from my want of the 
 powers of discrimination, or from the real sameness of 
 the objects, I could scarcely, in this fashionable flock, 
 discern any individual marks of distinction. At first 
 view, the married ladies appeared much the same as 
 those of a similar class in England, whom I had been 
 accustomed to see. The young ladies I thought, as 
 usual, “ best distinguished by black, brown, and fair : ” 
 but I had not yet seen Lady Geraldine ********* ; 
 and a great part of the conversation, the first day I was 
 at Ormsby Villa, was filled with lamentations on the 
 unfortunate tooth-ache, which prevented her ladyship 
 from appearing. She was talked of so much, and as 
 a person of such importance, and so essential to the 
 amusement of society, that I could not help feeling a 
 slight wish to see her. The next day at breakfast she 
 did not appear ; but, five minutes before dinner, her 
 ladyship’s humble companion whispered, “ Now Lady 
 Geraldine is coming, my lord.” I was always rather 
 displeased to be called upon to attend to anything or 
 anybody, yet as Lady Geraldine entered, I gave one 
 involuntary glance of curiosity. I saw a tall, finely 
 shaped woman, with the commanding air of a woman 
 of rank ; she moved well ; not with feminine timidity, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 83 
 
 but with ease, promptitude, and decision. She had fine 
 eyes and a fine complexion, yet no regularity of feature. 
 The only thing that struck me as really extraordinary 
 was her indifference when I was introduced to her. 
 Everybody had seemed extremely desirous that I should 
 see her ladyship, and that her ladyship should see me ; 
 and I was rather surprised by her unconcerned air. 
 This piqued me, and fixed my attention. She turned 
 from me and began to converse with others. Her voice 
 was agreeable : she did not speak with the Irish accent ; 
 but, when I listened maliciously, I detected certain 
 Hibernian inflections ; nothing of the vulgar Irish 
 idiom, but something that was more interrogative, 
 more exclamatory, and perhaps more rhetorical, than 
 the common language of English ladies, accompanied 
 with much animation of countenance and demonstrative 
 gesture. This appeared to me peculiar and unusual, 
 but not affected. She was uncommonly eloquent, and 
 yet, without action, her words were not sufficiently 
 rapid to express her ideas. Her manner appeared 
 foreign, yet it was not quite French. If I had been 
 obliged to decide, I should, however, have pronounced 
 it rather more French than English. To determine 
 what it was, or whether I had ever seen anything 
 similar, I stood considering her ladyship with more 
 attention than I had ever bestowed on any other woman. 
 The words striking — -fascinating — bewitching, occurred 
 to me as I looked at her and heard her speak. I re- 
 solved to turn my eyes away, and shut my ears ; for I 
 was positively determined not to like her, I dreaded so 
 much the idea of a second Hymen. I retreated to the 
 farthest window, and looked out very soberly upon a 
 dirty fish-pond. Dinner was announced. I observed 
 Lady Kildangan manoeuvring to place me beside her 
 daughter Geraldine, but Lady Geraldine counteracted 
 this movement. I was again surprised and piqued. 
 
8 4 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 After yielding the envied position to one of the Swan- 
 linbar Graces, I heard Lady Geraldine whisper to her 
 next neighbour, “ Baffled, mamma ! ” 
 
 It was strange to me to feel piqued by a young 
 lady’s not choosing to sit beside me. After dinner, I 
 left the gentlemen as soon as possible, because the 
 conversation wearied me. Lord Kilrush, the chief 
 orator, was a courtier, and could talk of nothing but 
 Dublin Castle, and my Lord Lieutenant’s levees. The 
 moment that I went to the ladies, I was seized upon 
 by the officious Miss Bland : she could not speak of 
 anything but Lady Geraldine, who sat at so great a 
 distance, and who was conversing with such animation 
 herself, that she could not hear her prdneuse. Miss Bland, 
 inform me that “her friend, Lady Geraldine, was 
 extremely clever ; so clever, that many people were at 
 first a little afraid of her ; but that there was not the 
 least occasion ; for that, where she liked, nobody could 
 be more affable and engaging.” This judicious friend, 
 a minute afterwards, told me, as a very great secret, 
 that Lady Geraldine was an admirable mimic ; that 
 she could draw or speak caricatures ; that she was also 
 wonderfully happy in the invention of agnomens and 
 cognomens, so applicable to the persons, that they could 
 scarcely be forgotten or forgiven. I was a little 
 anxious to know whether her ladyship would honour 
 me with an agnomen. I could not learn this from 
 Miss Bland, and I was too prudent to betray my 
 curiosity : I afterwards heard it, however. Pairing 
 me and Mr. M‘Leod, whom she had seen together, 
 her ladyship observed, that Sawney and Tawnee were 
 made for each other ; and she sketched, in strong 
 caricature, my relaxed elongation of limb, and his rigid 
 rectangularity. A slight degree of fear of Lady 
 Geraldine’s powers kept my attention alert. In the 
 course of the evening, Lady Kildangan summoned her 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 35 
 
 daughter to the music-room, and asked me to come 
 and hear an Irish song. I exerted myself so far as 
 to follow immediately ; but though summoned, Lady 
 Geraldine did not obey. Miss Bland tuned the harp, 
 and opened the music-books on the piano ; but no 
 Lady Geraldine appeared. Miss Bland was sent back- 
 wards and forwards with messages ; but Lady Geral- 
 dine’s ultimatum was, that she could not possibly sing, 
 because she was afraid of the tooth-ache. God knows, 
 her mouth had never been shut all the evening. 
 “Well, but,” said Lady Kildangan, “she can play for 
 us, cannot she ? ” No ; her ladyship was afraid of the 
 cold in the music-room. “ Do, my Lord Glenthorn, 
 go and tell the dear capricious creature, that we are 
 very warm here.” 
 
 Very reluctantly I obeyed. The Lady Geraldine, 
 with her circle round her, heard and answered me 
 with the air of a princess. 
 
 “Do you the honour to play for you, my lord ! 
 Excuse me : I am no professor — I play so ill, that I 
 make it a rule never to play but for my own amuse- 
 ment. If you wish for music, there is Miss Bland ; 
 she plays incomparably, and I dare say will think her- 
 self happy to oblige your lordship.” I never felt so 
 silly, or so much abashed, as at this instant. “ This 
 comes,” thought I, “of acting out of character. 
 What possessed me to exert myself to ask a lady to 
 play ? I, that have been tired to death of music ! 
 Why did I let myself be sent ambassador, when I had 
 no interest in the embassy ? ” 
 
 To convince myself and others of my apathy, I 
 threw myself on a sofa, and never stirred or spoke the 
 remainder of the night. I presume I appeared fast 
 asleep, else Lady Geraldine would not have said, 
 within my hearing, “ Mamma wants me to catch some- 
 body, and to be caught by somebody ; but that will 
 
86 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 not be ; for, do you know, I think somebody is 
 nobody.” 
 
 I was offended as much as it was in my nature 
 to be offended, and I began to meditate apologies for 
 shortening my visit at Ormsby Villa ; but, though I 
 was shocked by the haughtiness of Lady Geral- 
 dine, and accused her, in my own mind, of want of 
 delicacy and politeness, yet I could not now suspect 
 her of being an accomplice with her mother in any 
 matrimonial designs upon me. From the moment I 
 was convinced of this, my conviction was, I suppose, 
 visible to her ladyship’s penetrating eyes, and from that 
 instant she showed me that she could be polite and 
 agreeable. Now, soothed to a state of ease and com- 
 placency, I might have sunk to indifference and ennui, 
 but fresh singularities in this lady struck me, and kept 
 my attention awake and fixed upon her character. If 
 she had treated me with tolerable civility at first, I 
 never should have thought about her. High-born and 
 high-bred, she seemed to consider more what she 
 thought of others than what others thought of her. 
 Frank, candid, and affable, yet opinionated, insolent, 
 and an egotist, her candour and affability appeared the 
 effect of a naturally good temper, her insolence and 
 egotism only those of a spoiled child. She seemed 
 to talk of herself purely to oblige others, as the most 
 interesting possible topic of conversation ; for such it 
 had always been to her fond mother, who idolized 
 her ladyship as an only daughter, and the represen- 
 tative of an ancient house. Confident of her talents, 
 conscious of her charms, afrd secure of her station, 
 Lady Geraldine gave free scope to her high spirits, 
 her fancy, and her turn for ridicule. She looked, 
 spoke, and acted, like a person privileged to think, 
 say, and do, what she pleased. Her raillery, like 
 the raillery of princes, was without fear of retort. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 S7 
 
 She was not ill-natured, yet careless to whom she 
 gave offence, provided she produced amusement ; and 
 in this she seldom failed ; for, in her conversation, 
 there was much of the raciness of Irish wit, and 
 the oddity of Irish humour. The singularity that 
 struck me most about her ladyship was her indiffer- 
 ence to flattery. She certainly preferred frolic. Miss 
 Bland was her humble companion ; Miss Tracey her 
 butt . Her ladyship appeared to consider Miss Bland 
 as a necessary appendage to her rank and person, 
 like her dress or her shadow ; and she seemed to 
 think no more of the one than of the other. She 
 suffered Miss Bland to follow her ; but she would 
 go in quest of Miss Tracey. Miss Bland was allowed 
 to speak; but her ladyship listened to Miss Tracey. 
 Miss Bland seldom obtained an answer ; but Miss 
 Tracey never opened her lips without a repartee. 
 
 In describing Miss Tracey, Lady Geraldine said, 
 “ Poor simpleton ! she cannot help imitating all she 
 sees us do ; yet, would you believe it, she really has 
 starts of common sense, and some tolerable ideas of her 
 own. Spoiled by bad company ! In the language of 
 the bird-fanciers, she has a few notes nightingale, and 
 all the rest rubbish.” 
 
 It was one of Lady Geraldine’s delights to humour 
 Miss Tracey’s rage for imitating the fashions of fine 
 people. 
 
 ‘‘Now you shall see Miss Tracey appear at the 
 ball to-morrow, in everything that I have sworn to 
 her is fashionable. Nor have I cheated her in a 
 single article : but the tout ensemble I leave to her 
 better judgment; and you shall see her, I trust, a 
 perfect monster, formed of every creature’s best : Lady 
 Kilrush’s feathers, Mrs Moore’s wig, Mrs O’Connor’s 
 gown, Mrs Lighton’s sleeves, and all the necklaces 
 of all the Miss Ormsbys. She has no taste, no 
 
88 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 judgment ; none at all, poor thing ! but she can 
 imitate as well as those Chinese painters, who, in 
 their drawings, give you the flower of one plant stuck 
 on the stalk of another, and garnished with the leaves 
 of a third.” 
 
 Miss Tracey’s appearance the ensuing night justified 
 all Lady Geraldine’s predictions, and surpassed her 
 ladyship’s most sanguine hopes. Even I, albeit unused 
 to the laughing mood, could not forbear smiling at the 
 humour and ease with which her ladyship played off 
 this girl’s credulous vanity. 
 
 At breakfast the next morning, Lord Kilrush, in 
 his grave manner (always too solemn by half for the 
 occasion), declared, “that no man was more willing 
 than himself to enter into a jest in proper time, and 
 season, and measure, and so forth ; but that it was 
 really, positively, morally unjustifiable, in his apprehen- 
 sion, the making this poor girl so publicly ridiculous.” 
 
 “ My good lord,” replied Lady Geraldine, “ all the 
 world are ridiculous some way or other : some in 
 public, some in private. Now,” continued she, with 
 an appealing look to the whole company, “ now, after 
 all, what is there more extravagant in my Miss Tracey’s 
 delighting, at sixteen, in six yards of pink riband, than 
 in your courtier sighing, at sixty, for three yards of 
 blue riband ? or what is there more ridiculous in her 
 coming simpering into a ball-room, fancying herself 
 the mirror of fashion, when she is a figure for a print- 
 shop, than in the courtier rising solemnly in the House 
 of Lords, believing himself an orator, and expecting to 
 make a vast reputation, by picking up, in every debate, 
 the very worst arguments that everybody else let fall ? 
 There would be no living in this world, if we were all 
 to see and expose one another’s ridicules . My plan is 
 
 much the best — to help my friends to expose them- 
 selves, and then they are infinitely obliged to me.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 Satisfied with silencing all opposition, and seeing 
 that the majority was with her, Lady Geraldine per- 
 sisted in her course ; and I was glad she was incorri- 
 gible, because her faults entertained me. As to love, 
 I thought I was perfectly safe ; because, though I 
 admired her quickness and cleverness, yet I still, at 
 times, perceived, or fancied I perceived, some want of 
 polish, and elegance, and tact . She was not exactly 
 cut out according to my English pattern of a woman 
 of fashion ; so I thought I might amuse myself without 
 danger, as it was partly at her ladyship’s expence. 
 But about this time I was alarmed for myself by a 
 slight twinge of jealousy. As I was standing lounging 
 upon the steps at the hall-door, almost as ennuye as 
 usual, I saw a carriage at a distance, between the trees, 
 driving up the approach ; and, at the same instant, I 
 heard Lady Geraldine’s eager voice in the hall, “ Oh ! 
 they are coming ; he is coming ; they are come. Run, 
 Miss Bland, run, and give Lord Craiglethorpe my 
 message before he gets out of the carriage — before any- 
 body sees him.” 
 
 Afraid of hearing what I should not hear, I walked 
 down the steps deliberately, and turned into a shrub- 
 bery-walk, to leave the coast clear. Out ran Miss 
 Bland : and then it was that I felt the twinge — very 
 slight, however. “Who is this Lord Craiglethorpe, 
 with whom Lady Geraldine is on such favourable 
 terms ? I wonder what kind of looking man he is ; 
 and what could the message mean ? — but, at all 
 events, it cannot concern me ; yet I am curious to 
 see this Lord Craiglethorpe. I wonder any woman 
 can like a man with so strange a name : but does 
 she like him, after all ? — -Why do I plague myself 
 about it ? ” 
 
 As I returned from my saunter, I was met by Miss 
 Bland. 
 
$0 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ A charming day, ma’am,” said I, endeavouring to 
 pass on. 
 
 “ A charming day, my lord ! But I must stop 
 your lordship a moment. Oh, I am so out of breath 
 
 — I went the wrong way ” 
 
 “ The wrong way ! Indeed ! I am sorry. I am 
 concerned you should have had so much trouble.” 
 
 “No trouble in the world. Only I want to beg 
 you’ll keep our secret — my Lady Geraldine’s secret.” 
 “ Undoubtedly, madam — a man of honour — Lady 
 Geraldine cannot doubt — her ladyship’s secret is per- 
 fectly safe.” 
 
 “ But do you know it ? You don’t know it yet, 
 my lord.” 
 
 “Pardon me, I was on the steps just now. I thought 
 you saw me.” 
 
 “ I did, my lord — but I don’t understand ” 
 
 “ Nor I, neither,” interrupted I, half laughing ; 
 for I began to think I was mistaken in my suspicions ; 
 “ pray explain yourself, my dear Miss Bland : I was 
 very rude to be so quick in interrupting you.” 
 
 Miss Bland then made me the confidant of a charm- 
 ing scheme of Lady Geraldine’s for quizzing Miss 
 Tracey. 
 
 “ She has never in her life seen Lord Craiglethorpe, 
 who is an English lord travelling through Ireland,” 
 continued Miss Bland. “ Now, you must know, that 
 Miss Tracey is passionately fond of lords, let them 
 be what they may. Now, Lord Craiglethorpe, this 
 very morning, sent his groom with a note and excuse 
 to Lady Ormsby, for not coming to us to-day ; be- 
 cause, he said, he was bringing down in the chaise 
 with him a surveyor, to survey his estate near here ; 
 and he could not possibly think of bringing the sur- 
 veyor, who is a low man, to Ormsby Villa. But Lady 
 Ormsby would take no apology, and wrote by the 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 91 
 
 groom to beg that Lord Craiglethorpe would make no 
 scruple of bringing the surveyor ; for you know she 
 is so polite and accommodating, and all that. Well, 
 the note was scarcely gone, before Lady Geraldine 
 thought of her charming scheme, and regretted, of all 
 things , she had not put it into it.” 
 
 “ It into it ! ” repeated I to myself. “ Ma’am ? ” 
 said I, looking a little bewildered. 
 
 “ But,” continued my clear narrator, “ I promised 
 to remedy all that , by running to meet the carriage, 
 which was what I ran for when you saw me, my lord, 
 in such a hurry.” 
 
 I bowed — and was as wise as ever. 
 
 “ So, my lord, you comprehend, that the surveyor, 
 whose name, whose odious name, is Gabbitt, is to be 
 my Lord Craiglethorpe, and my Lord Craiglethorpe is 
 to be passed for Mr Gabbitt upon Miss Tracey ; and, 
 you will see, Miss Tracey will admire Mr Gabbitt 
 prodigiously, and call him vastly genteel, when she 
 thinks him a lord. Your lordship will keep our 
 secret ; and she is sure Lord Craiglethorpe will do 
 anything to oblige her, because he is a near con- 
 nexion of hers. But, I assure you, it is not every- 
 body could get Lord Craiglethorpe to join in a joke ; 
 for he is very stiff, and cold, and high. Of course 
 your lordship will know which is the real lord at 
 first sight. He is a full head taller than Gabbitt.” 
 
 Never was explanation finally more satisfactory : 
 and whether the jest was really well contrived and 
 executed, or whether I was put into a humour to 
 think so, I cannot exactly determine ; but, I confess, 
 I was amused with the scenes that followed, though 
 I felt that they were not quite justifiable even in 
 jest. 
 
 The admiration of Miss Tracey for the false 
 Craiglethorpe , as Lady Geraldine called Mr Gabbitt ; 
 
9 ^ 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 the awkwardness of Mr Gabbitt with his title, and 
 the awkwardness of Lord Craiglethorpe without it, 
 were fine subjects of her ladyship’s satirical humour. 
 
 In another point of view, Lord Craiglethorpe af- 
 forded her ladyship amusement ; as an English traveller, 
 full of English prejudices against Ireland and every- 
 thing Irish. Whenever Miss Tracey was out of the 
 room, Lady Geraldine allowed Lord Craiglethorpe to 
 be himself again ; but he did not fare the better for this 
 restoration to his honours. Lady Geraldine contrived 
 to make him as ridiculous in his real as in his assumed 
 character. Lord Craiglethorpe was, as Miss Bland had 
 described him, very stiff, cold, and high . His manners 
 were in the extreme of English reserve, and his ill-bred 
 show of contempt for the Irish was sufficient provocation 
 and justification of Lady Geraldine’s ridicule. He was 
 much in awe of his fair and witty cousin : she could 
 easily put him out of countenance, for he was extremely 
 bashful. 
 
 His lordship had that sort of bashfulness which 
 makes a man surly and obstinate in his taciturnity ; 
 which makes him turn upon all who approach him, 
 as if they were going to assault him ; which makes 
 him answer a question as if it were an injury, and 
 repel a compliment as if it were an insult. Once, 
 when he was out of the room, Lady Geraldine ex- 
 claimed, “ That cousin Craiglethorpe of mine is 
 scarcely an agreeable man : the awkwardness of 
 
 mauvaise honte might be pitied and pardoned, even 
 in a nobleman,” continued her ladyship, “ if it really 
 proceeded from humility ; but here, when I know it 
 is connected with secret and inordinate arrogance, 
 ’tis past all endurance. Even his ways of sitting 
 and standing provoke me, they are so self-sufficient. 
 Have you observed how he stands at the fire ? Oh, 
 the caricature of ‘ the English fireside ’ outdone ! 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 93 
 
 Then, if he sits, we hope that change of posture may 
 afford our eyes transient relief : but worse again ; 
 bolstered up, with his back against his chair, his 
 hands in his pockets, and his legs thrown out, in 
 defiance of all passengers and all decorum, there he 
 sits, in magisterial silence, throwing a gloom upon 
 all conversation. As the Frenchman said of the 
 Englishman, for whom even his politeness could not 
 find another compliment, 6 II faut avouer que ce 
 monsieur a un grand talent pour le silence ; ’ he 
 holds his tongue, till the people actually believe that 
 he has something to say ; a mistake they could never 
 fall into if he would but speak.” 
 
 Some of the company attempted to interpose a word 
 or two in favour of Lord Craiglethorpe’s timidity, but 
 the vivacious and merciless lady went on. 
 
 “ I tell you, my good friends, it is not timidity, — it 
 is all pride. I would pardon his dulness, and even 
 his ignorance ; for one, as you say, might be the fault 
 of his nature, and the other of his education : but his 
 self-sufficiency is his own fault, and that I will not, 
 and cannot, pardon. Somebody says, that nature may 
 make a fool, but a coxcomb is always of his own 
 making. Now, my cousin — (as he is my cousin, I 
 may say what I please of him) — my cousin Craigle- 
 thorpe is a solemn coxcomb, who thinks, because his 
 vanity is not talkative and sociable, that it’s not vanity. 
 What a mistake ! his silent superciliousness is to me 
 more intolerable than the most garrulous egotism that 
 ever laid itself open to my ridicule.” 
 
 Miss Bland and Miss Ormsby both confessed that 
 Lord Craiglethorpe was vastly too silent. 
 
 “For the honour of my country,” continued Lady 
 Geraldine, “I am determined to make this man talk, 
 and he shall say all that I know he thinks of us poor 
 Irish savages. If he would but speak, one could 
 
94 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 answer him : if he would find fault, one might defend : 
 if he would laugh, one might perhaps laugh again : but 
 here he comes to hospitable, open-hearted Ireland ; eats 
 as well as he can in his own country ; drinks better 
 than he can in his own country ; sleeps as well as he 
 can in his own country ; accepts all our kindness with- 
 out a word or a look of thanks, and seems the whole 
 time to think, that, 4 Born for his use, we live but to 
 oblige him.’ There he is at this instant: look at him, 
 walking in the park, with his note-book in his hand, 
 setting down our faults, and conning them by rote. 
 We are even with him. I understand, Lady Kilrush, 
 that my bright cousin Craiglethorpe means to write a 
 book, a great book, upon Ireland.” 
 
 Lady Kilrush replied, that she understood Lord 
 Craiglethorpe had it in contemplation to publish a 
 Tour through Ireland, or a View of Ireland, or some- 
 thing of that nature. 
 
 “ He ! with his means of acquiring information ! ” 
 exclaimed Lady Geraldine. “ Posting from one great 
 man’s house to another, what can he see or know of 
 the manners of any rank of people but of the class of 
 gentry, which in England and Ireland is much the 
 same ? As to the lower classes, I don’t think he ever 
 speaks to them ; or, if he does, what good can it do 
 him ? for he can’t understand their modes of expression, 
 nor they his : if he inquire about a matter of fact, I 
 defy him to get the truth out of them, if they don’t 
 wish to tell it ; and, for some reason or other, they 
 will, nine times in ten, not wish to tell it to an 
 Englishman. There is not a man, woman, or child, 
 in any cabin in Ireland, who would not have wit and 
 cuteness enough to make my lard believe just what they 
 please. So, after posting from Dublin to Cork, and 
 from the Giant’s Causeway to Killarney ; after travel- 
 ling east, west, north, and south, my wise cousin 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 95 
 
 Craiglethorpe will know just as much of the lower 
 Irish as the cockney who has never been out of London, 
 and who has never, in all his horn days , seen an Irish- 
 man but on the English stage ; where the representa- 
 tions are usually as like the originals, as the Chinese 
 pictures of lions, drawn from description, are to the 
 real animal.” 
 
 “ Now ! now ! look at his lordship ! ” cried Miss 
 Bland ; “ he has his note-book out again.” 
 
 66 Mercy on us ! ” said Miss Callwell, “ how he is 
 writing ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, write on, my good cousin Craiglethorpe,” 
 pursued Lady Geraldine, “ and fill the little note-book, 
 which will soon turn to a ponderous quarto. I shall 
 have a copy, bound in morocco, no doubt, from the 
 author , if I behave myself prettily ; and I will earn it, 
 by supplying valuable information. You shall see, my 
 friends, how Eli deserve well of my country, if you’ll 
 only keep my counsel and your own countenances.” 
 
 Presently Lord Craiglethorpe entered the room, 
 walking very pompously, and putting his note-book 
 up as he advanced. 
 
 “ O, my dear lord, open the book again ; I have a 
 bull for you.” 
 
 Lady Geraldine, after putting his lordship in good 
 humour by this propitiatory offering of a bull, con- 
 tinued to supply him, either directly or indirectly, by 
 some of her confederates, with the most absurd anec- 
 dotes, incredible facts , stale jests, and blunders, such 
 as were never made by true-born Irishmen ; all which 
 my Lord Craiglethorpe took down with an industrious 
 sobriety, at which the spectators could scarcely refrain 
 from laughing. Sometimes he would pause, and 
 exclaim, “ A capital anecdote ! a curious fact ! May 
 I give my authority ? may I quote your ladyship ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, if you’ll pay me a compliment in the pre- 
 
9 6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 face/’ whispered Lady Geraldine ; “ and now, dear 
 cousin, do go upstairs and put it all in ink,” 
 
 When she had despatched the noble author, her 
 ladyship indulged her laughter. “ But now,” cried 
 she, “ only imagine a set of sober English readers 
 studying my cousin Craiglethorpe’s New View of 
 Ireland, and swallowing all the nonsense it will con- 
 tain ! ” 
 
 When Lord Kilrush remonstrated against the cruelty 
 of letting the man publish such stuff, and represented it 
 as a fraud upon the public, Lady Geraldine laughed 
 still more, and exclaimed, “ Surely you don’t think I 
 would use the public and my poor cousin so ill. No, 
 I am doing him and the public the greatest possible 
 service. Just when he is going to leave us, when the 
 writing-box is packed, I will step up to him, and tell 
 him the truth. I will show him what a farrago of 
 nonsense he has collected as materials for his quarto ; 
 and convince him at once how utterly unfit he is to 
 write a book, at least a book on Irish affairs. Won’t 
 this be deserving well of my country and of my cousin ? ” 
 
 Neither on this occasion, nor on any other, were the 
 remonstrances of my Lord Kilrush of power to stop the 
 course of this lady’s flow of spirits and raillery. 
 
 Whilst she was going on in this manner with the real 
 Lord Craiglethorpe, Miss Tracey was taking charming 
 walks in the park with Mr Gabbitt, and the young lady 
 began to be seriously charmed with her false lord. 
 This was carrying the jest farther than Lady Geral- 
 dine had intended or foreseen ; and her good-nature 
 would probably have disposed her immediately to dis- 
 solve the enchantment, had she not been provoked by 
 the interference of Lord Kilrush, and the affected 
 sensibility of Miss Clementina Ormsby, who, to give 
 me an exalted opinion of her delicacy, expostulated 
 incessantly in favour of the deluded fair one. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 97 
 
 “ But, my dear Lady Geraldine, I do assure you, it 
 really hurts my feelings. This is going too far — when 
 it comes to the heart. I can’t laugh, I own — the poor 
 girl’s affections will be engaged — she is really falling 
 in love with this odious surveyor.” 
 
 “ But now, my dear Clementina, I do assure you, 
 it really hurts my feelings to hear you talk so childishly. 
 c When it comes to the heart ! ’ ‘ affections engaged ! ’ 
 You talk of falling in love as if it were a terrible fall : 
 for my part, I should pity a person much more for 
 falling downstairs. Why, my dear, where is the 
 mighty height from which Miss Tracey could fall? 
 She does not live in the clouds, Clementina, as you do. 
 No ladies live there now ; for the best of all possible 
 reasons, because there are no men there. So, my love, 
 make haste and come down, before you are out of 
 your teens, or you may chance to be left there till you 
 are an angel or an old maid. Trust me, my dear, I, 
 who have tried, tell you, there is no such thing as falling 
 in love, nowadays : you may slip, slide, or stumble ; but 
 to fall in love, I defy you.” 
 
 I saw Lady Kildangan’s eyes fix upon me as her 
 daughter pronounced the last sentence. 
 
 “ Geraldine, my dear, you do not know what you 
 are talking about,” said her ladyship. “Your time 
 may come, Geraldine. Nobody should be too coura- 
 geous. Cupid does not like to be defied.” 
 
 Lady Kildangan walked away, as she spoke, with a 
 very well satisfied air, leaving a party of us young 
 people together. Lady Geraldine looked haughtily 
 vexed. When in this mood, her wit gave no quarter ; 
 spared neither sex nor age. 
 
 “ Everybody says,” whispered she, “ that mamma 
 is the most artful woman in the world ; and I should 
 believe it, only that everybody says it : now, if it were 
 true, nobody would know it.” 
 
 Q 
 
9 8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 Lady Geraldine’s air of disdain towards me was 
 resumed. I did not quite understand. Was it pride ? 
 was it coquetry ? She certainly blushed deeply, and 
 for the first time that I ever saw her blush, when her 
 mother said, “ Your time may come, Geraldine.” 
 
 My week being now at an end, I resolved to take 
 my leave. When I announced this resolution, I was 
 assailed with the most pressing entreaties to stay a 
 few days longer — one day longer. Lady Ormsby and 
 Sir Harry said everything that could be said upon 
 the occasion : indeed, it seemed a matter of general 
 interest to all, except to Lady Geraldine. She ap- 
 peared wholly indifferent, and I was not even gratified 
 by any apparent affectation of desiring my departure. 
 Curiosity to see whether this would be sustained by 
 her ladyship to the last gave me resolution sufficient 
 to resist the importunities of Sir Harry ; and I de- 
 parted, rejoicing that my indifference was equal to 
 her ladyship’s. As Tasso said of some fair one, 
 
 whom he met at the carnival of Mantua, I ran some 
 risk of falling in love. I had been so far roused from 
 my habitual apathy, that I actually made some re- 
 flections. As I returned home, I began to perceive 
 that there was some difference between woman and 
 woman, beside the distinctions of rank, fortune, and 
 figure. I think I owe to Lady Geraldine my first 
 relish for wit, and my first idea that a woman might 
 be, if not a reasonable, at least a companionable 
 animal. I compared her ladyship with the mere 
 puppets and parrots of fashion, of whom I had been 
 wearied ; and I began to suspect, that one might 
 find, in a lady’s “ lively nonsense,” a relief from 
 ennui. These reflections, however, did not prevent 
 me from sleeping the greatest part of the morning 
 on my way home ; nor did I dream of anything that 
 I can remember. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 99 
 
 At the porter’s lodge I saw Ellinor sitting at her 
 spinning-wheel ; and my thoughts took up my domes- 
 tic affairs just where I had left them the preceding 
 week. 
 
 Chapter jfc 
 
 I N vain I attempted to interest myself in my domestic 
 affairs ; the silence and solitude of my own castle 
 appeared to me intolerably melancholy, after my 
 return from Ormsby Villa. There was a blank in 
 my existence during a week, in which I can re- 
 member nothing that I did, said, or thought, except 
 what passed during one ride, which Mr M‘Leod 
 compelled my politeness to take with him. He came 
 with the same face to see me, and the same set of 
 ideas, as those he had before I went to Ormsby 
 Villa. He began to talk of my schemes for im- 
 proving my tenantry, and of my wish that he should 
 explain his notions relative to the education of the 
 poor of Ireland, which, he said, as I now seemed to 
 be at leisure, he was ready to do as concisely as pos- 
 sible. As concisely as possible were the only words 
 of his address that I heard with satisfaction ; but of 
 course I bowed, said I was much obliged, and should 
 be happy to have the advantage of Mr M‘Leod’s 
 opinions and sentiments. What these were I cannot 
 recollect, for I settled myself in a reverie soon after 
 his voice began to sound upon my ear ; but I re- 
 member at last he wakened me, by proposing that I 
 should ride with him to see a schoolhouse and some 
 cottages, which he had built on a little estate of his 
 own in my neighbourhood : “ for,” said he, “ ’tis 
 better, my lord, to show you what can be done with 
 these people, than to talk of what might be effected.” 
 
TOO 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Very true,” said I, agreeing readily ; because I 
 wanted to finish a conversation that wearied me, and to 
 have a refreshing ride. It was a delightful evening; 
 and when we came on M c Leod’s estate, I really could 
 not help being pleased and interested. In an unfavour- 
 able situation, with all nature, vegetable and animal, 
 against him, he had actually created a paradise amid 
 the wilds. There was nothing wonderful in anything 
 I saw around me ; but there was such an air of neat- 
 ness and comfort, order and activity, in the people and 
 in their cottages, that I almost thought myself in 
 England ; and I could not forbear exclaiming — “How 
 could all this be brought about in Ireland ? ” 
 
 “ Chiefly by not doing and not expecting too much 
 at first,” said M‘Leod. “We took time, and had 
 patience. We began by setting them the example of 
 some very slight improvements, and then, lured on by 
 the sight of success, they could make similar trials 
 themselves. My wife and I went among them, and 
 talked to them in their cottages, and took an interest in 
 their concerns, and did not want to have everything our 
 own way ; and when they saw that, they began to con- 
 sider which way was best ; so by degrees we led where 
 we could not have driven ; and raised in them, by little 
 and little, a taste for conveniences and comforts. 
 Then the business was done ; for the moment the taste 
 and ambition were excited, to work the people went to 
 gratify them ; and according as they exerted themselves, 
 we helped them. Perhaps it was best for them and 
 for us, that we were not rich ; for we could not do too 
 much at a time, and were never tempted to begin grand 
 schemes that we could not finish. There,” said 
 M‘Leod, pointing to a cottage with a pretty porch 
 covered with woodbine, and a neat garden, in which 
 many children were busily at work, “that house and 
 that garden were the means of doing all the rest ; that 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 IOI 
 
 is our schoolhouse. We could not expect to do much 
 with the old, whose habits were fixed ; but we tried to 
 give the young children better notions, and it was a 
 long time before we could bring that to bear. Twenty- 
 six years we have been at this work ; and in that time 
 if we have done anything, it was by beginning with the 
 children : a race of our own training has now grown 
 up, and they go on in the way they were taught, and 
 prosper to our hearts’ content, and, what is better still, 
 to their hearts’ content.” 
 
 McLeod, habitually grave and taciturn, seemed 
 quite enlivened and talkative this day ; but I verily 
 believe that not the slightest ostentation or vanity 
 inspired him, for I never before or since heard him 
 talk or allude to his own good deeds : I am convinced 
 his motive was to excite me to persevere in my bene- 
 volent projects, by showing what had been done by 
 small means. He was so truly in earnest that he 
 never perceived how tired I was ; indeed he was so 
 little in the habit of expecting sympathy or applause, 
 that he never missed even the ordinary expressions of 
 concurrent complaisance. 
 
 “ Religion,” continued he, u is the great difficulty 
 in Ireland. We make no difference between Pro- 
 testants and Catholics ; we always have admitted both 
 into our school. The priest comes on Saturday 
 morning, and the parish minister on Saturday even- 
 ing, to hear the children belonging to each Church 
 their catechisms, and to instruct them in the tenets 
 of their faith. And as we keep to our word, and 
 never attempt making proselytes, nor directly or in- 
 directly interfere with their religious opinions, the 
 priests are glad to let us instruct the Catholic children 
 in all other points, which they plainly see must ad- 
 vance their temporal interests.” 
 
 Mr M‘Leod invited me to go in and look at the 
 
102 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 school. “ In a hedge or ditch school,”' said he, 
 “ which I once passed on this road, and in which I 
 saw a crowd of idle children, I heard the school- 
 master cry out, “ Rehearse ! rehearse 1 there’s com- 
 pany going by ; ” and instantly all the boys snatched 
 up their books, and began gabbling as fast as ever 
 they could, to give an idea to the passenger of their 
 diligence in repeating their lessons. But here, my 
 lord,” continued M‘Leod, “ you will not see any ex- 
 hibitions got up for company. I hate such tricks. 
 Walk in, my lord, if you please.” 
 
 I walked in ; but am ashamed to say, that I ob- 
 served only that everything looked as if it had been 
 used for many years, and yet not worn-out ; and the 
 whole school appeared as if all were in their places, 
 and occupied and intent upon their business : but 
 this general recollection is all I have retained. The 
 enthusiasm for improvement had subsided in my 
 mind ; and though I felt a transient pleasure in the 
 present picture of the happiness of these poor people 
 and their healthy children, yet, as I rode home, the 
 images faded away like a dream. I resolved, indeed, 
 at some future period, to surpass all that Mr M‘Leod 
 had done, or all that with his narrow income he could 
 ever accomplish ; and to this resolution I was prompted 
 by jealousy of this man, rather than by benevolence. 
 Before I had arranged, even in imagination, my plans, 
 young Ormsby came one morning, and pressed me to 
 return with him to Ormsby Villa. I yielded to his 
 solicitations and to my own wishes. When I ar- 
 rived, the ladies were all at their toilettes, except 
 Miss Bland, who was in the book-room with the 
 
 gentlemen, ready to receive me with her per- 
 
 petual smile. Wherever Miss Bland went, she was 
 always ramie de la maison , accustomed to share 
 
 with the lady of the house the labour of enter- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 103 
 
 taining her guests. This double of Lady Ormsby 
 talked to me most courteously of all the nothings of 
 the day, and informed me of the changes which had 
 taken place in the ever-varying succession of com- 
 pany at Ormsby Villa. The two brigadiers and 
 one of the aides-de-camp were gone ; but Captain 
 Andrews, another Castle aide-de-camp, was come, 
 and my Lord O'Toole had arrived. Then followed a 
 by-conversation between Miss Bland and some of the 
 gentlemen, about the joy and sorrow which his lord- 
 ship’s arrival would create in the hearts of two certain 
 ladies ; one of whom, as I gathered from the in- 
 nuendoes, was Lady Hauton, and the other Lady 
 O’Toole.- As I knew nothing of Dublin intrigues 
 and scandal, I was little attentive to all this. Miss 
 Bland, persisting in entertaining me, proceeded to 
 inform me, that my Lord O’Toole had brought down 
 with him Mr Cecil Devereux, who was a wit and a 
 poet, very handsome and gallant, and one of the most 
 fashionable young men in Dublin. I determined not 
 to like him — I always hated a flourish of trumpets ; 
 whoever enters, announced in this parading manner, 
 appears to disadvantage. Mr Cecil Devereux entered 
 just as the flourish ceased. He was not at all the 
 sort of person I was prepared to see : though hand- 
 some, and with the air of a man used to good 
 company, there was nothing of a coxcomb in his 
 manner; on the contrary, there was such an appear- 
 ance of carelessness about himself, and deference to- 
 wards others, that, notwithstanding the injudicious 
 praise that had been bestowed on him, and my con- 
 sequent resolution to dislike him, I was pleased and 
 familiar with him before I had been ten minutes in 
 his company. Lord Kilrush introduced him to me, 
 with great pomposity, as a gentleman of talents, for 
 whom he and his brother O’Toole interested them- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I04 
 
 selves much. This air of patronage, I saw, disgusted 
 Mr Devereux ; and instead of suffering himself to 
 be shown off", he turned the conversation from his 
 own poems to general subjects. He asked me some 
 questions about a curious cavern, or subterraneous 
 way, near Glenthorn Castle, which stretched from 
 the seashore to a considerable distance under the 
 rock, and communicated with an old abbey near the 
 castle. Mr Devereux said that such subterraneous 
 places had been formerly used in Ireland as granaries 
 by the ancient inhabitants ; but a gentleman of the 
 neighbourhood who was present observed, that the 
 caverns on this coast had, within his memory, been 
 used as hiding-places by smugglers: on this hint 
 Lord Kilrush began a prosing dissertation upon 
 smugglers and contraband traders, and talked to me 
 a prodigious deal about exports and imports, and 
 bounties, and the balance of trade. Not one word he 
 said did I comprehend, and I question whether his 
 lordship understood the subjects upon which he spoke 
 so dictatorially ; but he thought he succeeded in giving 
 me an opinion of his wisdom and information. His 
 brother O’Toole appeared next: he did not look 
 like a man of gallantry, as I had been taught to 
 expect from the hints thrown out respecting Lady 
 Hauton ; his lordship’s whole soul seemed devoted to 
 ambition, and he talked so much of great men, and 
 state affairs, and court intrigues, and honours, and pre- 
 ferments, that I began to fancy I had been buried alive, 
 because I knew little of these things. I was tired 
 of hearing him, yet mortified that I could not speak 
 exactly in the same manner, and with the same air of 
 being the best possible authority. I began to wish 
 that I also had some interest at court. The cares and 
 troubles of the ambitious man, so utterly repugnant 
 to the indolence of my disposition, vanished in this 
 
FNNUt 
 
 i os 
 
 moment of infatuation from my view, and I thought 
 only of the pleasures of power. Such is the infectious 
 nature of ambition ! 
 
 Mr Devereux helped me to throw off this dangerous 
 contagion, before it did me any injury. He happened 
 to stay in the room with me a quarter of an hour after 
 the other gentlemen went to dress. Though not often 
 disposed to conversation with a stranger, yet I was 
 won by this gentleman’s easy address : he politely 
 talked of the English fashionable world, with which 
 he knew that I was well acquainted ; I, with equal 
 politeness, recurred to the Irish great world ; we 
 fastened together upon Lord O’Toole, who took us 
 to Dublin Castle ; and I began to express my regret 
 that I had not yet been at the Irish court, and that I 
 had not earlier in life made myself of political conse- 
 quence. “ Ambition,” said I, “ might help to keep a 
 man awake and alive ; all common pleasures have long 
 since ceased to interest me — they really cannot make 
 me stir.” 
 
 “ My lord,” said Mr Devereux, “ you would do 
 better to sit or lie still all your life than to toil for 
 such vain objects. 
 
 * Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, 
 
 What hell it is in sueing long to bide : ’ 
 
 Your lordship may remember Spenser’s description of 
 that hell?” 
 
 “ Not exactly,” said I, unwilling to lower the good 
 opinion this gentleman seemed to have taken for granted 
 of my literature. He took Spenser’s poems out of the 
 book-case, and I actually rose from my seat to read 
 the passage ; for what trouble will not even the laziest 
 of mortals take to preserve the esteem of one by whom 
 he sees that he is over-valued. I read the following 
 ten lines without yawning : — 
 
io6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, 
 
 Wliat hell it is in sueing long to bide ; 
 
 To lose good days that might be better spent, 
 
 To waste long nights in pensive discontent, 
 
 To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow, 
 
 To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow, 
 
 To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares, 
 
 To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs, 
 
 To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, 
 
 To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.” 
 
 “Very strong, indeed,” said I, with a competent 
 air, as if used to judge of poetry. 
 
 “And it comes with still greater force, when we 
 consider by whom it was written. A man, you 
 know, my lord, who had been secretary to a Lord 
 Lieutenant.” 
 
 I felt my nascent ambition die away within me. 
 I acknowledged it was better to spend an easy life. 
 My determination was confirmed at this instant by 
 the appearance of Lady Geraldine. Ambition and 
 love, it is said, are incompatible passions. Neither 
 of them had yet possession of my heart; but love 
 and Lady Geraldine had perhaps a better chance 
 than ambition and Lord O’Toole. Lady Geraldine 
 appeared in high spirits ; and, though I was not a 
 vain man, I could not help fancying that my return 
 to Ormsby Villa contributed to her charming viva- 
 city. This gratified me secretly and soberly, as much 
 as it visibly delighted her mother. Miss Bland, to 
 pay her court to Lady Kildangan, observed that 
 Lady Geraldine was in uncommonly fine spirits this 
 evening. Lady Geraldine threw back a haughty 
 frown over her left shoulder : this was the only time 
 I ever saw her notice, in any manner, anything that 
 fell from her obsequious friend. To avert the fair 
 one’s displeasure, I asked for Miss Tracey and Mr 
 Gabbitt. 
 
 “ Mr Gabbitt,” said her ladyship, resuming her 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I07 
 
 good-humour instantly ; “ Mr Gabbitt is gone off the 
 happiest man in Ireland, with the hopes of surveying 
 my Lord O’Toole’s estate; a good job, which I was 
 bound in honour to obtain for him, as a reward for 
 taking a good joke. After mocking him with the 
 bare imagination of a feast, you know the Barmecide 
 in the Arabian Tales gave poor Shakabac a substantial 
 dinner, a full equivalent for the jest.” 
 
 “ And Miss Tracey,” said I, “ what did your lady- 
 ship do for her ? ” 
 
 “ I persuaded her mamma that the sweet creature 
 was falling into an atrophy. So she carried the forlorn 
 damsel post haste to the Black Rock for the recovery 
 of her health, or her heart. Clementina, my dear, no 
 reproachful looks ; in your secret soul do not you 
 know, that I could not do a young lady a greater 
 favour than to give her a plausible excuse for getting 
 away from home ? ” 
 
 I was afraid that Lady Geraldine would feel the 
 want of her butt ; however, I found that Miss Tracey’s 
 place was supplied by Captain Andrews, one of the 
 Castle’s aides-de-camp ; and when Captain Andrews 
 was out of the way, Lord Kilrush and his brother 
 O’Toole were good marks . High and mighty as 
 
 these personages thought themselves, and respectfully, 
 nay obsequiously, as they were treated by most others, 
 to this lady their characters appeared only a good 
 study ; and to laugh at them seemed only a good 
 practice . 
 
 “ Perhaps, my lord,” said she to me, “ you do not 
 yet know my Lord O’Toole ?” 
 
 “ I have had the honour to be introduced to him.” 
 
 “ That’s well ; for he thinks that, 
 
 ‘ Not to know him, argues yourself unknown.’ 
 
 But as your lordship is a stranger in this country, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 108 
 
 you may be pardoned ; and I will make you better 
 acquainted with him. I suppose you know there are 
 many Tooles in Ireland ; some very ancient, respect- 
 able, and useful : this, however, is but a mere poli- 
 tical tool, and the worst of all tools, a cat’s-paw. 
 There’s one thing to the credit of these brothers, 
 they agree vastly well ; for one delights in being 
 always on the stage, and the other always behind 
 the scenes. These brothers, with Captain Andrews 
 — I hope they are none of them within hearing — 
 form a charming trio, all admirable in their way. 
 My Lord O’Toole is — artifice without art. My Lord 
 Kilrush — importance without power. And Captain 
 Andrews — pliability without ease. Poor Andrews ! 
 he’s a defenceless animal — safe in impenetrable armour. 
 Give him but time — as a man said, who once showed 
 me a land-tortoise — give him but time to draw his 
 head into his shell, and a broad-wheeled waggon may 
 go over him without hurting him. Lord Glenthorn, 
 did you ever observe Captain Andrews’s mode of con- 
 versation ? ” 
 
 “ No ; I never heard him converse.” 
 
 “ Converse ! nor I indeed ; but you have heard him 
 talk.” 
 
 u I have heard him say — Very true — and Of course .” 
 
 “ Lord Glenthorn is quite severe this evening,” said 
 Mrs O’Connor. 
 
 “ But though your lordship,” continued Lady 
 Geraldine, “ may have observed Captain Andrews’s 
 wonderful economy of words, do you know whence 
 it arises ? Perhaps you think, from his perception of 
 his own want of understanding.” 
 
 “ Not from his perception of the want,” said I. 
 
 “ Again ! again ! ” said Mrs O’Connor, with an 
 insulting tone of surprise ; “ Lord Glenthorn’s quite 
 witty this evening.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I09 
 
 Lady Geraldine looked as if she were fully sensible 
 of the want of politeness in Mrs O’Connor’s mode of 
 praising. “ But, my lord,” pursued she, “ you wrong 
 Captain Andrews, if you attribute his monosyllabic 
 replies either to stupidity or timidity. You have not 
 guessed the reason why he never gives on any subject 
 more than half an opinion.” 
 
 “ It was in the diplomatic school he was taught that 
 art,” said Mr Devereux. 
 
 “ You must know,” pursued Lady Geraldine, “ that 
 Captain Andrews is only an aide-de-camp till a diplo- 
 matic situation can be found for him ; and to do him 
 justice, he has been so well trained in the diplomatic 
 school, that he will not hazard an assertion on any 
 subject ; he is not certain of anything, not even of his 
 own identity.” 
 
 “ He assuredly wants,” said Devereux, “ the only 
 proof of existence which Descartes would admit — I 
 think , therefore I am.” 
 
 “ He has such a holy horror of committing himself,” 
 continued Lady Geraldine, “ that if you were to ask 
 him if the sun rose this morning, he would answer 
 with his sweet smile — So I am told— ox — So I am 
 informed” 
 
 “ Begging your ladyship’s pardon,” cried Mr De- 
 vereux, “that is much too affirmative. In the pure 
 diplomatic style, impersonal verbs must ever be used in 
 preference to active or passive. So I am told , lays him 
 open to the dangerous questions, Who told you ? or, 
 By whom were you informed ? Then he is forced into 
 the imprudence of giving up his authorities ; whereas 
 he is safe in the impersonality of So it is said y or, So it 
 is reported .” 
 
 “ How I should like to see a meeting between two 
 perfectly finished diplomatists ! ” cried Lady Geraldine. 
 
 “That is demonstrably impossible,” said Mr De- 
 
I IO 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 vereux ; “ for in certain political, as well as in certain 
 geometrical lines, there is a continual effort to approach, 
 without a possibility of meeting.” 
 
 Lady Geraldine’s raillery, like all other things, 
 would, perhaps, soon have become tiresome to me ; 
 but that there was infinite variety in her humour. At 
 first I had thought her merely superficial, and intent 
 solely upon her own amusement ; but I soon found 
 that she had a taste for literature, beyond what could 
 have been expected in one who lived so dissipated a 
 life ; a depth of reflection that seemed inconsistent with 
 the rapidity with which she thought ; and, above all, 
 a degree of generous indignation against meanness and 
 vice, which seemed incompatible with the selfish char- 
 acter of a fine lady, and which appeared quite incom- 
 prehensible to the imitating tribe of her fashionable 
 companions. 
 
 I mentioned a Mrs Norton and Lady Hauton 
 amongst the company of Ormsby Villa. These two 
 English ladies, whom I had never met in any of the 
 higher circles in London, who were persons of no 
 consequence and of no marked character in their own 
 country, made, it seems, a prodigious sensation when 
 they came over to Ireland, and turned the heads of 
 half Dublin by the extravagance of their dress, the 
 impertinence of their airs, and the audacity of their 
 conduct. Fame flew before them to the remote parts 
 of the country ; and when they arrived at Ormsby 
 Villa, all the country gentlemen and ladies were pre- 
 pared to admire these celebrated fashionable belles. 
 All worshipped them present, and abused them absent, 
 except Lady Geraldine, who neither joined in the 
 admiration nor inquired into the scandal. One morn- 
 ing Mrs Norton and Lady Hauton had each collected 
 her votaries round her : one group begging patterns of 
 dress from Lady Hauton, who stood up in the midst 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 Ill 
 
 of them, to have everything she wore examined and 
 envied ; the other group sat on a sofa apart, listening 
 to Mrs Norton, who, sotto voce, was telling interesting 
 anecdotes of an English crim. con., which then occu- 
 pied the attention of the fashionable world. Mrs 
 Norton had letters from the best authorities in London, 
 which she was entreated by her auditors to read to 
 them. Mrs Norton went to look for the letters, Lady 
 Hauton to direct her woman to furnish some patterns 
 of I know not what articles of dress ; and in the mean- 
 time, all the company joined in canvassing the merits 
 and demerits of the dress and characters of the two 
 ladies who had just left the room. Lady Geraldine, 
 who had kept aloof, and who was examining some 
 prints at the farther end of the room, at this instant 
 laid down her book, and looked upon the whole party 
 with an air of magnanimous disdain ; then smiling, as 
 in scorn, she advanced towards them, and in a tone of 
 irony addressing one of the Swanlinbar graces, “ My 
 dear Theresa,” said her ladyship, u you are absolutely 
 ashamed, I see, of not being quite naked ; and you, 
 my good Bess, will, no doubt, very soon be equally 
 scandalized, at the imputation of being a perfectly 
 modest woman. Go on, my friends ; go on, and 
 prosper ; beg and borrow all the patterns and pre- 
 cedents you can collect of the newest fashions of folly 
 and vice. Make haste, make haste ; they don’t reach 
 our remote island fast enough. We Irish might live 
 in innocence half a century longer, if you didn’t ex- 
 pedite the progress of profligacy ; we might escape the 
 plague that rages in neighbouring countries, if we didn’t, 
 without any quarantine, and with open arms, welcome 
 every suspected stranger ; if we didn’t encourage the 
 importation of whole bales of tainted fineries, that will 
 spread the contagion from Dublin to Cork, and from 
 Cork to Galway ! ” 
 
1 1 2 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ La ! ” said Miss Ormsby, “ how severe your lady- 
 ship is ; and all only for one’s asking for a pattern ! ” 
 
 “ But you know,” pursued Mrs O’Connor, “ that 
 Lady Geraldine is too proud to take pattern from any- 
 body.” 
 
 “Too proud am I? Well, then, I’ll be humble; 
 I’ll abase myself — shall I ? 
 
 ‘ Proud as I am, I’ll put myself to school ; ' 
 
 and I’ll do what the Ladies Hauton and Norton shall 
 advise, to heighten my charms and preserve my re- 
 putation. I must begin, must not I, Mrs O’Connor, 
 by learning not to blush ? for I observed you were 
 ashamed for me yesterday at dinner, when I blushed 
 at something said by one of our fair missionaries. 
 Then, to whatever lengths flirtations and gallantry may 
 go between unmarried or married people, I must look 
 on. I may shut my eyes, if I please, and look down ; 
 but not from shame — from affectation I may as often 
 as I please, or to show my eyelashes. Memorandum 
 — to practise this before Clementina Ormsby, my 
 mirror of fashion. So far, so good, for my looks ; 
 but now for my language. I must reform my barbarous 
 language, and learn from Mrs Norton, with her pretty 
 accommodating voice, to call an intrigue an arrange- 
 ment^ and a crim. con. an affair in Doctor’s Commons , 
 or that business before the Lords . 
 
 * We never mention Hell to ears polite.’ 
 
 How virtuous we shall be when we have no name 
 for vice ! But stay, I must mind my lessons — I have 
 more, much more to learn. From the dashing Lady 
 Hauton I may learn, if my head be but strong, and 
 my courage intrepid enough, ‘ to touch the brink of all 
 we hate,’ without tumbling headlong into the gulf ; 
 and from the interesting Mrs Norton, as I hear it 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 i*3 
 
 whispered amongst you ladies, I may learn how, with 
 the assistance of a Humane Society, to save a half- 
 drowned reputation. It is, I understand, the glory of 
 one class of fashionable females, to seem worse than 
 they are ; and of another class the privilege, to be 
 worse than they seem.” 
 
 Here clamorous voices interrupted Lady Geraldine 
 — some justifying, some attacking, Lady Hauton and 
 Mrs Norton. 
 
 “ O ! Lady Geraldine, I assure you, notwithstand- 
 ing all that was said about General and Mrs 
 
 Norton, I am convinced there was nothing in it.” 
 
 “And, my dear Lady Geraldine, though Lady 
 Hauton does go great lengths in coquetting with a 
 certain lord, you must see that there’s nothing wrong ; 
 and that she means nothing, but to provoke his lady’s 
 jealousy. You know his lordship is not a man to fall 
 in love with.” 
 
 “ So, because Lady Hauton’s passion is hatred 
 instead of love, and because her sole object is to give 
 pain to a poor wife, and to make mischief in families, 
 all her sins are to be forgiven ! Now, if I were 
 forced to forgive any ill-conducted female, I would 
 rather excuse the woman who is hurried on by love 
 than she who is instigated by hatred.” 
 
 Miss Bland now began to support her ladyship’s 
 opinion, that “ Lady Hauton was much the worst of 
 the two ; ” and all the scandal that was in circulation 
 was produced by the partisans of each of these ladies. 
 
 “No matter, no matter, which is the worst,” 
 cried Lady Geraldine ; “ don’t let us waste our time 
 in repeating or verifying scandalous stories of either 
 of them. I have no enmity to these ladies ; I only 
 despise them, or, rather, their follies and their faults. 
 It is not the sinner, but the sin we should reprobate. 
 O ! my dear countrywomen,” cried Lady Geraldine, 
 
 H 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 1X4 
 
 with increasing animation of countenance and manner — - 
 “ O ! my dear countrywomen, let us never stoop to 
 admire and imitate these second-hand airs and graces, 
 follies and vices. Let us dare to be ourselves ! ” 
 
 My eyes were fixed upon her animated countenance, 
 and, I believe, I continued gazing even after her voice 
 ceased. Mrs O’Connor pointed this out, and I was 
 immediately embarrassed. Miss Bland accounted for 
 my embarrassment by supposing, that what Lady 
 Geraldine had said of English crim. cons, had affected 
 me. From a look and a whisper among the ladies, I 
 guessed this ; but Lady Geraldine was too well-bred 
 to suppose I could suspect her of ill-breeding and 
 ill-nature, or that I could apply to myself what evi- 
 dently was not intended to allude to my family mis- 
 fortunes. By an openness of manner and sweetness 
 of expression, which I cannot forget, she, in one 
 single look, conveyed all this to me : and then re- 
 suming her conversation, “ Pray, my lord,” said she, 
 “ you who have lived so much in the great world in 
 England, say, for you can, whether I am right or 
 wrong in my suspicion, that these ladies, who have 
 made such a noise in Ireland, have been little heard 
 of in England ? ” 
 
 I confirmed her ladyship’s opinion by my evidence. 
 The faces of the company changed. Thus, in a few 
 seconds, the empire of Lady Hauton and of Mrs 
 Norton seemed shaken to the foundation, and never 
 recovered from this shock. 
 
 The warmth of Lady Geraldine’s expressions on 
 this and many other occasions wakened dormant feel- 
 ings in my heart, and made me sensible that I had a 
 soul, and that I was superior to the puppets with whom 
 I had been classed. 
 
 One day Lady Kilrush, in her mixed mode, with 
 partly the graces of a fine lady and partly the airs of 
 
ENNUI. 115 
 
 a let esprit , was talking of Mr Devereux, whom she 
 affected to patronise and produce . 
 
 “ Here, Devereux ! ” cried she ; “ Cecil Devereux ! 
 What can you be thinking of? I am talking to you. 
 Here’s this epitaph of Francis the First upon Petrarch’s 
 Laura, that you showed me the other day : do you 
 know, I dote upon it. I must have it translated : 
 nobody can do it so well as you. I have not time ; 
 but I shall not sleep to-night if it is not done : and 
 you are so quick : so sit down here, there’s a dear 
 man, and do it in your elegant way for me, whilst I 
 go to my toilette. Perhaps you did not know that my 
 name was Laura,” said she, leaving the room with a 
 very sentimental air. 
 
 “What will become of me!” cried Devereux. 
 “ Never was a harder task set by cruel patroness. I 
 would rather ‘turn a Persian tale for half-a-crown.’ 
 Read this, my lord, and tell me whether it will 
 be easy to turn my Lady Kilrush into Petrarch’s 
 Laura.” 
 
 “ This sonnet, to be sure, is rather difficult to trans- 
 late, or at least to modernize, as bespoke,” said Lady 
 Geraldine, after she had perused the sonnet ; * “ but I 
 think, Mr Devereux, you brought this difficulty upon 
 yourself. How came you to show these lines to such 
 an amateur, such a fetcher and carrier of bays as Lady 
 Kilrush ? You might have been certain that, had they 
 been trash, with the name of Francis the First, and 
 with your fashionable approbation, and something to 
 
 * “ En petit compris vous pouvez voir 
 
 Ce qui comprend beaucoup par renomm6, 
 
 Plume, labeur, la langue, et le devoir 
 Furent vaincus par l’amans de l’aim£e. 
 
 O gentille ame, etant toute estim£e ! 
 
 Qui te pourra louer qu’en se taisant ? 
 
 Car la parole est toujours r£prim£e 
 Quand le sujet surmonte le disant.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 1 1 6 
 
 say about Petrarch and Laura, my Lady Kilrush 
 would talk for ever, et se pamerait d’ affectation ” 
 
 “ Mr Devereux,” said I, “ has only to abide by the 
 last lines, as a good and sufficient apology to Lady 
 Kilrush for his silence : 
 
 ‘ Qui te pourra louer qu’en se taisant ? 
 
 Car la parole est toujours r£prim£e 
 Quand le sujet surmonte le disant.’ ” 
 
 “ There is no way to get out of my difficulties,” 
 said Mr Devereux, with a very melancholy look ; and 
 with a deep sigh he sat down to attempt the translation 
 of the poem. In a few minutes, however, he rose and 
 left the room, declaring that he had the bad habit of 
 not being able to do anything in company. 
 
 Lady Geraldine now, with much energy of in- 
 dignation, exclaimed against the pretensions of rich 
 amateurs, and the mean and presumptuous manner in 
 which some would-be great people affect to patronise 
 genius. 
 
 “ O ! the baseness, the emptiness of such patronising 
 ostentation ! ” cried she. “ I am accused of being 
 proud myself ; but I hope — I believe — I am sure, that 
 my pride is of another sort. Persons of any elevation 
 or generosity of mind never have this species of pride ; 
 but it is your mean, second-rate folk, who imagine that 
 people of talent are a sort of raree-show for their enter- 
 tainment. At best, they consider men of genius only 
 as artists formed for their use, who, if not in a situation 
 to be paid with money, are yet to be easily recompensed 
 by praise — by their praise — their praise ! Heavens ! 
 what conceit ! And these amateur-patrons really think 
 themselves judges, and presume to advise and direct 
 genius, and employ it to their petty purposes ! Like 
 that Pietro de Medicis, who, at some of his entertain- 
 ments, set Michael Angelo to make a statue of snow. 
 
ENNUI. 1 1 7 
 
 My lord, did you ever happen to meet with Leg 
 Memoires de Madame de Stael ? ” 
 
 “ No : I did not know that they were published.” 
 
 “ You mistake me : I mean Madame de Stael of 
 Louis the Fourteenth and the Regent’s time, Made- 
 moiselle de Launay.” 
 
 I had never heard of such a person, and I blushed 
 for my ignorance. 
 
 “Nay, I met with them myself only yesterday,” 
 said Lady Geraldine : “ I was struck with the char- 
 acter of the Duchesse de la Ferte, in which this kind 
 of proud patronising ignorance is admirably painted 
 from the life. It is really worth your while, my 
 lord, to look at it. There’s the book on that little 
 table ; here is the passage. You see, this Duchesse de 
 la Ferte is showing off to a sister-duchess a poor girl 
 of genius, like a puppet or an ape. 
 
 “ 6 Allons, mademoiselle, parlez — Madame, vous allez 
 voir comme elle parle — Elle vit que j’hesitois a re- 
 pondre, et pensa qu’il falloit m’aider comme une 
 chanteuse a qui l’on indique ce qu’on desire d’ entendre 
 — Parlez un peu de religion, mademoiselle, vous direz 
 ensuite autre chose.’ 
 
 “ This speech, Mr Devereux tells me, has become 
 quite proverbial in Paris,” continued Lady Geraldine ; 
 “ and it is often quoted, when any one presumes in the 
 Duchesse de la Ferte’s style.” 
 
 “ Ignorance, either in high or low life, is equally 
 self-sufficient, I believe,” said I, exerting myself 
 to illustrate her ladyship’s remarks. “ A gentleman 
 of my acquaintance lately went to buy some razors 
 at Pack wood’s. Mrs Pack wood alone was visible. 
 
 Upon the gentleman’s complimenting her on the in- 
 finite variety of her husband’s ingenious and poetical 
 advertisements, she replied, 6 La ! sir, and do you 
 think husband has time to write them there things 
 
n8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 his-self? Why, sir, we keeps a poet to do all that 
 there work/ ” 
 
 Though Lady Geraldine spoke only in general of 
 amateur -patrons and of men of genius, yet I could not 
 help fancying, from the warmth with which she ex- 
 pressed herself, and from her dwelling on the subject 
 so long, that her feelings were peculiarly interested for 
 some individual of this description. Thus I discovered 
 that Lady Geraldine had a heart; and I suspected 
 that her ladyship and Mr Devereux had also made 
 the same discovery. This suspicion was strengthened 
 by a slight incident, which occurred the following 
 evening. 
 
 Lady Geraldine and Cecil Devereux, as we were 
 drinking coffee, were in a recessed window, while 
 some of the company stood round them, amused by 
 their animated conversation. They went on, repartee 
 after repartee, as if inspired by each other’s spirits. 
 
 “ You two,” said a little girl of six years old, who 
 was playing in the window, “go on singing to one 
 another like two nightingales ; and this shall be your 
 cage,” added she, drawing the drapery of the window- 
 curtains across the recessed window. “ You shall live 
 always together in this cage : will you, pretty birds ? ” 
 
 “ No, no ; some birds cannot live in a cage, my 
 dear,” cried Lady Geraldine, playfully struggling to 
 get free, whilst the child held her prisoner. 
 
 “ Mr Devereux seems tolerably quiet and contented 
 in his cage,” said the shrewd Mrs O’Connor. 
 
 “ I can’t get out ! I can’t get out ! ” cried Devereux, 
 in the melancholy tone of the starling in the Senti- 
 mental Journey. 
 
 “What is all this?” said my Lady Kildangan, 
 sailing up to us. 
 
 “ Only two birds,” the child began. 
 
 “ Singing-birds,” interrupted Lady Geraldine, catch- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 119 
 
 ing the little girl up in her arms, and stopping her from 
 saying more, by beginning to sing most charmingly. 
 
 Lady Kildangan returned to the sofa without com- 
 prehending one word of what had passed. For my 
 part, I now felt almost certain of the justice of my 
 suspicions : I was a little vexed, but not by any means 
 in that despair into which a man heartily in love would 
 have been thrown by such a discovery. 
 
 Well, thought I, it is well it is no worse : it was 
 very lucky that I did not fall quite in love with this 
 fair lady, since it seems that she has given her heart 
 away. But am I certain of this ? I was mistaken 
 once. Let me examine more carefully. 
 
 Now I had a new motive to keep my attention 
 awake. 
 
 Chapter pn 
 
 T O preserve the continuity of my story, and not to 
 fatigue the reader with the journals of my 
 comings and goings from Ormsby Villa to 
 Glenthorn Castle, and from Glenthorn Castle to 
 Ormsby Villa, I must here relate the observations I 
 made, and the incidents that occurred, during various 
 visits at Sir Harry Ormsby’ s in the course of the 
 summer. 
 
 After the incident of the birds and cage, my sagacity 
 was for some time at fault. I could not perceive any 
 further signs of intelligence between the parties : on 
 the contrary, all communication seemed abruptly to 
 cease. As I was not well versed in such affairs, this 
 quieted my suspicions, and I began to think that I 
 had been entirely mistaken. Cecil Devereux spent 
 his days shut up in his own apartment, immersed, as 
 far as I could understand, in the study of the Persian 
 
120 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 language. He talked to me of nothing but his hopes 
 of an appointment, which Lord O’Toole had promised 
 to procure for him in India. When he was not study- 
 ing, he was botanizing or miner alogizing with O’Toole’s 
 chaplain. I did not envy him his new mode of life. 
 Lady Geraldine took no notice of it. When they did 
 meet, which happened as seldom as possible, there was 
 an air of haughty displeasure on her part; on his, 
 steady and apparently calm respect and self-satisfaction. 
 Her spirits were exuberant, but variable ; and, at 
 times, evidently forced : his were not high, but even 
 and certain. Towards me, her ladyship’s manners 
 were free from coquetry, yet politely gratifying, as 
 she marked, by the sort of conversation she addressed 
 to me, her opinion that I was superior in ability and 
 capability to what she had at first thought me, and to 
 what I had always thought myself. 
 
 Mr Devereux, though with more effort, treated me 
 with distinction, and showed a constant desire to 
 cultivate my friendship. On every occasion he en- 
 deavoured to raise my opinion of myself : to give me 
 ambition and courage to cultivate my mind. Once, 
 when I was arguing in favour of natural genius, and 
 saying that I thought no cultivation could make the 
 abilities of one man equal to those of another, he, 
 without seeming to perceive that I was apologising at 
 once for my own indolence and my intellectual in- 
 feriority, answered in general terms, “ It is difficult to 
 judge what are the natural powers of the mind, they 
 appear so different in different circumstances. You 
 can no more judge of a mind in ignorance than of a 
 plant in darkness. A philosophical friend told me, 
 that he once thought he had discovered a new and 
 strange plant growing in a mine. It was common 
 sage ; but so degenerated and altered, that he could 
 not know it : he planted it in the open air and in the 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 121 
 
 light, and gradually it resumed its natural appearance 
 and character.” 
 
 Mr Devereux excited, without fatiguing, my mind 
 by his conversation ; and I was not yet sufficiently in 
 love to be seriously jealous. I was resolved, however, 
 to sound him upon the subject of Lady Geraldine. I 
 waited for a good opportunity : at length, as we were 
 looking together over the prints of Buerger’s Lenore, 
 he led to the sort of conversation that I desired, by 
 telling me an anecdote relative to the poet, which he 
 had lately heard from a German baron. 
 
 Buerger was charmed with a sonnet, which an 
 unknown fair one addressed to him, in praise of his 
 poetry ; he replied in equal strains ; and they went on 
 flattering one another, till both believed themselves in 
 love : without ever having met, they determined 
 to marry : they at length met, and married : they 
 quarrelled and parted : in other words, the gentleman 
 was terribly disappointed in his unknown mistress ; and 
 she consoled herself by running away from him with 
 another lover. 
 
 The imprudence of this poetic couple led us to 
 reflections on love and marriage in general. Keeping 
 far away from all allusion to Lady Geraldine, I rallied 
 Mr Devereux about the fair Clementina, who was 
 evidently a romantic admirer of his. 
 
 “ Who, except Cupid, would barter his liberty for a 
 butterfly ? ” said he ; “ and Cupid was a child. Men 
 nowadays are grown too wise to enslave themselves for 
 women. Love occupies a vast space in a woman’s 
 thoughts, but fills a small portion in a man’s life. 
 Women are told, that ‘The great, th’ important 
 business of their life, is love ; ’ but men know that 
 they are born for something better than to sing 
 mournful ditties to a mistress’s eyebrow. As to 
 marriage, what a serious, terrible thing ! Some quaint 
 
122 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 old author says, that man is of too smooth and oily a 
 nature to climb up to heaven, if, to make him less 
 slippery, there be not added to his composition the 
 vinegar of marriage. This may be ; but I will keep 
 as long as possible from the vinegar.” 
 
 6 ' ‘ Really, Devereux,” said I, smiling, “you talk 
 so like a cynic and an old bachelor, and you look so 
 little like either, that it is quite ridiculous.” 
 
 “A man must be ridiculous sometimes,” said he, 
 “and bear to be thought so. No man ever distin- 
 guished himself, who could not bear to be laughed at.” 
 Mr Devereux left the room singing, 
 
 “No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
 
 Ambition, I said, will soon cure me of love.” 
 
 I was uncertain what to think of all this. I inclined 
 to believe that ambition was his ruling passion, notwith- 
 standing the description of that Hell which he showed 
 me in Spenser. His conduct to his patron-lords, by 
 which a surer judgment of his character could be formed 
 than by his professions, was not, however, that of a 
 man merely intent upon rising in the world. 
 
 I remember once hearing Lord O’Toole attack a 
 friend of this gentleman’s, calling him, in a certain 
 tone, a philosopher . Mr Devereux replied, “ That he 
 
 could not consider that as a term of reproach ; that 
 where a false or pretended philosopher was meant, 
 some other name should be used, equivalent to the 
 Italian term of reproach, jilosofastro” 
 
 Lord O’Toole would by no means admit of this 
 Italianism : he would make no distinctions : he deemed 
 philosophers altogether a race of beings dangerous and 
 inimical to states. 
 
 “For states read statesmen,” said Devereux, who 
 persisted in the vindication of his friend till Lord 
 O’Toole grew pale with anger, while Captain Andrews 
 
ENNUI. I23 
 
 smiled with ineffable contempt at the political bevue : 
 Lady Geraldine glowed with generous indignation. 
 
 Afterwards, in speaking to me of Lord O’Toole, 
 Devereux said, “His lordship’s classification of men 
 is as contracted as the savage’s classification of animals : 
 he divides mankind into two classes, knaves and fools ; 
 and when he meets with an honest man, he does not 
 know what to make of him.” 
 
 My esteem for Mr Devereux was much increased 
 by my daily observations upon his conduct : towards 
 Lady Geraldine, I thought it particularly honourable : 
 when her displeasure evidently merged in esteem, when 
 her manners again became most winning and attractive, 
 his continued uniformly the same ; never passing the 
 bounds of friendly respect, or swerving, in the slightest 
 degree, from the line of conduct which he had laid 
 down for himself. I thought I now understood him 
 perfectly. That he liked Lady Geraldine I could 
 scarcely doubt ; but I saw that he refrained from 
 aiming at the prize which he knew he ought not to 
 obtain ; that he perceived her ladyship’s favourable 
 disposition towards him, yet denied himself not only 
 the gratification of his vanity, but the exquisite pleasure 
 of conversing with her, lest he should stand in the 
 way of her happier prospects. He frequently spoke 
 to me of her ladyship in terms of the warmest appro- 
 bation. He said, that all the world saw and admired 
 her talents and beauty, but that he had had oppor- 
 tunities, as a relation, of studying her domestic life. 
 “With all her vivacity, she has a heart formed for 
 tenderness,” said he ; “a high sense of duty, the 
 best security for a woman’s conduct ; and in generosity 
 and magnanimity, I never found her superior in either 
 sex. In short, I never saw any woman whose temper 
 and disposition were more likely to make a man of sense 
 and feeling supremely happy.” 
 
124 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 I could not forbear smiling, and asking Cecil Deve- 
 reux how all this accorded with his late professions 
 of hatred to marriage. 
 
 “ My professions were sincere,” said he. “ It 
 would be misery to me to marry any inferior woman, 
 and I am not in circumstances to marry as I could 
 wish. I could not think of Lady Geraldine without 
 a breach of trust, of which your lordship, I hope, 
 cannot suspect me. Her mother places confidence in 
 me. I am not only a relation, but treated as a 
 friend of the family. I am not in love with Lady 
 Geraldine. I admire, esteem, respect her ladyship-; 
 and I wish to see her united to a man, if such a man 
 there be, who may deserve her. We understand 
 one another now. Your lordship will have the good- 
 ness never more to speak to me on this subject.” 
 He spoke with much emotion, but with steadiness, 
 and left me penetrated with feelings that were entirely 
 new to me. 
 
 Much as I admired his conduct, I was yet unde- 
 cided as to my own : my aversion to a second marriage 
 was not yet conquered : — I was amused, I was capti- 
 vated by Lady Geraldine ; but I could not bring 
 myself to think of making a distinct proposal. Captain 
 Andrews himself was not more afraid of being com- 
 mitted than I was upon this tender subject. To gain 
 time, I now thought it necessary to verify all the praises 
 Mr Devereux had bestowed on her ladyship. Mag- 
 nanimity was a word that particularly struck my ear as 
 extraordinary when applied to a female. However, by 
 attending carefully to this lady, I thought I discovered 
 what Mr Devereux meant. Lady Geraldine was 
 superior to manoeuvring little arts and petty stratagems 
 to attract attention : she would not stoop, even to con- 
 quer. F rom gentlemen she seemed to expect attention 
 as her right, as the right of her sex ; not to beg or 
 
£NNU t. 
 
 «5 
 
 accept of it as a favour : if it were not paid, she deemed 
 the gentleman degraded, not herself. Far from being 
 mortified by any preference shown to other ladies, her 
 countenance betrayed only a sarcastic sort of pity for 
 the bad taste of the men, or an absolute indifference 
 and look of haughty absence. I saw that she beheld 
 with disdain the paltry competitions of the young ladies 
 her companions : as her companions, indeed, she hardly 
 seemed to consider them ; she tolerated their foibles, for- 
 gave their envy, and never exerted any superiority, except 
 to show her contempt of vice and meanness. To be in 
 any degree excepted from the common herd ; to be in 
 any degree distinguished by a lady so proud, and with 
 so many goad reasons to be proud, was flattering to my 
 self-love. She gave me no direct encouragement ; but 
 I never advanced far enough to require encouragement, 
 much less to justify repulse. Sometimes I observed, 
 or I fancied, that she treated me with more favour 
 when Mr Devereux was present than at other times ; 
 perhaps — for she was a woman, not an angel — to pique 
 Devereux, and try if she could move him from the 
 settled purpose of his soul. He bore it all with sur- 
 prising constancy : his spirits, however, and his health, 
 began visibly to decline. 
 
 “ If I do not intrude too much on your valuable 
 time, Mr Devereux,” said her ladyship to him one 
 evening, in her most attractive manner, “ may I beg 
 you to read to us some of these beautiful poems of Sir 
 William Jones ? ” 
 
 There was a seat beside her ladyship on the sofa 2 
 the book was held out by the finest arm in the world. 
 
 “ Nay,” said Lady Geraldine, “ do not look so 
 respectfully miserable ; if you have any other engage- 
 ments, you have only to say so : or if you cannot speak 
 you may bow : a bow, you know, is an answer to every- 
 thing. And here is my Lord Glenthorn ready to 
 
126 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 supply your place • pray, do not let me detain you 
 prisoner. You shall not a second time say, I can't 
 get out'' 
 
 Devereux made no further effort to escape, but took 
 the book and his dangerous seat. He remained with 
 us, contrary to his custom, the whole evening. After- 
 wards, as if he felt that some apology was necessary to 
 me for the pleasure in which he had indulged himself, 
 “ Perhaps, my lord,” said he, " another man in my 
 situation, and with my feelings, would think it neces- 
 sary to retreat, and prudent to secure his safety by 
 flight ; but flight is unworthy of him who can combat 
 and conquer : the man who is sure of himself does not 
 sculk away to avoid danger, but advances to meet it, 
 armed secure in honesty.” 
 
 This proud and rash security in his own courage, 
 strength of mind, and integrity, was the only fault of 
 Cecil Devereux. He never prayed not to be led into 
 temptation, he thought himself so sure of avoiding 
 evil. Unconscious of his danger, even though his 
 disease was at its height, he now braved it most im- 
 prudently : he was certain that he should never pass 
 the bounds of friendship ; he had proved this to him- 
 self, and was satisfied : he told me, that he could with 
 indifference, nay, with pleasure, see Lady Geraldine 
 mine. In the meantime, upon the same principle 
 that he deemed flight inglorious, he was proud to ex- 
 pose himself to the full force of Love’s artillery. He 
 was with us now every day, and almost all day, and 
 Lady Geraldine was more charming than ever. The 
 week was fixed for her departure. Still I could not 
 decide. I understood that her ladyship would pass 
 the ensuing winter in Dublin, where she would pro- 
 bably meet with new adorers ; and even if Mr De- 
 vereux should not succeed, some adventurous knight 
 might win and wear the prize. This was an alarm- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 12 ? 
 
 In g thought. It almost decided me to hazard the 
 fatal declaration : but then I recollected that I might 
 follow her ladyship to town the next winter, and that 
 if the impression did not, as might be hoped, wear 
 off during the intervening autumn, it would be time 
 enough to commit myself when I should meet my 
 fair one in Dublin. This was at last my fixed re- 
 solution. Respited from the agonies of doubt, I now 
 waited very tranquilly for that moment to which most 
 lovers look forward with horror, the moment of separa- 
 tion. I was sensible that I had accustomed myself to 
 think about this lady so much, that I had gradually 
 identified my existence with hers, and I thus found 
 my spirit of animation much increased. I dreaded the 
 departure of Lady Geraldine less than the return of ennui. 
 
 In this frame of mind I was walking one morning 
 in the pleasure-grounds with Lady Geraldine, when a 
 slight accident made me act in direct contradiction to 
 all my resolutions, and, I think, inconsistently with 
 my character. But such is the nature of man ! and 
 I was doomed to make a fool of myself, even in the 
 very temple of Minerva. Among the various orna- 
 mental buildings in the grounds at Ormsby Villa, 
 there was a temple dedicated to this goddess, from 
 which issued a troop of hoyden young ladies, headed 
 by the widow O’Connor and Lady Kilrush, all call- 
 ing to us to come and look at some charming dis- 
 covery which they had just made in the temple of 
 Minerva. Thither we proceeded, accompanied by the 
 merry troop. We found in the temple only a poetical 
 inscription of Lady Kilrush’s, pompously engraved on 
 a fine marble tablet. We read the lines with all the 
 attention usually paid to a lady’s poetry in the presence 
 of the poetess. Lady Geraldine and I turned to pay 
 some compliments on the performance, when we found 
 that Lady Kilrush and all her companions were gone. 
 
128 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Gone ! all gone ! ” said Lady Geraldine ; “ and 
 there they are, making their way very fast down to 
 the temple of Folly ! Lady Kilrush, you know, is so 
 ba-a-ashful, she could not possibly stay to receive nos 
 hommages . I love to laugh at affectation. Call them 
 
 back, do, my lord, and you shall see the fair author 
 go through all the evolutions of mock humility, and 
 end by yielding quietly to the notion that she is the 
 tenth Muse. But run, my lord, or they will be out 
 of our reach.” 
 
 I never was seen to run on any occasion ; but to 
 obey Lady Geraldine I walked as fast as I could to 
 the door, and, to my surprise, found it fastened. 
 
 “ Locked, I declare ! Some of the witty tricks of 
 the widow O’Connor, or the hoyden Miss Callwells ! ” 
 “ How I hate hoydens ! ” cried Lady Geraldine : 
 “ but let us take patience ; they will be back pre- 
 sently. If young ladies must perform practical jokes, 
 because quizzing is the fashion, I wish they would 
 devise something new. This locking-up is so stale a 
 jest. To be sure it has lately to boast the authority 
 of high rank in successful practice : but these bun- 
 gling imitators never distinguish between cases the 
 most dissimilar imaginable. Silly creatures ! We have 
 only to be wise and patient.” 
 
 Her ladyship sat down to re-peruse the tablet. I 
 never saw her look so beautiful. The dignified com- 
 posure of her manner charmed me ; it was so unlike 
 the paltry affectation of some of the fashionable ladies 
 by whom I had been disgusted. I recollected the 
 precedent to which she alluded. I recollected that 
 the locking-up ended in matrimony ; and as Lady 
 Geraldine made some remarks upon the verses, I sup- 
 pose my answers showed my absence of mind. 
 
 “Why so grave, my lord? why so absent? I assure 
 you I do not suspect your lordship of having any 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I29 
 
 hand in this vulgar manoeuvre. I acquit you honour- 
 ably ; therefore you need not stand any longer like a 
 criminal.” 
 
 What decided me at this instant I cannot positively 
 tell : whether it was the awkwardness of my own 
 
 situation, or the grace of her ladyship’s manner ; but 
 all my prudential arrangements were forgotten, all 
 my doubts vanished. Before I knew that the words 
 passed my lips, I replied, “That her ladyship did 
 me justice by such an acquittal ; but that though I had 
 no part in the contrivance, yet I felt irresistibly im- 
 pelled to avail myself of the opportunity it afforded 
 of declaring my real sentiments.” I was at her 
 ladyship’s feet, and making very serious love, before 
 I knew where I was. In what words my long- 
 delayed declaration was made I cannot recollect, but 
 I well remember Lady Geraldine’s answer. 
 
 “ My lord, I assure you that you do not know what 
 you are saying : you do not know what you are 
 doing. This is all a mistake, as you will find half 
 an hour hence. I will not be so cruelly vain as to 
 suppose you serious.” 
 
 “ Not serious ! no man ever was more serious.” 
 
 “ No, no — No, no, no.” 
 
 I swore, of course, most fervently. 
 
 “ O ! rise, rise, I beseech you, my lord, and don’t 
 look so like a hero ; though you have done an heroical 
 action, I grant. How you ever brought yourself to 
 it, I cannot imagine. But now, for your comfort, 
 you are safe — Vous voila quitte pour la peur ! Do 
 not, however, let this encourage you to venture again 
 in the same foolish manner. I know but few, very 
 few young ladies, to whom Lord Glenthorn could offer 
 himself with any chance or reasonable hope of being 
 refused. So take warning : never again expect to 
 meet with such another as my whimsical self.” 
 
 1 
 
130 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Never, never can I expect to meet with any- 
 thing resembling your charming self,” cried I. This 
 was a new text for a lover’s rhapsody. It is not 
 necessary, and might not be generally interesting, to 
 repeat all the ridiculous things I said, even if I could 
 remember them. 
 
 Lady Geraldine listened to me, and then very 
 calmly replied, “ Granting you believe all that you 
 are saying at this minute, which I must grant from 
 common gratitude, and still more common vanity ; 
 nevertheless, permit me to assure you, my lord, that 
 this is not love ; it is only a fancy — only the nettle- 
 rash, not the plague. You will not die this time. I 
 will ensure your life. So now jump out of the window 
 as fast as you can, and unlock the door — you need not 
 be afraid of breaking your neck — you know your life 
 is ensured. Come, take the lover’s leap, and get rid 
 of your passion at once.” 
 
 I grew angry. 
 
 “ Only a cloud,” said Lady Geraldine — “ it will 
 blow over.” 
 
 I became more passionate — I did not know the 
 force of my own feelings, till they met with an ob- 
 stacle ; they suddenly rose to a surprising height. 
 
 “ Now, my lord,” cried Lady Geraldine, with a tone 
 and look of comic vexation, “ this is really the most 
 provoking thing imaginable ; you have no idea how 
 you distress me, nor of what exquisite pleasures you 
 deprive me — all the pleasures of coquetry ; legitimate 
 pleasures, in certain circumstances, as I am instructed 
 to think them by one of the first moral authorities. 
 There is a case — I quote from memory, my lord ; for 
 my memory, like that of most other people, on subjects 
 where I am deeply interested, is tolerably tenacious — 
 there is a case, says the best of fathers, in his Legacy 
 to the best of daughters — there is a case, where a 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 13 1 
 
 woman may coquet justifiably to the utmost verge 
 which her conscience will allow. It is where a gentle- 
 man purposely declines making his addresses, till such 
 time as he thinks himself perfectly sure of her consent. 
 Now, my lord, if you had had the goodness to do so, 
 I might have made this delightful case my own ; and 
 what charming latitude I might have allowed my con- 
 science ! But now, alas ! it is all over, and I must 
 be as frank as you have been, under pain of forfeiting 
 what I value more even than admiration — my own 
 good opinion.” 
 
 She paused, and was silent for a few moments ; then 
 suddenly changing her manner, she exclaimed, in a 
 serious, energetic tone, “Yes, I must, I will be sincere ; 
 let it cost me what it may. I will be sincere. My 
 lord, I never can be yours. My lord, you will believe 
 me, even from the effort with which I speak ; ” her 
 voice softened, and her face suffused with crimson, as 
 she spoke. “ I love another — my heart is no longer 
 in my own possession ; whether it will ever be in my 
 power, consistently with my duty and his principles, 
 to be united with the man of my choice, is doubtful — 
 more than doubtful — but this is certain, that with such 
 a prepossession, such a conviction in my mind, I never 
 could nor ought to think of marrying any other person.” 
 
 I pleaded, that however deserving of her preference 
 the object of her favour might be, yet that if there 
 were, as her own prudence seemed to suggest, obstacles, 
 rendering the probability of her union with that person 
 more than doubtful, it might be possible that her 
 superior sense and strength of mind, joined to the 
 persevering affection of another lover, who would 
 spare no exertions to render himself worthy of her, 
 might, perhaps, in time 
 
 “ No, no,” said she, interrupting me ; “ do not 
 deceive yourself. I will not deceive you. I give you 
 
i3 2 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 no hopes that my sentiments may change. I know 
 my own mind — it will not change. My attachment is 
 founded on the firm basis of esteem ; my affection has 
 grown from the intimate knowledge of the principles 
 and conduct of the man I love. No other man, let 
 his merits be what they may, could have these advan- 
 tages in my opinion. And when I say that the pro- 
 bability of our being united is more than doubtful, I 
 do not mean to deny, that I have distant hope that 
 change of circumstances might render love and duty 
 compatible. Without hope I know love cannot long 
 exist. You see I do not talk romantic nonsense to 
 you. All that you say of prudence, and time, and the 
 effect of the attentions of another admirer, would be 
 perfectly just and applicable, if my attachment were a 
 fancy of yesterday — if it were a mere young lady’s 
 commonplace first love ; but I am not a very young 
 lady, nor is this, though a first love, commonplace. I 
 do not, you see, in the usual style, tell you that the 
 man I adore is an angel, and that no created form ever 
 did, or ever can, resemble this angel in green and gold ; 
 but, on the contrary, do justice to your lordship’s 
 merit : and believing, as I do, that you are capable 
 of a real love ; still more, believing that such an at- 
 tachment would rouse you to exertion, and bring to 
 life and light a surprising number of good qualities ; 
 yet I should deceive you unpardonably, fatally for my 
 own peace of mind, if not for yours, were I not frankly 
 and decidedly to assure you, that I never could reward 
 or return your affection. My attachment to — I trust 
 entirely where I trust at all — my attachment to Mr 
 Devereux is for life.” 
 
 “ He deserves it — deserves it all,” cried I, struggling 
 for utterance ; “ that is as much as a rival can say.” 
 
 “ Not more than I expected from you, my lord.” 
 
 “ But your ladyship says there is a hope of duty and 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 133 
 
 love being compatible. Would Lady Kildangan ever 
 consent ? ” 
 
 She looked much disturbed. 
 
 “No, certainly; not unless — Lord O’Toole has 
 promised — not that I depend on courtiers’ promises 
 — but Lord O’Toole is a relation of ours, and he has 
 promised to obtain an appointment abroad, in India, 
 for Mr Devereux. If that were done, he might 
 appear of more consequence in the eyes of the world. 
 My mother might then, perhaps, be propitious. My 
 lord, I give you the strongest proof of my esteem, 
 by speaking with such openness. I have had the 
 honour of your lordship’s acquaintance only a few 
 months ; but without complimenting my own penetra- 
 tion, I may securely trust to the judgment of Mr 
 Devereux, and his example has taught me to feel 
 confidence in your lordship. Your conduct now will, 
 I trust, justify my good opinion, by your secrecy ; and 
 by desisting from useless pursuit you will entitle your- 
 self to my esteem and gratitude. These, I presume, 
 you will think worth securing.” 
 
 My soul was so completely touched, that I could 
 not articulate. 
 
 “ Mr Devereux is right — I see, my lord, that you 
 have a soul that can be touched.” 
 
 “ Kissing hands, I protest ! ” exclaimed a shrill 
 voice at the window. We turned, and saw Mrs 
 O’Connor and a group of tittering faces peeping in. 
 “ Kissing hands, after a good hour’s tete-a-tete ! O 
 pray, Lady Kildangan, make haste here,” continued 
 Mrs O’Connor ; “ make haste, before Lady Geraldine’s 
 blushes are over.” 
 
 “ Were you ever detected in the crime of blushing, 
 in your life, Mrs O’Connor ? ” said I. 
 
 “ I never was found out locked up with so fine 
 a gentleman,” replied Mrs O’Connor. 
 
*34 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Then it hurts your conscience only to be found 
 out, like all the rest of the vast family of the Surfaces,” 
 said Lady Geraldine, resuming her spirit. 
 
 “ Found out ! — Locked up ! — Bless me ! bless me ! 
 What is all this ? ” cried Lady Kildangan, puffing up 
 the hill. “For shame! young ladies; for shame!” 
 continued her ladyship, with a decent suppression of 
 her satisfaction, when she saw, or thought she saw, how 
 matters stood. “ Unlock the door, pray. Don’t be 
 vexed, my Geraldine. Fie! fie! Mrs O’Connor. 
 But quizzing is now so fashionable — nobody can be 
 angry with anybody. My Geraldine, consider we are 
 all friends.” 
 
 The door unlocked, and as we were going out. 
 Lady Geraldine whispered to me — “For mercy’s 
 sake, my lord, don’t break my poor mother’s heart ! 
 Never let her know, that a coronet has been within 
 my grasp, and that I have not clutched it.” 
 
 Lady Kildangan, who thought that all was now 
 approaching that happy termination she so devoutly 
 wished, was so full of her own happy presentiments, 
 that it was impossible for me to undeceive her lady- 
 ship. Even when I announced before her, to Sir 
 Harry Ormsby, that I was obliged to return home 
 immediately on particular business, she was, I am 
 sure, persuaded that I was going to prepare matters 
 for marriage- settlements. When I mounted my horse, 
 Mr Devereux pressed through a crowd assembled on 
 the steps at the hall-door, and offered me his hand, 
 with a look and manner that seemed to say — Have 
 you sufficient generosity to be still my friend ? “ I 
 
 know the value of your friendship, Mr Devereux,” 
 said I, “ and I hope to deserve it better every year 
 that I live.” 
 
 For the effort which it cost me to say this I was 
 rewarded. Lady Geraldine, who had retired behind 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 135 
 
 her companions, at this instant approached with an air 
 of mingled grace and dignity, bowed her head, and gave 
 me a smile of grateful approbation. This is the last 
 image left on my mind, the last look of the charming 
 Geraldine — I never saw her again. 
 
 After I got home I never shaved for two days, and 
 scarcely ever spoke. I should have taken to my bed 
 to avoid seeing any human creature ; but I knew that 
 if I declared myself ill, no power would keep my old 
 nurse Ellinor from coming to moan over me ; and I 
 was not in a humour to listen to stories of the Irish 
 Black Beard, or the ghost of King O’Donoghoe ; 
 nor could I, however troublesome, have repulsed the 
 simplicity of her affection. Instead of going to bed, 
 therefore, I continued to lie stretched upon a sofa, 
 ruminating sweet and bitter thoughts, after giving ab- 
 solute orders that I should not be disturbed on any 
 account whatever. Whilst I was in this state of reverie, 
 one of my servants — an odd Irish fellow, who, under 
 pretence of being half-witted, took more liberties than 
 his companions — bolted into my presence. 
 
 “ Plase your lordship, I thought it my duty, in spite 
 of ’em all below, to come up to advertise to your lord- 
 ship of the news that’s going through the country. 
 That they are all upside down at Ormsby Villa, all 
 mad entirely — fighting and setting off through the king- 
 dom, every one their own way ; and, they say, it’s all on 
 account of something that Miss Clemmy Ormsby told, 
 that Lady Geraldine said about my Lord O’Toole’s 
 being no better than a cat’s-paw, or something that way, 
 which made his lordship quite mad ; and he said, in 
 the presence of Captain Andrews, and my Lady Kil- 
 dangan, and Lady Geraldine, and all that were in it, 
 something that vexed Lady Geraldine, which made 
 Mr Cecil Devereux mad next ; and he said something 
 smart in reply, that Lord O’Toole could not digest, he 
 
1^6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 said, which made his lordship madder than ever, and he 
 discharged Mr Devereux from his favour, and he is not 
 to get that place that was vacant, the lord-lieutenancy 
 of some place in the Indies that he was to have had ; 
 this made Lady Geraldine mad, and it was found out 
 she was in love with Mr Devereux, which made her 
 mother mad, the maddest of all, they say, so that none 
 can hold her, and she is crying night and day how her 
 daughter might have had the first coronet in the king- 
 dom, maning you, my lard, if it had not been that she 
 prefarred a beggar-man, maning Mr Cecil Devereux, 
 who is as poor, they say, as a Connaught-man — and he’s 
 forbid to think of her, and she’s forbid, under pain of 
 bread and water, ever to set her eyes upon him the 
 longest day ever she lives ; so the horses and coaches 
 are ordered, and they are all to be ofF with the first 
 light for Dublin : and that’s all, my lard ; and all truth, 
 not a word of lies I’m telling.” 
 
 I was inclined not to credit a story so oddly told ; 
 but, upon inquiry, I found it true in its material points. 
 My own words to Mr Devereux, and the parting look 
 of Lady Geraldine, were full in my recollection ; I 
 was determined, by an unexpected exertion, to surprise 
 both the lovers, and to secure for ever their esteem and 
 gratitude. The appointment, which Mr Devereux 
 desired, was not yet given away ; the fleet was to sail 
 in a few days. I started up from my sofa — ordered 
 my carriage instantly — shaved myself — sent a courier 
 on before to have horses ready at every stage to carry 
 me to Dublin — got there in the shortest time possible 
 — found Lord O’Toole but just arrived. Though 
 unused to diplomatic language and political negociation, 
 I knew pretty well on what they all hinge. I went 
 directly to the point, and showed that it would be the 
 interest of the party concerned to grant my request. 
 By expressing a becoming desire that my boroughs, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 137 
 
 upon a question where a majority was required, should 
 strengthen the hands of Government , I obtained for my 
 friend the favour he deserved. Before I quitted Lord 
 O’Toole, his secretary, Captain Andrews, was in- 
 structed to write a letter, announcing to Mr Devereux 
 his appointment. A copy of the former letter of 
 refusal now lay before me ; it was in his lordship’s 
 purest diplomatic style — as follows — 
 
 Private . 
 
 “ Lord O’Toole is concerned to inform Mr Deve- 
 reux that he cannot feel himself justified in encou- 
 raging Mr D., under the existing circumstances, to 
 make any direct application relative to the last con- 
 versation his lordship had the honour to hold with Mr 
 Devereux.” 
 
 To Cecil Devereux, Esq. 
 
 &c. Thursday 
 
 The letter which I obtained, and of which I took 
 possession, ran as follows : — 
 
 Private . 
 
 “ Lord O’Toole is happy to have it in command to 
 inform Mr Devereux, that his lordship’s representa- 
 tions on the subject of their last conversation have 
 been thought sufficient, and that an official notification 
 of the appointment to India, which Mr D. desired, 
 will meet the wishes of Mr Devereux. 
 
 “ Captain Andrews has the honour to add his 
 congratulations.” 
 
 To Cecil Devereux, Esq. 
 
 &c. Thursday 
 
 Having despatched this business with a celerity that 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 138 
 
 surprised all the parties concerned, and most myself, I 
 called at the lodgings of Mr Devereux, delivered the 
 letter to his servant, and left town. I could not bear 
 to see either Mr Devereux or Lady Geraldine. I 
 had the pleasure to hear, that the obtaining this 
 appointment was followed by Lady Kildangan’s con- 
 sent to their marriage. Soon after my return to 
 Glenthorn Castle, I received a letter of warm thanks 
 from Devereux, and a polite postscript from Lady 
 Geraldine, declaring that, though she felt much plea- 
 sure, she could feel no surprise in seeing her opinion of 
 Lord Glenthorn justified ; persuaded, as she and Mr 
 Devereux had always been, that only motive and 
 opportunity were wanting to make his lordship’s 
 superior qualities known to the world, and, what is 
 still more difficult, to himself. They left Ireland 
 immediately afterwards, in consequence of their ap- 
 pointment in India. 
 
 I was raised in my own estimation — I revelled a 
 short time in my self-complacent reflections ; but when 
 nothing more remained to be done, or to be said — - 
 when the hurry of action, the novelty of generosity, 
 the glow of enthusiasm, and the freshness of gratitude, 
 were over, I felt that, though large motives could 
 now invigorate my mind, I was still a prey to habitual 
 indolence, and that I should relapse into my former 
 state of apathy and disease. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I REMEMBER to have heard, in some epilogue 
 to a tragedy, that the tide of pity and of love, 
 whilst it overwhelms, fertilizes the soul. That it 
 may deposit the seeds of future fertilization, I believe ; 
 
jSNNUt. 
 
 139 
 
 but some time must elapse before they germinate ; on 
 the first retiring of the tide, the prospect is barren 
 and desolate. I was absolutely inert, and almost 
 imbecile for a considerable time, after the extraordinary 
 stimulus, by which I had been actuated, was with- 
 drawn. I was in this state of apathy when the 
 rebellion broke out in Ireland ; nor was I roused in 
 the least by the first news of the disturbances. The 
 intelligence, however, so much alarmed my English 
 servants, that, with one accord, they left me ; nothing 
 could persuade them to remain longer in Ireland. 
 The parting with my English gentleman affected my 
 lethargic selfishness a little. His loss would have 
 been grievous to such a helpless being as I was, had 
 not his place been immediately supplied by that half- 
 witted Irishman, Joe Kelly, who had ingratiated him- 
 self with me by a mixture of drollery and simplicity, 
 and by suffering himself to be continually my laughing- 
 stock ; for, in imitation of Lady Geraldine, I thought 
 it necessary to have a butt. I remember he first 
 caught my notice by a strange answer to a very 
 simple question. I asked, “What noise is that I 
 hear ? ” “ My lard,” said he, “ it is only the singing 
 
 in my ears ; I have had it these six months.” An- 
 other time, when I reproached him for having told 
 me a lie, he answered, “ Why, now indeed, and plase 
 your honour, my lard, I tell as few lies as possibly 
 I can.” This fellow, the son of a bricklayer, had 
 originally been intended for a priest, and he went, 
 as he told me, to the College of Maynooth, to study 
 his humanities ; but, unluckily, the charms of some 
 Irish Heloise came between him and the altar. He 
 lived in a cabin of love, till he was weary of his 
 smoke-dried Heloise, and then thought it conv anient 
 to turn sarving man, as he could play on the flute, 
 and brush a coat remarkably well, which he lamed 
 
140 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 at Maynooth, by brushing the coats of the superiors. 
 Though he was willing to be laughed at, Joe Kelly 
 could in his turn laugh ; and he now ridiculed, 
 without mercy, the pusillanimity of the English rene - 
 gadoes , as he called the servants who had just left 
 my service. He assured me that, to his knowledge, 
 there was no manner of danger, excepted a man pre - 
 farred being afraid of his own shadow , which some did , 
 rather than have nothing to talk of or enter into resolu- 
 tions about with some of the spirited men in the chair . 
 
 Unwilling to be disturbed, I readily believed all that 
 lulled me in my security. I would not be at the trouble 
 of reading the public papers ; and when they were read 
 to me, I did not credit any paragraph that militated 
 against my own opinion. Nothing could awaken me. 
 I remember, one day, lying yawning on my sofa, re- 
 peating to Mr M‘Leod, who endeavoured to open my 
 eyes to the situation of the country, “ Pshaw, my dear 
 sir ; there is no danger, be assured — none at all — none 
 at all. For mercy’s sake, talk to me of something 
 more diverting, if you would keep me awake ; time 
 enough to think of these things when they come nearer 
 to us.” 
 
 Evils that were not immediately near me had no 
 power to affect my imagination. My tenantry had not 
 yet been contaminated by the epidemic infection, which 
 broke out soon after with such violence as to threaten 
 the total destruction of all civil order. I had lived in 
 England — I was unacquainted with the causes and the 
 progress of the disease, and I had no notion of my 
 danger ; all I knew was, that some houses had been 
 robbed of arms, and that there was a set of desperate 
 wretches called defenders ; but I was annoyed only by 
 the rout that was now made about them. Having 
 been used to the regular course of justice which pre- 
 vailed in England, I was more shocked at the summary 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 141 
 
 proceedings of my neighbours than alarmed at the 
 symptoms of insurrection. Whilst my mind was in 
 this mood, I was provoked by the conduct of some of 
 the violent party, which wounded my personal pride, 
 and infringed upon my imagined consequence. My 
 foster-brother’s forge was searched for pikes, his house 
 ransacked, his bed and bellows, as possible hiding-places, 
 were cut open ; by accident, or from private malice, 
 he received a shot in his arm ; and, though not the 
 slightest cause of suspicion could be found against him, 
 the party left him with a broken arm, and the con- 
 solation of not being sent to jail as a defender. With- 
 out making any allowance for the peculiar circumstances 
 of the country, my indignation was excited in the 
 extreme, by the injury done to my foster-brother; 
 his sufferings, the tears of his mother, the taunts of 
 Mr (now Captain ) Hardcastle, and the opposition made 
 by his party, called forth all the faculties of my mind 
 and body. The poor fellow, who was the subject of 
 this contest, showed the best disposition imaginable ; 
 he was excessively grateful to me for interesting my- 
 self to get him justice ; but as soon as he found that 
 parties ran high against me, he earnestly dissuaded me 
 from persisting. 
 
 “ Let it drop, and plase your honour ; my lord, let 
 it drop, and don’t be making of yourself inimies for the 
 likes of me. Sure, what signifies my arm ? and, be- 
 fore the next assizes, sha’n’t I be as well as ever, arm 
 and all ? ” continued he, trying to appear to move the 
 arm without pain. “And there’s the new bellows 
 your honour has give me ; it does my heart good to 
 look at ’em, and it won’t be long before I will be 
 blowing them again as stout as ever ; and so God bless 
 your honour, my lord, and think no more about it — let 
 it drop entirely, and don’t be bringing yourself into 
 trouble.” 
 
142 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Ay, don't be bringing yourself into trouble, dear," 
 added Ellinor, who seemed half distracted between her 
 feelings for her son and her fears for me ; “ it's a 
 shame to think of the way they've treated Christy — 
 but there’s no help now, and it’s best not to be making 
 bad worse ; and so, as Christy says, let the thing drop, 
 jewel, and don't be bringing yourself into trouble ; you 
 don't know the natur of them people, dear — you are 
 too innocent for them entirely, and myself does not know 
 the mischief they might do yees.” 
 
 “ True for ye," pursued Christy ; “ I wouldn't for 
 the best cow ever I see that your honour ever larnt a 
 sentence about me or my arm ; and it is not for such 
 as we to be minding every little accident — so God 
 lend you long life, and don't be plaguing yourself to 
 death ! Let it drop, and I'll sleep well the night, 
 which I did not do the week, for thinking of all the 
 trouble you got, and would get, God presarve ye ! " 
 This generous fellow's eloquence produced an effect 
 directly contrary to what was intended ; both my 
 feelings and my pride were now more warmly interested 
 in his cause. I insisted upon his swearing examina- 
 tions before Mr M‘Leod, who was a justice of the 
 peace. Mr M‘Leod behaved with the utmost steadi- 
 ness and impartiality ; and in this trying moment, when 
 “ it was infamy to seem my friend," he defended my 
 conduct calmly, but resolutely, in private and in public, 
 and gave his unequivocal testimony, in few but decided 
 words, in favour of my injured tenant. I should have 
 respected Mr M‘Leod more, if I had not attributed 
 this conduct to his desire of being returned for one of 
 my boroughs at the approaching election. He en- 
 deavoured, with persevering goodness, to convince me 
 of the reality of the danger in the country. My eyes 
 were with much difficulty forced open so far as to per- 
 ceive that it was necessary to take an active part in 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 T 43 
 
 public affairs to vindicate my loyalty, and to do away 
 the prejudices that were entertained against me ; nor 
 did my incredulity, as to the magnitude of the peril, 
 prevent me from making exertions essential to the 
 defence of my own character, if not to that of the 
 nation. How few act from purely patriotic and 
 rational motives ! At all events I acted, and acted 
 with energy ; and certainly at this period of my life 
 I felt no ennui. Party spirit is an effectual cure for 
 ennui ; and perhaps it is for this reason that so many are 
 addicted to its intemperance. All my passions were 
 roused, and my mind and body kept in continual 
 activity. I was either galloping, or haranguing, or 
 fearing, or hoping, or fighting ; and so long as it was 
 said that I could not sleep in my bed, I slept remark- 
 ably well, and never had so good an appetite as when I 
 was in hourly danger of having nothing to eat. The 
 rebels were up , and the rebels were down — and Lord 
 Glenthorn’s spirited conduct in the chair, and inde- 
 fatigable exertions in the field, were the theme of daily 
 eulogium amongst my convivial companions and im- 
 mediate dependants. But, unfortunately, my sudden 
 activity gained me no credit amongst the violent party 
 of my neighbours, who persisted in their suspicions ; 
 and my reputation was now still more injured, by the 
 alternate charge of being a trimmer or a traitor. Nay, 
 I was further exposed to another danger, of which, 
 from my ignorance of the country, I could not possibly 
 be aware. The disaffected themselves, as I after- 
 wards found, really believed, that, as I had not begun 
 by persecuting the poor, I must be a favourer of the 
 rebels ; and all that I did to bring the guilty to justice, 
 they thought was only to give a colour to the thing , till 
 the proper moment should come for my declaring myself. 
 Of this absurd and perverse mode of judging I had not 
 the slightest conception ; and I only laughed when it 
 
144 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 was hinted to me. My treating the matter so lightly 
 confirmed suspicion on both sides. At this time all 
 objects were so magnified and distorted by the mist of 
 prejudice, that no inexperienced eye could judge of 
 their real proportions. Neither party could believe the 
 simple truth, that my tardiness to act arose from the 
 habitual inertia of my mind and body. 
 
 Whilst prepossessions were thus strong, the time, the 
 important time, in Ireland the most important season of 
 the year, the assizes, arrived. My foster-brother’s 
 cause, or, as it was now generally called, Lord Glen - 
 thorn s cause, came on to be tried. I spared no 
 expence, I spared no exertions ; I fee’d the ablest 
 counsel ; and not content with leaving them to be in- 
 structed by my attorney, I explained the affair to them 
 myself with indefatigable zeal. One of the lawyers, 
 whom I had seen, or by whom I had been seen, in 
 my former inert state of existence, at some watering- 
 place in England, could not refrain from expressing his 
 astonishment at my change of character ; he could 
 scarcely believe that I was the same Lord Glenthorn, 
 of whose indolence and ennui he had formerly heard 
 and seen so much. 
 
 Alas ! all my activity, all my energy, on the present 
 occasion, proved ineffectual. After a dreadful quantity 
 of false swearing, the jury professed themselves satis- 
 fied ; and, without retiring from the box, acquitted the 
 persons who had assaulted my foster-brother. The 
 mortification of this legal defeat was not all that I had 
 to endure ; the victorious party mobbed me, as I passed 
 some time afterwards, through a neighbouring town, 
 where Captain Hardcastle and his friends had been 
 carousing. I was hooted, and pelted, and narrowly 
 escaped with my life — I who, but a few months ago, 
 had imagined myself possessed of nearly despotic power : 
 but opinions had changed ; and on opinion almost all 
 
jENNUi. 
 
 145 
 
 power is founded. No individual, unless he possess 
 uncommon eloquence, joined to personal intrepidity, 
 can withstand the combination of numbers, and the 
 force of prejudice. 
 
 Such was the result of my first public exertions ! 
 Yet I was now happier and better satisfied with myself 
 than I had ever been before. I was not only conscious 
 of having acted in a manly and generous manner ; but 
 the alarms of the rebels, and of the French, and of the 
 loyalists ; and the parading, and the galloping, and the 
 quarrelling, and the continual agitation in which I was 
 kept, whilst my character and life were at stake, re- 
 lieved me effectually from the intolerable burden of 
 ennui. 
 
 Chapter j :iiu 
 
 “ And, for the book of knowledge fair, 
 
 Presented with an universal blank, 
 
 Of Nature’s works, to me expunged and rased.” 
 
 T T N FORTUNATE LT for me, the rebellion in 
 Ireland was soon quelled ; the nightly scouring 
 of our county ceased ; the poor people returned 
 to their duty and their homes ; the occupation of upstart 
 and ignorant associators ceased, and their consequence 
 sunk at once. Things and persons settled to their 
 natural level. The influence of men of property, and 
 birth, and education, and character, once more prevailed. 
 The spirit of party ceased to operate : my neighbours 
 wakened, as if from a dream, and wondered at the 
 strange injustice with which I had been treated. Those 
 who had lately been my combined enemies were dis- 
 united, and each was eager to assure me that he had 
 always been privately my friend , but that he was com- 
 
146 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 pelled to conceal his sentiments : each exculpated him- 
 self, and threw the blame on others : all apologized to 
 me, and professed to be my most devoted humble ser- 
 vants. My popularity, my power, and my prosperity 
 were now at their zenith, unfortunately for me ; because 
 my adversity had not lasted long enough to form and 
 season my character. I had been driven to exertion 
 by a mixture of pride and generosity ; my understand- 
 ing being uncultivated, I had acted from the virtuous 
 impulse of the moment, but never from rational motive, 
 which alone can be permanent in its operation. When 
 the spur of the occasion pressed upon me no longer, I 
 relapsed into my former inactivity. When the great 
 interests and strong passions, by which I had been 
 impelled to exertion, subsided, all other feelings, and 
 all less objects, seemed stale, hat, and unprofitable. 
 For the tranquillity which I was now left to enjoy I 
 had no taste ; it appeared to me a dead calm, most 
 spiritless and melancholy. 
 
 I remember hearing, some years afterwards, a French- 
 man, who had been in imminent danger of being guillo- 
 tined by Robespierre, and who at last was one of those 
 who arrested the tyrant, declare, that when the bustle 
 and horror of the revolution were over, he could 
 hardly keep himself awake ; and that he thought it 
 very insipid to live in quiet with his wife and family. 
 He further summed up the catalogue of Robespierre’s 
 crimes, by exclaiming, “D’ailleurs c’etoit un grand 
 philantrope ! ” I am not conscious of any disposition 
 to cruelty, and I heard this man’s speech with disgust ; 
 yet upon a candid self-examination, I must confess, 
 that I have felt, though from different causes, some 
 degree of what he described. Perhaps ennui may have 
 had a share in creating revolutions. A French author 
 pronounces ennui to be “a moral indigestion, caused by 
 a monotony of situations ! ” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 147 
 
 I had no wife or family to make domestic life 
 agreeable : nor was I inclined to a second marriage, 
 my first had proved so unfortunate, and the recollec- 
 tion of my disappointment with Lady Geraldine was 
 so recent. Even the love of power no longer acted 
 upon me : my power was now undisputed. My 
 jealousy and suspicions of my agent, Mr M‘Leod, 
 were about this time completely conquered, by his 
 behaviour at a general election. I perceived that he 
 had no underhand design upon my boroughs ; and 
 that he never attempted or wished to interfere in 
 my affairs, except at my particular desire. My con- 
 fidence in him became absolute and unbounded ; but 
 this was really a misfortune to me, for it became 
 the cause of my having still less to do. I gave up 
 all business, and from all manner of trouble I was 
 now free : yet I became more and more unhappy, 
 and my nervous complaints returned. I was not 
 
 aware that I was taking the very means to increase 
 my own disease. The philosophical Dr Cullen ob- 
 serves, that “ Whatever aversion to application of 
 any kind may appear in hypochondriacs, there is 
 nothing more pernicious to them than absolute idle- 
 ness, or a vacancy from all earnest pursuit. It is 
 owing to wealth admitting of indolence, and leading 
 to the pursuit of transitory and unsatisfying amuse- 
 ments, or exhausting pleasures only, that the present 
 times exhibit to us so many instances of hypochon- 
 driacism.” 
 
 I fancied that change of air and change of place 
 would do me good ; and as it was fine summer 
 weather, I projected various parties of pleasure. The 
 Giants’ Causeway, and the Lake of Killarney, were 
 the only things I had ever heard mentioned as worth 
 seeing in Ireland. I suffered myself to be carried into 
 the county of Antrim, and I saw the Giants’ Cause- 
 
148 
 
 JENNUi. 
 
 way. From the description given by Dr Hamilton 
 of some of these wonders of nature, the reader may 
 judge how much I ought to have been astonished and 
 delighted. 
 
 In the bold promontory of Bengore, you behold, 
 as you look up from the sea, a gigantic colonnade 
 of basaltes, supporting a black mass of irregular rock, 
 over which rises another range of pillars, “ forming 
 all together a perpendicular height of one hundred 
 and seventy feet, from the base of which the promon- 
 tory, covered over with rock and grass, slopes down 
 to the sea, for the space of two hundred feet more : 
 making, in all, a mass of near four hundred feet in 
 height, which, in the beauty and variety of its colour- 
 ing, in elegance and novelty of arrangement, and in 
 the extraordinary magnificence of its objects, cannot be 
 rivalled.” 
 
 Yet I was seized with a fit of yawning, as I sat in 
 my pleasure-boat, to admire this sublime spectacle. 
 I looked at my watch, observed that we should be 
 late for dinner, and grew impatient to be rowed back 
 to the place where we were to dine ; not that I was 
 hungry, but I wanted to be again set in motion. 
 Neither science nor taste expanded my view ; and I 
 saw nothing worthy of my admiration, or capable of 
 giving me pleasure. The watching a straw floating 
 down the tide was the only amusement I recollect to 
 have enjoyed upon this excursion. 
 
 I was assured, however, by Lady Ormsby, that I 
 could not help being enchanted with the Lake of Kil- 
 larney. The party was arranged by this lady, who, 
 having the preceding summer seen me captivated by 
 Lady Geraldine, and pitying my disappointment, had 
 formed the obliging design of restoring my spirits, 
 and marrying me to one of her near relations. She 
 calculated that as I had been charmed by Lady 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 149 
 
 Geraldine’s vivacity, I must be enchanted with the fine 
 spirits of Lady Jocunda Lawler. So far were the 
 thoughts of marriage from my imagination, that I 
 only was sorry to find a young lady smuggled into 
 our party, because I was afraid she would be trouble- 
 some : but I resolved to be quite passive upon all oc- 
 casions, where attentions to the fair sex are sometimes 
 expected. My arm, or my hand, or my assistance, 
 in any manner, I was determined not to offer : the 
 lounging indifference, which some fashionable young 
 men affect towards ladies, I really felt ; and, besides, 
 nobody minds unmarried women ! This fashion was 
 most convenient to my indolence. In my state of 
 torpor I- was not, however, long left in peace. Lady 
 Jocunda was a high-bred romp, who made it a rule 
 to say and do whatever she pleased. In a hundred 
 indirect ways I was called upon to admire her charm- 
 ing spirits : but the rattling voice, loud laughter, 
 
 flippant wit, and hoyden gaiety, of Lady Jocunda, 
 disgusted me beyond expression. A thousand times 
 on my journey I wished myself quietly asleep in my 
 own castle. Arrived at Killarney, such blowing of 
 horns, such boating, such seeing of prospects, such 
 prosing of guides, all telling us what to admire ! 
 Then such exclamations, and such clambering ! I 
 was walked and talked till I was half-dead. I wished 
 the rocks, and the hanging-woods, and the glens, and 
 the water- falls, and the arbutus, and the myrtles, and 
 the upper and lower lakes, and the islands, and Mucruss, 
 and Mucruss Abbey, and the purple mountain, and the 
 eagle’s nest, and the Grand Turk, and the lights and 
 the shades, and the echoes, and, above all, the Lady 
 Jocunda, fairly at the devil. 
 
 A nobleman in the neighbourhood had the polite- 
 ness to invite us to see a stag- hunt upon the water. 
 The account of this diversion, which I had met with 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I 5° 
 
 in my Guide to the Lakes,* promised well. I con- 
 sented to stay another day : that day I really was 
 revived by this spectacle, for it was new. The sub- 
 lime and the beautiful had no charms for me : novelty 
 was the only power that could waken me from my 
 lethargy ; perhaps there was in this spectacle something 
 more than novelty. The Romans had recourse to 
 shows of wild beasts and gladiators to relieve their 
 ennui. At all events, I was kept awake this whole 
 morning, though I cannot say that I felt in such 
 ecstasies as to he in any imminent danger of jumping 
 out of the boat . 
 
 * “ The stag is roused from the woods that skirt Glenaa 
 mountain, in which there are many of these animals that run 
 wild ; the bottoms and sides of the mountains are covered with 
 woods, and the declivities are so long and steep that no horse 
 could either make his way to the bottom, or climb these imprac- 
 ticable hills. It is impossible to follow the hunt, either by land 
 or on horseback. The spectator enjoys the diversion on the lake, 
 where the cry of hounds, the harmony of the horn, resounding 
 from the hills on every side, the universal shouts of joy along 
 the valleys and mountains, which are often lined with foot- 
 people, who come in vast numbers to partake and assist at the 
 diversion, re-echo from hill to hill, and give the highest glee 
 and satisfaction that the imagination can conceive possible to 
 arise from the chase, and perhaps can nowhere be enjoyed with 
 that spirit and sublime elevation of soul, that a thoroughbred 
 sportsman feels at a stag-hunt on the Lake of Killarney. There 
 is, however, one imminent danger which awaits him ; that in 
 his raptures and ecstasies he may forget himself and jump out 
 of the boat. When hotly pursued, and weary with the constant 
 difficulty of making his way with his ramified antlers through 
 the woods, the stag, terrified at the cry of his open-mouthed 
 pursuers, almost at his heels, now looks towards the lake as 
 his last resource — then pauses and looks upwards ; but the hills 
 are insurmountable, and the woods refuse to shelter him — the 
 hounds roar with redoubled fury at the sight of their victim — 
 he plunges into the lake. He escapes but for a few minutes 
 from one merciless enemy to fall into the hands of another — 
 the shouting boatmen surround their victim — throw cords round 
 his majestic antlers — he is haltered and dragged to shore ; while 
 the big tears roll down his face, and his heaving sides and pant- 
 ing flanks speak his agonies, the keen searching knife drinks his 
 blood, and savages exult at his expiring groan.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I 5 I 
 
 Of our journey back from Killarney I remember 
 nothing, but my being discomfited by Lady Jocunda’s 
 practical jests and overpowering gaiety. When she 
 addressed herself to me, my answers were as con- 
 strained and as concise as possible ; and, as I was 
 afterwards told, I seemed, at the close of my reply to 
 each interrogative of her ladyship’s, to answer with 
 Odin’s prophetess — 
 
 “Now my weary lips I close ; 
 
 Leave me, leave me to repose.” 
 
 This she never did till we parted ; and at that moment, 
 I believe, my satisfaction appeared so visible, that Lady 
 Ormsby gave up all hopes of me. Arrived at my own 
 castle, I threw myself on my bed quite exhausted. I 
 took three hours’ additional sleep every day for a week, 
 to recruit my strength, and rest my nerves, after all 
 that I had been made to suffer by this young lady’s 
 prodigious animal spirits. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 1 COULD now boast that I had travelled all over 
 Ireland, from north to south ; but, in fact, I had 
 seen nothing of the country or of its inhabitants. 
 In these commodious parties of pleasure, everything 
 had been provided to prevent the obstacles that roused 
 my faculties. Accustomed by this time to the 
 Hibernian tone, I fancied that I knew all that could 
 be known of the Irish character ; familiarized with 
 the comic expressions of the lower class of people, 
 they amused me no longer. On this journey, how- 
 ever, I recollect making one observation, and once 
 laughing at what I thought a practical bull. We saw 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 x 5 2 
 
 a number of labourers at work in a bog, on a very hot 
 day, with a fire lighted close to them. When I after- 
 wards mentioned, before Mr M‘Leod, this circum- 
 stance, which I had thought absurd, he informed me 
 that the Irish labourers often light fires, that the smoke 
 may drive away or destroy those myriads of tiny flies, 
 called midges , by which they are often tormented so 
 much, that without this remedy, they would, in hot 
 and damp weather, be obliged to abandon their work. 
 Had I been sufficiently active during my journey to 
 pen a journal, I should certainly, without further in- 
 quiry, have noted down, that the Irish labourers always 
 light fires in the hottest weather to cool themselves ; 
 and thus I should have added one more to the number 
 of cursory travellers, who expose their own ignorance, 
 whilst they attempt to ridicule local customs, of which 
 they have not inquired the cause, or discovered the 
 utility. 
 
 A foreigner, who has lately written Letters on 
 England, has given a laughable instance of this promp- 
 titude of misapprehension. He says, he had heard 
 much of the venality of the British Parliament, {)ut he 
 had no idea of the degree to which it extended, till he 
 actually was an eye-witness of the scene. The moment 
 the minister entered the House, all the members ran 
 about exclaiming, “ Places ! places ! ” which means, 
 Give us places — give us places. 
 
 My heavy indolence fortunately preserved me from 
 exposing myself, like these volatile tourists. I was 
 at least secure from the danger of making mistakes in 
 telling what I never saw. 
 
 As to the mode of living of the Irish, their domestic 
 comforts or grievances, their habits and opinions, their 
 increasing or decreasing ambition to better their condi- 
 tion, the proportion between the population and the 
 quantity of land cultivated or capable of cultivation, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 X S3 
 
 the difference between the profits of the husbandman 
 and the artificer, the relation between the nominal 
 wages of labour and the actual command over the 
 necessaries of life : — these were questions wholly 
 foreign to my thoughts, and, at this period of my 
 life, absolutely beyond the range of my understand- 
 ing. I had travelled through my own country without 
 making even a single remark upon the various degrees 
 of industry and civilization visible in different parts of 
 the kingdom. In fact, it never occurred to me that it 
 became a British nobleman to have some notion of the 
 general state of that empire, in the legislation of which 
 he has a share ; nor had I the slightest suspicion that 
 political economy was a study requisite or suitable to 
 my rank in life or situation in society. Satisfied with 
 having seen all that is worth seeing in Ireland, the 
 Giants’ Causeway, and the Lake of Killarney, I was 
 now impatient to return to England. During the 
 rebellion, I could not with honour desert my post; 
 but now that tranquillity was apparently restored, I 
 determined to quit a country of which my partial 
 knowledge had in every respect been unfortunate. 
 This resolution of mine to leave Ireland threw Ellinor 
 into despair, and she used all her eloquence to dissuade 
 me from the journey. I was quite surprised by the 
 agony of grief into which she was thrown by the 
 dread of my departure. I felt astonished that one 
 human being could be so attached to another, and I 
 really envied her sensibility. My new man, Joe 
 Kelly, also displayed much reluctance at the thoughts 
 of leaving his native country ; and this sentiment 
 inclined Ellinor to think more favourably of him, 
 though she could not quite forgive him for being a 
 Kelly of Ballymuddy. 
 
 “ Troth,” said she to him one day, in my presence, 
 “ none of them Kellys of Ballymuddy but what are a 
 
154 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 bad clan ! Joey, is not there your own broder’s uncle 
 lying in the jail of ******** a t this present time for 
 the murder of a woman?” — “Well,” replied Joe, 
 “ and if he was so unfortunate to be put up , which was 
 not asy done neither, is it not better and more creditabler 
 to lie in a jail for a murder than a robbery, I ask you ? ” 
 This new scale of crimes surprised me ; but Joe spoke 
 what was the sense of many of his countrymen at that 
 period. 
 
 By various petty attentions, this man contrived to 
 persuade me of the sincerity of his attachment : chiefly 
 by the art of appearing to be managed by me in all 
 things, he insensibly obtained power over my pride; 
 and, by saving me daily trouble, secured considerable 
 influence over my indolence. More than any one whom 
 I had ever seen, he had the knack of seeming half- 
 witted — too simple to overreach, and yet sufficiently 
 acute and droll to divert his master. I liked to have 
 him about me, as uncultivated kings like to have their 
 fools. One of our ancient monarchs is said to have 
 given three parishes to his joculator ; I gave only three 
 farms to mine. I had a sort of mean pride in making 
 my favourite an object of envy : besides, I fell into the 
 common mistake of the inexperienced great, who fancy 
 that attachment can be purchased, and that gratitude 
 can be secured, by favours disproportioned to deserts. 
 Joe Kelly, by sundry manoeuvres too minute for de- 
 scription, contrived to make me delay, from day to day, 
 the preparations for my journey to England. From 
 week to week it was put off till the autumn was far 
 advanced. At length Kelly had nothing left to suggest , 
 but that it would be best to wait for answers from my 
 English steward to the letters that had been written to 
 inquire whether everything was ready for my reception. 
 During this interval, I avoided every human creature 
 (except Joe Kelly), and was in great danger of be- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 i5S 
 
 coming a misanthrope from mere indolence. I did not 
 hate my fellow-creatures, but I dreaded the trouble of 
 talking to them. My only recreation, at this period, 
 was sauntering out in the evening beside the sea- shore. 
 It was my regular practice to sit down upon a certain 
 large stone, at the foot of a rock, to watch the ebbing 
 of the tide. There was something in the contemplation 
 of the sea and of the tides which was fascinating to my 
 mind. I could sit and look at the ocean whole hours 
 together ; for, without any exertion of my own, I be- 
 held a grand operation of nature, accompanied with a 
 sort of vast monotony of motion and sound, which lulled 
 me into a reverie. 
 
 Late one evening, as I was seated on my accustomed 
 stone, my attention was slightly diverted from the sea 
 by the sight of a man descending the crag above me, 
 in rather a perilous manner. With one end of a rope 
 coiled round his body, and the other fastened to a 
 stake driven into the summit of the rock, he let him- 
 self half-way down the terrible height. One foot 
 now rested on a projecting point, one hand held the 
 rope, and hanging thus midway in the air, he seemed 
 busy searching in the crevices of the rock, for the 
 eggs of water-fowl. This dangerous trade I had seen 
 frequently plied on this coast, so that I should scarcely 
 have regarded the man if he had not turned, from 
 time to time, as if to watch me. When he saw that 
 he had fixed my eye, he threw down, as I thought, 
 a white stone, which fell nearly at my feet. I stooped 
 to examine it; the man waited till he saw it in my 
 hands, then coiled himself swiftly up his rope to the 
 summit of the rock, and disappeared. I found a paper 
 tied round the stone, and on this paper, in a handwriting 
 that seemed to be feigned, were written these words : — 
 
 “Your life and caracter, one or t’other — say both, 
 
* 5 * 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 is in danger. Don’t be walking here any more late 
 in the evening, near them caves, nor don’t go near 
 the old abbey, any time — And don’t be trusting to 
 Joe Kelly any way — Lave the kingdom entirely ; the 
 wind sarves. 
 
 “ So prays your true well-wisher. 
 
 “ P.S. — Lave the castle the morrow, and say nothing 
 of this to Joe Kelly, or you’ll repent when it’s all over 
 wid you.” 
 
 I was startled a little by this letter at first, but in 
 half an hour I relapsed into my apathy. Many 
 gentlemen in the country had received anonymous 
 letters : I had been tired of hearing of them during 
 the rebellion. This, I thought, might be only a qui% 9 
 or a trick to hurry me out of the kingdom, contrived 
 by some of those who desired my absence. In short, 
 the labour of thinking about the matter fatigued me. 
 I burned the letter as soon as I got home, and resolved 
 not to puzzle or plague myself about it any more. 
 My steward’s answer came the next morning from 
 England ; Kelly made no difficulty, when I ordered 
 him to be ready to set out in three days. This con- 
 firmed me in my opinion that the letter was malicious, 
 or a jest. Mr M‘Leod came to take leave of me. I 
 mentioned the circumstance to him slightly, and in 
 general terms : he looked very serious, and said, “ All 
 these things are little in themselves, but are to be 
 heeded, as marking the unsettled minds of the people 
 — straws that show which way the wind blows. I 
 apprehend we shall have a rough winter again, though 
 we have had so still a summer. The people about us 
 are too hush and too prudent — it is not their natures — 
 there’s something contriving among them : they don’t 
 break one another’s heads at fairs as they used to do ; 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 *57 
 
 they keep from whiskey ; there must be some strong 
 motive working this change upon them — good or bad, 
 ’tis hard to say which. My lord, if we consider the 
 condition of these poor people, and if we consider the 
 causes ” 
 
 “ Oh ! for Heaven’s sake, do not let us consider 
 any more about it now ; I am more than half asleep 
 already,” said I, yawning; “and our considering about 
 it can do no good, to me at least ; for you know I am 
 going out of the kingdom ; and when I am gone, 
 M‘Leod, you, in whom I have implicit confidence, 
 must manage as you always used to do, you know, and 
 as well as you can.” 
 
 “True,” said M‘Leod calmly, “that is what I 
 shall do, indubitably ; for that is my duty, and since 
 your lordship has implicit confidence in me, my pleasure. 
 I wish your lordship a good night and a good journey.” 
 
 “ I shall not set out in the morning ; not till the 
 day after to-morrow, I believe,” said I ; “for I feel 
 consumedly tired to-night : they have plagued me about 
 so many things to-day ; so much business always before 
 one can get away from a place ; and then Joe Kelly 
 has no head.” 
 
 “ Have a care he has not too much head, my lord, 
 as your anonymous correspondent hints — he may be 
 right there : I told you from the first I would not go 
 security for Joe Kelly’s honesty ; and where there is 
 not strict honesty, I conceive there ought not to be 
 implicit confidence.” 
 
 “ O, hang it ! as to honesty, they are none of them 
 honest ; I know that : but would you have me plague 
 myself till I find a strictly honest servant? Joe’s as 
 honest as his neighbours, I dare say : the fellow diverts 
 me, and is attached to me, and that’s all I can expect. 
 I must submit to be cheated, as all men of large fortunes 
 are, more or less.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 i S 8 
 
 Mr M‘Leod listened with stubborn patience, and 
 replied, that if I thought it necessary to submit to be 
 cheated he could make no objection, except where it 
 might come under his cognizance, and then he must 
 take the liberty to remonstrate, or to give up his agency 
 to some of the many, who could play better than he 
 could the part of the dog in the fable, pretending to 
 guard his master’s meat. 
 
 The cold ungracious integrity of this man, even in 
 my own cause, at once excited my spleen and com- 
 manded my respect. After shaking my leg, as I sat 
 for two minutes in silence, I called after M‘Leod, 
 who moved towards the door, “ Why, what can I do, 
 Mr M‘Leod ? What would you have me do ? Now, 
 don’t give me one of your dry answers, but let me have 
 your notions as a friend : you know, M‘Leod, I cannot 
 help having the most perfect confidence in you.” 
 
 He bowed, but rather stiffly. 
 
 “ I am proud to hear you cannot help that, my lord,” 
 said he. “ As to a friend, I never considered myself 
 upon that footing till now : but, as you at present 
 honour me so far as to ask my counsel, I am free to 
 give it. Part with Joe Kelly to-night ; and, whether 
 you go or stay, you are safer without him. Joe’s a 
 rogue : he can do no good, and may do harm.” 
 
 “ Then,” said I, “ you are really frightened by this 
 anonymous letter ? ” 
 
 “ Cannot a man take prudent precautions without he 
 is frightened ? ” said M‘Leod. 
 
 “ But have you any particular reason to believe — in 
 short, to — to think, there can be any real danger for 
 my life ? ” 
 
 “No particular reason, my lord; but the genera) 
 reasons I have mentioned, the symptoms among the 
 common people lead me to apprehend there may be 
 fresh risings of the people soon ; and you, as a man 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 159 
 
 of Fortune and rank, must be in danger. Captain Hard- 
 castle says, that he has had informations of seditious 
 meetings ; but, he being a prejudiced man, I don’t 
 trust altogether to what he says.” 
 
 “ Trust altogether to what he says ! ” exclaimed I ; 
 “ no surely ; for my part, I do not trust a word he 
 says ; and his giving it as his opinion that the people 
 are ill-inclined would decide me to believe the exact 
 contrary.” 
 
 “ It would hardly be safe to judge that way either,” 
 said M‘Leod; “ for that method of judging by con- 
 traries might make another’s folly the master of one’s 
 own sense.” 
 
 “ I don’t comprehend you now. Safe way of judg- 
 ing or not, Captain Hardcastle’s opinion shall never 
 lead mine. When I asked for your advice, Mr 
 M‘Leod, it was because I have a respect for your 
 understanding ; but I cannot defer to Captain Hard- 
 castle’s. I am now decided in my own opinion, that 
 the people in this neighbourhood are perfectly well- 
 disposed ; and as to this anonymous letter, it is a mere 
 trick, depend upon it, my good sir. I am surprised 
 that a man of your capacity should be the dupe of such 
 a thing ; I should not be surprised if Hardcastle him- 
 self, or some of his people, wrote it.” 
 
 “ I should,” said McLeod coolly. 
 
 “You should!” cried I warmly. “Why so? 
 And why do you pronounce so decidedly, my good 
 friend ? Have not I the same means of judging as 
 you have ? unless, indeed, you have some private 
 reason with which I am unacquainted. Perhaps,” 
 cried I, starting half up from the sofa on which I lay, 
 charmed with a bright idea which had just struck me, 
 “ perhaps, M‘Leod, you wrote the letter yourself for a 
 jest. Did you ? ” 
 
 “That’s a question, my lord,” said M c Leod, grow- 
 
i6o 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 ing suddenly red, and snatching up his hat with a 
 quicker motion than I ever saw from him before, 
 “ that’s a question, my lord, which I must take leave 
 not to answer ; a question, give me leave to add, my 
 Lord Glenthorn,” continued he, speaking in a broader 
 Scotch accent than I ever heard from him before, 
 “ which I should knock my equal doon for putting to 
 me. A M‘Leod, my lord, in jest or in earnest, would 
 scorn to write to any man breathing that letter to which 
 he would not put his name ; and more, a M‘Leod 
 would scorn to write or to say that thing, to which he 
 ought not to put his name. Your humble servant, my 
 Lord Glenthorn,” said he, and, making a hasty bow, 
 departed. 
 
 I called after him, and even followed him to the 
 head of the stairs, to explain and apologise ; but in 
 vain : I never saw him angry before. 
 
 “ It’s very weel, my lord, it’s very weel ; if you 
 say you meant nothing offensive, it’s very weel; but 
 if you think fit, my lord, we will sleep upon it before 
 we talk any more. I am a wee bit warmer than I 
 could wish, and your lordship has the advantage of 
 me, in being cool. A M‘Leod is apt to grow 
 warm when he’s touched on the point of honour ; 
 and there’s no wisdom in talking when a man’s not 
 his own master.” 
 
 “ My good friend,” said I, seizing his hand as he 
 was buttoning up his coat, “ I like you the better for 
 this warmth ; but I won’t let you sleep upon your 
 wrath : you must shake hands with me before that 
 hall-door is opened to you.” 
 
 “ Then so I do, for there’s no standing against this 
 frankness ; and, to be as frank with you, my lord, I 
 was wrong myself to be so testy — I ask pardon, too. 
 A McLeod never thought it a disgrace to crave a 
 pardon when he was wrong.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 161 
 
 We shook hands, and parted better friends than 
 ever. I spoke the exact truth when I said that I 
 liked him the better for his warmth : his anger 
 wakened me, and gave me something to think of, 
 and some emotion for a few minutes. Joe Kelly 
 presently afterwards came, with the simplest face 
 imaginable, to inquire what I had determined about 
 the journey. 
 
 “To put it off till the day after to-morrow,” said 
 I. “ Light me to bed.” 
 
 He obeyed ; but observed, that “ it was not his 
 fault now if there was puttings-off ; for his share 
 everything was ready, and he was willing and ready 
 to follow me, at a moment’s warning, to the world’s 
 end, as he had a good right to do, let alone inclina- 
 tion ; for, parting me, he could never be right in 
 himself : and though loth to part his country, he had 
 rather part that nor* me.” 
 
 Then, without dwelling upon these expressions of 
 attachment, he changed to a merry mood, and by his 
 drolleries diverted me all the time I was going to bed, 
 and at last fairly talked me asleep. 
 
 Chapter pb* 
 
 W HEN the first gray light of morning began to 
 make objects indistinctly visible, I thought 
 I saw the door of my apartment open very 
 softly. I was broad awake, and kept my eyes fixed 
 upon it — it opened by very slow degrees ; my head 
 was so full of visions, that I expected a ghost to enter 
 — but it was only Ellinor. 
 
 “ Ellinor ! ” cried I ; “is it you at this time in the 
 morning ? ” 
 
 Than. 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! ” said she, shutting the door with 
 great precaution, and then coming on tiptoe close to 
 my bedside ; “ for the love of God, speak softly, and 
 make no stir to awake them that’s asleep near and too 
 near you. It’s unknown to all that I come up ; for 
 may be, when them people are awake and about, I 
 might not get the opportunity to speak, or they might 
 guess I knew something by my looks.” 
 
 Her looks were full of terror — I was all amazement 
 and expectation. Before she would say a word more, 
 she searched the closets carefully and looked behind 
 the tapestry, as if she apprehended that she might be 
 overheard : satisfied that we were alone, she went on 
 speaking, but still in a voice that, with my utmost 
 strained attention, I could but just hear. 
 
 “As you hope to live and breathe,” said she, 
 “ never go again after nightfall any time walking in 
 that lone place by the sea- shore. It’s a mercy you 
 escaped as you did ; but if you go again you’ll never 
 come back alive — for never would they get you to do 
 what they want, and to be as wicked as themselves — 
 the wicked villains ! ” 
 
 “Who?” said I — “ What wicked villains ? I do 
 not understand you ; are you in your right senses ? ” 
 
 “ That I am, and wish you was as much in yours ; 
 but it’s time yet, by the blessing of God! What 
 wicked villains am I talking of? Of three hundred 
 that have sworn to make you their captain, or, in 
 case you refuse, to have your life this night. What 
 villains am I talking of? Of him, the wickedest of 
 all, who is now living in the very house with you, that 
 is now lying in the very next room to you.” 
 
 “Joe Kelly?” 
 
 “ That same — from the first minute I saw him in 
 the castle, I should have hated him, but for his caus- 
 ing you for to put off the journey to England. I 
 
ENNUI. 163 
 
 never could abide him ; but that blinded me, or I am 
 sure I would have found him out long ago.” 
 
 “ And what have you found out concerning him ? ” 
 “That he is (speaking very low) a united-man , and 
 stirring up the rubbles again here ; and they have their 
 meetings at night in the great cave, where the smugglers 
 used to hide formerly, under the big rock, opposite 
 the old abbey — and there’s a way up into the abbey, 
 that you used to be so fond of walking to, dear.” 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! can this be true ? ” 
 
 “ True it is, and too true, dear.” 
 
 “ But how did you find all this out, Ellinor ? ” 
 
 “ It was none of I found it, nor ever could any 
 such things have come into my head— but it pleased 
 God to make the discovery of all by one of the childer 
 — my own grandson — the boy you gave the gun to, 
 long and long ago, to shoot them rabbits. He was 
 after a hare yesterday, and it took him a chase over 
 that mountain, and down it went and took shelter in 
 the cave, and in went the boy after it, and as he was 
 groping about, he lights on an old greatcoat ; and if 
 he did he brought it home with him, and was showing 
 it, as I was boiling the potatoes for their dinner yes- 
 terday, to his father forenent me ; and turning the 
 pockets inside out, what should come up but the 
 broken head of a pike ; then he sarches in the other 
 pocket, and finds a paper written all over — I could 
 not read it — thank God, I never could read none of 
 them wicked things, nor could the boy — by very great 
 luck he could not, being no scholar, or it would be all 
 over the country before this.” 
 
 “ Well, well ! but what was in the paper after all ? 
 Did anybody read it ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, did they — that is, Christy read it — none but 
 Christy — but he would not tell us what was in it — but 
 said it was no matter, and he’d not be wasting his time 
 
164 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 reading an old song — so we thought no more, and he 
 sent the boy up to the castle with a bill for smith’s 
 work, as soon as we had eat the potatoes, and I thought 
 no more about anything’s being going wrong, no more 
 than a child ; and in the evening Christy said he must 
 go to the funeral of a neighbour, and should not 
 be home till early in the morning, may be ; and it’s 
 not two hours since he came home and wakened me, 
 and told me where he had been, which was not to the 
 funeral at all, but to the cave where the coat was found ; 
 and he put the coat, and the broken head of a pike, 
 and the papers all in the pockets, just as we found it, 
 in the cave — and the paper was a list of the names of 
 them rubbles that met there, and a letter telling how 
 they would make Lord Glenthorn their captain, or 
 have his life ; this was what made Christy to try and 
 find out more — so he hid hisself in a hole in the side 
 of the cave, and built hisself up with rubbish, only just 
 leaving a place for hisself to breathe — and there he 
 staid till nightfall ; and then on till midnight, God 
 help us ! so sure enough, them villains all come filling 
 fast into the cave. He had good courage, God bless 
 him for it — but he always had — and there he heard 
 and saw all — and this was how they were talking : — 
 First, one began by saying, how they must not be 
 delaying longer to show themselves ; they must make 
 a rising in the country — then named the numbers in 
 other parts that would join, and that they would not 
 be put down so asy as afore, for they would have good 
 leaders — then some praised you greatly, and said they 
 was sure you favoured them in your heart, by all the 
 ill-will you got in the county the time of the last ’ruc- 
 tion. But, again, others said you was milk and water, 
 and did not go far enough, and never would, and that 
 it was not in you, and that you was a sleepy man, and 
 not the true thing at all, and neither beef nor vaeL 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 165 
 
 Again, thim that were for you spoke and said you 
 would show yourself soon — and the others made 
 reply, and observed you must now spake out, or never 
 spake more ; you must either head ’em, or be tramped 
 under foot along with the rest, so it did not signify 
 talking, and Joey Kelly should not be fribbling any 
 more about it; and it was a wonder, said they, he 
 was not the night at the meeting. And what was 
 this about your being going off for England — what 
 would they do when you was gone, with M‘Leod 
 the Scotchman, to come in over them again agent, 
 who was another guess sort of man from you, and 
 never slept at all, and would scent ’em out, and have 
 his corps after ’em, and that once M‘Leod was master, 
 there would be no making any head again his head ; 
 so, not to be tiring you too much with all they said, 
 backward and forward, one that was a captain, or 
 something that way, took the word, and bid ’em all 
 hold their peace, for they did not know what they 
 was talking on, and said that Joey Kelly and he had 
 settled it all, and that the going to England was put 
 off by Joe, and all a sham, and that when you would 
 be walking out to-morrow at nightfall, in those lone 
 places by the seaside or the abbey, he and Joe was 
 to seize upon you, and when you would be coming 
 back near the abbey, to have you down through the 
 trap-door into the cave, and anyway they would swear 
 you to join and head them, and if you would not, 
 out with you, and shove you into the sea, and no 
 more about it, for it would be give out you drown 
 yourself in a fit of the melancholy lunacy, which 
 none would question, and it would be proved too 
 you made away wid yourself, by your hat and gloves 
 lying on the bank — Lord save us ! What are you 
 laughing at in that, when it is truth every word, 
 and Joe Kelly was to find the body, after a great 
 
1 66 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 search. Well, again, say you would swear and join 
 them, and head them, and do whatever they pleased, 
 still that would not save you in the end ; for they 
 would quarrel with you at the first turn, because you 
 would not be ruled by them as captain, and then 
 they would shoot or pike you (God save the mark, 
 dear), and give the castle to Joe Kelly, and the 
 plunder all among ’em entirely. So it was all laid 
 out, and they are all to meet in the cave to-morrow 
 evening — they will go along bearing a funeral, seem- 
 ingly to the abbey-ground. And now you know the 
 whole truth, and the Lord preserve you ! And what 
 will be done ? My poor head has no more power to 
 think for you no more than an infant’s, and I’m all in 
 a tremble ever since I heard it, and afraid to meet any 
 one lest they should see all in my face. Oh, what will 
 become of yees now — they will be the death of you, 
 whatever you do ! ” 
 
 By the time she came to these last words, Ellinor’s 
 fears had so much overpowered her, that she cried 
 and sobbed continually, repeating — “What will be 
 done now ? What will be done ? They’ll surely be 
 the death of you, whatever you do.” As to me, the 
 urgency of the danger wakened my faculties : I rose 
 instantly, wrote a note to Mr M‘Leod, desiring to 
 see him immediately on particular business. Lest 
 my note should by any accident be intercepted or 
 opened, I couched it in the most general and guarded 
 terms ; and added a request, that he would bring 
 his last settlement of accounts with him ; so that it 
 was natural to suppose my business with him was of 
 a pecuniary nature. I gradually quieted poor Ellinor 
 by my own appearance of composure ; I assured 
 her, that we should take our measures so as to pre- 
 vent all mischief — thanked her for the timely warn- 
 ing she had given me — advised her to go home 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 167 
 
 before she was observed, and charged her not to 
 speak to any one this day of what had happened. I 
 desired that as soon as she should see Mr M‘Leod 
 coming through the gate, she would send Christy 
 after him to the castle, to get his bill paid ; so that 
 I might then, without exciting suspicion, talk to 
 him in private, and we might learn from his own 
 lips the particulars of what he saw and heard in the 
 cavern. 
 
 Ellinor returned home, promising to obey me 
 exactly, especially as to my injunction of secrecy — 
 to make sure of herself she said " she would go to 
 bed straight, and have the rheumatism very bad all 
 day ; so as not to be in a way to talk to none who 
 would call in.” The note to M‘Leod was despatched 
 by one of my grooms, and I, returning to bed, was 
 now left at full leisure to finish my morning’s nap. 
 
 Joe Kelly presented himself at the usual hour in my 
 room ; I turned my head away from him, and, in a 
 sleepy tone, muttered that I had passed a bad night, 
 and should breakfast in my own apartment. 
 
 Some time afterwards Mr M‘Leod arrived, with 
 an air of sturdy pride, and produced his accounts, of 
 which I suffered him to talk, till the servant who 
 waited upon us had left the room ; I then explained 
 the real cause of my sending for him so suddenly. 
 I was rather vexed, that I could not produce in him, 
 by my wonderful narrative, any visible signs of agita- 
 tion or astonishment. He calmly observed — “ We are 
 lucky to have so many hours of daylight before us. 
 The first thing we have to do is to keep the old woman 
 from talking.” 
 
 I answered for Ellinor. 
 
 “ Then the next thing is for me, who am a magis- 
 trate, to take the examinations of her son, and see if 
 he will swear to the same that he says.” 
 
i 68 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 Christy was summoned into our presence* and he 
 came with his bill for smith’s work done ; so that the 
 servants could have no suspicion of what was going 
 forward. His examinations were taken and sworn 
 to in a few minutes ; his evidence was so clear and 
 direct, that there was no possibility of doubting the 
 truth. The only variation between his story and his 
 mother’s report to me was as to the numbers he had 
 seen in the cavern — her fears had turned thirteen into 
 three hundred. 
 
 Christy assured us that there were but thirteen at 
 this meeting, but that they said there were three hundred 
 ready to join them. 
 
 “ You were a very bold fellow, Christy/’ said I, 
 “ to hazard yourself in the cave with these villains ; 
 if you had been found out in your hiding-place, they 
 would have certainly murdered you.” 
 
 “ True for me,” said Christy; “but a man must 
 die some way, please your honour ; and where’s the 
 way I could die better ? Sure, I could not but re- 
 member how good you was to me that time I was 
 shot, and all you suffered for it ! It would have been 
 bad indeed if I would stay quiet, and let ’em murder 
 you after all. No, no, Christy O’Donoghoe would 
 not do that — any way. I hope, if there’s to be any 
 fighting, your honour would not wrong me so much 
 as not to give me a blunderbush, and let me fight a 
 bit along wid de rest for yees.” 
 
 “We are not come to that yet, my good fellow,” 
 said Mr McLeod, who went on methodically; “if 
 you are precipitate, you will spoil all. Go home to 
 your forge, and work as usual, and leave the rest to 
 us ; and I promise that you shall have your share, if 
 there is any fighting.” 
 
 Very reluctantly Christy obeyed. Mr M‘Leod 
 then deliberately settled our plan of operations. I 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 169 
 
 had a fishing-lodge at a little distance, and a pleasure- 
 boat there : to this place M‘Leod was to go, as if on 
 a fishing- party with his nephew, a young man, who 
 often went there to fish. They were to carry with 
 them some yeomen in coloured clothes, as their at- 
 tendants, and more were to come as their guests to 
 dinner. At the lodge there was a small four-pounder, 
 which had been frequently used in times of public 
 rejoicing ; a naval victory, announced in the papers 
 of the day, afforded a plausible pretence for bringing 
 it out. We were aware that the rebels would be 
 upon the watch, and therefore took every precaution 
 to prevent their suspecting that we had made any 
 discovery. Our fishing-party was to let the mock- 
 funeral pass them quietly, to ask some trifling ques- 
 tions, and to give money for pipes and tobacco. 
 Towards evening the boat, with the four-pounder on 
 board, was to come under shore, and at a signal 
 given by. me was to station itself opposite to the mouth 
 of the cave. 
 
 At the same signal a trusty man on the watch was 
 to give notice to a party hid in the abbey, to secure 
 the trap-door above. The signal was to be my pre- 
 senting a pistol to the captain of the rebels, who in- 
 tended to meet and seize me on my return from my 
 evening’s walk. Mr M‘Leod at first objected to my 
 hazarding a meeting with this man ; but I insisted 
 upon it, and I was not sorry to give a public proof of 
 my loyalty, and my personal courage. As to Joe 
 Kelly, I also undertook to secure him. 
 
 Mr M‘Leod left me, and went to conduct his 
 fishing-party. As soon as he was gone, I sent for 
 Joe Kelly to play on the flute to me. I guarded my 
 looks and voice as well as I could, and he did not 
 see or suspect anything — he was too full of his own 
 schemes. To disguise his own plots he affected 
 
170 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 great gaiety ; and to divert me, alternately played 
 on the flute, and told me good stories all the morn- 
 ing. I would not let him leave me the whole day. 
 Towards evening I began to talk of my journey to 
 England, proposed setting out the next morning, 
 and sent Kelly to look for some things in what was 
 called the strong closet — a closet with a stout door 
 and iron-barred windows, out of which no mortal 
 could make his escape. Whilst he was busy search- 
 ing in a drawer, I shut the door upon him, locked it, 
 and put the key into my pocket. As I left the castle, 
 I said in a jesting tone to some of the servants who 
 met me — “ I have locked Joe Kelly up in the strong 
 room ; if he calls to you to let him out never mind 
 him ; he will not get out till I come home from my 
 walk — I owe him this trick.” The servants thought 
 it was some jest, and I passed on with my loaded 
 pistols in my pocket. I walked for some time by the 
 sea- shore, without seeing any one. At last I espied 
 our fishing-boat, just peering out, and then keeping 
 close to the shore. I was afraid that the party would 
 be impatient at not seeing my signal, and would come 
 out to the mouth of the cave, and show themselves too 
 soon. If Mr M‘Leod had not been their commander, 
 this, as I afterwards learned, would have infallibly 
 happened ; but he was so punctual, cool, and peremp- 
 tory, that he restrained the rest of the party, declaring 
 that, if it were Jill midnight, he would wait till the 
 signal agreed upon was given. At last I saw a man 
 creeping out of the cave — I sat down upon my wonted 
 stone, and yawned as naturally as I could ; then began 
 to describe figures in the sand with my stick, as I was 
 wont to do, still watching the image of the man in the 
 water as he approached. He was muffled up in a 
 frieze greatcoat ; he sauntered past, and went on to a 
 turn in the road, as if looking for some one. I knew 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 171 
 
 well for whom he was looking. As no Joe Kelly 
 came to meet him, he returned in a few minutes 
 towards me. I had my hand upon the pistol in my 
 pocket. 
 
 “ You are my Lard Glenthorn, I presume ? ” said he. 
 
 “ I am.” 
 
 “ Then you will come with me, if you plase, my 
 lard,” said he. 
 
 “ Make no resistance, or I will shoot you instantly,” 
 cried I, presenting my pistol with one hand, and 
 seizing him by the collar with the other. I dragged 
 him (for I had force enough, now my energy was 
 roused) to the spot appointed for my signal. The 
 boat appeared opposite the mouth of the cave. Every- 
 thing answered my expectation. 
 
 “ There,” said I, pointing to the boat, “ there are 
 my armed friends ; they have a four-pounder — the 
 match is ready lighted — your plot is discovered. Go 
 in to your confederates in that cave ; tell them so. 
 The trap- door is secured above ; there is no escape 
 for them : bid them surrender : if they attempt to 
 rush out, the grape-shot will pour upon them, and 
 they are dead men.” 
 
 I cannot say that my rebel captain showed himself 
 as stout as I could have wished, for the honour of my 
 victory. The surprise disconcerted him totally : I 
 felt him tremble under my grasp. He obeyed my 
 orders — went into the cave to bring his associates to 
 submission. His parley with them, however, was not 
 immediately successful : I suppose there were some 
 braver fellows than he amongst them, whose counsel 
 might be for open war. In the meantime our yeo- 
 men landed, and surrounded the cave on all sides, so 
 that there was no possibility of escape for those within. 
 At last they yielded themselves our prisoners. I am 
 sorry I have no bloody battle for the entertainment of 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 172 
 
 such of my readers as like horrors ; but so It was, 
 that they yielded without a drop of blood being 
 spilled, or a shot fired. We let them out of their 
 hiding-place one by one, searching each as he issued 
 forth, to be secure that they had no concealed weapons. 
 After they had given up the arms which were con- 
 cealed in the cave, the next question was, whkt to do 
 with our prisoners. As it was now late, and they 
 could not all be examined and committed with due 
 legal form to the county gaol, Mr M‘Leod advised 
 that we should detain them in the place they had 
 chosen for themselves till morning. Accordingly, in 
 the cave we again stowed them, and left a guard at 
 each entrance to secure them for the night. We 
 returned to the castle. I stopped at the gate to tell 
 Ellinor and Christy that I was safe. They were 
 sitting up watching for the news. The moment 
 Ellinor saw me, she clasped her hands in an ecstasy 
 of joy, but could not speak. Christy was voluble in 
 his congratulations ; but, in the midst of his rejoicing, 
 lie could not help reproaching me with forgetting to 
 give him the llunderbush , and to let him have a bit 
 of the fighting. “ Upon my honour,” said I, “ there 
 was none, or you should have been there.” 
 
 “ O, don’t be plaguing and gathering round him 
 now,” said Ellinor : “ sure, he is tired, and look how 
 hot — no wonder — let him get home and to bed : I’ll 
 run and warm it with the pan myself, and not be 
 trusting them.” 
 
 She would not be persuaded that I did not desire to 
 have my bed warmed, but, by some short cut, got in 
 before us. On entering the castle-hall, I found her, 
 with the warming-pan in her hand, held back by the 
 inquisitive servants, who were all questioning her about 
 the news, of which she was the first, and not very 
 intelligible enunciator. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 173 
 
 I called for bread and water for my prisoner in the 
 strong-room, and then I heard various exclamations of 
 wonder. 
 
 “ Ay, it is all true ! it is no jest ! Joe is at the 
 bottom of all. / never liked Joe Kelly—/ always 
 knew Joe was not the right thing — and I always said 
 so ; and I, and I, and I. And it was but last week 
 I was saying so : and it was but yesterday I said so 
 and so.” 
 
 I passed through the gossiping crowd with bread and 
 water for my culprit. M‘Leod instantly saw and 
 followed me. 
 
 “ I will make bold to come with you,” said he ; 
 “a pent rat’s a dangerous animal.” — I thanked him, 
 and acquiesced ; but there was no need for the pre- 
 caution. When we opened the door, we found the 
 conscience or terror-struck wretch upon his knees, 
 and, in the most abject terms, he implored our mercy. 
 From the windows of the room, which looked into 
 the castle-yard, he had heard enough to guess all that 
 had happened. I could not bear to look at him. 
 After I had set down his food, he clung to my knees, 
 crying and whining in a most unmanly manner. 
 M‘Leod, with indignation, loosened him from me, 
 threw him back, and locked the door. 
 
 “ Cowardice and treachery,” said he, “ usually go 
 together.” 
 
 “ And courage and sincerity,” said I. “ And now 
 we’ll go to supper, my good friends. I hope you are 
 all as hungry as I am.” 
 
 I never did eat any meal with so much appetite. 
 
 “’Tis a pity, my lord,” said M‘Leod, “ but that 
 there was a conspiracy against you every day of your 
 life, it seems to do you so much good.” 
 
T 74 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 CD ap t e r 
 
 “ \ \ J HAT new wonders ? What new misfor- 
 y V tunes, Ellinor ? ” said I, as Ellinor, with 
 a face of consternation, appeared again in 
 the morning in my room, just as I was going down to 
 breakfast : “ what new misfortunes, Ellinor ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! the worst that could befall me ! ” cried she, 
 wringing her hands; “the worst, the very worst! — 
 to be the death of my own child ! ” said she, with in- 
 expressible horror. “Oh! save him ! save him ! for 
 the love of Heaven, dear, save him ! If you don’t 
 save him, ’tis I shall be his death.” 
 
 She was in such agony, that she could not explain 
 herself farther for some minutes. 
 
 “ It was I gave the information against them all to 
 you. But how could I ever have thought Owen was 
 one of them ? My son, my own son, the unfortunate 
 cratur; I never thought but what he was with the 
 militia far away. And how could it ever come into 
 my head that Owen could have any hand in a thing of 
 the kind ? ” 
 
 “ But I did not see him last night,” interrupted I. 
 
 “ Oh ! he was there ! One of his own friends, one 
 of the military that went with you, saw him among the 
 prisoners, and came just now to tell me of it. That 
 Owen should be guilty of the like ! — Oh ! what could 
 have come over him ! He must have been out of his 
 rasoti. And against you to be plotting ! That’s what 
 I never will believe, if even I’d hear it from himself. 
 But he’s among them that were taken last night. And 
 will I live to see him go to gaol ? — and will I live to 
 see — No, I’d rather die first, a thousand and a thousand 
 times over. Oh ! for mercy’s sake ! ” said she, drop- 
 ping on her knees at my feet, “ have pity on me, and 
 
ENNUI. 175 
 
 don’t let the blood of my own child be upon me in my 
 old days,” 
 
 “ What would you have me do, Ellinor?” said I, 
 much moved by her distress. 
 
 “ There is but one thing to do,” said she. “Let 
 him off : sure a word from you would be enough for 
 the soldiers that are over them on guard. And Mr 
 M‘Leod has not yet seen him ; and if he was just let 
 escape, there would be no more about it; and I’d 
 engage he shall fly the country, the unfortunate cratur ! 
 and never trouble you more. This is all I ask : and 
 sure, dear, you can’t refuse it to your own Ellinor ; 
 your old nurse, that carried ye in her arms, and fed ye 
 with her milk, and watch’d over ye many’s the long 
 night, and loved ye ; ay, none ever loved, or could 
 love ye so well.” 
 
 “ I am sensible of it ; I am grateful,” interrupted 
 I ; “ but what you ask of me, Ellinor, is impossible — 
 I cannot let him escape ; but I will do my utmost.” 
 
 “Troth, nothing will save him, if you would not 
 say the word for him now. Ah ! why cannot you let 
 him off, then ? ” 
 
 “ I should lose my honour ; I should lose my 
 character. You know that I have been accused of 
 favouring the rebels already — you saw the consequences 
 of my protecting your other son, though he was inno- 
 cent and injured, and bore an excellent character.” 
 
 “ Christy ; ay, true : but poor Owen, unlucky as he 
 is, and misguided, has a better claim upon you.” 
 
 “ How can that be ? Is not the other my foster- 
 brother, in the first place ? ” 
 
 “True, for him.” 
 
 “ And had not I proofs of his generous conduct and 
 attachment to me?” 
 
 “ Owen is naturally fonder of you by a great deal,” 
 interrupted she ; “I’ll answer for that.” 
 
176 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ What ! when he has just been detected in con- 
 spiring against my life ? ” 
 
 “ That’s what I’ll never believe,” cried Ellinor 
 vehemently : 66 that he might be drawn in, may be, 
 when out of his rason — he was always a wild boy — • 
 to be a united-man, and to hope to get you for his 
 captain, might be the case, and bad enough that ; but, 
 jewel, you’ll find he did never conspire against you : 
 I’d lay down my life upon that.” 
 
 She threw herself again at my feet, and clung to my 
 knees. 
 
 “ As you hope for mercy yourself in this world, or 
 the world to come, show some now, and do not be so 
 hard-hearted as to be the death of both mother and son.” 
 
 Her supplicating looks and gestures, her words, her 
 tears, moved me so much, that I was on the point 
 of yielding ; but recollecting what was due to justice 
 and to my own character, with an effort of what I 
 thought virtuous resolution I repeated, “ It is im- 
 possible : my good Ellinor, urge me no farther : ask 
 anything else, and it shall be granted, but this is 
 impossible.” 
 
 As I spoke, I endeavoured to raise her from the 
 ground ; but with the sudden force of angry despair, 
 she resisted. 
 
 “ No, you shall not raise me,” cried she. u Here 
 let me lie, and break my heart with your cruelty! 
 ’Tis a judgment upon me — it’s a judgment, and it’s 
 fit I should feel it as I do. But you shall feel too, 
 in spite of your hard heart. Yes, your heart is harder 
 than the marble : you want the natural touch, you do ; 
 for your mother has knelt at your feet, and you have 
 denied her prayer.” 
 
 “ My mother ! ” 
 
 “ And what was her prayer ? — to save the life of 
 your brother.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 177 
 
 “ My brother ! Good heavens ! what do I hear ? ” 
 
 “ You hear the truth : you hear that I am your 
 lawful mother. Yes, you are my son. You have 
 forced that secret from me, which I thought to have 
 carried with me to my grave. And now you know 
 all : and now you know how wicked I have been, 
 and it was all for you ; for you that refused me the 
 only thing ever I asked, and that, too, in my greatest 
 distress, when my heart was just breaking : and all 
 this time, too, there’s Christy — poor good Christy ; 
 he that I’ve wronged, and robbed of his rightful in- 
 heritance, has been as a son, a dutiful good son to 
 me, and never did he deny me anything I could 
 ask ; but in you I have found no touch of tenderness. 
 Then it’s fit I should tell you again, and again, and 
 again, that he who is now slaving at the forge, to 
 give me the earnings of his labour ; he that lives, and 
 has lived all his days, upon potatoes and salt, and 
 is content ; he who has the face and the hands so 
 disguised with the smoke and the black, that your- 
 self asked him t’other day did he ever wash his face 
 since he was born — I tell ye, he it is who should live 
 in this castle, and sleep on that soft bed, and be lord 
 of all here — he is the true and real Lord Glenthorn, 
 and to the wide world I’ll make it known. Ay, 
 be pale and tremble, do ; it’s your turn now : I’ve 
 touched you now : but it’s too late. In the face of 
 day I shall confess the wrong I’ve done ; and I shall 
 call upon you to give back to him all that by right is 
 his own.” 
 
 Ellinor stopped short, for one of my servants at this 
 instant came into the room. 
 
 “My lord, Mr M‘Leod desires me to let you know 
 the guard has brought up the prisoners, and he is going 
 to commit them to gaol, and would be glad to know if 
 you choose to see them first, my lord.” 
 
 M 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 17 $ 
 
 Stupified by all I had just heard, I could only 
 reply, that I would come presently. Ellinor rushed 
 past the servant — “Are they come?” cried she. 
 66 Where will I get a sight of them ? ” I staid for 
 a few minutes alone, to decide upon what I ought 
 to say and do. A multitude of ideas, more than 
 had ever come in my mind in a twelvemonth, passed 
 through it in these few minutes. 
 
 As I was slowly descending the great staircase, 
 Ellinor came running, as fast as she could run, to 
 the foot of the stairs, exclaiming, “ It’s a mistake ! 
 it’s all a mistake, and I was a fool to believe them 
 that brought me the word. Sure Ody’s not there at 
 all ! nor ever was in it. I’ve seen them all, face to 
 face ; and my son’s not one of them, nor ever was : 
 and I was a fool from beginning to end — and I beg 
 your pardon entirely,” whispered she, coming close 
 to my ear : “ I was out of my reason at the thought 
 of that boy’s being to suffer, and I, his mother, the 
 cause of it. Forgive all I said in my passion, my 
 own best jewel : you was always good and tender to 
 me, and be the same still, dear. I’ll never say a 
 word more about it to any one living : the secret 
 shall die with me. Sure, when my conscience has 
 borne it so long, it may strive and bear it a little 
 longer for your sake : and it can’t be long I have 
 to live, so that will make all easy. Hark ! they are 
 asking for you. Do you go your ways into the great 
 parlour, to Mr M‘Leod, and think no more of any- 
 thing at all but joy. My son’s not one of them ! I 
 must go to the forge, and tell Christy the good news.” 
 Ellinor departed, quite satisfied with herself, with 
 me, and with all the world. She took it for granted 
 that she left me in the same state of mind, and that 
 I should obey her injunctions, and think of nothing 
 hut joy . Of what happened in the great parlour, and 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 179 
 
 of the examinations of the prisoners, I have but a 
 confused recollection. I remember that Mr McLeod 
 seemed rather surprised by my indifference to what 
 concerned me so nearly ; and that he was obliged to 
 do all the business himself. The men were, I be- 
 lieve, all committed to gaol, and Joe Kelly turned 
 king’s evidence; but as to any further particulars, I 
 know no more than if I had been in a dream. The 
 discovery which Ellinor had just made to me engrossed 
 all my powers of attention. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 “IE vrai n’est pas toujours vraisemblable,” says 
 
 I j an acute observer of human affairs. The 
 romance of real life certainly goes beyond 
 all other romances ; and there are facts which few 
 writers would dare to put into a book, as there are 
 skies which few painters would venture to put into a 
 picture. 
 
 When I had leisure to reflect, I considered, that 
 as yet I had no proof of the truth of Ellinor’s 
 strange story, except her own assertions. I sent 
 for her again, to examine her more particularly. 
 I was aware, that, if I alarmed her, I should so 
 confuse her imagination, that I should never obtain 
 the truth ; therefore I composed myself, and assumed 
 my usual external appearance of nonchalance. I 
 received her lolling upon my sofa, as usual, and I 
 questioned her merely as if to gratify an idle 
 curiosity. 
 
 “ Troth, dear,” said she, “ I’ll tell you the whole 
 story how it was, to make your mind asy, which, 
 God knows, mine never was, from that minute it 
 
ENNUI, 
 
 iSo 
 
 first came into my head, till this very time being. 
 You mind the time you got the cut in your head — 
 no, not you, jewel ; but the little lord that was then, 
 Christy there below that is. — Well, the cut was a 
 terrible cut as ever you seen, got by a fall on the 
 fender from the nurse’s arms, that was drunk, three 
 days after he was born.” 
 
 “I remember to have heard my father talk of 
 some accident of this sort, which happened to me 
 when I was an infant.” 
 
 “Ay, sure enough it did, and that was what first 
 put him in the notion of taking the little lord out of 
 the hands of the Dublin nurse- tenders, and them 
 that were about my Lady Glenthorn, and did not 
 know how to manage her, which was the cause of 
 her death : and he said he’d have his own way about 
 his son and heir any way, and have him nursed by a 
 wholesome woman in a cabin, and brought up hardy, 
 as he, and the old lord, and all the family, were be- 
 fore him. So with that he sends for me, and he puts 
 the young lord, God bless him, into my arms himself, 
 and a donny thing he was that same time to look 
 at, for he was but just out of the surgeon’s hands, 
 the head just healed and scarred over like ; and my 
 lord said there should be no more doctors never 
 about him. So I took him, that is, Christy, and 
 you, to a house at the sea, for the salt water, and 
 
 showed him every justice ; and my lord often came 
 
 to see him whilst he was in the country ; but then 
 
 he was off, after a time, to Dublin, and I was in a 
 
 lone place, where nobody came, and the child was 
 very sick with me, and you was all the time as fine 
 and thriving a child as ever you see ; and I thought, 
 to be sure, one night, that he would die wid me. He 
 was very bad, very bad indeed ; and I was sitting up 
 in bed, rocking him backwards and forwards this 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 181 
 
 ways : I thought with myself, what a pity it was 
 the young lord should die, and he an only son and 
 heir, and the estate to go out of the family the Lord 
 knows where; and then the grief the father would 
 be in : and then I thought how happy he would be 
 if he had such a fine babby as you, dear ; and you 
 was a fine babby to be sure : and then I thought how 
 happy it would be for you, if you was in the place of 
 the little lord : and then it came into my head, just 
 like a shot, where would be the harm to change 
 you ? for I thought the real lord would surely die ; 
 and then, what a gain it would be to all, if it was 
 never known, and if the dead child was carried to 
 the grave, since it must go, as only poor Ellinor 
 O’Donoghoe’s, and no more about it. Well, if it was 
 a wicked thought, it was the devil himself put it in 
 my head, to be sure; for, only for him, I should 
 never have had the sense to think of such a thing, 
 for I was always innocent like, and not worldly given. 
 But so it was, the devil put it in my head, and made 
 me do it, and showed me how, and all in a minute. 
 So, I mind, your eyes and hair were both of the very 
 same colour, dear ; and as to the rest, there’s no tell- 
 ing how those young things alter in a few months, 
 and my lord would not be down from Dublin in a 
 hurry, so I settled it all right ; and as there was no 
 likelihood at all the real lord would live, that quieted 
 my conscience ; for I argued, it was better the father 
 should have any sort of child at all than none. So, 
 when my lord came down, I carried him the child to 
 see, that is you, jewel. He praised me greatly for 
 all the care I had taken of his boy ; and said, how 
 finely you was come on ! and I never see a father in 
 greater joy ; and it would have been a sin, I thought, 
 to tell him the truth, after he took the change that 
 was put upon him so well, and it made him so happy 
 
182 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 like. Well, I was afeard of my life he’d pull off the 
 cap to search for the scar, so I would not let your 
 head be touched any way, dear, saying it was tinder 
 and soft still with the fall, and you’d cry if the cap 
 was stirred ; and so I made it out, indeed, very well ; 
 for, God forgive me, I twitched the string under your 
 chin, dear, and made you cry like mad, when they 
 would come to touch you. So there was no more 
 about it, and I had you home to myself, and, all in 
 good time, the hair grew, and fine thick hair it was, 
 God bless you ; and so there was no more about it, 
 and I got into no trouble at all, for it all fell out just 
 as I had laid it out, except that the real little young 
 lord did not die as I thought ; and it was a wonder 
 but he did, for you never saw none so near death, 
 and backwards and forwards, what turns of sickness 
 he took with me for months upon months, and year 
 after year, so that none could think, no more than 
 me, there was any likelihood at all of rearing him 
 to man’s estate. So that kept me easier in my mind 
 concerning what I’d done ; for as I kept saying to 
 myself, better the family should have an heir to the 
 estate, suppose not the right, than none at all ; and 
 if the father, nor nobody, never found it out, there 
 was he and all the family made happy for life, and 
 my child made a lord of, and none the wiser or the 
 worse. (Well, so I down-argued my conscience ; and 
 anyway I took to little Christy, as he was now to be 
 called — and I loved him, all as one as if he was my 
 own — not that he was ever as well-looking as Ody, 
 or any of the childer I had, but I never made any 
 differ betwixt him and any of my own — he can’t 
 say as I did, anyhow, and he has no reason to com- 
 plain of my being an unnat’ral mother to him, and 
 being my foster-child I had a right to love him as I 
 did, and I never wronged him in any way, except in 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I8 3 
 
 the one article of changing him at nurse, which he 
 being an infant, and never knowing, was never a bit 
 the worse for, nor never will, now. So all’s right, 
 dear, and make your mind asy, jewel ; there’s the 
 whole truth of the story, for you.” 
 
 “ But it is a very strange story, Ellinor, after all, 
 and — and I have only your word for it, and may be 
 you are only taking advantage of my regard for you 
 to make me believe you.” 
 
 “What is it, plase your honour?” said she, step- 
 ping forward, as if she did not hear or understand me. 
 
 “ I say, Ellinor, that after all I have no proof of 
 the truth of this story, except your word.” 
 
 “ And is not that enough ? and where’s the use of 
 having more ? but if it will make you asy, sure I can 
 give you proof — sure need you go farther than the 
 scar on his head ? If he was shaved to-morrow, I’d 
 engage you’d see it fast enough. But sure, can’t you 
 put your hand up to your head this minute, and feel 
 there never was no scar there, nor if all the hair you 
 have, God save the mark, was shaved this minute, 
 never a bit of a scar would be to be seen : but proof is 
 it you want ? — why, there’s the surgeon that dressed 
 the cut in the child’s head, before he ever came to 
 me ; sure he’s the man that can’t forget it, and that 
 will tell all : so to make your mind asy, see him, dear ; 
 but for your life don’t let him see your head to feel 
 it, for he’d miss the scar, and might suspect something 
 by your going to question him.” 
 
 “ Where does he live ? ” interrupted I. 
 
 “Not above twelve miles off.” 
 
 “ Is he alive ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, if he been’t dead since Candlemas.” 
 
 At first I thought of writing to this man ; but after- 
 wards, being afraid of committing myself by writing, 
 I went to him : he had long before this time left off 
 
184 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 business, and had retired to enjoy his fortune in the 
 decline of life. He was a whimsical sort of character ; 
 he had some remains of his former taste for anatomy, 
 and was a collector of curiosities. I found him just 
 returned from a lake which he had been dragging 
 for a moose-deer’s horns, to complete the skeleton 
 of a moose-deer, which he had mounted in his hall. 
 I introduced myself, desiring to see his museum, and 
 mentioned to him the thigh-bone of a giant found in 
 my neighbourhood ; then by favour of this bone I 
 introduced the able cure, that he had made of a cut in 
 my head, when I was a child. 
 
 “ A cut in your head, sir ? Yes, my lord, I recollect 
 perfectly well, it was a very ugly cut, especially in 
 an infant’s head ; but I am glad to find you feel no 
 bad effects from it. Have you any cicatrice on the 
 place ? — Eleven feet high, did you say ? and is the 
 giant’s skeleton in your neighbourhood ? ” 
 
 I humoured his fancy, and by degrees he gave me 
 all the information I wanted without in the least sus- 
 pecting my secret motives. He described the length, 
 breadth, and depth, of the wound to me ; showed me 
 just where it was on the head, and observed that it 
 must have left an indelible mark, but that my fine hair 
 covered it. When he seemed disposed to search for 
 it, I defended myself with the giant’s thigh-bone, and 
 warded off his attacks most successfully. To satisfy 
 myself upon this point, I affected to think that he had 
 not been paid : he said he had been amply paid, and 
 he showed me his books to prove it. I examined the 
 dates, and found that they agreed with Ellinor’s pre- 
 cisely. On my return home, the first thing I did was 
 to make Christy a present of a new wig, which I was 
 certain would induce him to shave his head ; for the 
 lower Irish agree with the beaux and belles of London 
 and Paris, in preferring wigs to their own hair. Elli- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 185 
 
 nor told me, that I might safely let his head be shaved, 
 because to her certain knowledge, he had scars of so 
 many cuts which he had received at fairs upon his 
 skull, that there would appear nothing particular in 
 one more or less. As soon as the head was shaved, 
 and the wig was worn, I took an opportunity one day 
 of stopping at the forge to have one of my horse’s shoes 
 changed ; and whilst this was doing, I took notice of 
 his new wig, and how well it fitted him. As I ex- 
 pected, he took it off to show it me better, and to pay 
 his own compliments to it. 
 
 “ Sure enough, you are a very fine wig,” said he ; 
 apostrophising it as he held it up on the end of his 
 hammer, “ and God bless him that give it me, and it 
 fits me as if it was nailed to my head.” 
 
 “ You seem to have had a good many nails in your 
 head already, Christy,” said I, “ if one may judge by 
 all these scars.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, please your honour, my lord,” said he, 
 “ there’s no harm in them neither ; they are scratches 
 got when I was no wiser than I should be, at fairs, 
 fighting with the boys of Shrawd-na-scoob.” 
 
 Whilst he fought his battles o’er again, I had leisure 
 to study his head ; and I traced precisely all the 
 boundary lines. The situation, size, and figure of 
 the cicatrice, which the surgeon and Ellinor had de- 
 scribed to me, were so visible and exact, that no doubt 
 could remain in my mind of Christy’s being the real 
 son of the late Lord and Lady Glenthorn. This con- 
 viction was still more impressed upon my mind a few 
 days afterwards. I recollected having seen a file of 
 family pictures in a lumber-room in the castle ; and 
 I rummaged them out to see if I could discover 
 amongst them any likeness to Christy : I found one ; 
 the picture of my grandfather — I should say, of his 
 grandfather — to which Christy bore a striking resem- 
 
i86 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 blance, when I saw him with his face washed, and in 
 his Sunday clothes. 
 
 My mind being now perfectly satisfied of the truth 
 of Ellinor’s story, I was next to consider how I ought 
 to act. To be or not to be Lord Glenthorn, or, in 
 other words, to be or not to be a villain, was now the 
 question. I could not dissemble to my conscience 
 this plain state of the case, that I had no right to 
 keep possession of that which I knew to be another’s 
 lawful property ; yet, educated as I had been, and 
 accustomed to the long enjoyment of those luxuries, 
 which become necessaries to the wealthy ; habituated 
 to attendance as I had been ; and, even amongst the 
 dissipated and idle, notorious for extravagance the 
 most unbounded and indolence the most inveterate ; 
 how was I at once to change my habits, to abdicate 
 my rank and power, to encounter the evils of poverty ? 
 ' I was not compelled to make such sacrifices ; for 
 though Ellinor’s transient passion had prompted her 
 to threaten me with a public discovery, yet I knew 
 that she would as soon cut off her own right hand as 
 execute her threats. Her affection for me, and her 
 pride in my consequence, were so strong, that I knew 
 I might securely rely upon her secrecy. The horrid 
 idea of being the cause of the death of one of her own 
 children had for a moment sufficient power to balance 
 her love for me ; yet there was but little probability 
 that any similar trial should occur, nor had I reason 
 to apprehend that the reproaches of her conscience 
 should induce her to make a voluntary discovery ; for 
 all her ideas of virtue depended on the principle ot 
 fidelity to the objects of her affection, and no scrupu- 
 lous notions of justice disturbed her understanding 
 or alarmed her self-complacency. Conscious that she 
 would willingly sacrifice all she had in the world for 
 anybody she loved, and scarcely comprehending that 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I8 7 
 
 any one could be selfish, she, in a confused way, 
 applied the maxim of “ Do as you would be done 
 by,” and was as generous of the property of others as 
 of her own. At the worst, if a law-suit commenced 
 against me, I knew that possession was nine-tenths 
 of the law. I also knew that Ellinor’s health was 
 declining, and that the secret would die with her. 
 Unlawful possession of the wealth I enjoyed could 
 not, however, satisfy my own mind ; and, after a severe 
 conflict between my love of ease and my sense of 
 right — between my tastes and my principles — I deter- 
 mined to act honestly and honourably, and to relinquish 
 what I could no longer maintain without committing 
 injustice, and feeling remorse. I was, perhaps, the 
 more ready to do rightly because I felt that I was not 
 compelled to it. The moment when I made this 
 virtuous decision was the happiest I had at that time 
 ever felt : my mind seemed suddenly relieved from an 
 oppressive weight ; my whole frame glowed with new 
 life ; and the consciousness of courageous integrity 
 elevated me so much in my own opinion, that titles, 
 and rank, and fortune, appeared as nothing in my 
 estimation. I rang my bell eagerly, and ordered that 
 Christy O’Donoghoe should be immediately sent for. 
 The servant went instantly ; but it seemed to me an 
 immoderately long time before Christy arrived. I 
 walked up and down the room impatiently, and at last 
 threw myself at full length upon the sofa : the servant 
 returned. 
 
 “The smith is below in the hall, my lord.” 
 
 “ Show him up.” — He was shown up into the ante- 
 chamber. 
 
 “ The smith is at the door, my lord.” 
 
 “ Show him in, cannot you ? What detains him ? ” 
 
 “ My brogues, my lord ! I’d be afraid to come in 
 with ’em on the carpet.” Saying this, Christy came 
 
i88 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 in, stepping fearfully, astonished to find himself in a 
 splendid drawing-room. 
 
 “Were you never in this room before, Christy ?” 
 said I. 
 
 “ Never, my lord, plase your honour, barring the day 
 I mended the bolt.” 
 
 “ It is a fine room, is it not, Christy ? ” 
 
 “Troth, it is the finest ever I see, sure enough.” 
 
 “ How should you like to have such a room of your 
 own, Christy ? ” 
 
 “Is it I, plase your honour ? ” replied he, laughing ; 
 “ what should I do with the like ? ” 
 
 “ How should you feel if you were master of this 
 great castle ? ” 
 
 “ It’s a poor figure I should make, to be sure,” said 
 he, turning his head over his shoulder towards the door, 
 and resting upon the lock : “ I’d rather be at the forge 
 by a great dale .” 
 
 “ Are you sure of that, Christy ? Should not you 
 like to be able to live without working any more, and 
 to have horses and servants of your own ? ” 
 
 “ What would I do with them, plase your honour, 
 I that have never been used to them ? sure they’d all 
 laugh at me, and I’d not be the better o’ that, no more 
 than of having nothing to do ; I that have been always 
 used to the work, what should I do all the day with- 
 out it? But sure, my lord,” continued he, changing 
 his voice to a more serious tone, “ the horse that I shod 
 yesterday for your honour did not go lame, did he ? ” 
 
 “ The horse is very well shod, I believe ; I have 
 not ridden him since : I know nothing of the matter.” 
 “ Because I was thinking, may be, it was that made 
 your honour send for me up in the hurry — I was afeard 
 I’d find your honour mad with me ; and I’d be very 
 sorry to disoblige you, my lord ; and I’m glad to see 
 your honour looking so well after all the trouble you’ve 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 189 
 
 been put to by them rubbles , the villains, to be consarting 
 against you under-ground. But, thanks be to God, 
 you have ’em all in gaol now. I thought my mother 
 would have died of the fright she took, when the 
 report came that Ody was one of them. I told her 
 there could not be no truth in it at all, but she would 
 not mind me : it would be a strange unnatural thing, 
 indeed, of any belonging to her to be plotting against 
 your honour. I knew Ody could not be in it, and be 
 a brother of mine ; and that’s what I kept saying all 
 the time ; but she never heeded me : for, your honour 
 knows, when the women are frighted, and have taken a 
 thing into their heads, you can’t asy get it out again.” 
 
 “ Very true : but, to return to what I was saying, 
 should not you like to change places with me, if you 
 could ? ” 
 
 “ Your honour, my lord, is a very happy jantleman, 
 and a very good jantleman, there’s no doubt, and 
 there’s few but would be proud to be like you in 
 anything at all.” 
 
 “ Thank you for that compliment. But now, in 
 plain English, as to yourself, would you like to be in 
 my place — to change places with me ? ” 
 
 “ In your honour’s place — I ! I would not, my 
 lord; and that’s the truth, now,” said he decidedly. 
 “ I would not : no offence — your honour bid me to 
 speak the truth ; for I’ve all I want in the world, a 
 good mother, and a good wife, and good childer, and 
 a reasonable good little cabin, and my little pratees , 
 and the grazing of the cow, and work enough always, 
 and not called on to slave, and I get my health, 
 thank God for all ; and what more could I have 
 if I should be made a lord to-morrow ? Sure, my 
 good woman would never make a lady; and what 
 should I do with her? I’d be grieved to see her 
 the laughing - stock of high and low, besides being 
 
igo 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 the same myself, and my boy after me. That would 
 never answer for me ; so I am not like them that 
 would overturn all to get uppermost ; I never had 
 any hand, art, or part, in a thing of the kind ; I 
 always thought and knew I was best as I am ; not 
 but what, if I was to change with any, it is with you, 
 my lord, I would be proud to change ; because if I 
 was to be a jantleman at all, I ? d wish to be of a ra-al 
 good ould family born.” 
 
 “ You are then what you wish to be,” said I. 
 
 “ Och ! ” said he, laughing and scratching his head, 
 “your honour’s jesting me about them kings of Ire- 
 land, that they say the O’Donoghoes was once : but 
 that’s what I never think on , that’s all idle talk for 
 the like of me, for sure that’s a long time ago, and 
 what use going back to it ? One might as well be 
 going back to Adam, that was the father of all, but 
 which makes no differ now.” 
 
 “ But you do not understand me,” interrupted I ; 
 “ I am not going back to the kings of Ireland : I 
 mean to tell you, that you were born a gentleman — 
 nay, I am perfectly serious ; listen to me.” 
 
 “ I do, plase your honour, though it is mocking me 
 I know you are ; I would be sorry not to take a joke 
 as well as another.” 
 
 “ This is no joke ; I repeat, that I am serious. You 
 are not only a gentleman, but a nobleman : to you this 
 castle and this great estate belongs, and to you they 
 shall be surrendered.” 
 
 He stood astonished ; and, his eyes opening wide, 
 showed a great circle of white in his black face. 
 
 “ Eh ! ” cried he, drawing that long breath, which 
 astonishment had suppressed. “ But how can this be ? ” 
 “ Your mother can explain better than I can : your 
 mother, did I say ? she is not your mother ; Lady 
 Glenthorn was your mother.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I 9 t 
 
 44 1 can’t understand it at all — I can’t understand it 
 all. I’ll lave it all to your honour,” said he, making 
 a motion with his hands, as if to throw from him the 
 trouble of comprehending it. 
 
 44 Did you ever hear of such a thing as a child’s 
 being changed at nurse ? ” 
 
 44 1 did, plase your honour ; but my mother would 
 never do the like, I’ll answer for her , any way ; and 
 them that said anything of the kind belied her ; and 
 don’t be believing them, my lord.” 
 
 44 But Ellinor was the person who told me this 
 secret.” 
 
 44 Was she so ? Oh, she must have been draaming ; 
 she was always too good a mother to me to have 
 sarved me so. But,” added he, struggling to clear 
 his intellects, 44 you say it’s not my mother she is ; but 
 whose mother is she then ? Can it be that she is 
 yours ? ’tis not possible to think such a great lord 
 was the son of such as her, to look at you both : and 
 was you the son of my father Johnny O’Donoghoe ? 
 How is that again ? ” 
 
 He rubbed his forehead ; and I could scarcely for- 
 bear laughing at his odd perplexity, though the subject 
 was of such serious importance. When he clearly 
 understood the case, and thoroughly believed the truth, 
 he did not seem elated by this sudden change of for- 
 tune ; he really thought more of me than of himself. 
 
 44 Well, I’ll tell you what you will do then,” con- 
 tinued he, after a pause of deep reflection ; 44 say nothing 
 to nobody, but just keep asy on, even as we are. Don’t 
 let there be any surrendering at all, and I’ll speak to 
 my mother, that is, Ellinor O’Donoghoe, and settle 
 it so ; and let it be so settled, in the name of God, 
 and no more about it : and none need never be the 
 wiser ; ’tis so best for all. A good day to your honour, 
 and I’ll go shoe the mare.” 
 
192 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ Stay,” said I ; “ you may hereafter repent of this 
 sudden determination. I insist upon your taking four- 
 and-twenty hours — no, that would be too little — take 
 a month to consider of it coolly, and then let me know 
 your final determination.” 
 
 “ Oh ! plase your honour, I will say the same then 
 as now. It would be a poor thing indeed of me, after 
 all you done for me and mine, to be putting you to 
 more trouble. It would be a poor thing of me to 
 forget how you liked to have lost your life all along 
 with me at the time of the ’ruction. No, I’ll not take 
 the fortin from you, anyhow.” 
 
 “ Put gratitude to me out of the question,” said I. 
 “Far be it from me to take advantage of your affec- 
 tionate temper. I do not consider you as under any 
 obligations to me ; nor will I be paid for doing 
 justice.” 
 
 “ Sure enough, your honour desarved to be born a 
 gentleman,” said Christy. 
 
 “ At least I have been bred a gentleman,” said I. 
 “ Let me see you again this day month, and not till 
 then.” 
 
 “ You shall not — that is, you shall, plase your 
 honour : but for fear any one would suspect anything, 
 I’d best go shoe the mare any way.” 
 
 Chapter ptotij. 
 
 “ What riches give us, let us then inquire— 
 
 Meat, fire, and clothes — What more? — Meat, clothes, and fire.” 
 
 T HE philosophy we learn from books makes but 
 a faint impression upon the mind, in comparison 
 with that which we are taught by our own ex- 
 perience ; and we sometimes feel surprised to find that 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 193 
 
 what we have been taught as maxims of morality prove 
 true in real life. After having had, for many years, 
 the fullest opportunities of judging of the value of 
 riches, when I reflected upon my past life, I perceived 
 that their power of conferring happiness is limited, 
 nearly as the philosophic poet describes ; that all the 
 changes and modifications of luxury must, in the sum 
 of actual physical enjoyment, be reduced to a few 
 elementary pleasures, of which the industrious poor can 
 obtain their share : a small share, perhaps ; but then it 
 is enjoyed with a zest that makes it equal in value, 
 perhaps, to the largest portion offered to the sated 
 palate of ennui. These truths are as old as the world ; 
 but they appeared quite new to me, when I discovered 
 them by my own experience. 
 
 During the month which I had allowed to my 
 foster-brother for reflection, I had leisure to philoso- 
 phise, and my understanding made a rapid progress. 
 I foresaw the probability of Christy’s deciding to 
 become Earl of Glenthorn ; notwithstanding that his 
 good sense had so clearly demonstrated to him in 
 theory, that, with his education and habits, he must 
 be happier working in his forge than he could be as 
 Lord of Glenthorn Castle. I was not dismayed by 
 the idea of losing my wealth and rank ; I was pleased 
 with myself for my honest conduct, and conscious of a 
 degree of pleasure from my own approbation, superior 
 to what my riches had ever procured. 
 
 The day appointed for Christy’s final determination 
 arrived. I knew by the first motion of his shoulder, as 
 he came into the room, what his decision would be. 
 
 “Well, Christy,” said I, “you will be Earl of 
 Glenthorn, I perceive. You are glad now that I did 
 not take you at your word, and that I gave you a 
 month’s time for consideration.” 
 
 “Your honour was always considerate; but if I’d 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 wish now to be changing my mind,” said he, hesi- 
 tating, and shifting from leg to leg, “ it is not upon my 
 own account, anyway, but upon my son Johnny’s.” 
 
 “ My good friend,” said I, “ no apology is necessary. 
 I should be very unjust if I were offended by your 
 decision, and very mean if, after the declarations I 
 have made, I could for an instant hesitate to restore 
 to you that property which it is your right and your 
 choice to reclaim.” 
 
 Christy made a low bow, and seemed much at a loss 
 what he was to say next. 
 
 “ I hope,” continued I, “ that you will be as happy 
 when you are Earl of Glenthorn, as you have been as 
 Christy O’Donoghoe.” 
 
 “ May be not, plase your honour ; but I trust my 
 childer will be happy after me ; and it’s them and 
 my wife I’m thinlung of, as in duty bound. But it 
 is hard your honour should be astray for want of the 
 fortin you’ve been bred to ; and this weighs with me 
 greatly on the other side. If your honour could live 
 on here, and share with us — But I see your honour’s 
 displeased at my naming that . It was my wife thought 
 o’ that ; I knew it could not do. But then, what I 
 think is, that your honour should name what you 
 would be pleased to keep to live upon : for, to be sure, 
 you have a right to live as a gentleman, that have 
 always lived as one, as everybody knows, and none 
 better than I. Would your honour be so kind, then, 
 as just to put down on a bit of paper what you’d wish 
 to keep ; and that same, whatever it is, none shall 
 touch but yourself ; and I would not own a child for 
 mine that would begrudge it you. I’ll step down and 
 wait below while your honour writes what you plase.” 
 
 The generosity of this man touched me to the heart. 
 I accepted from him three hundred a year ; and re- 
 quested that the annuity I allowed to the unfortunate 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 *95 
 
 Lady Glenthorn might be continued ; that the house 
 which I had built for Ellinor, and the land belonging 
 to it, might be secured to her rent-free for life ; and 
 that all my debts should be paid. I recommended Mr 
 M‘Leod in the strongest manner, as an agent whose 
 abilities and integrity would be to him an invaluable 
 treasure. 
 
 Christy, when I gave him the paper on which I had 
 stated these requests, took a pen instantly, and would 
 have signed his name without reading it ; but to this 
 I absolutely objected. 
 
 “Well, then,” said he, “I’ll take it home, and 
 read it over, and take time, as you desire, to consider. 
 There’s no danger of my changing my mind about 
 this : I hope your honour can’t think there is.” 
 
 The next day, on returning it to me, he observed, 
 that it was making very little of him to put down only 
 such a trifle ; and he pressed me to make the hundreds 
 thousands : — this I refused. 
 
 “ But I hope your honour won’t object to what I 
 am going to propose. Is not there a house in London ? 
 and is not there another in England, in the country ? 
 and, sure, I and mine can’t live there and here and 
 everywhere at once : if you’d just condescend to 
 
 occupy one of them, you’d do me a great pleasure, 
 and a great sarvice too ; for everything would be 
 right, instead of going wrong, as it might under an 
 agent, and me at a distance, that does not know well 
 how to manage such great estates. I hope you’ll not 
 refuse me that, if it’s only to show me I don’t lose 
 your honour’s good-will.” 
 
 The offer was made with so much earnestness, and 
 even delicacy, that I could not abruptly refuse it at the 
 moment, though one of these magnificent houses could 
 be of no use to me with an income of 5^300 per 
 annum . 
 
196 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “As to the annuity,” continued Christy, “that shall 
 be paid as punctual as the day : Mr M‘Leod will pay 
 it ; and he shall have it all settled right, and put upon 
 a stamp, by the lawyers, in case anything should happen 
 me. Then, as to Ellinor, sure, she is my mother, for 
 I never can think of her any other way ; and, except 
 in that single article of changing me at nurse, was 
 always the best of mothers to me. And even that 
 same trick she played me, though very wicked, to be 
 sure, was very nat’ral — ay, very natural — to prefar her 
 own flesh and blood if she could : and no one could 
 be more sorry for the wrong she did me than she is 
 now : there she is crying at home, ready to break her 
 heart : but as I tell her, there’s no use in repenting a 
 thing when once it is done ; and as I forgive her, none 
 can ever bring it up against her : and as to the house 
 and farm, she shall surely have that, and shall never 
 want for anything. So I hope your honour’s mind 
 will be asy on that matter ; and whatever else you 
 recollect to wish, that shall be done, if in my power.” 
 
 It is with pleasure that I recollect and record all 
 these instances of goodness of heart in poor Christy, 
 which, notwithstanding the odd mixture of absurdity 
 and sense in his language and ideas, will, I make no 
 doubt, please my readers, though they cannot affect 
 them as much as they affected me. 
 
 I now prepared for my departure from Glenthorn 
 Castle, never more to return. To spare me from 
 unnecessary mortification, Christy had the wonderful 
 self-command to keep the secret faithfully, so that none 
 of the people in the neighbourhood, nor even my 
 servants, had the v slightest idea of the truth. Having 
 long talked of returning to England, the preparations 
 for my journey excited no surprise. Everything went 
 on as usual, except that Christy, instead of being at 
 the forge, was almost every day at the whiskey-shop. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 I 9 7 
 
 I thought it proper to speak openly of my affairs to 
 Mr M‘Leod : he was the only person who could 
 make out a correct list of my debts. Besides, I 
 wished to recommend him as agent to the future earl, 
 to whom an honest and able agent would be peculiarly 
 necessary, ignorant, as he was, both of the world and 
 of business ; and surrounded, as he must probably be, 
 on his accession to his estate, by a herd of vulgar and 
 designing flatterers. 
 
 Albeit not easily moved to surprise, Mr M‘Leod 
 really did, for an instant, look astonished, when I 
 informed him that Christy O’Donoghoe was Earl 
 of Glenthorn. But I must resolve not to stop to 
 describe the astonishment that each individual showed 
 upon this occasion, else I shall never have finished my 
 story. 
 
 It was settled that Mr M‘Leod should continue 
 agent ; and, for his credit, I must observe that, after 
 he was made acquainted with my loss of rank and 
 fortune, he treated me with infinitely more respect and 
 regard than he had ever shown me whilst he considered 
 me only as his employer. Our accounts were soon 
 settled ; and when this was done, and they were all 
 regularly signed, Mr M‘Leod came up to me, and, in 
 a low voice of great emotion, said, “ I am not a man 
 of professions ; but when I say I am a man’s friend, I 
 hope I shall ever be found to be so, as far as can be in 
 my power : and I cannot but esteem and admire the 
 man who has acted so nobly as you have done.” 
 
 M‘Leod wrung my hand as he spoke, and the tears 
 stood in his eyes. I knew that the feeling must indeed 
 be strong, which could extort from him even these few 
 words of praise, and this simple profession of regard ; 
 but I did not know, till long afterwards, the full 
 warmth of his affections and energy of his friendship. 
 The very next day, unfortunately for me, he was 
 
igS 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 obliged to go to Scotland, to his mother, who was 
 dying : and at this time I saw no more of him. 
 
 In due legal form I now made a surrender of all 
 claim upon the hereditary property of the Earl of 
 Glenthorn, and everything was in readiness for my 
 journey. During this time poor Ellinor never appeared 
 at the castle. I went to see her, to comfort her about 
 my going away ; but she was silent, and seemingly 
 sullen, and would not be comforted. 
 
 “ I’ve enough to grieve me , 55 said she : “ I know 
 what will be the end of all ; I see it as plain as if 
 you’d told me. There’s no hiding nothing from a 
 mother : no, there’s no use in striving to comfort 
 me.” Every method which I tried to console her 
 seemed to grieve her more. 
 
 The day before that which was fixed for my de- 
 parture, I sent to desire to see her. This request I 
 had repeatedly made ; but she had, from day to day, 
 excused herself, saying that she was unwell, and that 
 she would be up on the morrow. At last she came ; 
 and though but a few days had elapsed since I had 
 seen her, she was so changed in her appearance, that I 
 was shocked the moment I beheld her countenance. 
 
 “ You don’t look well, Ellinor,” said I : “ sit 
 down.” 
 
 “ No matter whether I sit or stand,” said she 
 calmly ; “ I’m not long for this world : I won’t live 
 long after you are gone, that’s one comfort.” 
 
 Her eyes were fixed and tearless ; and there was a 
 dead unnatural tranquillity in her manner. 
 
 “ They are making a wonderful great noise nailing 
 up the boxes, and I seen them cording the trunks as I 
 came through the hall. I asked them, could I be of 
 any use : but they said I could be of none, and that’s 
 true ; for, when I put my hand to the cord, to pull it, 
 I had no more strength than an infant. It was seven- 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 199 
 
 and-twenty years last Midsummer-day since I first had 
 you an infant in my arms. I was strong enough then, 
 and you was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time all 
 that would come to pass this day ! But that’s over 
 now. I have done a wicked thing ; but I’ll send for 
 Father Murphy, and get absolution before I die.” 
 
 She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more 
 quickly. 
 
 “ But I can do nothing until you go. What time 
 will you go in the morning, dear ? It’s better go early. 
 Is it in the coach you’ll go ? I see it in the yard. 
 But I thought you must leave the coach, with all the 
 rest, to the rightful heir. But my head’s not clear 
 about it all, I believe — and no matter.” 
 
 Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an 
 unconnected manner. I endeavoured in vain to recall 
 her understanding by speaking of her own immediate 
 interests ; of the house that was secured to her for life ; 
 and of the promise that had been made me, that she 
 should never want for anything , and that she should be 
 treated with all possible kindness. She seemed to listen 
 to me ; but showed that she did not comprehend what 
 I said, by her answers ; and, at every pause I made, 
 she repeated the same question — 
 
 “ What time will you go in the morning, dear ? ” 
 
 At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered 
 her intellect, when I suddenly asked, if she would 
 accompany me to England the next morning. 
 
 “ Ay, that I will,” cried she, “ go with you through 
 the wide world.” 
 
 She burst into tears, and wept bitterly for some 
 time. 
 
 “ Ah ! now I feel right again,” said she ; “ this is 
 what I wanted ; but could not cry this many a day — 
 never since the word came to me that you was going, 
 and all was lost.” 
 
200 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 I assured her that I now expected to be happier than 
 I had ever been. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” cried she : “ and have you never been 
 happy all this time ? What a folly it was for me, 
 then, to do so wicked a thing ! and all my comfort 
 was, the thinking you was happy, dear. And what 
 will become of you now ? And is it on foot you’ll 
 go?” 
 
 Her thoughts rambled again. 
 
 “ Whatever way I go, you shall go with me,” said 
 I. “ You are my mother ; and now that your son has 
 done what he knows to be honest and just, he will 
 prosper in the world, and will be truly happy ; and so 
 may you be happy, now that you have nothing more to 
 conceal.” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ It’s too late,” said she, “ quite too late. I often 
 told Christy I would die before you left this place, 
 dear ; and so I will, you will see. God bless you ! 
 God bless you ! and pray to him to forgive me ! None 
 that could know what I’ve gone through would ever 
 do the like ; no, not for their own child, was he even 
 such as you, and that would be hard to find. God 
 bless you, dear ; I shall never see you more ! The 
 hand of death is upon me — God for ever bless you, 
 
 dear ! ” 
 
 She died that night ; and I lost in her the only 
 human being who had ever shown me warm, dis- 
 interested affection. Her death delayed for a few 
 days my departure from Glenthorn Castle. I staid 
 to see her laid in the grave. Her funeral was followed 
 by crowds of people : by many, from the general habit 
 of attending funerals ; by many, who wished to pay 
 their court to me, in showing respect to the memory 
 of my nurse. 
 
 When the prayers over the dead were ended, and 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 201 
 
 the grave closed, just as the crowd were about to 
 disperse, I stood up on a monument belonging to the 
 Glenthorn family ; and the moment it was observed 
 that I wished to address the multitude, the moving 
 waves were stilled, and there was a dead silence. 
 Every eye was fixed upon me with eager expectation. 
 It was the first time in my life that I had ever spoken 
 before numbers ; but as I was certain that I had 
 something to say, and quite indifferent about the 
 manner, words came without difficulty. Amazement 
 appeared in every face when I declared myself to be 
 the son of the poor woman whom we had just interred. 
 And when I pointed to the real Earl of Glenthorn, 
 and when I declared that I relinquished to him his 
 hereditary title and lawful property, my auditors 
 looked alternately at me and at my foster-brother, 
 seeming to think it impossible that a man, with face 
 and hands so black as Christy’s usually were known 
 to be, could become an earl. 
 
 When I concluded my narrative, and paused, the 
 silence still continued ; all seemed held in mute astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 “ And now, my good friends,” continued I, “ let 
 me bid you farewell ; probably you will never see or 
 hear of me more ; but, whether he be rich or poor, 
 or high or low-born, every honest man must wish to 
 leave behind him a fair character. Therefore, when 
 I am gone, and, as it were, dead to you, speak of me, 
 not as of an impostor, who long assumed a name and 
 enjoyed a fortune that was not his own ; but remem- 
 ber that I was bred to believe myself heir to a great 
 estate, and that, after having lived till the age of seven - 
 and-twenty, in every kind of luxury, I voluntarily gave 
 up the fortune I enjoyed, the moment I discovered that 
 it was not justly mine.” 
 
 “ That you did, indeed,” interrupted Christy ; 
 
202 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ and of that I am ready to bear witness for you in 
 this world and in the next. God bless and prosper 
 you wherever you go ! and sure enough he will, for 
 he cannot do other than prosper one that deserves it 
 so well. I never should have known a sentence of 
 the secret,” continued he, addressing his neighbours, 
 “ if it had not been for his generosity to tell it me ; 
 and even had I found it out by any maracle , where 
 would have been the gain of that to me ? for you 
 know he could, had he been so inclined, have kept 
 me out of all by the law — ay, baffled me on till my 
 heart was sick, and till my little substance was 
 wasted, and my bones rotten in the ground ; but, 
 God’s blessing be upon him ! he’s an honest man, and 
 done that which many a lord in his place would not 
 have done; but a good conscience is a kingdom in 
 itself, and that he cannot but have, wherever he goes 
 — and all which grieves me is that he is going away 
 from us. If he’d be prevailed with by me, he’d stay 
 where he is, and we’d share and share alike ; but he’s 
 too proud for that — and no wonder — he has a right 
 to be proud $ for no matter who was his mother, he’ll 
 live and die a gentleman, every inch of him. Any 
 man, you see, may be made a lord ; but a gentleman, 
 a man must make himself. And yourselves can wit- 
 ness, has not he reigned over us like a gentleman, 
 and a raal gentleman ; and shown mercy to the poor, 
 and done justice to all, as well as to me ? and did not 
 he take me by the hand when I was persecuted, and 
 none else in the wide world to befrind me ; and did 
 not he stand up for me against the tyrants that had 
 the sway then ; ay, and did not he put himself to 
 trouble, day and night, go riding here and there, and 
 spaking and writing for me? Well, as they say, he 
 loves his ease, and that’s the worst can be said of him ; 
 he took all this pains for a poor man, and had like to 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 203 
 
 have lost his life by it. And now, wherever he is 
 and whatever, can I help loving and praying for him ? 
 or could you? And since you will go,” added he, 
 turning to me with tears in his eyes, “ take with you 
 the blessings of the poor, which, they say, carry a man 
 straight to heaven, if anything can.” 
 
 The surrounding crowd joined with one voice in 
 applauding this speech : “ It is he that has said what 
 we all think,” cried they, following me with acclama- 
 tions to the castle. When they saw the chaise at the 
 door which was to carry me away, their acclamations 
 suddenly ceased — “ But is he going ? — But can’t he 
 stay ? — And is he going this minute ? troth it’s a pity, 
 and a great pity ! ” 
 
 Again and again these honest people insisted upon 
 taking leave of me, and I could not force myself away 
 without difficulty. They walked on beside my car- 
 riage, Christy at their head ; and in this species of 
 triumph, melancholy indeed, but grateful to my heart, 
 I quitted Glenthorn Castle, passed through that 
 park which was no longer mine, and at the verge of 
 the county shook hands for the last time with these 
 affectionate and generous people. I then bid my 
 postilion drive on fast; and I never looked back, 
 never once cast a lingering look at all I left behind. 
 I felt proud of having executed my purpose, and 
 conscious I had not the insignificant, inefficient char- 
 acter that had formerly disgraced me. As to the 
 future, I had not distinctly arranged my plans, nor 
 was my mind during the remainder of the day suffi- 
 ciently tranquil for reflection. I felt like one in a 
 dream, and could scarcely persuade myself of the 
 reality of the events, that had succeeded each other 
 with such astonishing rapidity. At night I stopped at 
 an inn where I was not known ; and having no attend- 
 ants or equipage to command respect from hostlers, 
 
204 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 waiters, and innkeepers, I was made immediately 
 sensible of the reality, at least, of the change in my 
 fortune ; but I was not mortified — I felt only as if I 
 were travelling incognito. And I contrived to go to 
 bed without a valet-de-chambre, and slept soundly, for 
 I had earned a sound sleep by exertion both of body 
 and mind. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I N the morning I awoke with a confused notion 
 that something extraordinary had happened ; but 
 it was a good while before I recollected myself 
 sufficiently to be perfectly sensible of the absolute and 
 irrevocable change in my circumstances. An inn may 
 not appear the best possible place for meditation, 
 especially if the moralised s bedchamber be next the 
 yard where carriages roll, and hostlers swear per- 
 petually ; yet, so situated, I, this morning as I lay 
 awake in my bed, thought so abstractedly and at- 
 tentively, that I heard neither wheels nor hostlers. 
 I reviewed the whole of my past life; I regretted 
 bitterly my extravagance, my dissipation, my waste 
 of time ; I considered how small a share of enjoyment 
 my wealth had procured, either for myself or others ; 
 how little advantage I had derived from my education, 
 and from all my opportunities of acquiring knowledge. 
 It had been in my power to associate with persons of 
 the highest talents, and of the best information, in the 
 British dominions ; yet I had devoted my youth to 
 loungers, and gamesters, and epicures, and knew that 
 scarcely a trace of my existence remained in the minds 
 of those selfish beings, who once called themselves my 
 friends. I wished that I could live my life over 
 again ; and I felt that, were it in my power, I should 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 205 
 
 live in a manner very different from that in which I 
 had fooled away existence. In the midst of my self- 
 reproaches, however, I had some consolation in the 
 idea that I had never been guilty of any base or dis- 
 honourable action. I recollected, with satisfaction, 
 my behaviour to Lady Glen thorn, when I discovered 
 her misconduct ; I recollected that I had always 
 shown gratitude to poor Ellinor for her kindness ; I 
 recollected, with pleasure, that when trusted with power 
 I had not used it tyrannically. My exertions in 
 favour of my foster-brother, when he was oppressed, 
 I remembered with much satisfaction ; and the steadi- 
 ness with which I behaved, when a conspiracy was 
 formed against my life, gave me confidence in my own 
 courage ; and, after having sacrificed my vast posses- 
 sions to a sense of justice, no mortal could doubt 
 my integrity : so that upon the whole, notwithstanding 
 my past follies, I had a tolerably good opinion of 
 myself, or rather good hopes for the future. I was 
 certain, that there was more in me than the world 
 had seen ; and I was ambitious of proving that I had 
 some personal merit, independent of the adventitious 
 circumstances of rank and fortune. But how was I 
 to distinguish myself? 
 
 Just as I came to this difficult question, the chamber- 
 maid interrupted my reverie, by warning me in a shrill 
 voice that it was very late, and that she had called me 
 above two hours before. 
 
 “ Where’s my man ? send up my man. O ! I beg 
 your pardon — nothing at all : only, my good girl, I 
 should be obliged to you if you could let me have a 
 little warm water, that I may shave myself.” 
 
 It was new and rather strange to me to be without 
 attendants ; but I found that, when I was forced to it, 
 I could do things admirably well for myself, that I had 
 never suspected I could perform without assistance. 
 
2o6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 After I had travelled two days without servants, how 
 I had travelled with them was the wonder. I once 
 caught myself saying of myself, “ That careless block- 
 head has forgot my nightcap.” For some time I was 
 liable to make odd blunders about my own identity ; I 
 was apt to mistake between my old and my new habits, 
 so that when I spoke in the tone and imperative mode 
 in which Lord Glenthorn had been habituated to speak, 
 people stared at me as if I was mad, and I in my turn 
 was frequently astonished by their astonishment, and 
 perplexed by their ease of behaviour in my presence. 
 
 Upon my arrival in Dublin, I went to a small lodg- 
 ing which Mr M‘Leod had recommended to me ; it 
 was such as suited my reduced finances ; but, at first 
 view, it was not much to my taste ; however, I ate 
 with a good appetite my very frugal supper, upon a 
 little table, covered with a little table-cloth, on which 
 I could not wipe my mouth without stooping low. 
 The mistress of the house, a North-country woman, 
 was so condescending as to blow my fire, remarking, 
 at the same time, that coals were a very scarce article ; 
 she begged to know whether I would choose a fire in 
 my bedroom, and what quantity of coals she should 
 lay in ; she added many questions about boarding, and 
 small-beer, and tea, and sugar, and butter, and blankets, 
 and sheets, and washerwomen, which almost over- 
 whelmed my spirits. 
 
 “ And must I think of all these things for myself?” 
 said I, in a lamentable tone, and I suppose with a most 
 deplorable length of face, for the woman could not re- 
 frain from laughing : as she left the room, I heard her 
 exclaim, “ Lord help him ! he looks as much astray 
 as if he was just new from the Isle of Skye.” 
 
 The cares of life were coming fast upon me, and I 
 was terrified by the idea of a host of petty evils ; I sat 
 ruminating, with my feet upon the bars of the grate, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 207 
 
 till past midnight, when my landlady, who seemed to 
 think it incumbent upon her to supply me with common 
 sense, came to inform me that there was a good fire 
 burning to waste in the bedroom, and that I should 
 find myself a deal better there than sitting over the 
 cinders. I suffered myself to be removed to the bed- 
 chamber, and again established my feet upon the upper 
 bar of the grate. 
 
 “ Lack ! sir, you’ll burn your boots,” said my care- 
 ful landlady ; who, after bidding me good-night, put 
 her head back into the room, to beg I would be sure 
 to rake the fire, and throw up the ashes safe, before I 
 went to bed. Left to my own meditations, I confess 
 I did feel rather forlorn. I reflected upon my help- 
 lessness in all the common business of life ; and the 
 more I considered that I was totally unfit for any 
 employment or profession, by which I could either 
 earn money, or distinguish myself, the deeper became 
 my despondency. I passed a sleepless night, vainly 
 regretting the time that never could be recalled. 
 
 In the morning, my landlady gave me some letters, 
 which had been forwarded for me from Glenthorn 
 Castle ; the direction to the Earl of Glenthorn 
 scratched out, and in its place inserted my new 
 address, “ C. 0’ Donoghoe, Esq ., No. 6 Duke Street , 
 Dublin .” I remember, I held the letters in my 
 hand, contemplating the direction for some minutes, 
 and at length read it aloud repeatedly, to my land- 
 lady’s infinite amusement : — she knew nothing of my 
 history, and seemed in doubt whether to think me 
 extremely silly or mad. One of my letters was from 
 
 Lord Y , an Irish nobleman, with whom I was 
 
 not personally acquainted, but for whose amiable 
 character and literary reputation I had always, even 
 during my days of dissipation, peculiar respect. He 
 wrote to me to make inquiries respecting the char- 
 
2o8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 acter of a Mr Lyddell, who had just proposed him- 
 self as tutor to the son of one of his friends. Mr 
 Lyddell had formerly been my favourite tutor, the 
 man who had encouraged me in every species of igno- 
 rance and idleness. In my present state of mind I was 
 not disposed to speak favourably of this gentleman ; 
 and I resolved that I would not be instrumental in 
 placing another young nobleman under his guidance. 
 I wrote an explicit, indignant, and I will say eloquent 
 letter, upon this occasion ; but, when I came to the 
 signature, I felt a repugnance to signing myself C. 
 O’Donoghoe, and I recollected, that as my history 
 
 could not yet be public, Lord Y would be puzzled 
 
 by this strange name, and would be unable to compre- 
 hend this answer to his letter. I therefore determined 
 to wait upon his lordship, and to make my explana- 
 tions in person : besides my other reasons for deter- 
 mining on this visit, I had a strong desire to become 
 personally acquainted with a nobleman of whom I had 
 heard so much. His lordship’s porter was not quite 
 so insolent as some of his brethren ; and though I did 
 not come in a showy equipage, and though I had no 
 laced footmen to enforce my rights, I gained admis- 
 sion. I passed through a gallery of fine statues, to a 
 magnificent library, which I admired till the master 
 of the house appeared, and from that moment he com- 
 manded, or rather captivated, my attention. 
 
 Lord Y was at this time an elderly gentleman. 
 
 In his address, there was a becoming mixture of ease 
 and dignity ; he was not what the F rench call maniere ; 
 his politeness was not of any particular school, but 
 founded on those general principles of good taste, good 
 sense, and good nature, which must succeed in all times, 
 places, and seasons. His desire to please evidently 
 arose not from vanity but benevolence. In his con- 
 versation, there was neither the pedantry of a recluse, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 209 
 
 nor the coxcombry of a man of the world : his know- 
 ledge was select ; his wit without effort, the play of a 
 cultivated imagination : the happiness of his expressions 
 did not seem the result of care ; and his allusions were 
 at once so apposite and elegant, as to charm both the 
 learned and the unlearned ; all he said was sufficiently 
 clear and just to strike every person of plain sense and 
 natural feeling, whilst to the man of literature it had 
 often a further power to please, by its less obvious 
 
 meaning. Lord Y ’s superiority never depressed 
 
 those with whom he conversed ; on the contrary, they 
 felt themselves raised by the magic of politeness to his 
 level ; instead of being compelled to pay tribute, they 
 seemed invited to share his intellectual dominion, and to 
 enjoy with him the delightful pre-eminence of genius 
 and virtue. 
 
 I shall be forgiven for pausing in my own insignificant 
 story, to dwell on the noble character of a departed 
 friend. That he permitted me to call him my friend, 
 I think the greatest honour of my life. But let me, if 
 I can, go on regularly with my narrative. 
 
 Lord Y took it for granted, during our first 
 
 half hour’s conversation, that he was speaking to the 
 Earl of Glenthorn : he thanked me with much warmth 
 for putting him on his guard against the character of 
 Mr Lyddell ; and his lordship was also pleased to 
 thank me for making him acquainted, as he said, with 
 my own character ; for convincing him how ill it had 
 been appreciated by those, who imagined that wealth 
 and title were the only distinctions which the Earl of 
 Glenthorn might claim. This compliment went nearer 
 to my heart than Lord Y could guess. 
 
 “ My character,” said I, " since your lordship en- 
 courages me to speak of myself with freedom — my 
 character has, I hope, been much changed and im- 
 proved by circumstances ; and perhaps those, which 
 
 0 
 
210 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 might at present be deemed the most unfortunate, may 
 ultimately prove of the greatest advantage, by urging 
 me to exertion. — Your lordship is not aware of what I 
 allude to ; a late event in my singular history,” con- 
 tinued I, taking up the newspapers which lay on his 
 library table — “my singular history, has not yet, I 
 fancy, got into the public newspapers. Perhaps you 
 will hear it most favourably from myself.” 
 
 Lord Y was politely, benevolently attentive, 
 
 whilst I related to him the sudden and singular change 
 in my fortune : when I gave an account of the manner 
 in which I had conducted myself after the discovery 
 of my birth, tears of generous feeling filled his eyes ; 
 he laid his hand upon mine when I paused — 
 
 “Whatever you have lost,” said he, “you have 
 gained a friend. Do not be surprised,” continued he, 
 “ by this sudden declaration. Before I saw you this 
 morning, your real character was better known to me 
 than you imagine. I learnt it from a particular friend 
 of mine, of whose judgment and abilities I have the 
 highest opinion, Mr Cecil Devereux ; I saw him just 
 after his marriage; and the very evening before they 
 sailed, I remember, when Lady Geraldine and he were 
 talking of the regret they felt in leaving Ireland, among 
 the friends whom they lamented that they should not 
 see again, perhaps for years, you were mentioned with 
 peculiar esteem and affection. They called you their 
 generous benefactor, and fully explained to me the 
 claim you had to this title — a title which never can be 
 lost. But Mr Devereux was anxious to convince me 
 that he was not influenced by the partiality of gratitude 
 in his opinion of his benefactor’s talents. He repeated 
 an assertion, that was supported with much energy by 
 the charming Lady Geraldine, that Lord Glenthorn 
 had abilities to be anything he pleased ; and the high 
 terms in which they spoke of his talents, and the strong 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 2 1 1 
 
 proofs they adduced of the generosity of his character, 
 excited in my mind a warm desire to cultivate his 
 acquaintance ; a desire which has been considerably 
 increased within this last hour. May I hope that the 
 Irish rapidity with which I have passed from acquaint- 
 ance to friendship may not shock English habits of 
 reserve ; and may not induce you to doubt the sincerity 
 of the man, who has ventured with so little hesitation 
 or ceremony to declare himself your friend ? 99 
 
 I was so much moved by this unexpected kindness, 
 that, though I felt how much more was requisite, I 
 could answer only with a bow ; and I was glad to 
 make my retreat as soon as possible. The very next 
 day, his lordship returned my visit, to my landlady’s 
 irrecoverable astonishment ; and I had increasing reason 
 to regard him with admiration and affection. He con- 
 vinced me, that I had interested him in my concerns, 
 and told me, I must forgive him if he spoke to me 
 with the freedom of a friend : thus I was encouraged 
 to consult him respecting my future plans. Plans, in- 
 deed, I had none regularly formed ; but Lord Y — , 
 
 by his judicious suggestions, settled and directed my 
 ideas without overpowering me by the formality of 
 advice. My ambition was excited to deserve his 
 friendship, and to accomplish his predictions. The 
 profession of the law was that to which he advised me 
 to turn my thoughts : he predicted that, if for five 
 years I would persevere in application to the necessary 
 preparatory studies, I should afterwards distinguish my- 
 self at the bar, more than I had ever been distinguished 
 by the title of Earl of Glenthorn. Five years of hard 
 labour ! the idea alarmed, but did not utterly appal my 
 imagination ; and to prevent my dwelling upon it too 
 
 long at the first, Lord Y suddenly changed the 
 
 conversation ; and, in a playful tone, said, “ Before you 
 immerse yourself in your studies, I must, however, 
 
212 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 claim some of your time. You must permit me to 
 carry you home with me to-day, to introduce you to 
 two ladies of my acquaintance : the one prudent and 
 old — if a lady can ever be old ; the other, young, and 
 beautiful, and graceful, and witty, and wise, and reason- 
 able. One of these ladies is much prepossessed in your 
 favour, the other strongly prejudiced against you — for 
 the best of all possible reasons, because she does not 
 know you.” 
 
 I accepted Lord Y ’s invitation ; not a little 
 
 curious to know whether it was the old and prudent, 
 or the young, beautiful, graceful, witty, wise, and 
 reasonable lady, who was much prepossessed in my 
 favour. Notwithstanding my usual indifference to the 
 whole race of very agreeable young ladies , I remember 
 trying to form a picture in my imagination of this all- 
 accomplished female. 
 
 ©fcapter jcj;* 
 
 U PON my arrival at Y House, I found two 
 
 ladies in the drawing-room, in earnest conver- 
 sation with Lady Y . In their external 
 
 appearance they were nearly what my friend had de- 
 scribed ; except that the beauty of the youngest infinitely 
 surpassed my expectations. The elegance of her form, 
 and the charming expression of her countenance, struck 
 me with a sort of delightful surprise, that was quickly 
 succeeded by a most painful sensation. 
 
 “ Lady Y , give me leave to introduce to you 
 
 Mr O’Donoghoe.” 
 
 Shocked by the sound of my own name, I was 
 ready to recoil abashed. The elderly lady turned her 
 eyes upon me for an instant, with that indifference 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 213 
 
 with which we look at an uninteresting stranger. The 
 young lady seemed to pity my confusion ; for though 
 so well and so long used to varieties of the highest 
 company, when placed in a situation that was new to 
 me, I was unaccountably disconcerted. Ah ! thought 
 I, how differently should I be received were I still 
 Earl of Glenthorn ! 
 
 I was rather angry with Lord Y for not intro- 
 
 ducing me as he had promised to this fair lady ; and 
 yet the repetition of my name would have increased 
 my vexation. In short, I was unjust, and felt an 
 impatience and irritability quite unusual to my temper. 
 
 Lady Y addressed some conversation to me, in an 
 
 obliging manner, and I did my best to support my part 
 till she left me : but my attention was soon distracted, 
 by a conversation that commenced at another part of 
 the room, between her and the elderly lady. 
 
 “ My dear Lady Y , have you heard the extra- 
 
 ordinary news ? the most incredible thing that ever was 
 heard ! F or my part, I cannot believe it yet, though 
 
 we have the intelligence from the best authority. 
 Lord Glenthorn, that is to say, the person we always 
 called Lord Glenthorn, turns out to be the son of the 
 Lord knows who — they don’t mention the name.” 
 
 At this speech I was ready to sink into the earth. 
 
 Lord Y took my arm, and led me into another 
 
 room. “ I have some cameos,” said he, “ which are 
 thought curious ; would you like to look at them ? ” 
 
 “ Can you conceive it ? ” continued the elderly lady, 
 whose voice I still heard, as the folding doors of the 
 room were open : “ Changed at nurse ! One hears ot 
 such things in novels, but, in real life, I absolutely 
 cannot believe it. Yet here, in this letter from Lady 
 Ormsby, are all the particulars : and a blacksmith is 
 found to be Earl of Glenthorn, and takes possession of 
 Glenthorn Castle, and all the estates. And the man 
 
214 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 is married, to some vulgarian of course : and he has a 
 son, and may have half a hundred, you know ; so there 
 is an end of our hopes ; and there is an end too of all 
 my fine schemes for Cecilia.” 
 
 I felt myself change colour again. “ I believe,” 
 
 said I to Lord Y , “ I ought not to hear this. 
 
 If your lordship will give me leave, I will shut the 
 door.” 
 
 “ No, no,” said he, smiling, and stopping me ; 
 “ you ought to hear it, for it will do you a great deal 
 of good. You know I have undertaken to be your 
 guide, philosopher, and friend ; so you must let me 
 have my own way : and if it should so happen, hear 
 yourself abused patiently — Is not this a fine bust of 
 Socrates ? ” 
 
 Some part of the conversation in the next room I 
 missed, whilst his lordship spoke. The next words I 
 heard were — 
 
 “ But, my dear Lady Y , look at Cecilia. — 
 
 Would not any other girl be cast down and miserable 
 in Cecilia’s place ? yet see how provo kingly happy and 
 well she looks.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Lady Y , “ I never saw her 
 
 appear better : but we are not to judge of her by what 
 any other young lady would be in her place, for I know 
 of none at all comparable to Miss Delamere.” 
 
 “ Miss Delamere ! ” said I to Lord Y . “ Is 
 
 this the Miss Delamere who is heir at law to ” 
 
 “The Glenthorn estate. Yes — do not let the head 
 
 of Socrates fall from your hands,” said his lordship, 
 smiling. 
 
 I again lost something that was said in the next 
 room ; but I heard the old lady going on with — 
 
 “ I only say, my dear, that if the man had been 
 really what he was said to be, you could not have done 
 better.” 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 215 
 
 “Dearest mother, you cannot be serious,” replied 
 the sweetest voice I ever heard. “ I am sure that you 
 never were in earnest upon this subject : you could not 
 wish me to be united to such a man as Lord Glenthorn 
 was said to be.” 
 
 “ Why ? what was he said to be, my dear ? — a little 
 dissipated, a little extravagant only : and if he had a 
 fortune to support it, child, what matter ? ” pursued the 
 mother : “ all young men are extravagant now-a-days 
 — you must take the world as it goes.” 
 
 “ The lady who married Lord Glenthorn, I suppose, 
 acted upon that principle ; and you see what was the 
 consequence.” 
 
 “ O, my dear, as to her ladyship, it ran in the blood : 
 let her have married whom she would, she would have 
 done the same : and I am told Lord Glenthorn made 
 an incomparably good husband. A cousin of Lady 
 Glenthorn’s assured me that she was present one day, 
 when her ladyship expressed a wish for a gold chain 
 to wear round her neck, or braid her hair, I forget for 
 what ; but that very hour Lord Glenthorn bespoke for 
 her a hundred yards of gold chain, at ten guineas a 
 yard. Another time she longed for an Indian shawl, 
 and his lordship presented her next day with three 
 dozen real India shawls. There’s a husband for you, 
 Cecilia ! ” 
 
 “ Not for me, mamma,” said Cecilia, laughing. 
 
 “Ah, you are a strange romantic girl, and never 
 will be married after all, I fear.” 
 
 “ Never to a fool, I hope,” said Cecilia. 
 
 “ Miss Delamere will, however, allow,” said Lady 
 
 Y , “that a man may have his follies, without 
 
 being a fool, or wholly unworthy of her esteem ; 
 otherwise, what a large portion of mankind she 
 would deprive of hope ! ” 
 
 “ As to Lord Glenthorn, he was no fool, I promise 
 
2l6 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 you,” continued the mother : “ has not he been living 
 prudently enough these three years? We have not 
 heard of late of any of his extraordinary landaus” 
 
 “ But I have been told,” said Cecilia, “ that he is 
 quite uninformed, without any taste for literature, 
 and absolutely incapable of exertion — a victim to 
 ennui. How miserable a woman must be with such 
 a husband ! ” 
 
 “ But,” said Lady Y , “ what could be expected 
 
 from a young nobleman bred up as Lord Glenthorn 
 was ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing,” said Cecilia; “and that is the very 
 reason I never wished to see him.” 
 
 “ Perhaps Miss Delamere’s opinion might be 
 
 changed if she had known him,” said Lady Y . 
 
 “Ay, for he is a very handsome man, I have 
 heard,” said the mother. “ Lady Jocunda Lawler 
 told me so, in one of her letters ; and Lady Jocunda 
 was very near being married to him herself, I can tell 
 you, for he admired her prodigiously.” 
 
 “ A certain proof that he never would have 
 admired me,” said Cecilia ; “ for two women, so 
 opposite in every respect, no man could have loved.” 
 
 “ Lord bless you, child ! how little you know of 
 the matter ! After all, I dare say, if you had been 
 acquainted with him, you might have been in love 
 yourself with Lord Glenthorn.” 
 
 “ Possibly,” said Cecilia, “ if I had found him the 
 reverse of what he is reported to be.” 
 
 Company came in at this instant. Lord Y 
 
 was called to receive them, and I followed ; glad, at 
 this instant, that I was not Lord Glenthorn. At 
 dinner the conversation turned upon general subjects ; 
 
 and Lord Y , with polite and friendly attention, 
 
 drew me out , without seeming to do so, in the kindest 
 manner possible. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 217 
 
 I had the pleasure to perceive that Cecilia Dela- 
 mere did not find me a fool. I never, even in the 
 presence of Lady Geraldine, exerted myself so much 
 to avoid this disgrace. 
 
 After all the company, except Mrs and Miss De- 
 lamere, were gone, Lord Y called me aside. 
 
 “Will you pardon,” said he, “the means I have 
 taken to convince you how much superior you are to 
 the opinion that has been commonly formed of Lord 
 Glenthorn ? Will you forgive me for convincing you 
 that when a man has sufficient strength of mind to 
 rely upon himself, and sufficient energy to exert his 
 abilities, he becomes independent of common report 
 and vulgar opinion ? He secures the suffrages of the 
 best judges ; and they, in time, lead all the rest of 
 the world. Will you permit me now to introduce 
 you to your prudent friend and your fair enemy ? 
 Mrs Delamere — Miss Delamere — give me leave to 
 introduce to you the late Earl of Glenthorn.” 
 
 Of the astonishment in the opening eyes of Mrs 
 Delamere I have some faint recollection. I can never 
 forget the crimson blush that instantaneously spread 
 over the celestial countenance of Cecilia. She was 
 perfectly silent ; but her mother went on talking with 
 increased rapidity. 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! the late Lord Glenthorn ! Why, 
 I was talking — but he was not in the room.” The 
 ladies exchanged looks, which seemed to say, “ I hope 
 he did not hear all we said of him.” 
 
 “ My dear Lord Y , why did not you tell us 
 
 this before ? Suppose we had spoken of his lordship, 
 you would have been answerable for all the conse- 
 quences.” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said Lord Y— — % 
 
 “ But, seriously,” said the old lady, “ have I the 
 pleasure to speak to Loid Glenthorn, or have I not? 
 
2l8 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 I believe I began, unluckily, to talk of a strange story 
 I had heard ; but perhaps all this is a mistake, and 
 my country correspondent may have been amusing 
 herself at the expence of my credulity. I assure you 
 I was not imposed upon ; I never believed half the 
 story.” 
 
 “ You may believe the whole of it, madam,” said I ; 
 “ the story is perfectly true.” 
 
 “ O ! my good sir, how sorry I am to hear you say 
 it is all true ! And the blacksmith is really Earl of 
 Glenthorn, and has taken possession of the castle, and 
 is married, and has a son ! Lord bless me, how un- 
 fortunate ! Well, I can only say, sir, I wish, with 
 all my heart, you were Earl of Glenthorn still.” 
 
 After hearing from Lord Y the circumstances 
 
 of what he was pleased to call my generous conduct, 
 Mrs Delamere observed, that I had acted very gene- 
 rously, to be sure, but that few in my place would have 
 thought themselves bound to give up possession of an 
 estate, which I had so long been taught to believe was 
 my own. To have and to hold, she observed, always 
 went together in law ; and she could not help think- 
 ing I had done very injudiciously and imprudently not 
 to let the law decide for me. 
 
 I was consoled for Mrs Delamere’ s reprehensions 
 by her daughter’s approving countenance. After this 
 
 visit, Lord Y gave me a general invitation to his 
 
 house, where I frequently saw Miss Delamere, and 
 frequently compared her with my recollection of Lady 
 Geraldine . Cecilia Delamere was not so enter- 
 
 taining, but she was more interesting than Lady Geral- 
 dine : the flashes of her ladyship’s wit, though always 
 striking, were sometimes dangerous ; Cecilia’s wit, 
 though equally brilliant, shone with a more pleasing 
 and inoffensive light. With as much generosity as 
 Lady Geraldine could show in great affairs, she had 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 219 
 
 more forbearance and delicacy of attention on every- 
 day occasions. Lady Geraldine had much pride, and 
 it often gave offence ; Cecilia, perhaps, had more pride, 
 but it never appeared, except upon the defensive : with- 
 out having less candour, she had less occasion for it 
 than Lady Geraldine seemed to have ; and Cecilia’s 
 temper had more softness and equability. Perhaps 
 Cecilia was not so fascinating, but she was more at- 
 tractive. One had the envied art of appearing to 
 advantage in public — the other, the more desirable 
 power of being happy in private. I admired Lady 
 Geraldine long before I loved her ; I loved Cecilia 
 long before I admired her. 
 
 Whilst I possibly could, I called what I felt for 
 Miss Delamere only esteem ; but when I found it 
 impossible to conceal from myself that I loved, I re- 
 solved to avoid this charming woman. How happy, 
 thought I, would the fortune I once possessed now 
 make me ! but in my present circumstances what have 
 
 I to hope? Surely my friend Lord Y has not 
 
 shown his usual prudence in exposing me to such a 
 temptation ; but it is to be supposed, he thinks that 
 the impossibility of my obtaining Miss Delamere will 
 prevent my thinking of her, or perhaps he depends 
 on the inertness and apathy of my temper. Unfor- 
 tunately for me, my sensibility has increased since I 
 have become poor ; for many years, when I was rich, 
 and could have married easily, I never wished to 
 marry, and now that I have not enough to support a 
 wife, I immediately fall desperately in love. 
 
 Again and again I pondered upon my circumstances : 
 three hundred a- year was the amount of all my worldly 
 possessions ; and Miss Delamere was not rich, and she 
 had been bred expensively ; for it had never been 
 absent from her mother’s mind, that Cecilia would be 
 heiress to the immense Glenthorn estate. The present 
 
220 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 possessor was, however, an excellent life, and he had 
 a son stout and healthy, so all these hopes of Mrs 
 Delamere’s were at an end; and as there was little 
 chance, as she said (laughing), of persuading her 
 daughter to marry Johnny, the young lord and heir 
 apparent, it was now necessary to turn her views else- 
 where, and to form for Cecilia some suitable alliance. 
 Rank and large fortune were, in Mrs Delamere’s 
 opinion, indispensable to happiness. Cecilia’s ideas 
 were far more moderate ; but, though perfectly dis- 
 interested and generous, she was not so romantic, or 
 so silly, as to think of marrying any man without the 
 probability of his being able to support her in the 
 society of her equals : nor, even if I could have 
 thought it possible to prevail upon Miss Delamere to 
 make an unbecoming and imprudent choice, would I 
 have taken advantage of the confidence reposed in me 
 
 by Lord Y , to destroy the happiness of a young 
 
 friend, for whom he evidently had a great regard. I 
 resolved to see her no more — and for some weeks I 
 
 kept my resolution ; I refrained from going to Y 
 
 House. I deem this the most virtuous action of my 
 life ; it certainly was the most painful sacrifice I ever 
 
 made to a sense of duty. At last, Lord Y came 
 
 to me one morning, and after reproaching me, in a 
 friendly manner, for having so long absented myself 
 from his house, declared that he would not be satisfied 
 with any of those common excuses, which might con- 
 tent a mere acquaintance ; that his sincere anxiety for 
 my welfare gave him a right to expect from me the 
 frankness of a friend. It was a relief to my mind 
 to be encouraged in this manner. I confessed with 
 
 entire openness my real motive : Lord Y heard 
 
 me without surprise. 
 
 “ It is gratifying to me,” said his lordship, “ to be 
 convinced that I was not mistaken in my judgment, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 221 
 
 either of your taste, or your integrity ; permit me to 
 assure you, that I foresaw exactly how you would 
 feel, and precisely how you would act. There are 
 certain moral omens, which old experience never fails 
 to interpret rightly, and from which unerring pre- 
 dictions of the future conduct, and consequently of 
 the future fate of individuals, may be formed. I 
 hold that we are the artificers of our own fortune. 
 If there be any whom the gods wish to destroy, 
 these are first deprived of understanding ; whom the 
 gods wish to favour, they first endow with integrity, 
 inspire with understanding, and animate with activity. 
 Have I not seen integrity in you, and shall I not 
 see activity ? Yes ; that supineness of temper or 
 habit with which you reproach yourself has arisen, 
 believe me, only from want of motive ; but you have 
 now the most powerful of motives, and in proportion 
 to your exertions will be your success. In our 
 country, you know, the highest offices of the state 
 are open to talents and perseverance ; a man of 
 abilities and application cannot fail to secure inde- 
 pendence, and obtain distinction. Time and industry 
 are necessary to prepare you for the profession, to 
 which you will hereafter be an honour, and you will 
 courageously submit. 
 
 — ‘ Time and industry, the mighty two, 
 
 Which bring our wishes nearer to our view.’ 
 
 As to the probability that you:' present wishes may 
 be crowned with success, I can judge only from my 
 general knowledge of the views and disposition of the 
 lady whom you admire. I know that her views with 
 respect to fortune are moderate ; and that her disposi- 
 tion and excellent understanding will, in the choice 
 of a husband, direct her preference to the essential 
 good qualities, and not to the accidental advantages, 
 
222 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 of the candidates for her favour. As to the mother’s 
 influence, that will necessarily yield to the daughter’s 
 superior judgment. Cecilia possesses over her mother 
 that witchcraft of gentle manners, which in the female 
 sex is always irresistible, even over violent tempers. 
 Prudential considerations have a just, though not ex- 
 clusive, claim to Miss Delamere’s attention. But her 
 relations, I fancy, could find means of providing against 
 any pecuniary embarrassments, if she should think 
 proper to unite herself to a man who can be content, 
 as she would be, with a competence, and who should 
 have proved himself able , by his own exertions , to main- 
 tain his wife in independence . On this last condition I 
 must dwell with emphasis, because it is indispensable ; 
 and I am convinced that without it Miss Delamere’s 
 consent, even after she is of age, and at liberty to judge 
 for herself, could never be obtained. You perceive, 
 then, how much depends upon your own exertions ; 
 and this is the best hope, and the best motive, that I 
 can give to a strong and generous mind. Farewell — 
 
 Persevere, and prosper.” 
 
 Such was the general purport of what Lord Y 
 
 said to me ; indeed, I believe that I have repeated 
 his very words, for they made a great and inefface- 
 able impression upon my mind. From this day I 
 date the commencement of a new existence. Fired 
 with ambition — I hope generous ambition — to dis- 
 tinguish myself among men, and to win the favour 
 of the most amiable and the most lovely of women, 
 all the faculties of my soul were awakened : I be- 
 came active, permanently active. The enchantment 
 of indolence was dissolved, and the demon of ennui 
 was cast out for ever. 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 223 
 
 Chapter ppt* 
 
 I F, among those who may be tempted to peruse my 
 history, there should be any mere novel-readers, 
 let me advise them to throw the book aside at the 
 commencement of this chapter ; for I have no more 
 wonderful incidents to relate, no more changes at 
 nurse, no more sudden turns of fortune. I am now 
 become a plodding man of business, poring over law- 
 books from morning till night, and leading a most 
 monotonous life : yet occupation, and hope, and the 
 constant sense of approaching nearer to my object, 
 rendered this mode of existence, dull as it may seem, 
 infinitely more agreeable than many of my apparently 
 prosperous days, when I had more money, and more 
 time, than I knew how to enjoy. I resolutely per- 
 severed in my studies. 
 
 About a month after I came to town, the doors of 
 my lodging were blockaded by half-a-dozen cars, 
 loaded with huge packing-cases, on which I saw, in 
 the handwriting which I remembered often to have 
 seen in my blacksmith’s bills, a direction to Christopher 
 0’ Donoghoe, Esquire — this side upwards : to he lept dry . 
 
 One of the carmen fumbled in what he called his 
 pocket, and at last produced a very dirty note. 
 
 44 My dear and honourable foster-brother, laming 
 from Mr M‘Leod, that you are thinking of studdeing , 
 I send you inclosed by the bearer, who is to get 
 nothing for the carrige , all the bookes from the big 
 booke-room at the Castle, which I hope, being of not 
 as much use as I could wish to me, your honour will 
 not scorn to accept, with the true veneration of 
 “ Your ever-loving foster-brother, 
 
 and grateful humble servant, 
 
 to command. 
 
224 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 “ P.S. — No name needful, for you will not be astray 
 about the hand.” 
 
 This good-natured fellow’s present was highly 
 valuable and useful to me. 
 
 Among my pleasures at this studious period of my 
 life, when I had few events to break the uniform tenor 
 of my days, I must mention letters which I frequently 
 received from Mr Devereux and Lady Geraldine, who 
 still continued in India. Mr Devereux was acquainted 
 with almost all the men of eminence at the Irish bar ; 
 men who are not mere lawyers, but persons of literature, 
 of agreeable manners, and gentlemanlike habits. Mr 
 Devereux wrote to his friends so warmly in my favour, 
 that, instead of finding myself a stranger in Dublin, my 
 only difficulty was how to avoid the numerous invita- 
 tions which tempted me from my studies. 
 
 Those gentlemen of the bar who were intimate with 
 Mr Devereux honoured me with particular attention, 
 and their society was peculiarly useful, as well as 
 agreeable, to me : they directed my industry to the 
 best and shortest means of preparing myself for their 
 profession ; they put into my hands the best books ; 
 told me all that experience had taught them of the art 
 of distinguishing, in the mass of law-precedents, the 
 useful from the useless : instructed me in the methods 
 of indexing and common-placing ; and gave me all 
 those advantages, which solitary students so often 
 want, and the want of which so often makes the study 
 of the law appear an endless maze without a plan. 
 When I found myself surrounded with books, and 
 reading assiduously day and night, I could scarcely 
 believe in my own identity ; I could scarcely imagine 
 that I was the same person, who, but a few months 
 before this time, lolled upon a sofa half the day, and 
 found it an intolerable labour to read or think for half 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 225 
 
 an hour together. Such is the power of motive ! 
 During the whole time I pursued my studies, and kept 
 my terms, in Ireland, the only relaxation I allowed 
 
 myself was in the society at Lord Y ’s house in 
 
 Dublin, and, during my vacations, in excursions which 
 I made with his lordship to different parts of the 
 
 country. Lord Y had two country seats in the 
 
 most beautiful parts of Ireland. How differently the 
 face of nature appeared to me now ! with what dif- 
 ferent sensations I beheld the same objects ! 
 
 “ No brighter colours paint th’ enamell’d fields, 
 
 No sweeter fragrance now the garden yields ; 
 
 Whence this strange increase of joy ? 
 
 Is it to love these new delights I owe?” 
 
 It waa not to love that I owed these new delights, 
 for Cecilia was not there ; but my powers of observa- 
 tion were awakened, and the confinement and labour to 
 which I had lately submitted gave value to the pleasures 
 of rest and liberty, and to the freshness of country air, 
 and the beautiful scenes of nature. So true it is, that 
 all our pleasures must be earned, before they can be 
 
 enjoyed. When I saw on Lord Y ? s estates, and 
 
 on those of several other gentlemen, which he occasion- 
 ally took me to visit, the neat cottages, the well- 
 cultivated farms, the air of comfort, industry, and 
 prosperity, diffused through the lower classes of the 
 people, I was convinced that much may be done by 
 the judicious care and assistance of landlords for their 
 tenantry. I saw this with mixed sensations of pleasure 
 and of pain — of pain, for I reflected how little I had 
 accomplished, and how ill I had done even that little, 
 whilst the means of doing good to numbers had been 
 in my power. For the very trifling services I did 
 some of my poor tenants I am sure I had abundant 
 gratitude ; and I was astonished and touched by in- 
 
 p 
 
226 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 stances of this shown to me after I had lost my fortune, 
 and when I scarcely had myself any remembrance of 
 the people who came to thank me. Trivial as it is, I 
 cannot forbear to record one of the many instances of 
 gratitude I met with from a poor Irishman. 
 
 Whilst I was in Dublin, as I was paying a morning 
 
 visit to Lord Y , sitting with him in his library, 
 
 we heard some disturbance in the inner court ; and 
 looking out of the window, we saw a countryman with 
 a basket on his arm, struggling with the porter and two 
 footmen. 
 
 “ He is here ; I know to a certainty he is here, and 
 I shall see him, say what you plase now ! ” 
 
 “ I tell you my lord is not at home,” said the porter. 
 
 “ What’s the matter ? ” said Lord Y , opening 
 
 the window. 
 
 “ See, there’s my lord himself at the window : are 
 not you ashamed of yourself now ? ” said the footman. 
 
 “ And why would I be ashamed that am telling no 
 lies, and hindering no one ? ” said the countryman, 
 looking up to us with so sudden a motion that his hat 
 fell off. I knew his face, but could not recollect his 
 name. 
 
 “ Oh ! there he is, his own honour ; I’ve found 
 him, and axe pardon for my boldness ; but it’s hecaase 
 I’ve been all day yesterday, and this day, running 
 through Dublin after yees ; and when certified by the 
 lady of the lodgings you was in it here, I could not 
 lave town without my errand, which is no more than a 
 cheese from my wife of her own making, to be given to 
 your honour’s own hands, and she would not see me if 
 I did not do it.” 
 
 “ Let him come up,” said Lord Y . “ This,” 
 
 continued his lordship, turning to me, “ reminds me of 
 Henry the Fourth, and the Gascon peasant with his 
 fromages de bceuf” 
 
ENNUI. 22 7 
 
 “ But our countryman brings his offering to an 
 abdicated monarch,” said I. 
 
 The poor fellow presented his wife’s cheese to me 
 with as good a grace as any courtier could have made 
 his offering. Unembarrassed, his manners and his 
 words gave the natural and easy expression of a grate- 
 ful heart. He assured me that he and his wife were 
 the happiest couple in all Ireland ; and he hoped I 
 would one day be as happy myself in a wife as I de - 
 sarvedy who had made others so ; and there were many 
 on the estate remembered as well as he did the good I 
 did to the poor during my reign. 
 
 Then stepping up closer to me, he said, in a lower 
 voice, “ I’m Jimmy Riley, that married ould Noonan’s 
 daughter ; and now that it is all over I may tell you a 
 bit of a secret , which made me so eager to get to the 
 speech of your honour, that I might tell it to your own 
 ear alone — no offence to this gentleman, before whom 
 I’d as soon say it as yourself, becaase I see he is all as 
 one as another yourself. Then the thing is — does 
 your honour remember the boy with the cord round 
 his body, looking for the birds’ eggs in the rock, and 
 the nonymous bit of a letter that you got ? ’Twas I 
 wrote it, and the gossoon that threw it to your honour 
 was a cousin of my own that I sent, that nobody, nor 
 yourself even, might not know him : and the way I 
 got the information I never can tell till I die, and then 
 only to the priest, becaase I swore I would not never. 
 But don’t go for to think it was by being a rubble any 
 way ; no man can, I thank my God, charge me with 
 indifferency. So rejoiced to see you the same, I wish 
 you a good morrow, and long life, and a happy death 
 — when it comes.” 
 
 About this time I frequently used to receive presents 
 to a considerable amount, and of things which were 
 most useful to me, but always without any indication 
 
228 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 by which I could discover to whom I was indebted 
 for them : at last, by means of my Scotch landlady, I 
 traced them to Mr M‘Leod. His kindness was so 
 earnest and peremptory, that it would admit neither 
 thanks nor refusals ; and I submitted to be obliged to 
 a man for whom I felt such high esteem. I looked 
 upon it as not the least of his proofs of regard, that he 
 gave me what I knew he valued more than anything 
 else — his time. Whenever he came to Dublin, though 
 he was always hurried by business, so that he had 
 scarcely leisure to eat or sleep, he used constantly to 
 come to see me in my obscure lodgings ; and when in 
 the country, though he hated all letter-writing, except 
 letters of business, yet he regularly informed me of 
 everything that could be interesting to me. Glenthorn 
 Castle he described as a scene of riotous living, and 
 of the most wasteful vulgar extravagance. My poor 
 foster-brother, the best-natured and most generous 
 fellow in the world, had not sufficient prudence or 
 strength of mind to conduct his own family ; his wife 
 filled the castle with tribes of her vagabond relations ; 
 she chose to be descended from one of the kings of 
 Ireland; and whoever would acknowledge her high 
 descent, and whoever would claim relationship with 
 her, were sure to have their claims allowed, and were 
 welcome to live in all the barbaric magnificence of 
 Glenthorn Castle. Every instance that she could hear 
 of the former Lady Glenthorn’ s extravagance or of 
 mine — and, alas ! there were many upon record, she 
 determined to exceed. Her diamonds and her pearls, 
 and her finery, surpassed everything but the extrava- 
 gance of some of the Russian favourites of fortune. 
 Decked out in the most absurd manner, this descendant 
 of kings often, as Mr M c Leod assured me, indulged in 
 the pleasures of the banquet, till, no longer able to 
 support the regal diadem, she was carried by some of 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 229 
 
 the meanest of her subjects to her bed. The thefts 
 committed during these interregnums were amazing in 
 their amount, and the jewels of the crown were to be 
 replaced as fast as they were stolen. Poor Christy all 
 this time was considered as a mean-spirited cratur , 
 who had no notion of living like a prince ; and whilst 
 his wife and her relations were revelling in this unheard- 
 of manner, he was scarcely considered as the master of 
 the house : he lived by the fireside disregarded in 
 winter, and in summer he spent his time chiefly in 
 walking up and down his garden, and picking fruit. 
 He once made an attempt to amuse himself by mend- 
 ing the lock of his own room door ; but he was de- 
 tected in the fact, and exposed to such loud ridicule 
 by his lady’s favourites, that he desisted, and sighing 
 said to Mr M‘Leod — “ And isn’t it now a great hard- 
 ship upon a man like me to have nothing to do, or not 
 to be let do anything ? If it had not been for my son 
 Johnny’s sake, I never would have quit the forge ; and 
 now all will be spent in coshering , and Johnny, at the 
 last, will never be a penny the better, but the worse for 
 my consinting to be lorded ; and what grieves me more 
 than all the rest, she is such a negre ,* that I haven’t 
 a guinea I can call my own to send, as I’d always laid 
 out to do at odd times, such little tokens of my love 
 and duty, as would be becoming, to my dear foster- 
 brother there in Dublin. And now, you tell me, he 
 is going away too, beyond sea to England, to finish 
 making a lawyer of himself in London ; and what 
 friends will he find there, without money in his pocket ? 
 and I had been thinking this while past, ever since you 
 gave me notice of his being to quit Ireland, that I 
 would go up to Dublin myself to see him, and wish 
 him a good journey kindly before he would go ; and I 
 
 * An Irishman in using this word has some confused notion 
 that it comes from negro ; whereas it really means niggard. 
 
230 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 had a little compliment here, in a private drawer, that I 
 had collected unhnownst to my wife ; but here last 
 night she lit upon it, and now that her hand has closed 
 upon it, not a guinea of it shall I ever see more, nor a 
 farthing the better of it will my dear foster-brother 
 ever be, for it or for me ; and this is what grieves me 
 more than all, and goes to the quick of my heart.” 
 
 When Mr M‘Leod repeated to me these lamenta- 
 tions of poor Christy, I immediately wrote to set his 
 heart at ease, as much as I could, by the assurance 
 that I was in no distress for money; and that my 
 three hundred a year would support me in perfect 
 comfort and independence, whilst “ I was making a 
 lawyer of myself in London.” I farther assured my 
 good foster-brother, that I was so well convinced of 
 his affectionate and generous disposition towards me, 
 that it would be quite unnecessary ever to send me 
 tokens of his regard. I added a few words of advice 
 about his wife and his affairs, which, like most words 
 of advice, were, as I afterwards found, absolutely 
 thrown away. 
 
 Though I had taken care to live with so much 
 economy, that I was not in any danger of being in 
 pecuniary embarrassments, yet I felt much distress of 
 another kind in leaving Ireland. I left Miss Dela- 
 mere surrounded with admirers ; her mother using 
 her utmost art and parental influence to induce Cecilia 
 to decide in favour of one of these gentlemen, who 
 was a person of rank and of considerable fortune. I 
 had seen all this going on, and was bound in honour 
 the whole time to remain passive, not to express my 
 own ardent feelings, not to make the slightest attempt 
 to win the affections of the woman who was the 
 object of all my labours, of all my exertions. The 
 
 last evening that I saw her at Lord Y ’s, just 
 
 before I sailed for England, I suffered more than I 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 23I 
 
 thought it was in my nature to feel, especially at the 
 moment when I went up to make my bow, and take 
 leave of her with all the cold ceremony of a common 
 acquaintance. At parting, however, in the presence 
 
 of her mother and of Lord Y , Cecilia, with her 
 
 sweet smile, and, I think, with a slight blush, said a 
 few words, upon which I lived for months after- 
 wards. 
 
 " I sincerely wish you, sir, the success your perse- 
 verance so well deserves.” 
 
 The recollection of these words was often my 
 solace in my lonely chambers at the Temple; and 
 often, after a day’s hard study, the repeating them to 
 myself operated as a charm that dissipated all fatigue, 
 and revived at once my exhausted spirits. To be 
 sure, there were moments when my lire was out, and 
 my candle sinking in the socket, and my mind over- 
 wearied saw things in the most gloomy point of view ; 
 and at these times I used to give an unfavourable in- 
 terpretation to Cecilia’s words, and I fancied that they 
 were designed to prevent my entertaining fallacious 
 hopes, and to warn me that she must yield to her 
 mother’s authority, or perhaps to her own inclinations, 
 in favour of some of her richer lovers. This idea 
 would have sunk me into utter despondency, and I 
 should have lost, with my motive, all power of exer- 
 tion, had I not opposed to this apprehension the 
 
 remembrance of Lord Y ’s countenance, at the 
 
 moment Cecilia was speaking to me. I then felt 
 assured, that his lordship, at least, understood the 
 words in a favourable sense, else he would have 
 suffered for me, and would not certainly have allowed 
 me to go away with false hopes. Re-animated by 
 this consideration, I persevered — for it was by perse- 
 verance alone that I could have any chance of success. 
 
 It was fortunate for me, that, stimulated by a great 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 232 
 
 motive, I thus devoted my whole time and thoughts 
 to my studies, otherwise I must, on returning to 
 London, have felt the total neglect and desertion 
 of all my former associates in the fashionable world ; 
 of all the vast number of acquaintance, who used 
 to lounge away their hours in my company, and par- 
 take of the luxuries of my table and the festivities 
 of my house. Some whom I accidentally met in the 
 street, just at my re-appearance in town, thought 
 proper, indeed, to know me again at first, that they 
 might gratify their curiosity about the paragraphs 
 which they had seen in the papers, and the reports 
 which they had heard of my extraordinary change of 
 fortune ; but no sooner had they satisfied themselves 
 that all they had heard was true, than their interest 
 concerning me ceased. When they found, that, in- 
 stead of being Earl of Glenthorn, and the possessor of 
 a large estate, I was now reduced to three hundred a 
 year, lodging in small chambers at the Temple, and 
 studying the law, they never more thought me worthy 
 of their notice. They affected, according to their dif- 
 ferent humours, either to pity me for my misfortunes, 
 or to blame me for my folly in giving up my estate ; 
 but they unanimously expressed astonishment at the 
 idea of my becoming a member of any active pro- 
 fession. They declared that it was impossible that 
 I could ever endure the labour of the law, or succeed 
 in such an arduous career. Their prophecies intimi- 
 dated me not : I was conscious that these people did 
 not in the least know me ; and I hoped and believed 
 that I had powers and a character which they were 
 incapable of estimating : their contempt rather excited 
 than depressed my mind, and their pity I returned 
 with more sincerity than it was given. I had lived 
 their life, knew thoroughly what were its pleasures 
 and its pains ; I could compare the ennui I felt when 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 233 
 
 I was a Bond Street lounger with the self-complacency 
 I enjoyed now that I was occupied in a laborious but 
 interesting and honourable pursuit. I confess, I had 
 sometimes, however, the weakness to think the worse 
 of human nature, for what I called the desertion and 
 ingratitude of these my former companions and flat- 
 terers ; and I could not avoid comparing the neglect 
 and solitude in which I lived in London, where I had 
 lavished my fortune, with the kindness and hospi- 
 talities I had received in Dublin, where I lived only 
 when I had no fortune to spend. After a little time, 
 however, I became more reasonable and just ; for I 
 considered that it was my former dissipated mode of 
 life, and imprudent choice of associates, which I should 
 blame for the mortifications I now suffered from the 
 desertion of companions, who were, in fact, incapable 
 of being friends. In London I had lived with the 
 most worthless, in Dublin with the best company ; 
 and in each place I had been treated as, in fact, I 
 deserved. But, leaving the history of my feelings, I 
 must proceed with my narrative. 
 
 One night, after I had dined with an Irish gentle- 
 man, a friend of Lord Y *s, at the west end of the 
 
 town, as I was returning late to my lodgings, I was 
 stopped for some time by a crowd of carriages, in 
 one of the fashionable streets. I found that there 
 was a masquerade at the house of a lady, with whom 
 I had been intimately acquainted. The clamours of 
 the mob, eager to see the dresses of those who were 
 alighting from their carriages, the gaudy and fan- 
 tastic figures which I beheld by the light of the 
 flambeaux, the noise and the bustle, put me in 
 mind of various similar nights of my past life, and 
 it seemed to me like a dream, or reminiscence of 
 some former state of existence. I passed on as soon 
 as the crowd would permit, and took my way down 
 
234 
 
 ENNUI 
 
 a narrow street, by which I hoped to get, by a 
 shorter way than usual, to my quiet lodgings. The 
 rattling of the carriages, the oaths of the footmen, 
 and the shouts of the mob still sounded in my ears ; 
 and the masquerade figures had scarcely faded from 
 my sight, when I saw, coming slowly out of a miser- 
 able entry, by the light of a few wretched candles 
 and lanterns, a funeral. The contrast struck me : I 
 stood still to make way for the coffin ; and I heard 
 one say to another, “What matter how she’s buried! 
 I tell you, be at as little expence as possible, for he’ll 
 never pay a farthing.” I had a confused recollection 
 of having heard the voice before : as one of the bearers 
 lifted his lantern, I saw the face of the woman who 
 spoke, and had a notion of having seen her before. 
 I asked whose funeral it was ; and I was answered, 
 “ It is one Mrs Crawley’s — Lady Glenthorn that 
 was,” added the woman. I heard no more : I was 
 so much shocked, that I believe I should have fallen 
 in the street, if I had not been immediately supported 
 by somebody near me. When I recovered my re- 
 collection, I saw the funeral had moved on some 
 paces, and the person who supported me, I now found, 
 was a clergyman. In a mild voice, he told me that 
 his duty called him away from me at present, but he 
 added, that if I would tell him where I could be 
 found, he would see me in the morning, and give me 
 any information in his power, as he supposed that I 
 was interested for this unfortunate woman. I put a 
 card with my address into his hands, thanked him, and 
 got home as well as I could. In the morning, the 
 clergyman called upon me — a most benevolent man, 
 unknown to fame ; but known to all the wretched 
 within the reach of his consolatory religion. He gave 
 me a melancholy account of the last days of the un- 
 happy woman, whose funeral I had just seen. I told 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 235 
 
 him who I was and what she had been to me. She 
 had, almost in her last moments, as he assured me, 
 expressed her sense of what she called my generosity 
 to her, and had shown deep contrition for her infidelity. 
 She died in extreme poverty and wretchedness, with 
 no human being who was, or even seemed, interested 
 for her, but a maid-servant (the woman whose voice 
 I recollected), whose services were purchased to the 
 last, by presents of whatever clothes or trinkets were 
 left from the wreck of her mistress’s fortune. Crawley, 
 it seems, had behaved brutally to his victim. After 
 having long delayed to perform his promise of marrying 
 her, he declared that he could never think of a woman 
 who had been divorced in any other way than a 
 mistress : she, poor weak creature, consented to live 
 with him on any terms ; but as his passions and his 
 interest soon returned to new objects, he cast her off 
 without scruple, refusing to pay any of the tradesmen, 
 who had supplied her while she bore his name. He 
 refused to pay the expences even of her funeral, though 
 she had shared with him her annuity, and everything 
 she possessed. I paid the funeral expences, and some 
 arrears of the maid’s wages, together with such debts 
 for necessaries as I had reason to believe were justly 
 due : the strict economy with which I had lived for 
 three years, and the parting with a watch and some 
 other trinkets too fine for my circumstances, enabled 
 me to pay this money without material inconvenience, 
 and it was a satisfaction to my mind. The good 
 clergyman who managed these little matters became 
 interested for me, and our acquaintance with each 
 other grew every day more intimate and agreeable. 
 When he found that I was studying the law, he 
 begged to introduce me to a brother of his, who had 
 been one of the most eminent special pleaders in 
 London, and who now, on a high salary, undertook 
 
236 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 to prepare students for the bar. I was rather un- 
 willing to accept of this introduction, because I was 
 not rich enough to become a pupil of this gentleman’s ; 
 but my clergyman guessed the cause of my reluctance, 
 and told me that his brother had charged him to over- 
 rule all such objections. “ My brother and I,” con- 
 tinued he, “ though of different professions, have, in 
 reality, but one mind between us ; he has heard from 
 me all the circumstances I know of you, and they have 
 interested him so much, that he desires, in plain English, 
 to be of any service he can to you.” 
 
 This offer was made in earnest ; and if I had given 
 him the largest salary that could have been offered 
 by the most opulent of his pupils, I could not have 
 met with more attention, or have been instructed 
 with more zeal than I was, by my new friend the 
 special pleader. He was also so kind as to put me at 
 ease by the assurance that whenever I should begin 
 to make money by my profession, he would accept 
 of remuneration. He jestingly said, that he would 
 make the same bargain with me that was made by 
 the famous sophist Protagoras of old with his pupil, 
 that he should have the profits of the first cause 
 I should win — certain that I would not, like his 
 treacherous pupil Evathlus, employ the rhetorician’s 
 arms against himself, to cheat him out of his promised 
 reward. My special pleader was not a mere man of 
 forms and law rigmaroles ; he knew the reason for the 
 forms he used ; he had not only a technical, but a 
 rational knowledge of his business ; and what is still 
 more uncommon, he knew how to teach what he had 
 learnt. He did not merely set me down at a desk, 
 and leave me skins after skins of parchment to pore 
 over in bewildered and hopeless stupidity ; he did not 
 use me like a mere copying machine, to copy sheet 
 after sheet for him, every morning from nine till four 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 237 
 
 and again every evening from five till ten. Mine was 
 a law tutor of a superior sort. Wherever he could, 
 he gave me a clue to guide me through the labyrinth ; 
 and when no reason could be devised for what the law 
 directs, he never puzzled me by attempting to explain 
 what could not be explained ; he did not insist upon 
 the total surrender of my rational faculties, but with 
 wonderful liberality would allow me to call nonsense, 
 nonsense ; and would, after two or three hours’ hard 
 scrivening, as the case might require — for this I thank 
 him more than all the rest — permit me to yawn, and 
 stretch, and pity myself, and curse the useless repeti- 
 tions of lawyers, sinking under the weight of declarations , 
 and replications , and double pleas , and dilatory pleas ; 
 
 “ Of horse pleas, traverses , demuwers , 
 
 Jeofails , imparlances , and errors , 
 
 Averments , bars, and protestandoes." 
 
 O ! Cecilia, what pains did I endure to win your 
 applause ! Yet, that I may state the whole truth, 
 let me acknowledge, that even these, my dullest, 
 hardest tasks, were light, compared with the burden 
 I formerly bore of ennui. At length my period of 
 probation in my pleader’s office was over ; I escaped 
 from the dusky desk, and the smell of musty parch- 
 ments, and the close smoky room ; I finished eating 
 my terms at the Temple, and returned, even, as the 
 captain of the packet swore, “in the face and teeth 
 of the wind,” to Dublin. 
 
 But, in my haste to return, I must not omit to 
 notice, for the sake of poetical equity, that just when 
 I was leaving England, I heard that slow but sure- 
 paced justice at last overtook that wretch Crawley. 
 He was detected and convicted of embezzling consider- 
 able sums, the property of a gentleman in Cheshire, who 
 had employed him as his agent. I saw him as I passed 
 
238 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 through Chester, going to prison, amidst the execra- 
 tions of the populace. 
 
 Chapter pptj* 
 
 A S I was not, as formerly, asleep in my carriage on 
 ^ deck, when we came within sight of the Irish 
 shore, I saw, and hailed with delight, the 
 beautiful Bay of Dublin. The moment we landed, 
 instead of putting myself out of humour, as before, 
 with everything at the Marine Hotel, I went directly 
 
 to my friend Lord Y ’s. I made my sortie from 
 
 the hotel with so much extraordinary promptitude, that 
 a slipshod waiter was forced to pursue me, running or 
 shuffling after me the whole length of the street, before 
 he could overtake me with a letter, which had been 
 “ waiting for my honour, at the hotel, since yesterday’s 
 Holyhead packet.” This was a mistake, as the letter 
 had never come or gone by any Holyhead packet ; it 
 was only a letter from Mr McLeod, to welcome me to 
 Ireland again ; and to tell me, that he had taken care 
 to secure good well-aired lodgings for me : he added 
 an account of what was going on at Glenthorn Castle. 
 The extravagance of my lady had, by this time, reduced 
 the family to great difficulties for ready money, as they 
 could neither sell nor mortgage any part of the Glen- 
 thorn estate, which was settled on the son. My poor 
 foster-brother had, it seems, in vain attempted to re- 
 strain the wasteful folly of his wife, and to persuade 
 Johnny, the young heir-apparent, to larn to be a jantle- 
 man : in vain Christy tried to prevail on his lordship 
 to “ refrain drinking whisky preferably to claret : ” the 
 youth pleaded both his father’s and mother’s examples; 
 and said, that as he was an only son, and his father 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 2 39 
 
 had but a life-interest in the estate, he expected to be 
 indulged ; he repeated continually “ a short life and a 
 merry one for me.” Mr M‘Leod concluded this letter 
 by observing, “ that far from its being a merry life, he 
 never saw anything more sad than the life this foolish 
 boy led ; and that Glenthorn Castle was so melancholy 
 and disgusting a scene of waste, riot, and intemperance, 
 that he could not bear to go there.” I was grieved by 
 this account, for the sake of my poor foster-brother ; 
 but it would have made a deeper impression upon me 
 at any other time. I must own that I forgot the letter, 
 
 and all that it contained, as I knocked at Lord Y ’s 
 
 door. 
 
 Lord Y received me with open arms ; and, 
 
 with all the kindness of friendship, anticipated the 
 questions I longed, yet feared, to ask. 
 
 “ Cecilia Delamere is still unmarried — Let these 
 words be enough to content you for the present ; all 
 the rest is, I hope, in your own power.” 
 
 In my power! — delightful thought! yet how dis- 
 tant that hope ! For I was now, after all my labours, 
 but just called to the bar ; not yet likely, for years, 
 to make a guinea, much less a fortune, by my pro- 
 fession. Many of the greatest of our lawyers have 
 gone circuit for ten or twelve years, before they made 
 a hundred a year ; and I was at this time four-and- 
 
 thirty. I confessed to my Lord Y , that these 
 
 reflections alarmed and depressed me exceedingly : 
 but he encouraged me by this answer — “ Persevere 
 — deserve success ; and trust the rest, not to fortune, 
 but to your friends. It is not required of you to 
 make ten thousand or one thousand a year at the bar, 
 in any given time ; but it is expected from you to give 
 proofs that you are capable of conquering the indo- 
 lence of your disposition or of your former habits. It 
 is required from you to give proofs of intellectual 
 
240 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 energy and ability. When you have convinced me 
 that you have the knowledge and assiduity that ought 
 to succeed at the bar, I shall be certain that only 
 time is wanting to your actual acquisition of a fortune 
 equal to what I ought to require for my fair friend 
 and relation. When it comes to that point, it will, 
 my dear sir, be time enough for me to say more. 
 Till it comes to that point, I have promised Mrs 
 Delamere that you will not even attempt to see her 
 daughter. She blames me for having permitted Cecilia 
 and you to see so much of each other, as you did in 
 this house when you were last in Ireland. Perhaps I 
 was imprudent, but your conduct has saved me from 
 my own reproaches, and I fear no other. I end where 
 I began, with ‘Persevere — and may the success your 
 perseverance deserves be your reward/ If I recollect 
 right, these were nearly Miss Delamere’s own words 
 at parting with you.” 
 
 In truth, I had not forgotten them ; and I was so 
 much excited by their repetition at this moment, 
 and by my excellent friend’s encouraging voice, that 
 all difficulties, all dread of future labours or evils, 
 vanished from my view. I went my first circuit, and 
 made two guineas, and was content; for Lord Y — — 
 was not disappointed : he told me it would, it must 
 be so. But though I made no money, I obtained 
 gradually, amongst my associates at the bar, the 
 reputation for judgment and knowledge. Of this 
 they could judge by my conversation, and by the re- 
 marks on the trials brought on before us. The elder 
 counsel had been prepared in my favour, first by Mr 
 Devereux, and afterwards by my diligence in follow- 
 ing their advice, during my studies in Dublin : they 
 perceived that I had not lost my time in London, 
 and that my mind was in my possession. They 
 prophesied, that from the moment I began to be 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 241 
 
 employed, I should rise rapidly. Opportunity, they told 
 me, was now all that I wanted, and for that I must 
 wait with patience. I waited with as much patience 
 as I could. I had many friends ; some among the 
 judges, some among a more powerful class of men, the 
 attorneys : some of these friends made for me by Mr 
 
 Devereux and Lady Geraldine ; some by Lord Y ; 
 
 some, may I say it ? by myself. Yet the utmost that 
 even the highest patronage from the bench can do for 
 a young barrister is, to give him an opportunity of 
 distinguishing himself in preference to other com- 
 petitors. This was all I hoped ; and I was not 
 deceived in this hope. It happened that a cause of 
 considerable moment, which had come on in our cir- 
 cuit, and to the whole course of which I had attended 
 with great care, was removed, by an appeal, to 
 Dublin. I fortunately, I should say prudently, was 
 in the habit of constant attendance at the courts : 
 the counsel who was engaged to manage this cause 
 was suddenly taken ill, and was disabled from pro- 
 ceeding. The judge called upon me ; the attorneys, 
 and the other counsel, were all agreed in wishing 
 me to take up the business, for they knew I was 
 prepared, and competent to the question. The 
 next day the cause, which was then to be finally 
 decided, came on. I sat up all night to look over 
 my documents, and to make myself sure of my 
 points. Ten years before this, if any one had pro- 
 phesied this of me, how little could I have believed 
 them ! 
 
 The trial came on — I rose to speak. How for- 
 tunate it was for me, that I did not know my Lord 
 
 Y was in the court ! I am persuaded that I 
 
 could not have uttered three sentences, if he had 
 caught my eye in the exordium of this my first 
 harangue. Every man of sensibility — and no man 
 
 Q, 
 
242 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 without it can be an orator — every man of sensibility 
 knows that it is more difficult to speak in the pre- 
 sence of one anxious friend, of whose judgment we 
 have a high opinion, than before a thousand auditors 
 who are indifferent, and are strangers to us. Not 
 conscious who was listening to me, whose eyes were 
 upon me, whose heart was beating for me, I spoke 
 with confidence and fluency, for I spoke on a subject 
 of which I had previously made myself completely 
 master ; and I was so full of the matter, that I 
 thought not of the words. Perhaps this, and my 
 having the right side of the question, were the 
 causes of my success. I heard a buzz of thanks and 
 applause round me. The decree was given in our 
 favour. At this moment I recollected my bargain, 
 and my debt to my good master the special pleader. 
 But all bargains, all debts, all special pleaders, 
 vanished the next instant from my mind ; for the 
 
 crowd opened, Lord Y appeared before me, 
 
 seized my hand, congratulated me actually with tears 
 of joy, carried me away to his carriage, ordered the 
 coachman to drive home — fast ! fast ! 
 
 “ And now,” said he to me, “ I am satisfied. Your 
 trial is over — successfully over — you have convinced 
 me of your powers and your perseverance. All the 
 hopes of friendship are fulfilled : may all the hopes 
 of love be accomplished ! You have now my free and 
 full approbation to address my ward and relation, 
 Cecilia Delamere. You will have difficulties with her 
 mother, perhaps ; but none beyond what we good and 
 great lawyers shall, I trust, be able to overrule. Mrs 
 Delamere knows, that, as I have an unsettled estate, 
 and but one son, I have it in my power to provide for 
 her daughter as if she were my own. It has always 
 been my intention to do so : but, if you marry Miss 
 Delamere, you will still find it necessary to pursue your 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 243 
 
 profession diligently, to maintain her in her own rank 
 and style of life ; and now that you have felt the 
 pleasures of successful exertion, you will consider this 
 necessity as an additional blessing. From what I have 
 heard this day, there can be no doubt, that, by pursu- 
 ing your profession, you can secure, in a few years, 
 not only ease and competence, but affluence and honours 
 — honours of your own earning. How far superior to 
 any hereditary title ! ” 
 
 The carriage stopped at Lord Y *s door. My 
 
 friend presented me to Cecilia, whom I saw this day 
 for the first time since my return to Ireland. From 
 this hour I date the commencement of my life of real 
 happiness. How unlike that life of pleasure , to which 
 so many give erroneously the name of happiness ! 
 
 Lord Y , with his powerful influence, supported my 
 
 cause with Mrs Delamere, who was induced, though 
 with an ill grace, to give up her opposition. 
 
 “Cecilia,” she said, “was now three-and-twenty, 
 an age to judge for herself ; and Lord Y ’s judg- 
 
 ment was a great point in favour of Mr O’Donoghoe, 
 to be sure. And no doubt Mr O’Donoghoe might 
 make a fortune, since he had made a figure already 
 at the bar. In short, she could not oppose the wishes 
 
 of Lord Y , and the affections of her daughter, 
 
 since they were so fixed. But, after all,” said Mrs 
 Delamere, “ what a horrid thing it will be to hear my 
 girl called Mrs O’Donoghoe ! Only conceive the 
 sound of — Mrs O’Donoghoe’s carriage there ! — Mrs 
 O’Donoghoe’s carriage stops the way ! 99 
 
 “Your objection, my dear madam,” replied Lord 
 
 Y , “ is fully as well founded as that of a young 
 
 lady of my acquaintance, who could not prevail on her 
 delicacy to become the wife of a merchant of the name 
 of Sheepshanks . He very wisely, or very gallantly, 
 
 paid five hundred pounds to change his name. I make 
 
244 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 no doubt that your future son-in-law will have no 
 objection to take and bear the name and arms of 
 Delamere ; and I think I can answer for it, that a 
 king’s letter may be obtained, empowering him to do 
 so. With this part of the business allow me to charge 
 myself.” 
 
 I spare the reader the protracted journal of a lover’s 
 hopes and fears. Cecilia, convinced, by the exertions 
 in which I had so long persevered, that my affection 
 for her was not only sincere and ardent, but likely 
 to be permanent, did not torture me by the vain delays 
 of female coquetry. She believed, she said, that a 
 man capable of conquering habitual indolence could not 
 be of a feeble character ; and she therefore consented, 
 without hesitation, to intrust her happiness to my care. 
 
 I hope my readers have, by this time, too favourable 
 an opinion of me to suspect, that, in my joy, I forgot 
 him who had been my steady friend in adversity. I 
 wrote to M‘Leod, as soon as I knew my own happi- 
 ness, and assured him that it would be incomplete 
 without his sympathy. I do not think there was at 
 our wedding a face of more sincere, though sober joy, 
 than McLeod’s. Cecilia and I have been now married 
 above a twelvemonth, and she permits me to say, that 
 she has never, for a moment, repented her choice. 
 That I have not relapsed into my former habits, the 
 judicious and benevolent reader will hence infer : and 
 yet I have been in a situation to be spoiled ; for I 
 scarcely know a wish of my heart that remains un- 
 gratified, except the wish that my friend Mr Devereux 
 and Lady Geraldine should return from India, to see 
 and partake of that happiness of which they first pre- 
 pared the foundation. They first awakened my dor- 
 mant intellects, made me know that I had a heart, and 
 that I was capable of forming a character for myself. 
 The loss of my estate continued the course of my 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 2 45 
 
 education, forced me to exert my own powers, and to 
 rely upon myself. My passion for the amiable and 
 charming Cecilia was afterwards motive sufficient to 
 urge me to persevering intellectual labour : fortunately 
 my marriage has obliged me to continue my exertions, 
 and the labours of my profession have made the 
 pleasures of domestic life most delightful. The rich, 
 says a philosophic moralist, are obliged to labour, if 
 they would be healthy or happy ; and they call this 
 labour exercise. 
 
 Whether, if I were again a rich man, I should have 
 sufficient voluntary exertion to take a due portion of 
 mental and bodily exercise, I dare not pretend to deter- 
 mine, nor do I wish to be put to the trial. Desiring 
 nothing in life but the continuance of the blessings I 
 possess, I may here conclude my memoirs, by assuring 
 my readers, that after a full experience of most of what 
 are called the pleasures of life, I would not accept of 
 all the Glenthorn and Sherwood estates, to pass another 
 year of such misery as I endured whilst I was “ stretched 
 on the rack of a too easy chair.” 
 
 The preceding memoirs were just ready for publica- 
 tion, when I received the following letter : — 
 
 “ Honoured Foster-Brother, 
 
 “ Since the day I parted yees, nothing in life 
 but misfortins has happened me, owing to my being 
 overruled by my wife, who would be a lady, all I 
 could say again it. But that’s over, and there’s no 
 help ; for all and all that ever she can say will do no 
 good. The castle’s burnt down all to the ground, 
 and my Johnny’s dead, and I wish I was dead in 
 his place. The occasion of his death was owing to 
 drink, which he fell into from getting too much 
 money, and nothing to do — and a snuff of a candle. 
 
246 
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 When going to bed last night, a little in liquor, 
 what does he do but takes the candle, and sticks it 
 up against the head of his bed, as he used oftentimes 
 to do, without detriment, in the cabin where he was 
 reared, against the mud- wall. But this was close 
 
 to an ould window curtain, and a deal of ould wood 
 in the bed, which was all in a smother, and he lying 
 asleep after drinking, when he was ever hard to 
 wake, and before he waked at all, it appears the 
 unfortunit cratur was smothered, and none heard a 
 sentence of it, till the ceiling of my room, the blue 
 bedchamber, with a piece of the big wood cornice, 
 fell, and wakened me with terrible uproar, and all 
 above and about me was flame and smoke, and I just 
 took my wife on my back, and down the stairs with 
 her, which did not give in till five minutes after, 
 and she screeching, and all them relations she had 
 screeching and running every one for themselves, 
 and no thought in any to save anything at all, 
 but just what they could for themselves, and not a 
 sarvant that was in his right rason. I got the ladder 
 with a deal of difficulty, and up to Johnny’s room, 
 and there was a sight for me — he a corpse, and 
 how even to get the corpse out of that, myself 
 could not tell, for I was bewildered, and how they 
 took me down, I don’t well know. When I came to 
 my sinses, I was lying on the ground in the court, 
 and all confusion and screaming still, and the flames 
 raging worse than ever. There’s no use in describing 
 all — the short of it is, there’s nothing remaining of 
 the castle but the stones ; and it’s little I’d think o’ 
 that, if I could have Johnny back — such as he used 
 to be in my good days ; since he’s gone, I am no 
 good. I write this to beg you, being married, of 
 which I give you joy, to Miss Delamere, that is the 
 hare at law, will take possession of all immediately, 
 
ENNUI. 
 
 247 
 
 for I am as good as dead, and will give no hindrance. 
 I will go back to my forge, and, by the help of God, 
 forget at my work what has passed; and as to my 
 wife, she may go to her own kith and kin, if she 
 will not abide by me. I shall not trouble her long. 
 Mr M‘Leod is a good man, and will follow any 
 directions you send ; and may the blessing of God 
 attind, and come to reign over us again, when you will 
 find me, as heretofore, 
 
 “ Your loyal foster-brother, 
 
 “ Christy Donoghoe.” 
 
 Glenthorn Castle is now rebuilding ; and when it 
 is finished, and when I return thither, I will, if it 
 should be desired by the public, give a faithful account 
 of my feelings. I flatter myself that I shall not 
 relapse into indolence ; my understanding has been 
 cultivated — I have acquired a taste for literature, 
 
 and the example of Lord Y convinces me that 
 
 a man may at once be rich and noble, and active and 
 happy. 
 
 THE END* 
 
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