You said my heart was cold and stern; You doubted love when strongest: In future days you'll live to learn Proud hearts can love the longest.

Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear, When flippant tongues beset thee, That _all_ must love thee, when thou'rt near, But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

III

The changeful sand doth only know The shallow tide and latest; The rocks have mark'd its highest flow, The deepest and the greatest; And deeper still the flood-marks grow:-- So, since the hour I met thee, The more the tide of time doth flow, The less can I forget thee!

When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt--they were _found in his room,_ and of course they _must_ be his, just as partial critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.

Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.

Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity; jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was barking for another run with the verses.

"A _lady's_ hand?" said Augusta, s.n.a.t.c.hing the paper from her sister; "I declare if it ain't! the wretch--so he receives lines from ladies."

"I think I know the hand, too," said Charlotte.

"You do?" exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.

"Yes, I'm certain it is f.a.n.n.y Dawson's writing."

"So it is," said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have burnt it; "to be sure--he was there before he came here."

"Only for two days," said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had raised.

"But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight," returned Augusta, half crying; "and what do I see here? some words in pencil."

The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circ.u.mflex which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood thus:--

[Sidenote: Dearest, I will.]

Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear, When flippant tongues beset thee, That _all_ must love thee when thou'rt near, But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

"Will you, indeed?" said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and biting it; "but I must not destroy it--I must keep it to prove his treachery to his face." She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.

CHAPTER XXVII

How many chapters have been written about love verses--and how many more might be written!--might, would, could, should, or ought to be written!-- I will venture to say, _will_ be written! I have a mind to fulfil my own prophecy and write one myself; but no--my story must go on. However, I _will_ say, that it is quite curious in how many ways the same little bit of paper may influence different people: the poem whose literary merit may be small becomes precious when some valued hand has transcribed the lines; and the verses whose measure and meaning viewed in type might win favour and yield pleasure, shoot poison from their very sweetness, when read in some particular hand and under particular circ.u.mstances. It was so with the copy of verses Augusta had just read--they were f.a.n.n.y Dawson's ma.n.u.script--that was certain--and found in the room of Augusta's lover; therefore Augusta was wretched. But these same lines had given exquisite pleasure to another person, who was now nearly as miserable as Augusta in having lost them. It is possible the reader guesses that person to be Edward O'Connor, for it was he who had lost the pocket-book in which those (to him) precious lines were contained; and if the little case had held all the bank-notes he ever owned in his life, their loss would have been regarded less than that bit of ma.n.u.script, which had often yielded _him_ the most exquisite pleasure, and was now inflicting on Augusta the bitterest anguish. To make this intelligible to the reader, it is necessary to explain under what circ.u.mstances the lines were written. At one time, Edward, doubting the likelihood of making his way at home, was about to go to India and push his fortunes there; and at that period, those lines, breathing of farewell--implying the dread of rivals during absence--and imploring remembrance of his eternal love, were written and given to f.a.n.n.y; and she, with that delicacy of contrivance so peculiarly a woman's, hit upon the expedient of copying his own verses and sending them to him in her writing, as an indication that the spirit of the lines was her own.

But Edward saw that his father, who was advanced in years, looked upon a separation from his son as an eternal one, and the thought gave so much pain, that Edward gave up the idea of expatriation. Shortly after, however, the misunderstanding with Major Dawson took place, and f.a.n.n.y and Edward were as much severed as if dwelling in different zones. Under such circ.u.mstances, those lines were peculiarly precious, and many a kiss had Edward impressed upon them, though Augusta thought them fitter for the exercise of her teeth than her lips. In fact, Edward did little else than think of f.a.n.n.y; and it is possible his pa.s.sion might have degenerated into mere love-sickness, and enfeebled him, had not his desire of proving himself worthy of his mistress spurred him to exertion, in the hope of future distinction. But still the tone of tender lament pervaded all his poems, and the same pocket-book whence the verses which caused so much commotion fell contained the following also, showing how entirely f.a.n.n.y possessed his heart and occupied his thoughts:--

WHEN THE SUN SINKS TO REST

I

When the sun sinks to rest, And the star of the west Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea; What sweet thoughts arise, As the dim twilight dies-- For then I am thinking of thee!

Oh! then crowding fast Come the joys of the past, Through the dimness of days long gone by, Like the stars peeping out, Through the darkness about, From the soft silent depth of the sky.

II

And thus, as the night Grows more lovely and bright With the cl.u.s.t'ring of planet and star, So this darkness of mine Wins a radiance divine From the light that still lingers afar.

Then welcome the night, With its soft holy light!

In its silence my heart is more free The rude world to forget, Where no pleasure I've met Since the hour that I parted from thee.

But we must leave love verses, and ask pardon for the few remarks which the subject tempted, and pursue our story.

The first prompting of Augusta's anger, when she had recovered her burst of pa.s.sion, was to write "_such a letter_" to Furlong--and she spent half a day at the work; but she could not please herself--she tore twenty at least, and determined, at last, not to write at all, but just wait till he returned and overwhelm him with reproaches. But, though she could not compose a letter, she composed herself by the endeavour, which acted as a sort of safety-valve to let off the superabundant steam; and it is wonderful how general is this result of sitting down to write angry letters: people vent themselves of their spleen on the uncomplaining paper, which silently receives words a listener would not. With a pen for our second, desperate satisfaction is obtained with only an effusion of ink, and when once the pent-up bitterness has oozed out in all the blackness of that fluid--most appropriately made of the best galls--the time so spent, and the "letting of words," if I may use the phrase, has cooled our judgment and our pa.s.sions together; and the first letter is torn: 't is _too_ severe; we write a second; we blot and interline till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we are tired out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by with a "Pshaw! what's the use of it?" or, "It's not worth my notice;" or, still better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own dignity best by writing without temper, though we may be called upon to be severe.

Furlong at this time was on his road to Dublin in happy unconsciousness of Augusta's rage against him, and planning what pretty little present he should send her specially, for his head was naturally running on such matters, as he had quant.i.ties of commissions to execute in the millinery line for Mrs. O'Grady, who thought it high time to be getting up Augusta's wedding-dresses, and Andy was to be despatched the following day to Dublin to take charge of a cargo of bandboxes back from that city to Neck-or- Nothing Hall. Furlong had received a thousand charges from the ladies, "to be sure to lose no time" in doing his devoir in their behalf, and he obeyed so strictly, and was so active in laying milliners and mercers under contributions, that Andy was enabled to start the day after his arrival, sorely against Andy's will, for he would gladly have remained amidst the beauty and grandeur and wonders of Dublin, which struck him dumb for the day he was amongst them, but gave him food for conversation for many a day after. Furlong, after racking his invention about the souvenir to his "dear Gussy," at length fixed on a fan, as the most suitable gift; for Gussy had been quizzed at home about "blushing," and all that sort of thing, and the puerile perceptions of the _attache_ saw something very smart in sending her wherewith "to hide her blushes."

Then the fan was the very pink of fans; it had quivers and arrows upon it, and bunches of hearts looped up in azure festoons, and doves perched upon them; though Augusta's little sister, who was too young to know what hearts and doves were, when she saw them for the first time, said they were pretty little birds picking at apples. The fan was packed up in a nice case, and then on scented note paper did the dear dandy indite a bit of namby-pamby badinage to his fair one, which he thought excessively clever:--

"DEAR DUCKY DARLING,--You know how naughty they are in quizzing you about a little something, _I won't say what,_ you will guess, I dare say-- but I send you a little toy, _I won't say what,_ on which Cupid might write this label after the doctor's fashion, 'To be used occasionally, when the patient is much troubled with the symptoms.'

"Ever, ever, ever yours,

"P.S. Take care how you open it."

"J.F."

Such was the note that Handy Andy was given, with particular injunctions to deliver it the first thing on his arrival at the Hall to Miss Augusta, and to be sure to take most particular care of the little case; all which Andy faithfully promised to do. But Andy's usual destiny prevailed, and an unfortunate exchange of parcels quite upset all Furlong's sweet little plan of his pretty present and his ingenious note: for as Andy was just taking his departure, Furlong said he might as well leave something for him at Reade's, the cutler, as he pa.s.sed through College Green, and he handed him a case of razors which wanted setting, which Andy popped into his pocket, and as the fan case and that of the razors were much of a size, and both folded up, Andy left the fan at the cutler's and took the case of razors by way of present to Augusta. Fancy the rage of a young lady with a very fine pair of _moustachios_ getting such a souvenir from her lover, with a note, too, every word of which applied to a beard and a razor, as patly as to a blush and a fan--and this, too, when her jealousy was aroused and his fidelity more than doubtful in her estimation.

Great was the row in Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and when, after three days, Furlong came down, the nature of his reception may be better imagined than described. It was a difficult matter, through the storm which raged around him, to explain all the circ.u.mstances satisfactorily, but, by dint of hard work, the verses were at length disclaimed, the razors disavowed, and Andy at last sent for to "clear matters up."

Andy was a hopeful subject for such a purpose, and by his blundering answers nearly set them all by the ears again; the upshot of the affair was, that Andy, used as he was to good scoldings, never had such a torrent of abuse poured on him in his life, and the affair ended in Andy being dismissed from Neck-or-Nothing Hall on the instant; so he relinquished his greasy livery for his own rags again, and trudged homewards to his mother's cabin.

"She'll be as mad as a hatter with me," said Andy; "bad luck to them for razhirs, they cut me out o' my place: but I often heard cowld steel is unlucky, and sure I know it now. Oh! but I'm always unfort'nate in having cruked messages. Well, it can't be helped; and one good thing at all events is, I'll have time enough now to go and spake to Father Blake;" and with this sorry piece of satisfaction poor Andy contented himself.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Father Blake, of whom Andy spoke, was more familiarly known by the name of Father Phil, by which t.i.tle Andy himself would have named him, had he been telling how Father Phil cleared a fair, or equally "leathered"

both the belligerent parties in a faction-fight, or turned out the contents (or malcontents) of a public-house at an improper hour; but when he spoke of his Reverence respecting ghostly matters, the importance of the subject begot higher consideration for the man, and the familiar "Father Phil" was dropped for the more respectful t.i.tle of Father Blake.

By either t.i.tle, or in whatever capacity, the worthy Father had great influence over his parish, and there was a free-and-easy way with him, even in doing the most solemn duties, which agreed wonderfully with the devil-may-care spirit of Paddy. Stiff and starched formality in any way is repugnant to the very nature of Irishmen; and I believe one of the surest ways of converting all Ireland from the Romish faith would be found, if we could only manage to have her ma.s.s celebrated with the dry coldness of the Reformation. This may seem ridiculous at first sight, and I grant it is a grotesque way of viewing the subject, but yet there may be truth in it; and to consider it for a moment seriously, look at the fact, that the north of Ireland is the stronghold of Protestantism, and that the north is the _least_ Irish portion of the island. There is a strong admixture of Scotch there, and all who know the country will admit that there is nearly as much difference between men from the north and south of Ireland as from different countries. The Northerns retain much of the cold formality and unbending hardness of the stranger-settlers from whom they are descended, while the Southerns exhibit that warm-hearted, lively, and poetical temperament for which the country is celebrated. The prevailing national characteristics of Ireland are not to be found in the north, where Protestantism flourishes; they are to be found in the south and west, where it has never taken root. And though it has never seemed to strike theologians, that in their very natures some people are more adapted to receive one faith than another, yet I believe it to be true, and perhaps not quite unworthy of consideration. There are forms, it is true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not _cold_ forms, but _attractive_ rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe those very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most influential on the Irish; and perhaps the splendours of a High Ma.s.s in the gorgeous temple of the Holy City would appeal less to the affections of an Irish peasant than the service he witnesses in some half-thatched ruin by a lone hillside, familiarly hurried through by a priest who has sharpened his appet.i.te by a mountain ride of some fifteen miles, and is saying ma.s.s (for the third time most likely) before breakfast, which consummation of his morning's exercise he is anxious to arrive at.

It was just in such a chapel, and under such circ.u.mstances, that Father Blake was celebrating the ma.s.s at which Andy was present, and after which he hoped to obtain a word of advice from the worthy Father, who was much more sought after on such occasions than his more sedate superior who presided over the spiritual welfare of the parish--and whose solemn celebration of the ma.s.s was by no means so agreeable as the lighter service of Father Phil. The Rev. Dominick Dowling was austere and long- winded; _his_ ma.s.s had an oppressive effect on his congregation, and from the kneeling mult.i.tude might be seen eyes fearfully looking up from under bent brows, and low breathings and subdued groans often rose above the silence of his congregation, who felt like sinners, and whose imaginations were filled with the thoughts of Heaven's anger; while the good-humoured face of the light-hearted Father Phil produced a corresponding brightness on the looks of his hearers, who turned up their whole faces in trustfulness to the mercy of that Heaven whose propitiatory offering their pastor was making for them in cheerful tones, which a.s.sociated well with thoughts of pardon and salvation.

Father Dominick poured forth his spiritual influence like a strong dark stream that swept down the hearer--hopelessly struggling to keep his head above the torrent, and dreading to be overwhelmed at the next word. Father Phil's religion bubbled out like a mountain rill--bright, musical, and refreshing. Father Dominick's people had decidedly need of cork jackets; Father Phil's might drink and be refreshed.

But with all this intrinsic worth, he was, at the same time, a strange man in exterior manners; for, with an abundance of real piety, he had an abruptness of delivery and a strange way of mixing up an occasional remark to his congregation in the midst of the celebration of the ma.s.s, which might well startle a stranger; but this very want of formality made him beloved by the people, and they would do ten times as much for Father Phil as for Father Dominick.

On the Sunday in question, when Andy attended the chapel, Father Phil intended delivering an address to his flock from the altar, urging them to the necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the chapel, which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at one end let in the rain through its worn-out thatch. A subscription was necessary; and to raise this among a very impoverished people was no easy matter. The weather happened to be unfavourable, which was most favourable to Father Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments through the roof upon the kneeling people below in the most convincing manner; and as they endeavoured to get out of the wet, they pressed round the altar as much as they could, for which they were reproved very smartly by his Reverence in the very midst of the ma.s.s, and these interruptions occurred sometimes in the most serious places, producing a ludicrous effect, of which the worthy Father was quite unconscious in his great anxiety to make the people repair the chapel.

A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of the altar, and Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her, sent her to the right- about, while he interrupted his appeal to Heaven to address her thus:-- _"Agnus Dei_--you'd better jump over the rails of the althar, I think. Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room in the chapel below there."