“‘O’Kelly,’ said the colonel, ‘I have sent for you to hear a reprimand which it is fitting you should receive at the head of the regiment, and which, from my knowledge of you, I have supposed would be the most effectual punishment I could inflict for your late disrespectful conduct to Captain Hubbart.’
“‘May I ask, colonel, have you heard of the provocation which induced my offence?’
“‘I hope, sir,’ replied he, with a look of stern dignity, ‘you are aware of the difference of your relative rank and station, and that, in condescending to associate with you, Captain Hubbart conferred an honour which doubly compensated for any liberty he was pleased to take. Read the general order, Lieutenant Wood.’
“A confused murmur of something, from which I could collect nothing, reached me; a vague feeling of weight seemed to press my head, and a giddiness that made me reel, was on me; and I only knew the ceremony was over, as I heard the order to march given, and saw the troops begin to move off the ground.
“‘A moment, colonel,’ said, I, in a voice that made him start and drew on me the look of all the others. ‘I have too much respect for you, and I hope also for myself, to attempt any explanation of a mere jest, where the consequences have taken a serious turn; besides, I feel conscious of one fault, far too grave a one, to venture on an excuse for any other I have been guilty of. I wish to resign my post. I here leave the badge of the only servitude I ever did, or ever intend to submit to; and now, as a free man once more, and a gentleman, too, if you’ll permit me, I beg to wish you adieu: and as for you, captain, I have only to add, that whenever you feel disposed for a practical joke, or any other interchange of politeness, Con O’Kelly will be always delighted to meet your views—the more so as he feels, though you may not believe it, something still in your debt.’
“With that I turned on my heel, and left the barrack-yard, not a word being spoken by any of the others, nor any evidence of their being so much amused as they seemed to expect from my exposure.
“Did it never strike you as a strange thing, that while none but the very poorest and humblest people can bear to confess to present poverty, very few men decline to speak of the narrow circumstances they have struggled through—nay, rather take a kind of pleasure in relating what difficulties once beset their path—what obstacles were opposed to their success? The reason perhaps is, there is a reflective merit in thus surmounting opposition.
“The acknowledgment implies a sense of triumph. It seams to say—‘Here am I, such as you see me now, and yet time was, when I was houseless and friendless—when the clouds darkened around my path, and I saw not even the faintest glimmer of hope to light up the future; yet with a stout heart and strong courage, with the will came the way; and I conquered.’ I do confess, I could dwell, and with great pleasure too, on those portions of my life when I was poorest and most forsaken, in preference to the days of my prosperity, and the hours of my greatest wealth: like the traveller who, after a long journey through some dark winter’s day, finds himself at the approach of night, seated by the corner of a cheery fire in his inn; every rushing gust of wind that shakes the building, every plash of the beating rain against the glass, but adds to this sense of comfort, and makes him hug himself with satisfaction to think how he is no longer exposed to such a storm—that his journey is accomplished—his goal is reached—and as he draws his chair closer to the blaze, it is the remembrance of the past, gives all the enjoyment to the present. In the same way, the pleasantest memories of old age are of those periods in youth when we have been successful over difficulty, and have won our way through every opposing obstacle. ‘Joy’s memory is indeed no longer joy.’ Few can look back on happy hours without thinking of those with whom they spent them, and then comes the sad question, Where are they now? What man reaches even the middle term of life with a tithe of the friends he started with in youth; and as they drop off, one by one around him, comes the sad reflection, that the period is passed when such ties can be formed anew—The book of the heart once closed, opens no more. But why these reflections? I must close them, and with them my story at once.
“The few pounds I possessed in the world enabled me to reach Quebec, and take my passage in a timber vessel bound for Cork. Why I returned to Ireland, and with what intentions, I should be sorely puzzled, were you to ask of me. Some vague, indistinct feeling of home, connected with my birthplace had, perhaps, its influence over me. So it was—I did so.
[Editor’s Note: Another edition of this book (Downey and
Co., 1897) was scannned for the middle part of this etext as
large portions of the original 1845 edition were defective.
The reader will note that the two editions initiate a quoted
passages in different ways: the 1845 edition with a double
quote and the 1897 edition with a single quotation mark.]