CHAPTER XXI
THE PHOENIX PARK.
What a glorious thing it is when our first waking thoughts not only dispel some dark, depressing dream, but arouse us to the consciousness of a new and bright career suddenly opening before us, buoyant in hope, rich in promise for the future! Life has nothing better than this. The bold spring by which the mind clears the depth that separates misery from happiness is ecstasy itself; and then what a world of bright visions come teeming before us,—what plans we form; what promises we make to ourselves in our own hearts; how prolific is the dullest imagination; how excursive the tamest fancy, at such a moment! In a few short and fleeting seconds, the events of a whole life are planned and pictured before us. Dreams of happiness and visions of bliss, of which all our after-years are insufficient to eradicate the prestige, come in myriads about us; and from that narrow aperture through which this new hope pierces into our heart, a flood of light is poured that illumines our path to the very verge of the grave. How many a success in after-days is reckoned but as one step in that ladder of ambition some boyish review has framed, perhaps, after all, destined to be the first and only one! With what triumph we hail some goal attained, some object of our wishes gained, less for its present benefit, than as the accomplishment of some youthful prophecy, when picturing to our hearts all that we would have in life, we whispered within us the flattery of success.
Who is there who has not had some such moment; and who would exchange it, with all the delusive and deceptive influences by which it comes surrounded, for the greatest actual happiness he has partaken of? Alas, alas, it is only in the boundless expanse of such imaginations, unreal and fictitious as they are, that we are truly blessed! Our choicest blessings in life come even so associated with some sources of care that the cup of enjoyment is not pure but dregged in bitterness.
To such a world of bright anticipation did I awake on the morning after the events I have detailed in the last chapter. The first thing my eyes fell upon was an official letter from the Horse Guards:—
“The commander of the forces desires that Mr. O’Malley will report
himself, immediately on the receipt of this letter, at the headquarters
of the regiment to which he is gazetted.”
Few and simple as the lines were, how brimful of pleasure they sounded to my ears. The regiment to which I was gazetted! And so I was a soldier at last! The first wish of my boyhood was then really accomplished. And my uncle, what will he say; what will he think?
“A letter, sir, by the post,” said Mike, at the moment.
I seized it eagerly; it came from home, but was in Considine’s handwriting. How my heart failed me as I turned to look at the seal. “Thank God!” said I, aloud, on perceiving that it was a red one. I now tore it open and read:—
My Dear Charley,—Godfrey, being laid up with the gout, has
desired me to write to you by this day’s post. Your appointment to
the 14th, notwithstanding all his prejudices about the army, has
given him sincere pleasure. I believe, between ourselves, that your
college career, of which he has heard something, convinced him that
your forte did not lie in the classics; you know I said so always, but
nobody minded me. Your new prospects are all that your best friends
could wish for you: you begin early; your corps is a crack one; you
are ordered for service. What could you have more?
Your uncle hopes, if you can get a few days’ leave, that you will
come down here before you join, and I hope so too; for he is unusually
low-spirited, and talks about his never seeing you again, and
all that sort of thing.
I have written to Merivale, your colonel, on this subject, as well
as generally on your behalf. We were cornets together forty years
ago. A strict fellow you’ll find him, but a trump on service. If
you can’t manage the leave, write a long letter home at all events.
And so, God bless you, and all success!
Yours sincerely,
W. Considine.
I had thought of writing you a long letter of advice for your new
career; and, indeed, half accomplished one. After all, however, I
can tell you little that your own good sense will not teach you as you
go on; and experience is ever better than precept. I know of but
one rule in life which admits of scarcely any exception, and having
followed it upwards of sixty years, approve of it only the more:
Never quarrel when you can help it; but meet any man,—your
tailor, your hairdresser,—if he wishes to have you out.
W. C.