As the race of these bright conversers died out,—for, alas! they belonged to a past era,—their places were assumed by others of very dissimilar tastes. Many educated at English universities brought back with them to Ireland the more reserved and cautious demeanor of the other country, and thus, if not by their influence, by their mere presence, threw a degree of constraint over the tone of society, which, in destroying its freedom, despoiled it of all its charm.
Fashion, that idol of an Englishman's heart, soon became an Irish deity too, and it now grew the “ton” to be English, or at least what was supposed to be such, in dress and manner, in hours, accent, and demeanor. The attempt was never successful; the reserve and placidity which sit with gracefulness on the high-bred Englishman, was a stiff, uncourteous manner in the more cordial and volatile Irishman. His own demeanor was a tree that would not bear grafting, and the fruit lost all its raciness by the admixture.
The English officials at the Castle, the little staff of a commander of the forces, a newly-made bishop, fresh from Oxford, even the officers of the last arrived dragoon regiment, became, by right of “accent,” the types of manner and breeding in circles where, in the actual enjoyment of social qualities, they were manifestly beneath those over whom they held sway; however, they were stamped at the metropolitan mint, and the competitors were deemed a mere depreciated currency which a few years more would cancel forever.
Mrs. Kennyfeck, as a fashionable dinner-giver, of course selected her company from this more choice section; a fact which deserves to be recorded, to the credit of her hospitality; for it was a very rare occurrence indeed, when she found herself invited by any of those distinguished personages who figured the oftenest at her own table. They thought, perhaps justly, that their condescension was sufficiently great to demand no further acknowledgment; and that, as virtue is said to be its own reward, theirs was abundantly exhibited in the frankness with which they ate Kennyfeck's venison, and drank his Burgundy, both of which were excellent.
Every one dined there, because they knew “they 'd meet every one.” A pretender in the world of fashion, unlike a pretender to monarchy, is sure to have the best company in his salon; and so, although you might have met many at the tables of the first men of the country, who were there by virtue of their talents or abilities, at Kennyfeck's the company was sure to be “select.” They could not afford dilution, lest they should find themselves at ease!
“Olivia, pray take that newspaper from Mr. Kennyfeck, and let us hear who he has asked to dinner to-morrow,” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, gracefully imitating an attitude of Lady Londonderry in the “Book of Beauty.”
Mr. Kennyfeck heard the request, and started; his surprise had not been greater if the Chancellor had addressed him as “Tom.” It was the first time in his life that an allusion had ever been made to the bare possibility of his inviting the company of a grand dinner; a prerogative he had never so much as dreamed of, and now he actually heard his wife refer to him, as if he were even a party to the deed.
“Invite! Mrs. Kennyfeck. I 'm sure I never thought—”
“No matter what you thought,” said his spouse, reddening at his stupidity. “I wanted to remember who are coming, that we may let Mr. Cashel learn something of our Dublin folk.”
“Here's a list, mamma,” said Olivia; “and I believe there are no apologies. Shall I read it?”