“Now for the Dean. Is mamma out of hearing?” said Miss Kennyfeck, who rejoiced at the casual opportunity of a little portrait-painting in a different style. “Conceive a tall, pompous man, with large white features, and a high bald head with a conical top; a sharp, clear, but unpleasant voice, always uttering grave nonsense, or sublime absurdity. He was a brilliant light at Oxford, and came over to illumine our darkness, and if pedantry could only supply the deficiency in the potato crop, he would be a providence to the land. His affectation is to know everything, from chuck-farthing to conic sections, and so to diffuse his information as always to talk science to young ladies, and discuss the royal game of goose with Lords of the Treasury. His failures in these attempts at Admirable Crichtonism would abash even confidence great as his, but that he is surrounded by a little staff of admirers, who fend off the sneers of the audience, and, like buffers, break the rude shocks of worldly collision. Socially, he is the tyrant of this capital; for having learning enough to be more than a match for those he encounters, and skill enough to give his paradoxes a mock air of authority, he usurps a degree of dictation and rule that makes society mere slavery. You 'll meet him to-morrow evening, and you'll see if he does not know more of Mexico and Savannah life than you do. Take care, I say, that you venture not into the wilds of the Pampas; for you'll have his companionship, not as fellow-traveller, but as guide and instructor. As for myself, whenever I read in the papers of meetings to petition Parliament to repeal this or redress that, in the name of 'Justice to Ireland,' I ask, why does nobody pray for the recall of the Dean of Drumcondera?”
“Here's mamma,” whispered Olivia, as the drawing-room door opened.
“We've done the Dean, mamma,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with calm composure.
“Well, don't you feel that you love him already? Mr. Cashel, confess that you participate in all my raptures. Oh dear! I do so admire talent and genius,” exclaimed Mrs. Kennyfeck, theatrically.
Cashel smiled, and muttered something unintelligible; and Olivia read on, but with a rapidity that showed the names required no special notice. “The Craufurds, the Smythes, Mrs. Felix Brown, Lady Emmeline Grove.”
“Oh, that dear Lady Emmeline! a most gifted creature; she 's the authoress of some sweet poems. She wrote that touching sonnet in the 'Nobility's Gallery of Loveliness,' beginning, 'Twin Sister of the Evening Star.' I'm sure you know it.”
“I 'm unfortunate enough never to have seen it,” said Cashel.
“Well, you shall see the writer to-morrow evening; I must really take care that you are acquainted. People will tell you that she is affected, and takes airs of authorship; but remember her literary success,—think of her contributions to the 'Court Journal.'”
“Those sweet flatteries of the nobility that Linton calls court-plaster, mamma,” said Miss Kennyfeck, laughing maliciously.
“Linton is very abusive,” said her mother, tartly; “he never has a good word for any one.”