Her secret I kept inviolably:—but some person, I believe, was afterward less considerate, and she was discovered. Had I supposed it possible she could have then enfeebled the morals, or injured the habits, of my friend’s children, I should myself have privately given her a hint to change her situation;—but I never should have betrayed her. I conceived her at that time to be trustworthy in the execution of the duties she had undertaken. She had suffered amply. Her own daughter resided with her, and scarcely ever left her side. No longer a subject for the irregular passions, she had just lived long enough, and felt keenly enough, to render her early follies a warning for her later years, and even to cause her to entertain disgust for those errors which had so fatally misled her:—and I then believed, nor have I now any reason to question the solidity of my judgment, that she was on the direct road to prudence and good conduct.
I have related these events, as I confess myself to be an avowed enemy to a dramatic education. That sexual familiarity which is indispensable upon the stage undermines, and is, in my opinion, utterly inconsistent with, the delicacy of sentiment, the refinement of thought, and reserve of action, which constitute at once the surest guards and the most precious ornaments of female character. Strong minds and discriminating understandings frequently escape; but, what a vast majority of Thalia’s daughters fall victims to the practices of their profession!
Let us return to Kyle’s boarding-house. The different pursuits adopted by these curious members of the society assembled there were to me subjects of constant entertainment, and I stood well with all parties.—Good manners, good humour, and good cheer, make every place agreeable;—all these were united at Kyle’s boarding-table: the society never exceeded ten; and the company was always good.
One day, after dinner, Lord Mountmorris seemed rather less communicative than usual, but not less cheerful. He took out his watch; made a speech, as customary; drank his tipple (as he denominated the brandy and water), but seemed rather impatient. At length, a loud rap announced somebody of consequence, and the Marquis of Ely was named.
Lord Mountmorris rose with his usual ceremony, made a very low bow to the company, looked again at his watch, repeated his congé, and made his exit. He entered the coach where Lord Ely was waiting, and away they drove. Kyle (a most curious man) instantly decided that a duel was in agitation, and turned pale at the dread of losing so good a lodger. Lieutenant Gam Johnson was of the same opinion, and equally distressed by the fear of losing his Lordship’s interest for a frigate. Each snatched up his beaver, and, with the utmost expedition, pursued the coach. I was also rather desirous too see the fun, as Lieutenant Gam (though with a sigh!) called it, and made the best of my way after the two mourners, not, however, hurrying myself so much—as, whilst they kept the coach in view, I was contented with keeping them within sight. Our pursuit exceeded a mile; when, in the distance, I perceived that the coach had stopped at Donnybrook fair-green, where, on every eighth of June, many an eye seems to mourn in raven gray for the broken skull that had protected it from expulsion. I took my time, as I was now sure of my game, and had just reached the field when I heard the firing. I then ran behind a large tree, to observe further.
Lieut. Gam and Kyle had flown toward the spot, and nearly tumbled over my Lord, who had received a bullet from the Hon. Francis Hely Hutchinson (late collector for Dublin) on the right side, directly under his Lordship’s pistol arm. The peer had staggered and reposed at his length on the green-sward, and I certainly thought it was all over with him. I stood snugly all the while behind my tree, not wishing to have any thing to do at the coroner’s inquest, which I considered inevitable. To my astonishment, however, I saw my Lord arise, gracefully but slowly; and, after some colloquy, the combatants bowed to each other and separated; my Lord got back to his coach, with aid, and reached Frederick-street, if not in quite as good health, certainly with as high a character for bravery, as when he left it. In fact, never did any person enjoy a wound more sincerely! It was little else than a contusion, but twenty grains more of powder would probably have effectually laid his Lordship “to rest on the field of battle.” He kept his chamber a month, and was inconceivably gratified by the number of inquiries daily made respecting his health—boasting ever after of the profusion of friends who thus proved their solicitude. His answer from first to last was—“no better.”—To speak truth, one-half of the querists were sent in jest by those whom his singularity diverted.
IRISH BEAUTIES.
Strictures on change of manners—Moral influence of dress—The three beauties—Curious trial respecting Lady M—— —Termination favourable to her Ladyship—Interesting and affecting incidents of that lady’s life—Sir R—— M——, his character, and cruelty—Lady M—— married against her will—Quits her husband—Returns—Sir R. mistakes her for a rebel in his sleep, and nearly strangles her.
It is singular enough, but at the same time true, that female beauty has of late years kept pace in improvement with modern accomplishments. She who in the early part of my life would have been accounted a perfect beauty,—and whose touch upon a harpsichord or spinnet, accompanied by a simple air sung with what they then called “judgment,” (in tune,) would have constituted her a syren as well as a Venus, would now be passed by merely as “a pretty girl, but such a confounded bore with her music!” In fact, women fifty years since (and much later) not being, generally speaking, thrust into society till they had arrived at the age of maturity, were more respected, more beloved, and more sedulously attended than in these days, when the men seem to have usurped the ladies’ corsets, to affect their voices, practise their gait, imitate their small-talk, and, in surtouts and trowsers, hustle ladies off the foot-paths, to save their own dog-skins from humidity.