"Not often."

"Ah! if you could hear Pether Dowling sing duets with my daughter! he'd make the hair stand straight on your head with the delight. Oh, he's a powerful singer! you never heerd the like; he runs up and down as fast as a lamplighter;--and the beautiful turns he gives; oh! I never heerd any one sing a second like Pether. I declare he sings a _second_ to that degree _that you'd think it was the first_, and never at a loss for a shake; and then off he goes in a run that you'd think he'd never come back; but he _does_ bring it back into the tune again with as nate a fit as a Limerick glove. Oh! I never heerd a singer like Pether!!!"

There is no knowing how much more Mrs. Riley would have said about "Pether," if the end of the dance had not cut her eloquence short by permitting the groups of dancers, as they promenaded, to throw in their desultory discourse right and left, and so break up anything like a consecutive conversation.

But let it not be supposed that all Mrs. Flanagan's guests were of the Gubbins and Riley stamp. There were some of the better cla.s.s of the country people present; intelligence and courtesy in the one s.e.x, and gentleness and natural grace in the other, making a society not to be ridiculed in the ma.s.s, though individual instances of folly and ignorance and purse-proud effrontery were amongst it.

But to Growling every phase of society afforded gratification; and while no one had a keener relish for such scenes as the one in which we have just witnessed him, the learned and the courteous could be met with equal weapons by the doctor when he liked.

Quitting the dancing-room, he went into the little drawing-room, where a party of a very different stamp was engaged in conversation. Edward O'Connor and the "dear English captain," as Mrs. Flanagan called him, were deep in an interesting discussion about the relative practices in Ireland and England on the occasions of elections and trials, and most other public events; and O'Connor and two or three listeners--amongst whom was a Mr. Monk, whose daughters, remarkably nice girls, were of the party--were delighted with the feeling tone in which the Englishman spoke of the poorer cla.s.ses of Irish, and how often the excesses into which they sometimes fell were viewed through an exaggerated or distorted medium, and what was frequently mere exuberance of spirit p.r.o.nounced and punished as riot.

"I never saw a people over whom those in authority require more good temper," remarked the captain.

"Gentleness goes a long way with them," said Edward.

"And violence never succeeds," added Mr. Monk.

"You are of opinion, then," said the soldier, "they are not to be forced?"

"Except to do what they like," chimed in Growling.

"That's a very _Irish_ sort of coercion," said the captain, smiling.

"And therefore fit for Irishmen," said Growling; "and I never knew an intelligent Englishman yet, who came to Ireland, who did not find it out. Paddy has a touch of the pig in him--he won't be _driven_; but you may _coax_ him a long way: or if you appeal to his reason--for he happens to _have_ such a thing about him--you may persuade him into what is right if you take the trouble."

"By Jove!" said the captain, "it is not easy to argue with Paddy; the rascals are so ready with quip, and equivoque, and queer answers, that they generally get the best of it in talk, however fallacious may be their argument; and when you think you have Pat in a corner and escape is inevitable, he's off without your knowing how he slipped through your fingers."

When the doctor joined the conversation, Edward, knowing his powers, gave up the captain into his hands and sat down by the side of Miss Monk, who had just entered from the dancing-room, and retired to a chair in the corner.

She and Edward soon got engaged in a conversation particularly interesting to him. She spoke of having lately met f.a.n.n.y Dawson, and was praising her in such terms of affectionate admiration, that Edward hung upon every word with delight. I know not if Miss Monk was aware of Edward's devotion in that quarter before, but she could not look upon the bland though somewhat sad smile which arched his expressive mouth, and the dilated eye which beamed as her praises were uttered, without being then conscious that f.a.n.n.y Dawson had made him captive.

She was pleased, and continued the conversation with that inherent pleasure a woman has in touching a man's heart, even though it be not on her own account; and it was done with tact and delicacy which only women possess, and which is so refined that the rougher nature of man is insensible of its drift and influence, and he is betrayed by a net whose meshes are too fine for his perception. Edward O'Connor never dreamt that Miss Monk saw he was in love with the subject of their discourse.

While they were talking, the merry hostess entered; and the last words the captain uttered fell upon her ear, and then followed a reply from Growling, saying that Irishmen were as hard to catch as quicksilver.

"Ay, and as hard to keep as any other silver," said the widow; "don't believe what these wild Irish fellows tell you of themselves, they are all mad divils alike--you steady Englishmen are the safe men--and the girls know it. And 'faith, if you try them," added she, laughing, "I don't know any one more likely to have luck with them than yourself; for, 'pon my conscience, captain, we all doat on you since you would not shoot the people the other day."

There was a t.i.tter among the girls at this open avowal.

"Ah, why wouldn't I say it?" exclaimed she, laughing. "I am not a mealy-mouthed miss; sure _I_ may tell truth; and I wouldn't trust one o' ye," she added, with a very significant nod of the head at the gentlemen, "except the captain. Yes--I'd trust one more--I'd trust Mister O'Connor; I think he really could be true to a woman."

The words fell sweetly upon his ear; the expression of trust in his faith at that moment, even from the laughing widow, was pleasing; for his heart was full of the woman he adored, and it was only by long waiting and untiring fidelity she could ever become his.

He bowed courteously to the compliment the hostess paid him; and she, immediately taking advantage of his acknowledgment, said that after having paid him such a pretty compliment he couldn't refuse her to sing a song. Edward never liked to sing in mixed companies, and was about making some objections, when the widow interrupted him with one of those Irish "Ah, now's," so hard to resist. "Besides, all the noisy pack are in the dancing-room, or indeed I wouldn't ask you; and here there's not one won't be charmed with you. Ah, look at Miss Monk, there--I know she's dying to hear you; and see all the ladies _hanging on your lips_ absolutely. Can you refuse me after _that_, now?"

It was true that in the small room where they sat there were only those who were worthy of better things than Edward would have ventured on to the many; and filled with the tender and pa.s.sionate sentiment his conversation with Miss Monk had awakened, one of those effusions of deep, and earnest, and poetic feeling which love had prompted to his muse rose to his lips, and he began to sing.

All were silent, for the poet singer was a favourite, and all knew with what touching expression he gave his compositions; but now the mellow tones of his voice seemed to vibrate with a feeling in more than common unison with the words, and his dark earnest eyes beamed with a devotion of which she who was the object might be proud.

A LEAF THAT REMINDS OF THEE

I

How sweet is the hour we give, When fancy may wander free, To the friends who in memory live!-- For then I remember thee!

Then wing'd, like the dove from the ark, My heart, o'er a stormy sea, Brings back to my lonely bark A leaf that reminds of thee!

II

But still does the sky look dark, The waters still deep and wide; Oh! when may my lonely bark In peace on the sh.o.r.e abide?

But through the future far, Dark though my course may be, _Thou_ art my guiding star!

My heart still turns to thee.

III

When I see thy friends I smile, I sigh when I hear thy name; But they cannot tell the while Whence the smile or the sadness came; Vainly the world may deem The cause of my sighs they know: The breeze that stirs the stream Knows not the depth below.

Before the first verse of the song was over, the entrance to the room was filled with eager listeners, and, at its conclusion, a large proportion of the company from the dancing-room had crowded round the door, attracted by the rich voice of the singer, and fascinated into silence by the charm of his song. Perhaps after mental qualities, the most valuable gift a man can have is a fine voice; it at once commands attention, and may therefore be ranked in a man's possession as highly as beauty in a woman's.

In speaking thus of voice, I do not allude to the power of singing, but the mere physical quality of a fine voice, which in the bare utterance of the simplest words is pleasing, but, becoming the medium for the interchange of higher thoughts, is irresistible. Superadded to this gift, which Edward possessed, the song he sang had meaning in it which could reach the hearts of all his auditory, though its poetry might be appreciated by but few; its imagery grew upon a stem whose root was in every bosom, and the song that possesses this quality, whatever may be its defects, contains not only the elements of future fame, but of immediate popularity. Startling was the contrast between the silence the song had produced and the simultaneous clapping of hands outside the door when it was over; not the poor plaudit of a fashionable a.s.sembly, whose "bravo" is an attenuated note of admiration, struggling into a sickly existence and expiring in a sigh--applause of so suspicious a character, that no one seems desirous of owning it--a feeble forgery of satisfaction which people think it disgraceful to be caught uttering.

The clapping was not the plaudits of high-bred hands, whose sound is like the fluttering of small wings, just enough to stir gossamer--but not the heart. No; such was not the applause which followed Edward's song; he had the outburst of heart-warm and unsophisticated satisfaction unfettered by chilling convention. Most of his hearers did not know that it was disgraceful to admit being too well pleased, and the poor innocents really opened their mouths and clapped their hands. Oh, fie!

tell it not in Grosvenor-square.

And now James Reddy contrived to be asked to sing; the c.o.xcomb, not content with his luck in being listened to before, panted for such another burst of applause as greeted Edward, whose song he had no notion was any better than his own; the puppy fancied his rubbish of the "black stone under the blue sea" partook of a grander character of composition, and that while Edward's "breeze" but "stirred the stream," he had fathomed the ocean. But a "heavy blow and great discouragement" was in store for Master James, for as he commenced a love ditty which he called by the fascinating t.i.tle of "The Rose of Silence," and verily believed would have enraptured every woman in the room, a powerful voice, richly flavoured with the brogue, shouted forth outside the door, "_Ma'am, if you plaze, supper's sarved_." The effect was magical; a rush was made to supper by the crowd in the doorway, and every gentleman in the little drawing-room offered his arm to a lady, and led her off without the smallest regard to Reddy's singing.

His look was worth anything as he saw himself thus unceremoniously deserted and likely soon to be left in sole possession of the room; the old doctor was enchanted with his vexation; and when James ceased to sing, as the last couple were going, the doctor interposed his request that the song should be finished.

"Don't stop, my dear fellow," said the doctor; "that's the best song I have heard for a long time, and you must indulge me by finishing it--that's a gem."

"Why, you see, doctor, they have all gone to supper."

"Yes, and the devil choke them with it," said Growling, "for their want of taste; but never mind that: one judicious listener is worth a crowd of such fools, you'll admit; so sit down again and sing for me."

The doctor seated himself as he spoke, and there he kept Reddy, who he knew was very fond of a good supper, singing away for the bare life, with only one person for audience, and that one humbugging him. The scene was rich; the gravity with which the doctor carried on the quiz was admirable, and the gullibility of the c.o.xcomb who was held captive by his affected admiration exquisitely absurd and almost past belief; even Growling himself was amazed, as he threw in a rapturous "charming"

or "bravissimo," at the egregious folly of his dupe, who still continued singing, while the laughter of the supper-room and the inviting clatter of its knives and forks were ringing in his ear. When Reddy concluded, the doctor asked might he venture to request the last verse again; "for," continued he, "there is a singular beauty of thought and felicity of expression in its numbers, leaving the mind unsatisfied with but one hearing; once more, if you please."

Poor Reddy repeated the last verse.

"Very charming, indeed!" said the doctor.

"You really like it?" said Reddy.

"Like?" said the doctor--"sir, _like_ is a faint expression of what I think of that song. Moore had better look to his laurels, sir!"

"Oh, doctor!"

"Ah, you know yourself," said Growling.

"Then that last, doctor----?" said Reddy, inquiringly.

"Is your most successful achievement, sir; there is a mysterious shadowing forth of something in it which is very fine."