Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

His Lordship withdrew, and the Major related the incident as a singular piece of assurance. My Lord, however, knew the world too well to let the soldier’s answer stick against himself:—next day he invited _every_ officer of the regiment to dinner, and so civilly, that the Major lost all credit with his brother officers for his surly reply to so hospitable a nobleman! Nay, it was even whispered among them at mess, that the Major had actually _invented_ the story, to show off his own wit and independence;—and thus Lord Aldborough obtained complete revenge.

On another occasion, his Lordship got off better still:—being churchwarden of Baltinglass parish, he did not please the rector, Bob Carter, as to his mode of accounting for the money in the poor-boxes. The peer treated Bob (who was as hard-going, good-hearted, devil-may-care a parson as any in Ireland) with the greatest contempt. The parson, who felt no sort of personal respect for my Lord, renewed his insinuations of his Lordship’s _false arithmetic_, until the latter, highly indignant, grew wroth, and would give Bob no further satisfaction on the matter: upon which, the rector took the only revenge then in his power, by giving out a _second_ charity sermon, inasmuch as the proceeds of the first had not been productive. The hint went abroad, the church was crowded, and to the infinite amusement of the congregation, Bob put forth as his text—“Whosoever _giveth_ to the _poor, lendeth_ to the _Lord_.” The application was so clear, that the laugh was irresistible. Bob followed up his blow all through the sermon, and “the Lord” was considered to be completely blown; but skilfully enough, he contrived to give the matter a turn that disconcerted even the Rev. Bob himself. After the sermon was concluded, his Lordship stood up, publicly thanked Bob for his most _excellent text_ and charity sermon, and declared that he had no doubt the Lord Lieutenant or the bishop would very soon promote him, according to his extraordinary merits, which he was ready to vouch, in common with the rest of the parishioners; finally begging of him to have the sermon _printed_!

Hartpole’s fortune on the death of his father was not large; but its increase would be great and _certain_, and this rendered his adoption of any money-making profession or employment unnecessary. He accordingly purchased a commission in the army, and commenced his _entré_ into a military life and general society with all the advantages of birth, property, manners, and character.

A cursory observation of the world must convince us of one painful and inexplicable truth;—that there are some men (and frequently the best) who, even from their earliest youth, appear born to be the victims of undeviating misfortune; whom Providence seems to have gifted with free-agency only to lead them to unhappiness and ruin. Ever disappointed in his most ardent hopes—frustrated in his dearest objects—his best intentions overthrown—his purest motives calumniated and abused,—no rank or station suffices to shelter such an unfortunate:—_ennui_ creeps upon his hopeless mind, communicates a listless languor to a sinking constitution, and at length he almost joyfully surrenders an existence which he finds too burdensome to be supported.[15]

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Footnote 15:

I cannot better illustrate the state of a person so chased by misery,
than by quoting a few unpublished lines, the composition of a very
young lady, Miss M. T., with whom, and with whose amiable family, I
have the pleasure of being intimate.

I am aware that I do her great injustice by quoting these particular
verses—some of the most _inferior_ of her writings; but they seem so
much to the point, that I venture to risk her displeasure. She is not,
indeed, irritable; and I promise to atone for my error by a few
further quotations from her superior compositions.

I.

I never sought a day’s repose
But some sharp thorn pierced my breast;
I never watch’d the evening’s close,
And hoped a heaven of rest;
But soon a darkling cloud would come
Athwart the prospect bright,
And, pale as twilight on a tomb,
My hopes grew dim in night.

II.

Oft have I mark’d the heav’nly moon
Wandering her pathless way
Along the midnight’s purple noon,
More fair—more loved than day:
But soon she flung her shadowy wreath
O’er dark eternity,
As a faint smile on the cheek of death
’Twixt hope and agony.

III.

Oft on the rainbow’s bloom I’ve gazed,
Arch’d as a gate of heaven,
Till gushing showers its portals razed,
And bathed the brow of even.
’Tis thus young hopes illume the sky
Of Life’s dark atmosphere,
Yet, like the rainbow’s splendid dye,
They meet and disappear.