HONOR O'CALLAGHAN

By Mary Russell Mitford

Times are altered since Gray spoke of the young Etonians as a set ofdirty boys playing at cricket. There are no such things as boys to bemet with now, either at Eton or elsewhere; they are all men from tenyears old upwards. Dirt also hath vanished bodily, to be replaced byfinery. An aristocratic spirit, an aristocracy not of rank but ofmoney, possesses the place, and an enlightened young gentleman of myacquaintance, who when somewhere about the ripe age of eleven, conjuredhis mother "_not_ to come to see him until she had got her new carriage, lest he should be quizzed by the rest of the men, " was perhaps no unfairrepresentative of the mass of his schoolfellows. There are of courseexceptions to the rule. The sons of the old nobility, too muchaccustomed to splendour in its grander forms, and too sure of their ownstation to care about such matters, and the few finer spirits, whoseambition even in boyhood soars to far higher and holier aims, are, generally speaking, alike exempt from these vulgar cravings after pettydistinctions. And for the rest of the small people, why "winter andrough weather, " and that most excellent schoolmaster, the world, willnot fail, sooner or later, to bring them to wiser thoughts. 

In the meanwhile, as according to our homely proverb, "for every ganderthere's a goose, " so there are not wanting in London and its environs"establishments, " (the good old name of boarding-school being altogetherdone away with, ) where young ladies are trained up in a love of fashionand finery, and a reverence for the outward symbols of wealth, whichcannot fail to render them worthy compeers of the young gentlementheir contemporaries. I have known a little girl, (fit mate for theabove-mentioned amateur of new carriages, ) who complained that _her_mamma called upon her, attended only by one footman; and it is certain, that the position of a new-comer in one of these houses of educationwill not fail to be materially influenced by such considerations as thesituation of her father's town residence, or the name of her mother'smilliner. At so early a period does the exclusiveness which more orless pervades the whole current of English society make its appearanceamongst our female youth. 

Even in the comparatively rational and old-fashioned seminary in whichI was brought up, we were not quite free from these vanities. We toohad our high castes and our low castes, and (alas! for her and forourselves!) we counted among our number one who in her loneliness anddesolation might almost be called a Pariah--or if that be too strong anillustration, who was at least, in more senses than one, the Cinderellaof the school. 

Honor O'Callaghan was, as her name imports, an Irish girl. She had beenplaced under the care of Mrs. Sherwood before she was five years old, her father being designated, in an introductory letter which hebrought in his hand, as a barrister from Dublin, of ancient family, ofconsiderable ability, and the very highest honour. The friend, however, who had given him this excellent character, had, unfortunately, dieda very short time after poor Honor's arrival; and of Mr. O'Callaghannothing had ever been heard after the first half-year, when he sentthe amount of the bill in a draft, which, when due, proved tobe dishonoured. The worst part of this communication, howeverunsatisfactory in its nature, was, that it was final. All inquiries, whether in Dublin or elsewhere, proved unavailing; Mr. O'Callaghan haddisappeared; and our unlucky gouvernante found herself saddled with theboard, clothing, and education, the present care, and future destiny, ofa little girl, for whom she felt about as much affection as was feltby the overseers of Aberleigh towards their involuntary protege, JesseCliffe. Nay, in saying this, I am probably giving our worthy governesscredit for somewhat milder feelings upon this subject than sheactually entertained; the overseers in question, accustomed to suchcircumstances, harbouring no stronger sentiment than a cold, passiveindifference towards the parish boy, whilst she, good sort of woman asin general she was, did certainly upon this occasion cherish somethingvery like an active aversion to the little intruder. 

The fact is, that Mrs. Sherwood, who had been much captivated byMr. O'Callaghan's showy, off-hand manner, his civilities, and hisflatteries, felt, for the first time in her life, that she had beentaken in; and being a peculiarly prudent, cautious personage, of theslow, sluggish, stagnant temperament, which those who possess it areapt to account a virtue, and to hold in scorn their more excitableand impressible neighbours, found herself touched in the very point ofhonour, piqued, aggrieved, mortified; and denouncing the father as thegreatest deceiver that ever trod the earth, could not help transferringsome part of her hatred to the innocent child. She was really a goodsort of woman, as I have said before, and every now and then herconscience twitched her, and she struggled hard to seem kind and to beso: but it would not do. 

There the feeling was, and the more she struggled against it, thestronger, I verily believe, it became. Trying to conquer a deep-rootedaversion, is something like trampling upon camomile: the harder youtread it down the more it flourishes. 

Under these evil auspices, the poor little Irish girl grew up amongstus. Not ill-used certainly, for she was fed and taught as we were; andsome forty shillings a year more expended upon the trifles, gloves, and shoes, and ribbons, which make the difference between nicety andshabbiness in female dress, would have brought her apparel upon anequality with ours. Ill-used she was not: to be sure, teachers, andmasters seemed to consider it a duty to reprimand her for such faultsas would have passed unnoticed in another; and if there were any noiseamongst us, she, by far the quietest and most silent person in thehouse, was, as a matter of course, accused of making it. Still she wasnot what would be commonly called ill-treated; although her young heartwas withered and blighted, and her spirit crushed and broken by thechilling indifference, or the harsh unkindness which surrounded her onevery side. 

Nothing, indeed, could come in stronger contrast than the position ofthe young Irish girl, and that of her English companions. A stranger, almost a foreigner amongst us, with no home but that great school-room;no comforts, no in-dulgences, no knick-knacks, no money, nothing but thesheer, bare, naked necessaries of a schoolgirl's life; no dear familyto think of and to go to; no fond father to come to see her; no brothersand sisters; no kindred; no friends. It was a loneliness, a desolation, which, especially at breaking-up times, when all her schoolfellows wentjoyfully away each to her happy home, and she was left the solitary andneglected inhabitant of the deserted mansion, must have pressed upon hervery heart The heaviest tasks of the half year must have been pleasureand enjoyment compared with the dreariness of those lonesome holidays. 

And yet she was almost as lonely when we were all assembled. Childhoodis, for the most part, generous and sympathising; and there were manyamongst us who, interested by her deserted situation, would have beenhappy to have been her friends. But Honor was one of those flowers whichwill only open in the bright sunshine. Never did marigold under a cloudysky shut up her heart more closely than Honor O'Callaghan. In aword, Honor had really one of the many faults ascribed to her by Mrs. Sherwood, and her teachers and masters--that fault so natural and sopardonable in adversity--she was proud. 

National and family pride blended with the personal feeling. Young asshe was when she left Ireland, she had caught from the old nurse who hadhad the care of her infancy, rude legends of the ancient greatness ofher country, and of the regal grandeur of the O'Connors, her maternalancestors; and over such dim traces of Cathleen's legends as floatedin her memory, fragments wild, shadowy, and indistinct, as therecollections of a dream, did the poor Irish girl love to brood. Visionsof long-past splendour possessed her wholly, and the half-unconsciousreveries in which she had the habit of indulging, gave a tinge ofromance and enthusiasm to her character, as peculiar as her story. 

Everything connected with her country had for her an indescribablecharm. It was wonderful how, with the apparently scanty means ofacquiring knowledge which the common school histories afforded, together with here and there a stray book borrowed for her by her youngcompanions from their home libraries, and questions answered from thesame source, she had contrived to collect her abundant and accurateinformation, as to its early annals and present position. Herantiquarian lore was perhaps a little tinged, as such antiquarianism isapt to be, by the colouring of a warm imagination; but still it was aremarkable exemplification of the power of an ardent mind to ascertainand combine facts upon a favourite subject under apparently insuperabledifficulties. Unless in pursuing her historical inquiries, she didnot often speak upon the subject. Her enthusiasm was too deep and tooconcentrated for words. But she was Irish to the heart's core, and hadeven retained, one can hardly tell how, the slight accent which in asweet-toned female voice is so pretty. 

_In_ her appearance, also, there were many of the characteristics ofher countrywomen. The roundness of form and clearness of complexion, theresult of good nurture and pure blood which are often found in thosewho have been nursed in an Irish cabin, the abundant wavy hair and thedeep-set grey eye. The face, in spite of some irregularity of feature, would have been pretty, decidedly pretty, if the owner had been happy;but the expression was too abstracted, too thoughtful, too melancholyfor childhood or even for youth. She was like a rose shut up in a room, whose pale blossoms have hardly felt the touch of the glorious sunshineor the blessed air. A daisy of the field, a common, simple, cheerfullooking daisy, would be pleasanter to gaze upon than the blighted queenof flowers. 

Her figure was, however, decidedly beautiful. Not merely tall, butpliant, elastic, and graceful in no ordinary degree. She was notgenerally remarkable for accomplishment. How could she, in the totalabsence of the most powerful, as well as the most amiable motives toexertion? She had no one to please; no one to watch her progress, torejoice in her success, to lament her failure. In many branches ofeducation she had not advanced beyond mediocrity, but her dancing wasperfection; or rather it would have been so, if to her other gracesshe had added the charm of gaiety. But that want, as our Frenchdancing-master used to observe, was so universal in this country, that the wonder would have been to see any young lady, whose face in acotillion (for it was before the days of quadrilles) did not look as ifshe was following a funeral. 

Such at thirteen I found Honor O'Callaghan, when I, a damsel some threeyears younger, was first placed at Mrs. Sherwood's; such five yearsafterwards I left her, when I quitted the school. 

Calling there the following spring, accompanied by my good godfather, weagain saw Honor silent and pensive as ever. The old gentleman was muchstruck with her figure and her melancholy. "Fine girl that!" observedhe to me; "looks as if she was in love though, " added he, puttinghis finger to his nose with a knowing nod, as was usual with him uponoccasions of that kind. I, for my part, in whom a passion for literaturewas just beginning to develope itself had a theory of my own upon thesubject, and regarded her with unwonted respect in consequence. Herabstraction appeared to me exactly that of an author when contemplatingsome great work, and I had no doubt but she would turn out a poetess. Both conjectures were characteristic, and both, as it happened, wrong. 

Upon my next visit to London, I found that a great change had happenedin Honor's destiny. Her father, whom she had been fond of investing withthe dignity of a rebel, but who had, according to Mrs. Sherwood's morereasonable suspicion, been a reckless, extravagant, thoughtless person, whose follies had been visited upon himself and his family, with theevil consequences of crimes, had died in America; and his sister, therichly-jointured widow of a baronet, of old Milesian blood, who duringhis life had been inexorable to his entreaties to befriend the poorgirl, left as it were in pledge at a London boarding-school, hadrelented upon hearing of his death, had come to England, settledall pecuniary matters to the full satisfaction of the astonished anddelighted governess, and finally carried Honor back with her to Dublin. 

From this time we lost sight altogether of our old companion. With herschoolfellows she had never formed even the common school intimacies, and to Mrs. Sherwood and her functionaries, she owed no obligationexcept that of money, which was now discharged. The only debt ofgratitude which she had ever acknowledged, was to the old Frenchteacher, who, although she never got nearer the pronunciation or theorthography of her name than Mademoiselle l'Ocalle, had yet, in theoverflowing benevolence of her temper, taken such notice of the desertedchild, as amidst the general neglect might pass for kindness. But shehad returned to France. For no one else did Honor profess the slightestinterest Accordingly, she left the house where she had passed nearly allher life, without expressing any desire to hear again of its inmates, and never wrote a line to any of them. 

We did hear of her, however, occasionally. Rumours reached us, vague anddistant, and more conflicting even than distant rumours are wont to be. She was distinguished at the vice-regal court, a beauty and a wit; shewas married to a nobleman of the highest rank; she was a nun of theorder of Mercy; she was dead. 

And as years glided on, as the old school passed into other hands, andthe band of youthful companions became more and more dispersed, one ofthe latter opinions began to gain ground among us, when two or threechanced to meet, and to talk of old schoolfellows. If she had been aliveand in the great world, surely some of us should have heard of her. Herhaving been a Catholic, rendered her taking the veil not improbable;and to a person of her enthusiastic temper, the duties of the sisters ofMercy would have peculiar charms. 

As one of that most useful and most benevolent order, or as actuallydead, we were therefore content to consider her, until, in the lapse ofyears and the changes of destiny, we had ceased to think of her at all. 

The second of this present month of May was a busy and a noisy day inmy garden. All the world knows what a spring this has been. The famousblack spring commemorated by Gilbert White can hardly have been morethoroughly ungenial, more fatal to man or beast, to leaf and flower, than this most miserable season, this winter of long days, when the sunshines as if in mockery, giving little more heat than his cold sisterthe moon, and the bitter north-east produces at one and the same momentthe incongruous annoyances of biting cold and suffocating dust Never wassuch a season. The swallows, nightingales, and cuckoos were a fortnightafter their usual time. I wonder what they thought of it, prettycreatures, and how they made up their minds to come at all!--and thesloe blossom, the black thorn winter as the common people call it, which generally makes its appearance early in March along with thefirst violets, did not whiten the hedges this year until full two monthslater, * In short, everybody knows that this has been a most villanousseason, and deserves all the ill that can possibly be said of it. Butthe second of May held forth a promise which, according to a very usualtrick of English weather, it has not kept; and was so mild and smilingand gracious, that, without being quite so foolish as to indulge in anyromantic and visionary expectation of ever seeing summer again, we wereyet silly enough to be cheered by the thought that spring was coming atlast in good earnest. 

 * It is extraordinary how some flowers seem to obey the season, whilst others are influenced by the weather. The hawthorn, certainly nearly akin to the sloe blossom, is this year rather forwarder, if anything, than in common years; and the fritillary, always a May flower, is painting the water meadows at this moment in company with "the blackthorn winter;" or rather is nearly over, whilst its cousin german, the tulip, is scarcely showing for bloom in the warmest exposures and most sheltered borders of the garden. 

In a word, it was that pleasant rarity a fine day; and it was also a dayof considerable stir, as I shall attempt to describe hereafter, in mysmall territories. 

In the street too, and in the house, there was as much noise and bustleas one would well desire to hear in our village. 

The first of May is Belford Great Fair, where horses and cows are sold, and men meet gravely to transact grave business; and the second of Mayis Belford Little Fair, where boys and girls of all ages, women andchildren of all ranks, flock into the town, to buy ribbons and dolls andballs and gingerbread, to eat cakes and suck oranges, to stare at theshows, and gaze at the wild beasts, and to follow merrily the merrybusiness called pleasure. 

Carts and carriages, horse-people and foot-people, were flocking to thefair; unsold cows and horses, with their weary drivers, and labouringmen who, having made a night as well as a day of it, began to thinkit time to find their way home, were coming from it; Punch was beingexhibited at one end of the street, a barrel-organ, surmounted by a mostaccomplished monkey, was playing at the other; a half tipsy horse-dealerwas galloping up and down the road, showing off an unbroken forest pony, who threatened every moment to throw him and break his neck; a hawkerwas walking up the street crying Greenacre's last dying speech, who washanged that morning at Newgate, and as all the world knows, made none;and the highway in front of our house was well nigh blocked up by threeor four carriages waiting for different sets of visiters, and by agang of gipsies who stood clustered round the gate, waiting with greatanxiety the issue of an investigation going on in the hall, where oneof their gang was under examination upon a question of stealing a goose. Witnesses, constables, and other officials were loitering in the court, and dogs were barking, women chattering, boys blowing horns, and babiessqualling through all. It was as pretty a scene of crowd and din andbustle as one shall see in a summer's day. The fair itself was calm andquiet in comparison; the complication of discordant sounds in Hogarth'sEnraged Musician was nothing to it. 

Within my garden the genius of noise was equally triumphant. Aningenious device, contrived and executed by a most kind and ingeniousfriend, for the purpose of sheltering the pyramid of geraniums in frontof my greenhouse, --consisting of a wooden roof, drawn by pullies up anddown a high, strong post, something like the mast of a ship, * hadgiven way; and another most kind friend had arrived with the requisitemachinery, blocks and ropes, and tackle of all sorts, to replace itupon an improved construction. With him came a tall blacksmith, a shortcarpenter, and a stout collar-maker, with hammers, nails, chisels, andtools of all sorts, enough to build a house; ladders of all heights andsizes, two or three gaping apprentices, who stood about in the way, Johnwilling to lend his aid in behalf of his flowers, and master Dick withhis hands in his pockets looking on. The short carpenter perched himselfupon one ladder, the tall blacksmith on another; my good friend, Mr. Lawson, mounted to the mast head; and such a clatter ensued of hammersand voices--(for it was exactly one of those fancy jobs where every onefeels privileged to advise and find fault)--such clashing of opinionsand conceptions and suggestions as would go to the building a countytown. 

 * This description does not sound prettily, but the real effect is exceedingly graceful: the appearance of the dark canopy suspended over the pile of bright flowers, at a considerable height, has something about it not merely picturesque but oriental; and that a gentleman's contrivance should succeed at all points, as if he had been a real carpenter, instead of an earl's son and a captain in the navy, is a fact quite unparalleled in the annals of inventions. 

Whilst this was going forward in middle air, I and my company were doingour best to furnish forth the chorus below. It so happened that twosets of my visiters were scientific botanists, the one party holding theLinnoean system, the others disciples of Jussieu; and the garden beinga most natural place for such a discussion, a war of hard words ensued, which would have done honour to the Tower of Babel. "Tetradynamia, "exclaimed one set; "Monocotyledones, " thundered the other; whilsta third friend, a skilful florist, but no botanist, unconsciouslyout-long-worded both of them, by telling me that the name of a newannual was "Leptosiphon androsaceus. "

Never was such a confusion of noises! The house door opened, and myfather's strong clear voice was heard in tones of warning. "Woman, how can you swear to this goose?" Whilst the respondent squeaked out insomething between a scream and a cry, "Please your worship, the poorbird having a-laid all his eggs, we had marked un, and so--" Whatfarther she would have said being drowned in a prodigious clatteroccasioned by the downfal of the ladder that supported the tallblacksmith, which, striking against that whereon was placed the shortcarpenter, overset that climbing machine also, and the clamor incidentto such a calamity overpowered all minor noises. 

In the meanwhile I became aware that a fourth party of visiters hadentered the garden, my excellent neighbour, Miss Mortimer, and threeother ladies, whom she introduced as Mrs. And the Misses Dobbs; and thebotanists and florists having departed, and the disaster at the mastbeing repaired, quiet was so far restored, that I ushered my guests intothe greenhouse, with something like a hope that we should be able tohear each other speak. 

Mrs. Dobbs was about the largest woman I had ever seen in my life, fat, fair, and _fifty_ with a broad rosy countenance, beaming withgood-humour and contentment, and with a general look of affluence overher whole comfortable person. She spoke in a loud voice which madeitself heard over the remaining din in the garden and out, and with apatois between Scotch and Irish, which puzzled me, until I found fromher discourse that she was the widow of a linen manufacturer, in theneighbourhood of Belfast. 

"Ay, " quoth she, with the most open-hearted familiarity, "times arechanged for the better with me since you and I parted in Cadogan Place. Poor Mr. Dobbs left me and those two girls a fortune of---- Why, Iverily believe, " continued she, interrupting herself, "that you don'tknow me!"

"Honor!" said one of the young ladies to the other, "only look at thisbutterfly!"

Honor! Was it, could it be Honor O'Callaghan, the slight, pale, romanticvisionary, so proud, so reserved, so abstracted, so elegant, and somelancholy? Had thirty years of the coarse realities of life transformedthat pensive and delicate damsel into the comely, hearty, and to saythe truth, somewhat vulgar dame whom I saw before me? Was such a changepossible?

"Married a nobleman!" exclaimed she when I told her the reportsrespecting herself. "Taken the veil! No, indeed! I have been a farhumbler and happier woman. It is very strange, though, that during myCinderella-like life at school, I used always in my day-dreams to makemy story end like that of the heroine of the fairy tale; and it isstill stranger, that both rumours were within a very little of comingtrue, --for when I got to Ireland, which, so far as I was concerned, turned out a very different place from what I expected, I found myselfshut up in an old castle, fifty times more dreary and melancholy thanever was our great school-room in the holidays, with my aunt settingher heart upon marrying me to an old lord, who might, for age andinfirmities, have passed for my great grandfather; and I really, in myperplexity, had serious thoughts of turning nun to get rid of my suitor;but then I was allowed to go into the north upon a visit, and fell inwith my late excellent husband, who obtained Lady O'Hara's consent tothe match by the offer of taking me without a portion; and ever since, "continued she, "I have been a very common-place and a very happy woman. Mr. Dobbs was a man who had made his own fortune, and all he asked ofme was, to lay aside my airs and graces, and live with him in his ownhomely, old-fashioned way amongst his own old people, (kind people theywere!)his looms, and his bleaching-grounds; so that my heart was opened, and I grew fat and comfortable, and merry and hearty, as different fromthe foolish, romantic girl whom you remember, as plain honest prose isfrom the silly thing called poetry. I don't believe that I have everonce thought of my old castles in the air for these five-and-twentyyears. It is very odd, though, " added she, with a frankness which wasreally like thinking aloud, "that I always did contrive in my visionsthat my history should conclude like that of Cinderella. To besure, things are much better as they are, but it is an odd thing, nevertheless. Well! perhaps my daughters... !"

And as they are rich and pretty, and good-natured, although much morein the style of the present Honor than the past, it is by no meansimprobable that the vision which was evidently glittering before thefond mother's eyes, may be realised. At all events, my old friend is, asshe says herself a happy woman--in all probability, happier than if theCinderella day-dream had actually come to pass in her own comely person. But the transition! After all, there are real transformations in thisevery-day world, which beat the doings of fairy land all to nothing; andthe change of the pumpkin into a chariot, and the mice into horses, wasnot to be compared for a moment with the transmogrification of HonorO'Callaghan into Mrs. Dobbs.