Some of these gentlemen, knowing Mr. Ormond to be his ward3, refrained, of course, from touching4 upon any subject relative to Sir Ulick; and when Ormond mentioned him, evaded5 the conversation, or agreed in general terms in praising his abilities, wit, and address. But, after a day or two’s journey from Castle Hermitage, when he was beyond his own and the adjoining counties, when he went into company with those who happened to know nothing of his connexion with Sir Ulick O’Shane, then he heard him spoken of in a very different manner. He was quite astonished and dismayed by the general abuse, as he thought it, which was poured upon him.
“Well, every man of abilities excites envy — every man who takes a part in politics, especially in times when parties run high, must expect to be abused: they must bear it; and their friends must learn to bear it for them.”
Such were the reflections with which Ormond at first comforted himself. As far as party abuse went, this was quite satisfactory; even facts, or what are told as facts, are so altered by the manner of seeing them by an opposite party, that, without meaning to traduce7, they calumniate8. Ormond entrenched9 himself in total disbelief, and cool assertion of his disbelief, of a variety of anecdotes10 he continually heard discreditable to Sir Ulick. Still he expected that, when he went into other company, and met with men of Sir Ulick’s own party, he should obtain proofs of the falsehood of these stories, and by that he might be able, not only to contradict, but to confute them. People, however, only smiled, and told him that he had better inquire no farther, if he expected to find Sir Ulick an immaculate character. Those who liked him best, laughed off the notorious instances of his public defection of principle, and of his private jobbing, as good jokes; proofs of his knowledge of the world — his address, his frankness, his being “not a bit of a hypocrite.” But even those who professed11 to like him best, and to be the least scrupulous12 with regard to public virtue13, still spoke6 with a sort of facetious14 contempt of Sir Ulick, as a thorough~going friend of the powers that be — as a hack15 of administration — as a man who knew well enough what he was about. Ormond was continually either surprised or hurt by these insinuations. The concurrent16 testimony17 of numbers who had no interest to serve, or prejudice to gratify, operated upon him by degrees, so as to enforce conviction, and this was still more painful.
Harry18 became so sore and irritable19 upon this subject, that he was now every day in danger of entangling20 himself in some quarrel in defence of his guardian21. Several times the master of the house prevented this, and brought him to reason, by representing that the persons who talked of Sir Ulick were quite ignorant of his connexion with him, and spoke only according to general opinion, and to the best of their belief, of a public character, who was fair game. It was, at that time, much the fashion among a certain set in Dublin, to try their wit upon each other in political and poetical22 squibs — the more severe and bitter these were, the more they were applauded: the talent for invective23 was in the highest demand at this period in Ireland; it was considered as the unequivocal proof of intellectual superiority. The display of it was the more admired, as it could not be enjoyed without a double portion of that personal promptitude to give the satisfaction of a gentleman, on which the Irish pride themselves: the taste of the nation, both for oratory24 and manners, has become of late years so much more refined, that when any of the lampoons25 of that day are now recollected26, people are surprised at the licence of abuse which was then tolerated, and even approved of in fashionable society. Sir Ulick O’Shane, as a well-known public character, had been the subject of a variety of puns, bon-mots, songs, and epigrams, which had become so numerous as to be collected under the title of Ulysseana. Upon the late separation of Sir Ulick and his lady, a new edition, with a caricature frontispiece, had been published; unfortunately for Ormond, this had just worked its way from Dublin to this part of the country.
It happened one day, at a gentleman’s house where this Ulysseana had not yet been seen, that a lady, a visitor and a stranger, full of some of the lines which she had learned by heart, began to repeat them for the amusement of the tea-table. Ladies do not always consider how much mischief27 they may do by such imprudence; nor how they may hazard valuable lives, for the sake of producing a sensation, by the repetition of a severe thing. Ormond came into the room after dinner, and with some other gentlemen gathered round the tea-table, while the lady was repeating some extracts from the new edition of the Ulysseana. The master and mistress of the house made reiterated28 attempts to stop the lady; but, too intent upon herself and her second-hand29 wit to comprehend or take these hints, she went on reciting the following lines:—
To serve in parliament the nation,
Sir Ulick read his recantation:
At first he joined the patriot30 throng31,
But soon perceiving he was wrong,
He ratted to the courtier tribe,
Bought by a title and a bribe32;
But how that new found friend to bind33,
With any oath — of any kind,
Disturb’d the premier’s wary34 mind.
“Upon his faith. — Upon his word,”
Oh! that, my friend, is too absurd.
“Upon his honour.”— Quite a jest.
“Upon his conscience.”— No such test.
“By all he has on earth.”—’Tis gone.
“By all his hopes of Heaven.”— They’re none.
“How then secure him in our pay —
He can’t be trusted for a day?”
How? — When you want the fellow’s throat —
Pay by the job — you have his vote.
Sir Ulick himself, had he been present, would have laughed off the epigram with the best grace imaginable, and so, in good policy, ought Ormond to have taken it. But he felt it too much, and was not in the habit of laughing when he was vexed35. Most of the company, who knew any thing of his connexion with Sir Ulick, or who understood the agonizing36 looks of the master and mistress of the house, politely refrained from smiles or applause; but a cousin of the lady who repeated the lines, a young man who was one of the hateful tribe of quizzers, on purpose to try Ormond, praised the verses to the skies, and appealed to him for his opinion.
“I can’t admire them, sir,” replied Ormond.
“What fault can you find with them?” said the young man, winking37 at the bystanders.
“I think them incorrect, in the first place, sir,” said Ormond, “and altogether indifferent.”
“Well, at any rate, they can’t be called moderate,” said the gentleman; “and as to incorrect, the substance, I fancy, is correctly true.”
“Fancy, sir! — It would be hard if character were to be at the mercy of fancy,” cried Ormond, hastily; but checking himself, he, in a mild tone, added, “before we go any farther, sir, I should inform you that I am a ward of Sir Ulick O Shane’s.”
“Oh! mercy,” exclaimed the lady, who had repeated the verses; “I am sure I did not know that, or I would not have said a word — I declare I beg your pardon, sir.”
Ormond’s bow and smile spoke his perfect satisfaction with the lady’s contrition38, and his desire to relieve her from farther anxiety. So the matter might have happily ended; but her cousin, though he had begun merely with an intention to try Ormond’s temper, now felt piqued39 by his spirit, and thought it incumbent40 upon him to persist. Having drunk enough to be ill-humoured, he replied, in an aggravating41 and ill-bred manner, “Your being Sir Ulick O’Shane’s ward may make a difference in your feelings, sir, but I don’t see why it should make any in my opinion.”
“In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I think it ought.”
The master of the house now interfered42, to explain and pacify43, and Ormond had presence of mind and command enough over himself, to say no more while the ladies were present: he sat down, and began talking about some trifle in a gay tone; but his flushed cheek, and altered manner, showed that he was only repressing other feelings. The carriages of the visitors were announced, and the strangers rose to depart. Ormond accompanied the master of the house to hand the ladies to their carriages. To mark his being in perfect charity with the fair penitent44, he showed her particular attention, which quite touched her; and as he put her into her carriage, she, all the time, repeated her apologies, declared it should be a lesson to her for life, and cordially shook hands with him at parting. For her sake, he wished that nothing more should be said on the subject.
But, on his return to the hall, he found there the cousin, buttoning on his great coat, and seeming loath45 to depart: still in ill-humour, the gentleman said, “I hope you are satisfied with that lady’s apologies, Mr. Ormond.”
“I am, sir, perfectly46.”
“That’s lucky: for apologies are easier had from ladies than gentlemen, and become them better.”
“I think it becomes gentlemen as well as ladies to make candid47 apologies, where they are conscious of being wrong — if there was no intention to give offence.”
“If is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take advantage of an if.”
“Am I to suppose then, sir,” said Ormond, “that it was your intention to offend me?”
“Suppose what you please, sir — I am not in the habit of explanation or apology.”
“Then, sir, the sooner we meet the better,” said Ormond. In consequence Ormond applied48 to an officer who had been present during the altercation49, to be his second. Ormond felt that he had restrained his anger sufficiently50 — he was now as firm as he had been temperate51. The parties met and fought: the man who deserved to have suffered, by the chance of this rational mode of deciding right and wrong, escaped unhurt; Ormond received a wound in his arm. It was only a flesh wound. He was at the house of a very hospitable52 gentleman, whose family were kind to him; and the inconvenience and pain were easily borne. In the opinion of all, in that part of the world, who knew the facts, he had conducted himself as well as the circumstances would permit; and, as it was essential, not only to the character of a hero, but of a gentleman at that time in Ireland, to fight a duel53, we may consider Ormond as fortunate in not having been in the wrong. He rose in favour with the ladies, and in credit with the gentlemen, and he heard no more of the Ulysseana; but he was concerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish papers, about the duel that had been fought between M. N. Esq. jun. of —— and H. O. Esq., in consequence of a dispute that arose about some satirical verses, repeated by a lady on a certain well-known character, nearly related to one of the parties. A flaming account of the duel followed, in which there was the usual newspaper proportion of truth and falsehood: Ormond knew and regretted that this paragraph must meet the eyes of his guardian; and still more he was sorry that Dr. Cambray should see it. He knew the doctor’s Christian54 abhorrence55 of the whole system of duelling; and, by the statement in the papers, it appeared that that gallant56 youth, H. O. Esq., to whom the news-writer evidently wished to do honour, had been far more forward to provoke the fight than he had been, or than he ought to have been:— his own plain statement of facts, which he wrote to Dr. Cambray, would have set every thing to rights, but his letter crossed the doctor’s on the road. As he was now in a remote place, which the delightful57 mail coach roads had not then reached — where the post came in only three days in the week — and where the mail cart either broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, was overturned, or robbed, at an average once a fortnight — our hero had no alternative but patience, and the amusement of calculating dates and chances upon his restless sofa. His taste for reading enabled him to pass agreeably some of the hours of bodily confinement58, which men, and young men especially, accustomed to a great deal of exercise, liberty, and locomotion59, generally find so intolerably irksome. At length his wound was well enough for him to travel — letters for him arrived: a warm, affectionate one from his guardian; and one from Dr. Cambray, which relieved his anxiety.
“I must tell you, my dear young friend,” said Dr. Cambray, “that while you have been defending Sir Ulick O’Shane’s public character (of which, by-the-by, you know nothing), I have been defending your private character, of which I hope and believe I know something. The truth is always known in time, with regard to every character; and therefore, independently of other motives60, moral and religious, it is more prudent61 to trust to time and truth for their defence, than to sword and pistol. I know you are impatient to hear what were the reports to your disadvantage, and from whom I had them. I had them from the Annalys; and they heard them in England, through various circuitous62 channels of female correspondents in Ireland. As far as we can trace them, we think that they originated with your old friend Miss Black. The first account Lady Annaly heard of you after she went to England, was, that you were living a most dissolute life in the Black Islands, with King Corny, who was described to be a profligate63 rebel, and his companion an ex-communicated catholic priest; king, priest, and Prince Harry, getting drunk together regularly every night of their lives. The next account which Lady Annaly received some months afterwards, in reply to inquiries64 she had made from her agent, was, that it was impossible to know any thing for certain of Mr. Harry Ormond, as he always kept in the Black Islands. The report was, that he had lately seduced65 a girl of the name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable gardener’s daughter, who was going to be married to a man of the name of Moriarty Carroll, a person whom Mr. Ormond had formerly66 shot in some unfortunate drunken quarrel. The match between her and Moriarty had been broken off in consequence. The following year accounts were worse and worse. This Harry Ormond had gained the affections of his benefactor’s daughter, though, as he had been warned by her father, she was betrothed67 to another man. The young lady was afterwards, by her father’s anger, and by Ormond’s desertion of her, thrown into the arms of a French adventurer, whom Ormond brought into the house under pretence68 of learning French from him. Immediately after the daughter’s elopement with the French master, the poor father died suddenly, in some extraordinary manner, when out shooting with this Mr. Ormond; to whom a considerable landed property, and a large legacy69 in money, were, to every body’s surprise, found to be left in a will which he produced, and which the family did not think fit to dispute. There were strange circumstances told concerning the wake and burial, all tending to prove that this Harry Ormond had lost all feeling. Hints were further given that he had renounced70 the Protestant religion, and had turned Catholic for the sake of absolution.”
Many times during the perusal71 of this extravagant72 tissue of falsehoods, Ormond laid down and resumed the paper, unable to refrain from exclamations73 of rage and contempt; sometimes almost laughing at the absurdity74 of the slander75. “After this,” thought he, “who can mind common reports? — and yet Dr. Cambray says that these excited some prejudice against me in the mind of Lady Annaly. With such a woman I should have thought it impossible. Could she believe me capable of such crimes? —me, of whom she had once a good opinion? —me, in whose fate she said she was interested?”
He took Dr. Cambray’s letter again, and read on: he found that Lady Annaly had not credited these reports as to the atrocious accusations76; but they had so far operated as to excite doubts and suspicions. In some of the circumstances, there was sufficient truth to colour the falsehood. For example, with regard both to Peggy Sheridan, and Dora, the truth had been plausibly77 mixed with falsehood. The story of Peggy Sheridan, Lady Annaly had some suspicion might be true. Her ladyship, who had seen Moriarty’s generous conduct to Ormond, was indignant at his ingratitude78. She was a woman prompt to feel strong indignation against all that was base; and, when her indignation was excited, she was sometimes incapable79 of hearing what was said on the other side of the question. Her daughter Florence, of a calmer temper and cooler judgment80, usually acted as moderator on these occasions. She could not believe that Harry Ormond had been guilty of faults that were so opposite to those which they had seen in his disposition:— violence, not treachery, was his fault. But why, if there were nothing wrong, Lady Annaly urged — why did not he write to her, as she had requested he would, when his plans for his future life were decided81? — She had told him that her son might probably be able to assist him. Why could not he write one line?
Ormond had heard that her son was ill, and that her mind was so absorbed with anxiety, that he could not at first venture to intrude82 upon her with his selfish concerns. This was his first and best reason; but afterwards, to be sure, when he heard that the son was better, he might have written. He wrote at that time such a sad scrawl83 of a hand — he was so little used to letter-writing, that he was ashamed to write. Then it was too late after so long a silence, &c. Foolish as these reasons were, they had, as we have said before, acted upon our young hero; and have, perhaps, in as important circumstances, prevented many young men from writing to friends, able and willing to serve them. It was rather fortunate for Ormond that slander did not stop at the first plausible84 falsehoods: when the more atrocious charges came against him, Miss Annaly, who had never deserted85 his cause, declared her absolute disbelief. The discussions that went on, between her and her mother, kept alive their interest about this young man. He was likely to have been forgotten during their anxiety in the son’s illness; but fresh reports had brought him to their recollection frequently; and when their friend, Dr. Cambray, was appointed to the living of Castle Hermitage, his evidence perfectly reinstated Harry in Lady Annaly’s good opinion. As if to make amends86 for the injustice87 she had done him by believing any part of the evil reports, she was now anxious to see him again. A few days after Dr. Cambray wrote, Ormond received a very polite and gratifying letter from Lady Annaly, requesting that, as “Annaly” lay in his route homewards, he would spend a few days there, and give her an opportunity of making him acquainted with her son. It is scarcely necessary to say that this invitation was eagerly accepted.
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1
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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6
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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traduce
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| v.中伤；n.诽谤 | |
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calumniate
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| v.诬蔑，中伤 | |
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entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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concurrent
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| adj.同时发生的，一致的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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37
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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42
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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43
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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51
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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52
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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53
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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55
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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63
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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83
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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84
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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85
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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