Charles OMalley, vol 1 | Page 7

AT
HIS STUDIES MISS JUDY MACAN THE ADJUTANT'S
AFTER-DINNER RIDE THE RIVAL FLUNKIES MAJOR
MONSOON AND DONNA MARIA THE SALUTATION A TOUCH
AT LEAP-FROG WITH NAPOLEON MAJOR MONSOON TRYING
TO CHARGE MR. FREE'S SONG THE COAT OF MAIL

CHARLES O'MALLEY.
THE IRISH DRAGOON.
* * * * *

CHAPTER I.
DALY'S CLUB-HOUSE.
The rain was dashing in torrents against the window-panes, and the
wind sweeping in heavy and fitful gusts along the dreary and deserted
streets, as a party of three persons sat over their wine, in that stately old
pile which once formed the resort of the Irish Members, in College
Green, Dublin, and went by the name of Daly's Club-House. The clatter
of falling tiles and chimney-pots, the jarring of the window-frames, and
howling of the storm without seemed little to affect the spirits of those
within as they drew closer to a blazing fire before which stood a small
table covered with the remains of a dessert, and an abundant supply of
bottles, whose characteristic length of neck indicated the rarest wines of
France and Germany; while the portly magnum of claret--the wine par
excellence of every Irish gentleman of the day--passed rapidly from
hand to hand, the conversation did not languish, and many a deep and
hearty laugh followed the stories which every now and then were told,
as some reminiscence of early days was recalled, or some trait of a
former companion remembered.
One of the party, however, was apparently engrossed by other thoughts
than those of the mirth and merriment around; for in the midst of all he
would turn suddenly from the others, and devote himself to a number
of scattered sheets of paper, upon which he had written some lines, but
whose crossed and blotted sentences attested how little success had
waited upon his literary labors. This individual was a short,
plethoric-looking, white-haired man of about fifty, with a deep, round
voice, and a chuckling, smothering laugh, which, whenever he indulged
not only shook his own ample person, but generally created a petty
earthquake on every side of him. For the present, I shall not stop to
particularize him more closely; but when I add that the person in
question was a well-known member of the Irish House of Commons,
whose acute understanding and practical good sense were veiled under
an affected and well-dissembled habit of blundering that did far more
for his party than the most violent and pointed attacks of his more
accurate associates, some of my readers may anticipate me in

pronouncing him to be Sir Harry Boyle. Upon his left sat a figure the
most unlike him possible. He was a tall, thin, bony man, with a
bolt-upright air and a most saturnine expression; his eyes were covered
by a deep green shade, which fell far over his face, but failed to conceal
a blue scar that crossing his cheek ended in the angle of his mouth, and
imparted to that feature, when he spoke, an apparently abortive attempt
to extend towards his eyebrow; his upper lip was covered with a grizzly
and ill-trimmed mustache, which added much to the ferocity of his look,
while a thin and pointed beard on his chin gave an apparent length to
the whole face that completed its rueful character. His dress was a
single-breasted, tightly buttoned frock, in one button-hole of which a
yellow ribbon was fastened, the decoration of a foreign service, which
conferred upon its wearer the title of count; and though Billy Considine,
as he was familiarly called by his friends, was a thorough Irishman in
all his feelings and affections, yet he had no objection to the
designation he had gained in the Austrian army. The Count was
certainly no beauty, but somehow, very few men of his day had a fancy
for telling him so. A deadlier hand and a steadier eye never covered his
man in the Phoenix; and though he never had a seat in the House, he
was always regarded as one of the government party, who more than
once had damped the ardor of an opposition member by the very
significant threat of "setting Billy at him." The third figure of the group
was a large, powerfully built, and handsome man, older than either of
the others, but not betraying in his voice or carriage any touch of time.
He was attired in the green coat and buff vest which formed the livery
of the club; and in his tall, ample forehead, clear, well-set eye, and still
handsome mouth, bore evidence that no great flattery was necessary at
the time which called Godfrey O'Malley the handsomest man in
Ireland.
"Upon my conscience," said Sir Harry, throwing down his pen with an
air of ill-temper, "I can make nothing of it! I have got