Honor OCallaghan | Page 3

its early annals and present position. Her
antiquarian lore was perhaps a little tinged, as such antiquarianism is
apt to be, by the colouring of a warm imagination; but still it was a
remarkable exemplification of the power of an ardent mind to ascertain
and combine facts upon a favourite subject under apparently
insuperable difficulties. Unless in pursuing her historical inquiries, she
did not often speak upon the subject. Her enthusiasm was too deep and
too concentrated for words. But she was Irish to the heart's core, and

had even retained, one can hardly tell how, the slight accent which in a
sweet-toned female voice is so pretty.
In her appearance, also, there were many of the characteristics of her
countrywomen. The roundness of form and clearness of complexion,
the result of good nurture and pure blood which are often found in
those who have been nursed in an Irish cabin, the abundant wavy hair
and the deep-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
melancholy for 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 sunshine or the blessed air. A daisy of the field, a common,
simple, cheerful looking daisy, would be pleasanter to gaze upon than
the blighted queen of flowers.
Her figure was, however, decidedly beautiful. Not merely tall, but
pliant, elastic, and graceful in no ordinary degree. She was not
generally remarkable for accomplishment. How could she, in the total
absence of the most powerful, as well as the most amiable motives to
exertion? She had no one to please; no one to watch her progress, to
rejoice in her success, to lament her failure. In many branches of
education she had not advanced beyond mediocrity, but her dancing
was perfection; or rather it would have been so, if to her other graces
she had added the charm of gaiety. But that want, as our French
dancing-master used to observe, was so universal in this country, that
the wonder would have been to see any young lady, whose face in a
cotillion (for it was before the days of quadrilles) did not look as if she
was following a funeral.
Such at thirteen I found Honor O'Callaghan, when I, a damsel some
three years younger, was first placed at Mrs. Sherwood's; such five
years afterwards I left her, when I quitted the school.
Calling there the following spring, accompanied by my good godfather,
we again saw Honor silent and pensive as ever. The old gentleman was
much struck with her figure and her melancholy. "Fine girl that!"
observed he to me; "looks as if she was in love though," added he,

putting his finger to his nose with a knowing nod, as was usual with
him upon occasions of that kind. I, for my part, in whom a passion for
literature was just beginning to develope itself had a theory of my own
upon the subject, and regarded her with unwonted respect in
consequence. Her abstraction appeared to me exactly that of an author
when contemplating some 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
happened in Honor's destiny. Her father, whom she had been fond of
investing with the dignity of a rebel, but who had, according to Mrs.
Sherwood's more reasonable suspicion, been a reckless, extravagant,
thoughtless person, whose follies had been visited upon himself and his
family, with the evil consequences of crimes, had died in America; and
his sister, the richly-jointured widow of a baronet, of old Milesian
blood, who during his life had been inexorable to his entreaties to
befriend the poor girl, left as it were in pledge at a London
boarding-school, had relented upon hearing of his death, had come to
England, settled all pecuniary matters to the full satisfaction of the
astonished and delighted governess, and finally carried Honor back
with her to Dublin.
From this time we lost sight altogether of our old companion. With her
schoolfellows she had never formed even the common school
intimacies, and to Mrs. Sherwood and her functionaries, she owed no
obligation except that of money, which was now discharged. The only
debt of gratitude which she had ever acknowledged, was to the old
French teacher, who, although she never got nearer the pronunciation
or the orthography of her name than Mademoiselle l'Ocalle, had yet, in
the overflowing benevolence of her temper, taken such notice of the
deserted child, as amidst the