LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 119, 17 October 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

LIEUTENANT MUDGE’S AUNT

A Tale oe St. Patrick’s Ball,

From All The Year Round.

( Continued.) Miss Bolgibbie dressed much after the fashion of her parent, and sported a quantity of bog oak ornaments gaily relieved by cunning and elaborate devices in cut steel.

Lieutenant Mudge sped in his wooing. He called repeatedly, and was received with cordiality by Mamma, and a gushing covness by Mademosielle that promised well for his ultimate share in the fortunes of the house. The gallant Fusileer spared no pains to render himself agreeable, frequently volunteering to escort the ladies to places to entertainment where the entrance fee did not exceed one shilling ; or to the theatres upon debenture orders ; or to Kingstown pier ; or for a promenade upon the Donnybrook road. He presented Miss Bolgibbie with his photograph taken in full regimentals, and she in return blushingly handed him her portrait, taken, injudiciously, in evening dress, a costume in which she displayed a larger quantity of collar-bone and a more uncompromising scragginess than are conventionally considered beautiful. Matters were in this satisfactory position, though progressing too slowly for the ardent Mudge, when the recurrence of a festival, always held in high esteem in Dublin, served to precipitate the long-de-sired crisis. The seventeenth of March approached, and with it St Patrick’s day, and the ball at the ‘Castle.’ ‘ You are going to Patrick s ball, ot course,’ observed the lieutenant to Mrs Bolgibbie, during one of his visits at No 000, Blank street. ‘ It will not be till the twentyfourth of April this year, in consequence of the change of Viceroy.’ ‘ Oh, yes, my relative in the Service wishes me to go, so I shall do so to oblige him; besides, our set all go, and it’s a pleasant rendezvous.’ Mudge was in raptures. His martial tunic looked its best at night. The sash was as good as new, and the sword-knot resplendent by gaslight. To Patrick s ball he would go in all his splendour, and at Patrick’s ball he would ask Seraphina Bolgibbie to be His. Had not a bank clerk, at whose bank Mrs Bolgibbie kept her account, confidentially, but darkly, intimated ‘it was all right ?’ Yes, the citadel should be stormed without any further delay, and Miss Bolgibbie and her income should be the spoils of war ? Lieutenant Mudge was enjoying breakfast in bed, in an apartment directly beneath the slates, shortly after he had taken this desperate resolve, when the elderly female who attended to his wants, in addition to those of the other lodgers, handed him a letter from Mrs Clancy. A letter from his aunt—what could it mean? This was not the period for her visit to the metropolis! Hastily thrusting aside the venerable and battered tray containing the breakfast things, he tore open the envelope, and read as follows: ‘ Cabbage Rose Villa, Ballyomulligan, ‘ Loughrea, * April 20th, 1874. ‘ Dear Nephew—l have been reading the life of Saint Patrick, and I’d like to do honour to the holy man’s memory by going to his ball. You can do as you like at the Castle, so could my brother when he commanded the fiy-boat on the Grand Canal, so get me an invitation. I’ll be up on the 23rd, as I see it’s to he on the 24th. Meet me at the Broadstone, in a covered car I don t care for cabs, I like old fashions at ii\e o’clock. Take the same lodgings for me as had before, near the Chapel in Dominick street, and tell the girl to tell Father James I’ll he wanting him in his box on rriday morning. Lay in a couple of pounds ot salmon, as it’s a black fast. I wouldu t trust St Peter, let alone St Patrick, for eggs, so I bring my own. Your affectionate aunt, . _ ‘Mary Anne Clancy.

‘ P.S. Have a fire in my bed room and see that it’s lighted early, ami the sheets spread out before it. Tell the girl to luia’c a better toasting fork, as the last one burnt my toast. ’ . The Avarrior bounded from his bedstead, and uttered full-flavored language. The Philistines Avere upon him. Sinbad the Sailor Avas troubled Avith the attentions of an elderly gentleman, here Avas a son of Mars overAvhelmed by those of an elderly i a dy. He kneAv Mrs Clancy too Avell to think that she could bo put off. baffled, or bamboozled. He had tried that once, and

her solicitor was in attendance upon her at an early subsequent date, with a view to material alterations in her will. He had promised to escort the Bolgibbies He dare not present to these aristocratic personages a relative who pronounced inferior infayrior, and was doubtful over such words as meat and heat. What were his chances with Miss Bolgibbie if she came in contact with Mrs Clancy! Lieutenant Mudge went back to bed, and meditated. It would be madness to lose the substance for the shadow. His aunt must be considered—i r. , her three thousand pounds in the new threes, before everything. If it had been an ordinary private entertainment, he could easily manage to put her off, and attend the festival himself, but in this case his name and regiment would appear in print, and all the waters in the Grand Canal which had floated the bark of Mrs Clancy’s kinsman would fail to wash him clean. The case was hopeless, utterly hopeless, and the gallant Mudge sullenly submitted himself to the Inevitable.

The evening of the 23rd of April found the Lieutenant moodily awaiting the arrival of the Galway train at the Broadstone station of the M. G. W. Railway. Drawn up beside the platform stood an antique and obsolete vehicle known as a covered car, around which a critical but somewhat tattered group were gathered, engaged in discussing its peculiarities. Punctually the train arrived, bearing with it Mrs Clancy and her baggage, and the wretched Mudge presently greeting her as became an heir expectant, lauded her safely at her lodgings. How fondly he hoped that the fatigues of the journey might prove too much for her, that some friendly draught had seized her, and that one of those rheumatic attacks, to which she was occasionally subject, was imminent ! But no such luck was in store for him. Mrs Clancy was as lively, to use her own words, as a ‘ Boyne salmon, ’ as she expressed a desre to attend ‘ the Castle’ before ‘ the candles were lighted,’ and not to leave until they were ‘snuffed out.’ Mudge made the best excuse he could think of to the Bolgibbies, arranged an early rendezvous, and still hoping against hope, prepared for the worst.

There was a sound of revelry by night, and Dublin Castle was lighted from moat (cellar) to turret (garret), and bright twentycandle gas shone o’er fair women, arrayed in feathers and lappets, and o’er brave men, attired in every description of uniform, from that of the bullion-breasted hussars to the thoroughly shrunken tunic of the half-pay infantry captain. But the exterior lights had other work to do, especially in the quadrangle, known as the Upper Castle Yard, for they had to illuminate the roadway for a very ricketty looking horse and a still more ricketty looking vehicle, from which sprang a crimson-clad warrior, to be followed after much ‘ scrooging’ and shrill ejaculations in a female voice, by the. majestic form of Mrs Clancy. ‘Ye’ll be back at four, Rafferty,’ observed Mrs Clancy to the chorioteer, ‘ and don’t let any shoneen get before ye. ’ ‘ The poliss won’t let me out o’ me turn, ’ said the carman, somewhat gruffly. ‘ Say it’s for Mrs Clancy, of Loughrea, Rafferty. ’ * The divvle a hair they’ll care, ’ muttered the charioteer, as he moved away under the stern dictum of an energetic member of the force.

The Ringsend Fusileer was in an agony of terror lest the Bolgibbies should arrive ere he had time to deposit his aunt in some remote recess in St Patrick’s Hall, and earnestly urged that estimable lady to accelerate her movements. This appeal was somewhat necessary, as Mrs Clancy was engaged in curtsying to and indulging in a running lire of conversation with such persons as happened to be within range. ‘ It’ll be a big ball; I never was here before. What a splendid staircase ! I came all the way from Loughrea ; ain’t I a courageous woman ? This is my nephew, me sisters son. His father was a gauger, and died of a cruel bad attack of the horrors of drink. Five men couldn’t hold him in the bed. I hear the Lady-Lieutenant isn’t here. More’s the pity. What regiment do you belong to, sir ? is it in the horse police you are ? My nephew is in the militia —the Ringsend Fusileers. This is him.’

Poor Mudge ! how fiercely thy heart beats beneath thy martial dinginess. What fullflavored language is hovering about thy lips ! The grand staircase is scarlet-carpeted and ornamented with exotics. On the right stands the state porter eyeing keenly any new comer, for to him the appearance of the habituees is as familiar as that of the members of the House of Commons to the wary and vigilant doorkeeper. He knows Mudge, and Mudge’s tarnished raiment, and he looks askance at Mudge’s aunt. He will know her again. The staircase, in addition to the exotics, is decorated with pigeon-breasted guardsmen, gazing grimly before them from beneath the serrated fringe of their great bearskins as if on parade, and beside these waxwork-looking warriors are vice-regal retainers, in bloom-coloured suits cut after the fashion of that supplied to one Oliver Goldsmith a hundred years ago. The walls are ornamented with quaint devices cunningly constructed of warlike appliances, and wainscotted upon the present occasion by ‘ a thin red line’ of spruce-looking colour-serjeauts. Mrs Clancy’s admiration recognised no limit ; she apostrophised everybody and everything, and it was almost by sheer force that her nephew was enabled to drag her into St Patrick’s Hall, and to place her, much against her will, upon one of the seats in the upper tier. To be continued.