Jack Hinton The Guardsman

版权信息
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I．A FAMILY PARTY
CHAPTER II．THE IRISH PACKET
CHAPTER III．THE CASTLE
CHAPTER IV．THE BREAKFAST
CHAPTER V．THE REVIEW IN THE PHOENIX
CHAPTER VI．THE SHAM BATTLE
CHAPTER VII．THE ROONEYS.
CHAPTER VIII．THE VISIT
CHAPTER IX．THE BALL
CHAPTER X．A FINALE TO AN EVENING
CHAPTER XI．A NEGOTIATION
CHAPTER XII．A WAGER
CHAPTER XIII．A NIGHT OF TROUBLE
CHAPTER XIV．THE PARTING
CHAPTER XV．THE LETTER FROM HOME
CHAPTER XVI．A MORNING IN TOWN
CHAPTER XVII．AN EVENING IN TOWN
CHAPTER XVIII．A CONFIDENCE
CHAPTER XIX．THE CANAL-BOAT
CHAPTER XX．SHANNON HARBOUR
CHAPTER XXI．LOUGHREA
CHAPTER XXII．A MOONLIGHT CANTER
CHAPTER XXIII．MAJOR MAHON AND HIS QUARTERS
CHAPTER XXIV．THE DEVIL'S GRIP
CHAPTER XXV．THE STEEPLECHASE
CHAPTER XXVI．THE DINNER-PARTY AT MOUNT BROWN
CHAPTER XXVII．THE RACE BALL
CHAPTER XXVIII．THE INN FIRE
CHAPTER XXIX．THE DUEL
CHAPTER XXX．A COUNTRY DOCTOR
CHAPTER XXXI．THE LETTER-BAG
CHAPTER XXXII．BOB MAHON AND THE WIDOW
CHAPTER XXXIII．THE PRIEST'S GIG
CHAPTER XXXIV．THE MOUNTAIN PASS
CHAPTER XXXV．THE JOURNEY
CHAPTER XXXVI．MURRANAKILTY
CHAPTER XXXVII．SIR SIMON
CHAPTER XXXVIII．ST．SENAN'S WELL
CHAPTER XXXIX．AN UNLOOKED-FOR MEETING
CHAPTER XL．THE PRIEST'S KITCHEN
CHAPTER XLI．TIPPERARY JOE
CHAPTER XLII．THE HIGHROAD
CHAPTER XLIII．THE ASSIZE TOWN
CHAPTER XLIV．THE BAD DINNER
CHAPTER XLV．THE RETURN
CHAPTER XLVI．FAREWELL TO IRELAND
CHAPTER XLVII．LONDON
CHAPTER XLVIII．AN UNHAPPY DISCLOSURE
CHAPTER XLIX．THE HORSE GUARDS
CHAPTER L．THE RETREAT FROM BURGOS
CHAPTER LI．A MISHAP
CHAPTER LII．THE MARCH
CHAPTER LIII．VITTORIA
CHAPTER LIV．THE RETREAT
CHAPTER LV．THE FOUR-IN-HAND
CHAPTER LVI．ST．DENIS
CHAPTER LVII．PARIS IN 1814
CHAPTER LVIII THE RONI FÊTE
CHAPTER LIX．FRESCATI'S
CHAPTER LX．DISCLOSURES
CHAPTER LXI．NEW ARRIVALS
CHAPTER LXII．CONCLUSION

　　PREFACE.
　　Very few words of preface will suffice to the volume now presented to my readers. My intention was to depict, in the early experiences of a young Englishman in Ireland, some of the almost inevitable mistakes incidental to such a character. I had so often myself listened to so many absurd and exaggerated opinions on Irish character, formed on the very slightest acquaintance with the country, and by persons, too, who, with all the advantages long intimacy might confer, would still have been totally inadequate to the task of a rightful appreciation, that I deemed the subject one where a little "reprisal" might be justifiable.
　　Scarcely, however, had I entered upon my story, than I strayed from the path I had determined on, and, with very little reference to my original intention, suffered Jack Hinton to "take his chance amongst the natives," and with far too much occupation on his hands to give time for reflecting over their peculiarities, or recording their singular traits, I threw him into the society of the capital, under the vice-royalty of a celebrated Duke, all whose wayward eccentricities were less marked than the manly generosity and genuine honesty of his character. I introduced him into a set where, whatever purely English readers may opine, I have wonderfully little exaggerated; and I led him down to the West to meet adventures which every newspaper, some twenty-five years ago, would show were by no means extravagant or strange.
　　Very devoted servant,
　　CHARLES LEVER.
　　Casa Capponi, Florence, March, 1857.

　　It was on a dark and starless night in February, 181—, as the last carriage of a dinner-party had driven from the door of a large house in St. James's-square, when a party drew closer around the drawing-room fire, apparently bent upon that easy and familiar chit-chat the presence of company interdicts.
　　One of these was a large and fine-looking man of about five-and-forty, who, dressed in the full uniform of a general officer, wore besides the ribbon of the Bath; he leaned negligently upon the chimney-piece, and, with his back towards the fire, seemed to follow the current of his own reflections: this was my Father.
　　Beside him, but almost concealed in the deep recess of a well-cushioned arm-chair, sat, or rather lay, a graceful figure, who with an air of languid repose was shading her fine complexion as well from the glare of the fire as from the trying brilliancy of an Argand lamp upon the mantelpiece. Her rich dress, resplendent with jewels, while it strangely contrasted with the careless ease of her attitude, also showed that she had bestowed a more than common attention that day upon her toilette: this, fair reader, was my Mother.
　　Opposite to her, and disposed in a position of rather studied gracefulness, lounged a tall, thin, fashionable-looking man, with a dark olive complexion, and a short black moustache. He wore in the button-hole of his blue coat the ribbon of St. Louis. The Count de Grammont, for such he was, was an émigré noble, who, attached to the fortunes of the Bourbons, had resided for some years in London, and who, in the double capacity of adviser of my father and admirer of my lady-mother, obtained a considerable share of influence in the family and a seat at its councils.
　　At a little distance from the rest, and apparently engaged with her embroidery, sat a very beautiful girl, whose dark hair and long lashes deepened the seeming paleness of features a Greek sculptor might have copied. While nothing could be more perfect than the calm loveliness of her face and the delicate pencilling of her slightly-arched eyebrows, an accurate observer could detect that her tremulous lip occasionally curled with a passing expression of half scorn, as from time to time she turned her eyes towards each speaker in turn, while she herself maintained a perfect silence. My cousin, Lady Julia Egerton, had indeed but that one fault: shall I venture to call by so harsh a name that spirit of gentle malice which loved to look for the ludicrous features of everything around her, and inclined her to indulge what the French call the "esprit moqueur" even on occasions where her own feelings were interested?
　　The last figure of the group was a stripling of some nineteen years, who, in the uniform of the Guards, was endeavouring to seem perfectly easy and unconcerned, while it was evident that his sword-knot divided his attention with some secret thoughts that rendered him anxious and excited: this was Myself!
　　A silence of some moments was at length broken by my mother, who, with a kind of sigh Miss O'Neill was fond of, turned towards the Count, and said,
　　"Do confess, Count, we were all most stupid to-day. Never did a dinner go off so heavily. But it's always the penalty one pays for a royal Duke. A propos, General, what did he say of Jack's appointment?"