A Tale.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1854.
KATE VERNON.
The autumn of 18—was as uncomfortable and triste a season as I haveever known; commerce and crops alike looked down—respectable prophetsof Tory tendencies shook their heads with redoubled vigor and gloomybut intense satisfaction at the near approach of that total ruinthey had so often foretold; and the unfortunate devils of starvingmechanics, unable to solve the problem of depression, were raisingshindies by way of relieving their minds. Under these circumstances,it pleased the Horse Guards, in the plenitude of their power andinhumanity, to banish Her Majesty's —— Regiment of Light Dragoons toan infernal region of smoke and "sansculottism" situated in the westof England, and known to mortals as the wealthy and busy town ofCarrington.
Here then were we hurried at the very beginning of grouse shooting,from first-rate quarters in North Britain.
Terrible was the change which came o'er all our spirits; every thingwas against us; I do not believe I ever saw such rain. Byron talksabout "nature's tear drops,"—she gave us a shower bath! The effectof all this may be imagined. I am certain it was that fatal quarterconfirmed our Major in the deep rooted love for "Kingston's old port,"which finally cut him off at 65, while pretty little Mrs. Pemberton,the paymaster's wife, no longer guided in the way she should go, byfashion and the aristocracy, fell from the right path into a meetinghouse, and eloped with the preacher! But our rulers care little for ourmorals.
Au commencement, the rich manufacturers were very civil, and gaveus some most enormous dinners. Their daughters, pretty girls enough,we found tolerable, as women must always be, even under the mostdistressing circumstances; but we had nothing to talk of to them. Itwas so confounding to try conversation with girls who had not a singlesubject in common with you; who looked on sporting as loss of time, andto whom all one's allusions, illustrations, and even good stories werean unknown tongue. Their brothers were "very awful," as Sammy Spectresays; and, when we asked the fellows to mess, they got so brutallydrunk, and talked such stupid slang, we were thoroughly disgusted; sowhen the first terror of burnt mills and broken windows was passed,and the respectable cotton spinners, taking time to breathe, collectedtheir scattered faculties, and remembered their dislike to themilitary, we were most ready to dispense with their society, and ourcommunications were soon almost totally cut off.
Such was our position towards the beginning of September, when onemorning, as I was forgetting my misfortunes in Alison's Account of theVendean War, which in all probability I should have never read butfor our unlucky change of quarters, Tom Ashley broke into my room,exclaiming, "Keep your books for a dernier ressort my dear fellow!Come along and get your tickets."
"For what," said I peevishly, for I am capable of acknowledging anauthor's magic sometimes.
"No humbug! You do not mean to say you have not read the placardsannouncing the Festival in the New Music Hall? Grisi, Mario, and allthe rest of them. A grand mass in G, and something still grander in Z?"
"No! I know nothing about it."
"Well, know it now! There are to be three days' hard work. Sacred andscientific in the morning; profane