Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil BlasLever, Charles
General
Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas
Lever, Charles
Ireland -- Fiction
"Yes, that will do," replied I, negligently. "See my traps safe on
board, and tell me when all's ready."
The corporal saluted once more, and went to give the necessary
directions; meanwhile the mate, who had been a most amazed spectator of
the scene, came over and stood right opposite me, with an expression
of the most ludicrous doubt and hesitation. It was just at that moment
that, in drawing the cloak round me, I discovered in a pocket of it an
old cigar-case. I took it out with the most easy _nonchalance_, and,
leisurely striking a light, began smoking away, and not bestowing even a
glance at my neighbor.
Astonishment had so completely gotten the better of the man that he
could not utter a word; and I perceived that he had to look over the
side, where the boat lay, to assure himself that the whole was reality.
"All right, sir," said the corporal, carrying his hand to his cap.
I arose languidly from my recumbent position, and followed the soldier
to the gangway; then, turning slowly around, I surveyed the mate from
head to foot, with a glance of mild but contemptuous pity, while I said,
"In your station, my good man, the lesson is perhaps not called for,
since you may rarely be called on to exercise it; but I would wish to
observe that you will save yourself much humiliation and considerable
contempt by not taking people for what they seem by externals." With
this grave admonition, delivered in a half-theatrical tone of voice, I
draped my "toga" so as to hide any imperfection of my interior costume,
and descended majestically into the boat.
When we reached the barrack, which was in the Upper Town, the captain
was at mess, but had left orders that I should have my dinner, and be
ready at his quarters, in my full livery, in the evening.
I dined, very much to my satisfaction, on some of the "débris" of the
mess, and, under the auspices of the captain's servant, arrayed myself
in my new finery, which, I am free to confess, presented what artists
would call "a flashy bit of color;" being far more in the style of
Horace Vernet than Van Dyke. Had the choice been given me, I own I
should have preferred wooing Fortune in more sombre habiliments; but
this was a mere minor consideration, and so I felt as I found myself
standing alone in the captain's sitting-room, and endeavoring to
accustom myself to my own very showy identity, as reflected in a large
cheval glass, which exhibited me down to the very buckles of my shoes.
I will not affirm it positively, but only throw it out as a hint, that
the major part of a decanter of sherry, which I discussed at dinner,
aided in lifting me above the paltry consideration of mere appearance,
and made me feel what I have often heard ragged vagabonds in the streets
denominate "the dignity of a man." By degrees, too, I not only grew
reconciled to the gaudy costume, but began--strange accommodation of
feeling--actually to enjoy its distinctive character.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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