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Gilfillan, who was speedily advertised by several
communicative and good-natured old ladies, that
could not bear to see him made a fool of, that
Sybrandt was the real formidable man after all—
eyed him with an air of taunting ridicule. Sybrandt
was on the lookout too, and returned these demonstrations
with interest. But Gilfillan was a generous,
good-natured fellow, and ere long that kind feeling
with which every genuine Irishman looks at a
stranger, overcame the hostility of rivalship.

“By the galligaskins of my great ancestor, the
Prince of Breffny,” quoth he, “there can be no
danger in such a pair as that”—and he immediately
introduced himself to our hero, with a frank cordiality
that was irresistible. Sybrandt felt himself
drawn towards him, in spite of his being a rival.
“But how did he know Gilfillan was his rival?”
Pshaw! gentle reader, if you can't comprehend that,
you had better go and study metaphysics. Do you
suppose it possible for him to converse with Madame
Van Borsum and dance with her daughter, without
knowing all about it? You must think women had
no tongues in the days of your great-grandmother.

The behaviour of Sir Thicknesse Throgmorton
was a perfect contrast to that of Colonel Gilfillan.

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He affected to take not the least notice of Sybrandt,
and pouted majestically with Catalina. He pretended
not to hear when she addressed him—neglected
to ask her to dance—came very near flirting
with Miss Van Dam, only he did not know how—retired
into a corner where he stood two hours, sometimes
resting on one leg, then on the other, like unto
a goose; and finally refused to cut up a boiled
turkey at supper, when requested by the governor's
lady: at which piece of unheard-of audacity every
body threw down their knives and forks in astonishment.
That very night he consulted his pillow, and
determined to jilt Catalina, not having at that time
the fear of the law before him, which hath since
remunerated so many broken-hearted young ladies
for the loss of one husband by enabling them to
purchase a second with the spoils of the first. He
resolved, therefore, to desert our heroine, and break
her heart. It never entered the head of this honest
gentleman that she was very happy to be rid of him.
But to mortify her still more, he determined to pay
his devoirs to another. For this purpose he selected
the wife of an honest burgher residing in Broadstreet,
to whom he addressed a flaming love-letter in
English. The good woman not being able to read
it, one language being at that time considered quite
enough for an honest woman, like a dutiful wife
carried it to her husband to interpret for her. The
worthy burgher was in the same predicament with
his wife, and Gilfillan being an old customer, put
it into his hands for translation. After this he
went forthwith to Sir Thicknesse to expostulate with
him, and know what “de duyvel” he meant. “You
can't marry mine vrouw, cause she's cot one huspand
alreaty;” said he, with great appearance of reason.

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Gilfillan made a most capital story out of this, and the
dignified baronet was so quizzed wherever he went,
that he soon asked leave of absence, and returned
to England, where it is said he found plenty of proud
blockheads who mistook awkwardness for dignity,
and clumsiness for the air noble, to keep him in
countenance. The reader will be pleased to recollect
I am speaking of days of yore, and that the English
beaux have since been greatly improved in grace
and politeness by frequent association with our
sprightly belles. But I am anticipating my story.

Be this as it may, it is with pain I confess that the
snuff-coloured garments heretofore commemorated,
the tittering of the young ladies, the criticisms of
their mothers, and above all the sly remarks of the
officers, the ill-natured side-speeches of Mrs. Aubineau,
together with a certain secret consciousness
on the part of our heroine that our hero made but a
sort of an indifferent figure at this illustrious gala,
operated somewhat unfavourably to the interests of
Sybrandt. Women in general (I mean before they
are married) can scarcely be said to have any opinions
of their own. They are entirely under the
dominion of fashion. They will not do a thing which
is perfectly innocent, because it is not the fashion;
and they will frequently do things unbecoming the
delicacy of the sex, because it is the fashion. Nay,
their very virtues appear sometimes to be the sport
of fashion—which is nothing but the result of the
whims and caprices of nobody knows who; an emanation
from nobody knows where—sometimes the
eccentricity of a lady of ton—sometimes the prurient
offspring of the vanity of an opera dancer; and at
others the invention of a fantastic milliner. A dress
may be elegant and becoming to the last degree, yet

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if it is out of fashion a lady who aspires to the least
consideration will scarcely dare to be seen in it.
Her very manners and morals, too, are more or less
under the sway of this invisible despot; and ladies
who resist every other species of tyranny submit to
this with the resignation of martyrs. An unfashionable
dress is death to a fashionable young lady, and
an unfashionable lover purgatory. When a man
once comes to be laughed at in the world of fashion
his time is come,—whatever may be his merits, it
is all over with him. Yet notwithstanding these
little foibles of the sex, none but a morose disappointed
old bachelor will deny that they are delightful
ingredients in the sour cup of life. In infancy, in
manhood, and in old age—in our sports, enjoyments,
and relaxations, they are our choicest companions;
in the cares and troubles and disappointments of this
world they are our best solace, our most faithful
friends; and in the last hours of weak humanity,
yea, on the bed of death, they are the ministering
spirits to smooth our pillow, alleviate our sufferings,
and finally close our eyes and wrap us in the winding-sheet,
the last clothing of humanity. But what am
I about, prosing away at this rate, when I ought to
be sprinkling my pages with blood, murders, seduction
and adultery, after the manner of “thrice immortal”
club-footed lord and his bloody-minded imitators.