like that of the Irish College, against which the
Archbishop of Dublin reasons with so generous
and irresistible a force.

THE HUNGARIAN OFFICER.

IN the year 183—(I abstain purposely from
giving the exact date), I—then a very young
man—had an appointment connected with our
embassy at Vienna. The appointment was a good
one for such a mere youngster, and it gave me a
position in the society there which I honestly
believe has been in more ways than one of service
to me since. What a life it was that we led in
that most brilliant of capitals! That an embassy
should be the scene of all sorts of gaiety is
essential almost to its existence, and certainly to
its popularity. My situation gave me the entrée
to all the Foreign embassies, so that if balls, and
concerts, and entertainments could make a young
fellow happy, I ought to have been more happy
than most people. It certainly was a pleasant time,
and as I look back to it now, I feel like one with
heavy clouds above him, gazing away to where,
in the distance, the landscape is lit up by a
partial gleam of sunlight.

Every one knows that Vienna is one of the
grandest booths in Vanity Fair. As one looked
around those assemblies, the splendour of all that
met the eye could indeed hardly be surpassed.
The toilettes of the ladies were all a-blaze with
jewellery and colour; and, as to the men, Austria
being a country of uniforms, of orders, and
decorations, a plain, private coat was scarcely ever
to be seen. Besides all this, the people who wore
these magnificent garments were mostly men and
women of good birth and race: many of them
gifted with high qualifications, both personal and
intellectual, acquired during lives spent in one
of the most polished courts in Europe.

You would say that in such a circle as this,
where both men and women were accustomed
to everything that was perfect, and where the
standard was naturally a very high one, it was
difficult, or almost impossible, for any man to
make what is called a " great sensation." And
so indeed it was. Yet I cannot disguise from
myself the fact that in my memory, as I think of
all that goodly company, there stands out one
individual so far beyond all the others in everything
that goes to make a man distinguished,
that the rest seemed almost like clowns beside
him.

This man was a certain Colonel Bergfeldt. He
was a Hungarian, I believe; but I know that
he was reported to be a man of good birth,
of considerable wealth, and that beyond this
little seemed to be known of him. He
appeared somewhat suddenly in Viennese society;
but, once there, he very soon became the rage.
Young as I then was, I remember being
prodigiously struck with him, and perhaps all the
more so because of the disparity of age between
us. As to his age, who could tell it? There
are some men with light hair and complexion
who are very puzzling in that matter of guessing
their age.

This colonel was a tall man, with a hard, thin,
perfect figure. Plenty of chest and shoulder, with
long fine limbs. It was the figure of the kind of
man who, where fatigue and endurance are
concerned, is sure to knock everybody up; the kind of
figure, of all others, the least seldom met with
in connexion with ill health, or even sudden
temporary disease. There was not flesh enough for
inflammatory disorders, there was too much wire
for those that spring from debility. It was long,
however, before one noticed these particulars,
the attention of any stranger being naturally
given to some sort of attempt to fathom the
man's countenance, and see what there was there
of promise or of warning.

It would be next to impossible to say
certainly that there was either. It was a face of
stone. Pale, but not unhealthily so. A strange
paleness, with a curious earthy quality about it
that was a defect—almost the only defect—by
daylight, but which did not appear by candlelight
at all. Face, hair, and moustache were all
different shades of the same colour, or absence of
colour. This was what made this Hungarian
specially remarkable, though the regularity of
his features, and the want of change about them,
would any way have distinguished him too from
other men. Ability, coolness, nerve, and will,
were all marked legibly in his countenance; as
to anything else, certainly at that time—whatever
I may be now— I was not physiognomist
enough to be able to go deeper.

The accomplishments of the man were wonderful.
Was there anything he could not do, and
do well? He seemed to know everything. As
to languages, I myself have heard him talk,
apparently with equal fluency, in French, English,
German, Italian, and Spanish, in one evening.
Then if we went out shooting with him, his accuracy
of aim made us all feel ashamed of ourselves.
At billiards we had no chance with him. His
horses were the wildest and most spirited in
Vienna, but they were tame and manageable in
his hands, as if they knew it was no use to resist.
His success in everything he attempted was the
same, down even to waltzing and lansquenet.

Was it any wonder that a man, gifted with
such advantages, should soon become a favourite
in the society in which he appeared? He was
the rage. No ball, no shooting party, no banquet
or fête champêtre was thought of without him.
He was the life and soul of the society of Vienna.

It may be imagined what was the effect upon
us all when this man suddenly, and without warning,
disappeared from among us. The sensation
made by his presence—great as it was—was
nothing to that caused by his absence. His
disappearance, I remember, was first remarked on
the occasion of a grand ball at the French
embassy, at which he was to have been present;
and great was the consternation among those
ladies who had been keeping themselves without