Ireland had changed since the emancipation of the Catholics. It was not with tea that the heroes of Charles Lever's time beguiled the tedium of existence.
"This dismal life," continues our heroine, "weighed on me to such an extent that I should assuredly have done something desperate if my husband had not just then been ordered to return to India." Lola, it will have been seen, entertained little affection for her native land. She had no recollection of her childhood there, and she never afterwards thought of the country except in connection with the detested husband of her youth.
In the second year of the Queen's reign she left Ireland, to return years after in very different circumstances. Her fondest memories were of the East, towards which she now gladly turned her face for the second time. "On the old trail, on the out trail," she sailed aboard the East Indiaman, _Blunt_, her husband at her side. There is a curious parallelism between her mother's life and her own up till now, which she could not have failed to notice. Her memories of the voyage strike me rather as having been specially spiced for the consumption of Parisian readers, than as an authentic relation. James, we are told, neglected his young wife, and exhibited an amazing capacity for absorbing porter. Finding the time heavy on her hands, Lola resorted to the commonest of all distractions on passenger ships--flirting. While her consort lay sleeping "like a boa-constrictor" in his bunk, his wife's admirers used to slip notes under the door, these serving her as spills for Mr. James's pipe. The gentlemen who fell under the spell of Lola's fascinations at this stage of her career were three in number--a Spaniard called Enriquez, an Englishman, simply described as John, and the skipper himself. This "colossal sailor" seems to have been somewhat of a philosopher. One of his profound reflections has been handed down to us, and is worth recording: "Love is a pipe we fill at eighteen, and smoke till forty; and we rake the ashes till our exit."
Lola thus pictures as a man-enslaving Circe the girl who was described by a contemporary as a good little thing, merry and unaffected. I doubt if the flirtations here magnified into intrigues were very serious affairs, after all. It is rather pathetic, the woman's shame for the simplicity of the girl, and her evident desire to paint her redder than she was. It is probable that the girl would have been quite as much ashamed if she could have seen herself at thirty.