As the latter part of this speech was addressed in a tone of apostrophe to the statue of King William, it was received by the assembled crowd with a roar of laughter.
By this time I had entered the house, and only bethought me how little suited was the great hotel of the city to pretensions as humble as mine. It was now, however, too late to retreat, and I entered the coffee-room, carrying my knapsack in my hand. As I passed up the room in search of a vacant table, the looks of astonishment my appearance excited on each side were most palpable evidences that the company considered me as an interloper. While some contented themselves with a stare of steady surprise, others, less guarded in their impertinence, whispered with, and even winked at their neighbors, to attract attention towards me.
Offensive as this unquestionably was, it amazed even more than it annoyed me. In France, such a display of feeling would have been impossible; and the humblest soldier of the army would not have been so received had he deemed fit to enter Beauvilliers' or Véry's.
Whether hurt at this conduct, and consequently more alive to affront from any quarter, or that the waiters participated in the sentiments of their betters, I cannot exactly say; but I certainly thought their manner even less equivocally betrayed the same desire of impertinence. This was not long a mere suspicion on my part; for on inquiring whether I could have a room for the night, the waiter, touching my knapsack, which lay on the ground beside me, with his foot, replied,—
“Is this your luggage, sir?”
Amazement so completely mastered my indignation at this insolence, that I could make no answer but by a look. This had its effect, however; and the fellow, without further delay, bustled off to make the inquiry. He returned in a few minutes with a civil message, that I could be accommodated, and having placed before me the simple meal I ordered, retired.
As I sat over my supper, I could not help feeling that unless memory played me false, the company were little like the former frequenters of this house. I remembered it of old, when Bubbleton and his brother officers came there; and when the rooms were thronged with members of both Houses of Parliament,—when peers and gentlemen of the first families were grouped about the windows and fireplaces, and the highest names of the land were heard in the din of recognition; handsome equipages and led horses stood before the doors. But now the ragged mob without was scarce a less worthy successor to the brilliant display than were the company within to the former visitants. A tone of pretentious impertinence, an air of swagger and mock defiance,—the most opposite to the polished urbanity which once prevailed,—was now conspicuous; and in their loud speech and violent gesticulation, it was easy to mark how they had degenerated from that high standard which made the Irish gentleman of his day the most polished man of Europe.
If in appearance and manner they fell far short of those my memory recalled, their conversation more markedly still displayed the long interval between them. Here, of old, were retailed the latest news of the debate,—the last brilliant thing of Grattan, or the last biting retort of Flood; here came, hot from debate, the great champions of either party to relax and recruit for fresh efforts; and in the groups that gathered around them you might learn how great genius can diffuse its influence and scatter intelligence around it,—as the Nile waters spread plenty and abundance wherever they flow: high and noble sentiments, holy aspirations and eloquent thoughts, made an atmosphere, to breathe which was to feel an altered nature. But now a vapid mixture of conceit and slang had usurped the place of these, and a tone of vulgar self-sufficiency unhappily too much in keeping with the externals of those who displayed it: the miserable contentions of different factions had replaced the bolder strife of opposite parties, and provincialism had put its stamp on everything. The nation, too, if I might trust my ears with what fell around me, had lost all memory of its once great names, and new candidates for popular favor figured in their places.
Such were some of the changes I could mark, even as I sat. But my attention was speedily drawn from them by a circumstance more nearly concerning myself. This was the appearance in the coffee-room of the gentleman who first addressed me in the street.
As he passed round the room, followed by a person whose inferiority was evident, he was recognized by most of those present, many of whom shook him warmly by the hand, and pressed him to join their parties. But this he declined, as he continued to walk slowly on, scrutinizing each face as he went. At last I saw his eyes turn towards me. It was scarcely a glance, so rapid was it, and so quickly were his looks directed to a different quarter; but I could mark that he whispered something to a person who followed, and then, after carelessly turning over a newspaper on the table, sauntered from the room. As he did so, the shaggy head of the dwarf newsvendor peeped in, and the great black eyes took a survey of the coffee-room, till finally they settled on me.
“Ah!” cried the fellow, with a strange blending of irony and compassion in his voice; “be gorra, I knew how it would be,—the major has ye!” At this a general laugh broke out from all present, and every eye was fixed on me.
Meanwhile the follower had taken his place nearly opposite me at the table, and was busily engaged examining a paper which he had taken from his pocket.
“May I ask, sir, if your name be Burke?” said he, in a low voice, across the table.
I started with amazement to hear my name pronounced where I believed myself so completely a stranger, and in my astonishment, forgot to answer.
“I was asking, sir—” repeated he.
“Yes, you are quite correct,” interrupted I; “that is my name. May I beg to know, in return, for what purpose you make the inquiry?”
“Thomas Burke, sir?” continued he, inattentive to my observation, and apparently about to write the name on the paper before him.
I nodded, and he wrote down the words.
“That saves a deal of trouble to all of us, sir,” said he, as he finished writing. “This is a warrant for your arrest; but the major is quite satisfied if you can give bail for your appearance.”
“Arrest!” repeated I; “on what charge am I arrested?”
“You'll hear in the morning, I suppose,” said he, quietly. “What shall we say about the bail? Have you any acquaintance or friend in town?”
“Neither; I am a perfect stranger here. But if you are authorized to arrest me, I here surrender myself at once.”
By this time, several persons of the coffee-room had approached the table, and among the rest the gentleman who so politely made way for me in the crowd to reach the door.
“What is it, Roche?” said he, addressing the man at the table; “a warrant?”
“Yes, sir; for this gentleman here. But we can take bail, if he has it.”
“I have told you already that I am a stranger, and know no one here.”
The gentleman threw his eyes over the warrant, and then looking me steadily in the face, muttered in a whisper to the officer, “Why, he must have been a boy, a mere child, at the time.”
“Very true, sir; but the major says it must be done. Maybe you'd bail him yourself.”
These words were added in a tone of half irony, as the fellow gave a sly look beneath his eyelashes.
“I tell you, again,” said I, impatient at the whole scene, “I am quite ready to accompany you.”
“Is this your name, sir?” said the strange gentleman, addressing me, as he pointed to the warrant.
“Yes,” interposed the officer, “there's no doubt about that; he gave it himself.”
“Come, come, then, Roche,” said he, cajolingly; “these are not times for undue strictness. Let the gentleman remain where he is to-night, and to-morrow he will attend you. You can remain here, if you like, with him.”
“If you say so, I suppose we may do it,” replied the officer, as he folded up the paper, and arose from the table.
“Yes, yes; that's the proper course. And now,” said he, addressing me, “will you permit me to join you while I finish this bottle of claret?”
I could have no objection to so pleasant a proposal; and thus, for the time at least, ended this disagreeable affair.
“I perceive, sir,” said the stranger, seating himself at my table, “they are desirous to restore an antiquated custom in regard to you. I thought the day of indemnities was past and gone forever.”
“I am ignorant to what you allude.”
“The authorities would make you out an emissary of France, sir,—as if France had not enough on her hands already, without embroiling herself in a quarrel from which no benefit could accrue; not to speak of the little likelihood that any one on such an errand would take up his abode, as you have, in the most public hotel of Dublin.”
“I have no apprehensions as to any charges they may bring against me. I am conscious of no crime, saving having left my country a boy, and returning to it a man.”
“You were in the service of France, then?”
“Yes; since 1801 I have been a soldier.”
“So long? You must have been but a mere boy when you quitted Ireland. How have they connected you with the troubles of that period?”
I hesitated for a second or two, uncertain what answer, if any, I should return to this abrupt question. A glance at the manly and frank expression of the stranger's face soon satisfied me that no unworthy curiosity had prompted the inquiry; and I told him in a few words, how, as a child, the opinions of the patriotic party had won me over to embark in a cause I could neither fathom nor understand. I traced out rapidly the few leading events of my early career down to the last evening I spent in Ireland. When I came to this part of my story, the stranger became unusually attentive, and more than once questioned me respecting the origin of my quarrel with Crofts, and the timely appearance of Darby; of whose name and character, however, I gave him no information, merely speaking of him as an old and attached follower of my family.
“Since that period, then, you have not been in Ireland?” said he, as I concluded.
“Never: nor had I any intention of returning until lately, when circumstances induced me to leave the Emperor's service; and from very uncertainty I came back here, without well knowing why.”
“Of course, then, you have never heard the catastrophe of your adventure with Crofts. It was a lucky hit for him.”
“How so? I don't understand you.”
“Simply this: Crofts was discovered in the morning, severely wounded, where you left him; his account being, that he had been waylaid by a party of rebels, who had obtained the countersign of the night, and passed the sentry in various disguises. You yourself—for so, at least, I surmise it must have been—were designated the prime mover of the scheme, and a Government reward was offered for your apprehension. Crofts was knighted, and appointed to the staff,—the reward of his loyalty and courage; of the exact details of which my memory is unfortunately little tenacious.”
“And the truth of the occurrence was never known?”
“What I have told you is the only version current. I have reason to remember so much of it, for I was then, and am still, one of the legal advisers of the Crown, and was consulted on the case; of which, I confess, I always had my misgivings. There was a rage, however, for rewarding loyalty, as it was termed at the period, and the story went the round of the papers. Now, I fancy Crofts would just as soon not see you back again; he has made all he can of the adventure, and would as lief have it quietly forgotten.”
“But can I suffer it to rest here? Is such an imputation to lie on my character as he would cast on me?”
“Take no steps in the matter on that score: vindication is time enough when the attack is made directly; besides, where should you find your witness? where is the third party who could prove your innocence, and that all you did was in self-defence? Without his testimony, your story would go for nothing. No, no; be well satisfied if the charge is suffered to sleep, which is not unlikely. Crofts would scarcely like to confess that his antagonist was little more than a child; his prowess would gain nothing by the avowal. Besides, the world goes well with him latterly; it is but a month ago, I think, he succeeded unexpectedly to a large landed property.”
The stranger, whose name was M'Dougall, continued to talk for some time longer; most kindly volunteered to advise me in the difficult position I found myself; and having given me his address in town, wished me a goodnight and departed.
It was to no purpose I laid my head on my pillow. Tired and fatigued as I was, I could not sleep; the prospect of fresh troubles awaiting me made me restless and feverish, and I longed for day to break, that I might manfully confront whatever danger was before me, and oppose a stout heart to the arrows of adverse fortune. My accidental meeting with the stranger also reassured my courage; and I felt gratified to think that such rencontres in life are the sunny spots which illumine our career in the world, the harbingers of bright days to come.
This feeling was still more strongly impressed on me as I entered the small room on the ground-floor at the Castle, where was the secretary's office, and beheld M'Dougall seated in an armchair, reading the newspaper of the day. I could not help connecting his presence there with some kindly intention towards me, and already regarded him as my friend. Major Barton stood at the secretary's side, and whispered from time to time in his ear.
“I have before me certain information, sir,” said the secretary, addressing me, “that you were connected with parties who took an active part in the late rebellion in this country, and by them sent over to France to negotiate co-operation and assistance from that quarter,” (Barton here whispered something, and the secretary resumed), “and in continuance of this scheme are at present here.”
“I have only to observe, sir, that I left Ireland a mere boy, when, whatever my opinions might have been, they were, I suspect, of small moment to his Majesty's Government; that I have served some years in the French army, during which period I neither corresponded with any one here, nor had intercourse with any from Ireland; and lastly, that I have come back unaccredited by any party, not having, as I believe, a single acquaintance in the island.”
“Do you still hold a commission in the French service?”
“No, sir; I resigned my grade as captain some time since.”
“What were your reasons for that step?”
“They were of a purely personal nature, having no concern with politics of any sort; I should, therefore, ask of you not to demand them. I can only say, they reflect neither on my honor nor my loyalty.”
“His loyalty! Would you ask him, sir, how he applies the term, and to what sovereign and what government the obedience is rendered?” said Barton, with a half smile of malicious meaning.
“Very true, Barton; the question is most pertinent.”
“When I said loyalty, sir,” said I, in answer, “I confess I did not express myself as clearly as I intended. I meant, however, that as an Irishman, and a subject of his Majesty George the Third, as I now am, no act of mine in the French service ever compromised me.”
“Why, surely you fought against the allies of your own country?”.
“True, sir. I speak only with reference to the direct interests of England. I was the soldier of the Emperor, but never a spy under his Government.”
“Your name is amongst those who never claimed the indemnity? How is this?”
“I never heard of it; I never knew such an act was necessary. I am not guilty of any crime, nor do I see any reason to seek a favor.”
“Well, well; the gracious intentions of the Crown lead us to look leniently on the past. A moderate bail for your appearance when called on, and your own recognizances for the same object, will suffice.”
“I am quite willing to do the latter; but as to bail, I repeat it, I have not one I could ask for such a service.”
“No relative? no friend?”
“Come, come, young gentleman,” said M'Dougall, speaking for the first time; “recollect yourself. Try if you can't remember some one who would assist you at this conjuncture.”
Basset was the only name I could think of; and however absurd the idea of a service from such a quarter, I deemed that, as my brother's agent, he would scarce refuse me. I thought that Barton gave a very peculiar grin as I mentioned the name; but my own securities being entered into, and a few formal questions answered, I was told I was at liberty to seek out the bail required.
Once more in the streets, I turned my steps towards Basset's house, where I hoped, at all events, to learn some tidings of my brother. I was not long in arriving at the street, and speedily recognized the old house, whose cobwebbed windows and unwashed look reminded me of former times. The very sound of the heavy iron knocker awoke its train of recollections; and when the door was opened, and I saw the narrow hall, with its cracked lamp and damp, discolored walls, the whole heart-sinking with which they once inspired me came back again, and I thought of Tony Basset when his very name was a thing of terror to me.
Mr. Basset, I was told, was at court, and I was shown into the office to await his return. The gloomy little den,—I knew it well, with its dirty shelves of dirtier papers, its old tin boxes, and its rickety desk, at which two meanly-dressed starveling youths were busy writing. They turned a rapid glance towards me as I entered; and as they resumed their occupation, I could hear a muttered remark upon my dress and appearance, the purport of which I did not catch.
I sat for some time patiently, expecting Basset's arrival, but as the time stole by, I grew wearied with waiting, and determined on ascertaining, if I might, from the clerks, some intelligence concerning my brother.
“Have you any business with Mr. Burke?” said the youth I addressed, while his features assumed an expression of vulgar jocularity.
“Yes,” was my brief reply.
“Wouldn't a letter do as well as a personal interview?” said the other, with an air of affected courtesy.
“Perhaps so,” I replied, too deeply engaged in my own thoughts to mind their flippant impertinence.
“Then mind you direct your letter 'Churchyard, Loughrea;' or, if you want to be particular, say 'Family vault.'”
“Is he dead? Is George dead?”
“That's hard to say,” interposed the other; “but they've buried him, that's certain.”
Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and jostled each other in my brain, and I could neither collect myself nor listen to what was said around me. My first clear memory was of a thousand little childish traits of love which had passed between us. Tokens of affection long forgotten now rushed freshly to my mind; and he whom a moment before I had condemned as wanting in all brotherly feeling, I now sorrowed for with true grief. The low and vulgar insolence of the speakers made no impression on me; and when, in answer to my questions, they narrated the manner of his death,—a fever contracted after some debauch at Oxford,—I only heard the tidings, but did not notice the unfeeling tone it was conveyed in.
My brother dead! the only one of kith or kindred belonging to me. How slight the tie seemed but a few moments back! what would I not give for it now? Then, for the first time, did I know how the heart can heap up its stores of consolation in secrecy, and how unconsciously the mind can dwell on hopes it has never confessed even to itself. How I fancied to myself our meeting, and thought over the long pent-up affection years of absence had accumulated, now flowing in a gushing stream from heart to heart I The grave is indeed hallowed when the grass of the churchyard can cover all memory save that of love. We dwell on every good gift of the lost one, as though no unworthy thought could cross that little mound of earth, the barrier between two worlds. Sad and sorrow-struck, I covered my face with my hands, and did not notice that Mr. Basset had entered, and taken his place at the desk.
His voice, every harsh tone of which I well remembered, first made me aware of his presence. I lifted my eyes, and there he stood, little changed indeed since I had seen him last. The hard lines about the mouth had grown deeper, the brow more furrowed, and the hair more mixed with gray, but in other respects he was the same. As I gazed at him I could not help fancying that time makes less impression on men of coarse, unfeeling mould, than on natures of a finer temper. The world's changes leave no trace on the stern surface of the one, while they are wearing deep tracks of sorrow in the other.
“Insert the advertisement again, Simms,” said he, addressing one of the clerks, “and let it appear in some paper of the seaport towns. Among the Flemish or French smugglers who frequent them, there might be some one to give the information. They must be able to show that though Thomas Burke—”
I started at the sound of my name. The motion surprised him; he looked round and perceived me. Quick and piercing as his glance was, I could not trace any sign of recognition; although, as he scanned my features, and suffered his eyes to wander over my dress, I perceived that his was no mere chance or cursory observation.
“Well, sir,” said he, at length, “is your business here with me?”
“Yes; but I would speak with you in private.”
“Come in here, then. Meanwhile, Sam, make out that deed; for we may go on without the proof of demise.”
Few and vague as the words were, their real meaning flashed on me, and I perceived that Mr. Basset was engaged in the search of some evidence of my death, doubtless to enable the heir-at-law to succeed to the estates of my brother. The moment the idea struck me, I felt assured of its certainty, and at once determined on the plan I should adopt.
“You have inserted an advertisement regarding a Mr. Burke,” said I, as soon as the door was closed, and we were alone together. “What are the particular circumstances of which you desire proof?”
“The place, date, and manner of his death,” replied he, slowly; “for though informed that such occurred abroad, an authentic evidence of the fact will save some trouble. Circumstances to identify the individual with the person we mean, of course, must be offered; showing whence he came, his probable age, and so on. For this intelligence I am prepared to pay liberally; at least a hundred pounds may be thought so.”
“It is a question of succession to some property, I have heard.”
“Yes; but the information is not of such moment as you may suppose,” replied he, quickly, and with the wariness of his calling anticipating the value I might be disposed to place on my intelligence. “We are satisfied with the fact of the death; and even were it otherwise, the individual most concerned is little likely to disprove the belief, his own reasons will probably keep him from visiting Ireland.”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed, the word escaping my lips ere I could check its utterance.
“Even so,” resumed he. “But this, of course, has no interest for you. Your accent bespeaks you a foreigner. Have you any information to offer on this matter?”
“Yes; if we speak of the same individual, who may have left this country about 1800 as a boy of some fourteen years of age, and entered the 'École Polytechnique' of Paris.”
“Like enough. Continue, if you please; what became of him afterwards?”
“He joined the French service, attained the rank of captain, and then left the army; came back to Ireland, and now, sir, stands before you.”
Mr. Basset never changed a muscle of his face as I made this declaration. So unmoved, so stolid was his look, that for a moment or two I believed him incredulous of my story. But this impression soon gave way, as with his eyes bent on me he said,—
“I knew you, sir, I knew you the moment I passed you in the office without; but it might have fared ill with you to have let my recognition appear.”
“As how? I do not understand you.”
“My clerks there might have given information for the sake of the reward; and once in Newgate, there was an end to all negotiation.”
“You must speak more intelligibly, sir, if you wish me to comprehend you. I am unaware of any circumstance which should threaten me with such a fate.”
“Have you forgotten Captain Crofts,—Montague Crofts?” said Basset, in a low whisper, while a smile of insulting malice crossed his features.
“No; I remember him well. What of him?”
“What of him! He charges you with a capital felony,—a crime for which the laws have little pity here, whatever your French habits may have taught you to regard it. Yes; the attempt to assassinate an officer in his Majesty's service, when foiled by him in an effort to seduce the soldiery, is an offence which might have a place in your memory.”
“Can the man be base enough to make such a charge as this against me,—a boy, as I then was?”
“You were not alone; remember that fact.”
“True; and most thankful am I for it. There is one, at least, can prove my innocence, if I can but discover him.”
“You will find that a matter of some difficulty. Your worthy friend and early preceptor was transported five years since.”
“Poor fellow! I could better bear to hear that he was dead.”
“There are many of your opinion on that head,” said Basset, with a savage grin. “But the fellow was too cunning for all the lawyers, and his conviction at last was only effected by a stratagem.”
“A stratagem!” exclaimed I, in amazement.
“It was neither more nor less. Darby was arraigned four several times, but always acquitted. Now it was defective evidence; now a lenient jury; now an informal indictment: but so was it, he escaped the meshes of the law, though every one knew him guilty of a hundred offences. At last Major Barton resolved on another expedient. Darby was arrested in Ennis; thrown into jail; kept four weeks in a dark cell, on prison fare; and at the end, one morning the hangman appeared to say his hour was come, and that the warrant for his execution had arrived. It was to take place, without judge or jury, within the four walls of the jail. The scheme succeeded; his courage fell, and he offered, if his life was spared, to plead guilty to any transportable felony for which the grand Jury would send up true bills. He did so, and was then undergoing the sentence.”
“Great heavens! and can such iniquity be tolerated in a land where men call themselves Christians?” exclaimed I, as I heard this to the end.
“Iniquity!” repeated he, in mockery; “to rid the country of a ruffian, stained with every crime,—a fellow mixed up in every outrage in the land? Is this your notion of iniquity? Not so do I reckon it. And if I have told you of it now, it is that you may learn that when loyal and well-affected men are trusted with the execution of the laws, the principle of justice is of more moment than the nice distinction of legal subtleties. You may learn a lesson from it worth acquiring.”
“I! how can it affect me or my fortunes?”
“More nearly than you think. I have told you of the accusation which hangs over your head; weigh it well, and deliberate what are your chances of escape. We must not waste time in discussing your innocence. The jury who will try the cause will be more difficult of belief than you suspect; neither the opinions you are charged with, your subsequent escape, nor your career in France, will contribute to your exculpation, even had you evidence to adduce in your favor. But you have not; your only witness is equally removed as by death itself. On what do you depend, then? Conscious innocence! Nine out of every ten who mount the scaffold proclaim the same; but I never heard that the voice that cried it stifled the word 'guilty.' No, sir; I tell you solemnly, you will be condemned!”
The tone of his voice as he spoke the last few words made my very blood run cold. The death of a soldier on the field of battle had no terrors for me; but the execrated fate of a felon I could not confront. The pallor of my cheek, the trembling of my limbs, must have betrayed my emotion; for even Basset seemed to pity me, and pressed me down into a chair.
“There is one way, however, to avoid all the danger,” said he, after a pause; “an easy and a certain way both. You have heard of the advertisements for information respecting your death, which it was surmised had occurred abroad. Now you are unknown here,—without a single acquaintance to recognize or remember you; why should not you, under another name, come forward with these proofs? By so doing, you secure your own escape and can claim the reward.”
“What! perjure myself that I may forfeit my inheritance!”
“As to the inheritance,” said he, sneeringly, “your tenure does not promise a very long enjoyment of it.”
“Were it but a day,—an hour!” exclaimed I, passionately; “I will make no compromise with my honor. On their own heads be it who sentence an innocent man to death; better such, even on a scaffold, than a life of ignominy and vain regret.”
“The dark hours of a jail change men's sentiments wonderfully,” said he, slowly. “I have known some who faced death in its wildest and most appalling shape, shrink from it like cowards when it came in the guise of a common executioner. Come, sir, be advised by me; reflect at least on what I have said, and if there be any path in life where a moderate sum may assist you—”
“Peace, sir! I beg of you to be silent. It may be that your counsel is prompted by kindly feeling towards me; but if you would have me think so, say no more of this,—my mind is made up.”
“Wait until to-morrow, in any case; perhaps some other plan may suggest itself. What say you to America? Have you any objection to go there?”
“Had you asked me the question an hour since, I had replied, 'None whatever.' Now it is different; my departure would be like the flight of a guilty man. I cannot do it.”
“Better the flight than the fate of one,” muttered Basset between his teeth, while at the same instant the sound of voices talking loudly together was heard in the hall without.
“Think again, before it is too late. Remember what I have told you. Your opinions, your career, your associates, are not such as to recommend you to the favorable consideration of a jury. Is your case strong enough to oppose all these? Sir Montague will make liberal terms; he has no desire to expose the calamities of a family.”
“Sir Montague!—of whom do you speak?”
“Sir Montague Crofts,” said Basset, reddening, for he had unwittingly suffered the name to escape his lips. “Are you ignorant that he is your relative? a distant one, it is true, but your nearest of kin notwithstanding.”
“And the heir to the estate?” said I, suddenly, as anew light flashed on my mind; “the heir, in the event of my life lapsing?”
Basset nodded an assent.
“You played a deep game, sir,” said I, drawing a long breath; “but you never were near winning it.”
“Nor you either,” said he, throwing wide the door between the two rooms; “I hear a voice without there, that settles the question forever.”
At the same instant, Major Barton entered, followed by two men.
“I suspected I should find you here, sir,” said he, addressing me. “You need scarcely trouble my worthy friend for his bail; I arrest you now under a warrant of felony.”
“A felony!” exclaimed Basset, with a counterfeited astonishment in his look. “Mr. Burke accused of such a crime!”
I could not utter a word; indignation and shame overpowered me, and merely motioning with my hand that I was ready to accompany him, I followed to the door, at which a carriage was standing, getting into which we drove towards Newgate.
If I have dwelt with unnecessary prolixity on this dark portion of my story, it is because the only lesson my life teaches has lain in similar passages. The train of evils which flows from one misdirection in early life,—the misfortunes which ensue from a single false and inconsiderate step,—frequently darken the whole subsequent career. This I now thought over in the solitude of my cell. However I could acquit myself of the crime laid to my charge, I could not so easily absolve my heart of the early folly which made me suppose that the regeneration of a land should be accomplished by the efforts of a sanguinary and bigoted rabble. To this error could I trace every false step I made in life,—to this cause attribute the long struggle I endured between my love of liberty and my detestation of mob rule; and yet how many years did it cost me to learn, that to alleviate the burdens of the oppressed may demand a greater exercise of tyranny than ever their rulers practised towards them. Like many others, I looked to France as the land of freedom; but where was despotism so unbounded! where the sway of one great mind so unlimited! They had bartered liberty for equality, and because the pressure was equal on all, they deemed themselves free; while the privileges of class with us suggested the sense of bondage to the poor man, whose actual freedom was yet unencumbered.
Of all the daydreams of my boyhood, the ambition of military glory alone survived; and that lived on amid the dreary solitude of my prison, comforting many a lonely hour by memories of the past. The glittering ranks of the mounted squadrons; the deep-toned thunder of the artillery; the solid masses of the infantry, immovable beneath the rush of cavalry,—were pictures I could dwell on for hours and days, and my dearest wish could point to no higher destiny than to be once more a soldier in the ranks of France.
During all this time my mind seldom reverted to the circumstances of my imprisonment, nor did I feel the anxiety for the result my position might well have suggested. The conscious sense of my innocence kept the flame of hope alive, without suffering it either to flicker or vary. It burned like a steady fire within me, and made even the dark cells of a jail a place of repose and tranquillity. And thus time rolled on: the hours of pleasure and happiness to thousands, too short and flitting for the enjoyments they brought. They went by also to the prisoner, as to one who waits on the bank of the stream, nor knows what fortune may await him on his voyage.
A stubborn feeling of conscious right had prevented my taking even the ordinary steps for my defence, and the day of trial was now drawing nigh without any preparation on my part. I was ignorant how essential the habits and skill of an advocate are in the conduct of every case, however simple; and implicitly relied on my guiltlessness, as though men can read the heart of a prisoner and know its workings. M'Dougall, the only member of the bar I knew even by name, had accepted a judicial appointment in India, and was already on his way thither, so that I had neither friend nor adviser in my difficulty. Were it otherwise, I felt I could scarcely have bent my pride to that detail of petty circumstances which an advocate might deem essential to my vindication; and was actually glad to think that I should owe the assertion of my innocence to nothing less than the pure fact.
When November at length arrived, I learned that the trial had been deferred to the following February; and so listless and indifferent had imprisonment made me, that I heard the intelligence without impatience or regret. The publicity of a court of justice, its exposure to the gaze and observation of the crowd who throng there, were subjects of more shrinking dread to my heart than the weight of an accusation which, though false, might peril my life; and for the first time I rejoiced that I was friendless. Yes! it brought balm and comfort to me to think that none would need to blush at my relationship nor weep over my fate. Sorrow has surely eaten deeply into our natures, when we derive pleasure and peace from what in happier circumstances are the sources of regret.
Let me now hasten on. My reader will readily forgive me if I pass with rapid steps over a portion of my story, the memory of which has not yet lost its bitterness. The day at last came; and amid all the ceremonies of a prison I was marched from my cell to the dock. How strange the sudden revolution of feeling,—from the solitude and silence of a jail to the crowded court, teeming with looks of eager curiosity, dread, or perhaps compassion, all turned towards him, who himself, half forgetful of his condition, gazes on the great mass in equal astonishment and surprise!
My thoughts at once recurred to a former moment of my life, when I stood accused among the Chouan prisoners before the tribunal of Paris. But though the proceedings were less marked by excitement and passion, the stern gravity of the English procedure was far more appalling; and in the absence of all which could stir the spirit to any effort of its own, it pressed with a more solemn dread on the mind of the prisoner.
I have said I would not linger over this part of my life. I could not do so if I would. Real events, and the impressions they made upon me,—facts, and the passing emotions of my mind,—are strangely confused and commingled in my memory; and although certain minute and trivial things are graven in my recollection, others of moment have escaped me unrecorded.
The usual ceremonial went forward: the jury were impanelled, and the clerk of the Crown read aloud the indictment, to which my plea of “Not guilty” was at once recorded; then the judge asked if I were provided with counsel, and hearing that I was not, appointed a junior barrister to act for me, and the trial began.
I was not the first person who, accused of a crime of which he felt innocent, yet was so overwhelmed by the statements of imputed guilt,—so confused by the inextricable web of truth and falsehood, artfully entangled.—that he actually doubted his own convictions when opposed to views so strongly at variance with them.
The first emotion of the prisoner is a feeling of surprise to discover, that one utterly a stranger—the lawyer he has perhaps never seen, whose name he never so much as heard of—is perfectly conversant with his own history, and as it were by intuition seems acquainted with his very thoughts and motives. Tracing out not only a line of acting but of devising, he conceives a story of which the accused is the hero, and invests his narrative with all the appliances to belief which result from time and place and circumstance. No wonder that the very accusation should strike terror into the soul; no wonder that the statement of guilt should cause heart-sinking to him who, conscious that all is not untrue, may feel that his actions can be viewed in another and very different light to that which conscience sheds over them.
Such, so far as I remember, was the channel of my thoughts. At first mere astonishment at the accuracy of detail regarding my name, age, and condition in life, was uppermost; and then succeeded a sense of indignant anger at the charges laid against me; which yielded gradually to a feeling of confusion as the advocate continued; which again merged into a sort of dubious fear as I heard many trivial facts repeated, some of which my refreshed memory acknowledged as true, but of which my puzzled brain could not detect the inapplicability to sustain the accusation,—all ending in a chaos of bewilderment, where conscience itself was lost, and nothing left to guide or direct the reason.
The counsel informed the jury that, although they were not placed in the box to try me on any charge of a political offence, they must bear in mind, that the murderous assault of which I was accused was merely part of a system organized to overthrow the Government; that, young as I then was, I was in intimate connection with the disaffected party which the mistaken leniency of the Crown had not thoroughly eradicated on the termination of the late rebellion, my constant companion being one whose crimes were already undergoing their but too merciful punishment in transportation for life; that, to tamper with the military, I had succeeded in introducing myself into the barrack, where I obtained the confidence of a weak-minded but good-natured officer of the regiment.
“These schemes,” continued he, “were but partially successful. My distinguished client was then an officer of the corps; and with that ever-watchful loyalty which has distinguished him, he determined to keep a vigilant eye on this intruder, who, from circumstances of youth and apparent innocence, already had won upon the confidence of the majority of the regiment. Nor was this impression a false one. An event, apparently little likely to unveil a treasonable intention, soon unmasked the true character of the prisoner and the nature of his mission.”
He then proceeded to narrate with circumstantial accuracy the night in the George's Street barracks, when Hilliard, Crofts, and some others came with Bubbleton to his quarters to decide a wager between two of the parties. Calling the attention of the jury to this part of the case, he detailed the scene which occurred; and, if I could trust my memory, not a phrase, not a word escaped him which had been said.
“It was then, gentlemen,” said he, “at that instant, that the prisoner's habitual caution failed him, and in an unguarded moment developed the full story of his guilt. Captain Bubbleton lost his wager, of which my client was the winner. The habits of the service are peremptory in these matters; it was necessary that payment should be made at once. Bubbleton had not the means of discharging his debt, and while he looked around among his comrades for assistance, the prisoner steps forward and supplies the sum. Mark what followed.
“A sudden call of service now summoned the officers beneath; all save Crofts, who, not being on duty, had no necessity for accompanying them. The bank-note so opportunely furnished by the prisoner lay on the table; and this Crofts proceeded leisurely to open and examine before he left the room. Slowly unfolding the paper, he spread it out before him; and what, think you, gentlemen, did the paper display? A Bank of England bill for twenty pounds, you'll say, of course. Far from it, indeed! The paper was a French assignat, bearing the words, 'Payez au porteur la somme de deux mille livres.' Yes; the sum so carelessly thrown on the table by this youth was an order for eighty pounds, issued by the French Government.
“Remember the period, gentlemen, when this occurred. We had just passed the threshold of a most fearful and sanguinary rebellion,—the tranquillity of the land scarce restored after a convulsion that shook the very constitution and the throne to their centres. The interference of France in the affairs of the country had not been a mere threat; her ships had sailed, her armies had landed, and though the bravery and the loyalty of our troops had made the expedition result in utter defeat and overthrow, the emissaries of the land of anarchy yet lingered on our shores, and disseminated that treason in secret which openly they dared not proclaim. If they were sparing of their blood, they were lavish of their gold; what they failed in courage they supplied in assignats. Large promises of gain, rich offers of booty, were rife throughout the land; and wherever disaffection lurked or rebellion lingered, the enemy of England found congenial allies. Nothing too base, nothing too low, for this confederacy of crime; neither was anything too lowly in condition or too humble in efficiency. Treason cannot choose its agents; it must take the tools which chance and circumstances offer: they may be the refuse of mankind, but if inefficient for good, they are not the less active for evil. Such a one was the youth who now stands a prisoner before you, and here was the price of his disloyalty.”
At these words he held up triumphantly the French assignat, and waved it before the eyes of the court. However little the circumstances weighed within me, such was the impression manifestly produced upon the jury by this piece of corroborative evidence, that a thrill of anxiety for the result ran suddenly through me.
Until that moment I believed Darby had repossessed himself of the assignat when Crofts lay insensible on the ground; at least I remembered well that he stooped over him and appeared to take something from him. While I was puzzling my mind on this point, I did not remark that the lawyer was proceeding to impress on the jury the full force of conviction such a circumstance implied.
The offer I had made to Crofts to barter the assignat for an English note; my urgent entreaty to have it restored to me; the arguments I had employed to persuade him that no suspicion could attach to my possession of it,—were all narrated with so little of exaggeration that I was actually unable to say what assertion I could object to, while I was conscious that the inferences sought to be drawn from them were false and unjust.
Having displayed with consummate skill the critical position this paper had involved me in, he took the opportunity of contrasting the anxiety I evinced for my escape from my difficulty, with the temperate conduct of my antagonist, whose loyalty left him no other course than to retain possession of the note, and inquire into the circumstances by which it reached my hands.
Irritated by the steady determination of Crofts, it was said that I endeavored by opprobrious epithets and insulting language to provoke a quarrel, which a sense of my inferiority as an antagonist rendered a thing impossible to be thought of. Baffled in every way, I was said to have rushed from the room, double-locking it on the outside, and hurried down the stairs and out of the barrack; not to escape, however, but with a purpose very different,—to return in a few moments accompanied by three fellows, whom I passed with the guard as men wishing to recruit. To ascend the stairs, unlock the door, and fall on the imprisoned officer, was the work of an instant. His defence, although courageous and resolute, was but brief. His sword being broken, he was felled by a blow of a bludgeon, and thus believed dead. The ruffians ransacked his pockets, and departed.
The same countersign which admitted, passed them out as they went; and when morning broke the wounded man was found weltering in his blood, but with life still remaining, and strength enough to recount what had occurred. By a mere accident, it was stated, the French bank-note had not been consigned to his pocket, but fell during the struggle, and was discovered the next day on the floor.
These were the leading features of an accusation, which, however improbable while thus briefly and boldly narrated, hung together with a wonderful coherence in the speech of the lawyer, supported as they were by the number of small circumstances corroboratory of certain immaterial portions of the story. Thus, the political opinions I professed; the doubtful—nay, equivocal—position I occupied; the intercourse with France or Frenchmen, as proved by the billet de banque; my sudden disappearance after the event, and my escape thither, where I continued to live until, as it was alleged, I believed that years had eradicated all trace of, if not my crime, myself,—such were the statements displayed with all the specious inferences of habitual plausibility, and to confirm which by evidence Sir Montague Crofts was called to give his testimony.
There was a murmur of expectancy through the court as this well-known individual's name was pronounced; and in a few moments the throng around the inner bar opened, and a tall figure appeared upon the witness table. The same instant that I caught sight of his features he had turned his glance on me, and we stood for some seconds confronting each other. Mutual defiance seemed the gage between us; and I saw, with a thrill of savage pleasure, that after a minute or so his cheek flushed, and he averted his face and appeared ill at ease and uncomfortable.
To the first questions of the lawyer he answered with evident constraint, and in a low, subdued voice; but soon recovering his self-possession, gave his testimony freely and boldly, corroborating by his words all the statements of his advocate. By both the court and the jury he was heard with attention and deference; and when he took a passing occasion to allude to his loyalty and attachment to the constitution, the senior judge interrupted him by saying,—
“On that point, Sir Montague, no second opinion can exist. Your character for unimpeachable honor is well known to the court.”
The examination was brief, lasting scarcely half an hour; and when the young lawyer came forward to put some questions as cross-examination, his want of instruction and ignorance were at once seen, and the witness was dismissed almost immediately.
Sir Montague's advocate declined calling any other witness. The regiment to which his client then belonged was on foreign service; but he felt satisfied that the case required nothing in addition to the evidence the jury had heard.
A few moments of deliberation ensued among the members of the bench; and then the senior judge called on my lawyer to proceed with the defence.
The young barrister rose with diffidence, and expressed in few words his inability to rebut the statements that had been made by any evidence in his power to produce. “The prisoner, my lord,” said he, “has confided nothing to me of his case. I am ignorant of everything, save what has taken place in open court.”
“It is true, my lord,” said I, interrupting. “The facts of this unhappy circumstance are known but to three individuals. You have already heard the version which one of them has given; you shall now hear mine. The third, whose testimony might incline the balance in my favor, is, I am told, no longer in this country; and I have only to discharge the debt I feel due to myself and to my own honor, by narrating the real occurrence, and leave the issue in your hands, to deal with as your consciences may dictate.”
With the steadiness of purpose truth inspires, and in few words, I narrated the whole of my adventure with Crofts, down to the moment of Darby's sudden appearance. I told of what passed between us; and how the altercation, that began in angry words, terminated in a personal struggle, where, as the weaker, I was overcome, and lay beneath the weapon of my antagonist, by which already I had received a severe and dangerous wound.
“I should hesitate here, my lords,” said I, “before I spoke of one who then came to my aid, if I did not know that he is already removed by a heavy sentence, both from the penalty his gallant conduct might call down on him, and the enmity which the prosecutor would as certainly pursue him with. But he is beyond the reach of either, and I may speak of him freely.”
I then told of Darby's appearance that night in the barrack, disguised as a ballad-singer; how in this capacity he passed the sentry, and was present in the room when the officers entered to decide the wager; that he had quitted it soon after their arrival, and only returned on hearing the noise of the scuffle between Crofts and myself. The struggle itself I remembered but imperfectly, but so far as my memory bore me out, recapitulated to the court.
“I will relate, my lords,” said I, “the few events which followed,—not that they can in any wise corroborate the plain statement I have made, nor indeed that they bear, save remotely, on the events mentioned; but I will do so in the hope,—a faint hope it is,—that in this court there might be found some one person who could add his testimony to mine, and say, 'This is true; to that I can myself bear witness.'”
With this brief preface, I told how Darby had brought me to a house in an obscure street, in which a man, apparently dying, was stretched upon a miserable bed; that while my wound was being dressed, a car came to the door with the intention of conveying the sick man away somewhere. This, however, was deemed impossible, so near did his last hour appear; and in his place I was taken off, and placed on board the vessel bound for France.
“Of my career in that country it is needless that I should speak; it can neither throw light upon the events which preceded it, nor have any interest for the court My commission as a captain of the Imperial Hussars may, however, testify the position that I occupied; while the certificate of the minister of war on the back will show that I quitted the service voluntarily, and with honor.”
“The court would advise you, sir,” said the judge, “not to advert to circumstances which, while they contribute nothing to your exculpation, may have a very serious effect on the minds of the jury against you. Have you any witnesses to call?”
“None, my lord.”
A pause of some minutes ensued, when the only sounds in the court were the whispering tones of Crofts's voice, as he said something into his counsel's ear. The lawyer rose.
“My task, my lords,” said he, “is a short one. Indeed, in all probability, I need not trouble either your lordships or the jury with an additional word on a case where the evidence so conclusively establishes the guilt of the accused, and where attempt to contradict it has been so abortive. Never, perhaps, was a story narrated within the walls of a court so full of improbable—might I not almost say impossible—events, as that of the prisoner.”
He then recapitulated, with rapid but accurate detail, the principal circumstances of my story, bestowing some brief comment on each as he went. He sneered at the account of the struggle, and turned the whole description of the contest with Crofts into ridicule,—calling on the jury to bestow a glance on the manly strength and vigorous proportions of his client, and then remember the age of his antagonist,—a boy of fourteen.
“I forgot, gentlemen (I ask your pardon), he confesses to one ally,—this famous piper. I really did hope that was a name we had done with forever. I indulged the dream, that among the memories of an awful period this was never to recur; but unhappily the expectation was delusive. The fellow is brought once more before us; and perhaps, for the first time in his long life of iniquity, charged with a crime he did not commit.” In a few sentences he explained that a large reward was at that very moment offered for the apprehension of Darby, who never would have ventured under any disguise to approach the capital, much less trust himself within the walls of a barrack.
“The tissue of wild and inconsistent events which the prisoner has detailed as following the assault, deserves no attention at my hands. Where was this house? What was the street? Who was this doctor of which he speaks? And the sick man, how was he called?”
“I remember his name well; it is the only one I remember among all I heard,” said I, from the dock.
“Let us hear it, then,” said the lawyer, half contemptuously.
“Daniel Fortescue was the name he was called by.”
Scarcely was the name uttered by me, when Crofts leaned back in his seat and became pale as death; while, stretching out his hand, he took hold of the lawyer's gown and drew him towards him. For a second or two he continued to speak with rapid utterance in the advocate's ear; and then covering his face with his handkerchief, leaned his head on the rail before him.
“It is necessary, my lords,” said the lawyer, “that I should explain the reason of my client's emotion, and at the same time unveil the baseness which has dictated this last effort of the prisoner, if not to injure the reputation, to wound the feelings, of my client. The individual whose name has been mentioned was the half brother of my client; and whose unhappy connection with the disastrous events of the year '98 involved him in a series of calamities which ended in his death, which took place in the year 1800, but some months earlier than the circumstance which we now are investigating. The introduction of this unhappy man's name was, then, a malignant effort of the prisoner to insult the feelings of my client, on which your lordships and the jury will place its true value.”
A murmur of disapprobation ran through the crowded court as these words were spoken; but whether directed against me or against the comment of the lawyer I could not determine; nor, such was the confusion I then felt, could I follow the remainder of the advocate's address with anything like clearness. At last he concluded; and the chief justice, after a whispered conversation with his brethren of the bench, thus began:—
“Gentlemen of the jury, the case which you have this day to try, to my mind presents but one feature of doubt and difficulty. The great fact for your consideration is, to determine to which of two opposite and conflicting testimonies you will accord your credence. On the one side you have the story of the prosecutor, a man of position and character, high in the confidence of honorable men, and invested with all the attributes of rank and station; on the other, you have a narrative strongly coherent in some parts, equally difficult to account for in others, given by the prisoner, whose life, even by his own showing, has none of those recommendations to your good opinions which are based on loyalty and attachment to the constitution of these realms. Both testimonies are unsupported by any collateral evidence. The prosecutor's regiment is in India, and the only witnesses he could adduce are many thousand miles off. The prisoner appeals also to the absent, but with less of reason; for if we could call this man, M'Keown, before us,—if, I say, we had this same Darby M'Keown in court—”
A tremendous uproar in the hall without drowned the remainder of the sentence; and although the crier loudly proclaimed silence, and the bench twice interposed its authority to enforce it, the tumult continued, and eventually extended within the court itself, where all semblance of respect seemed suddenly annihilated.
“If this continues one moment longer,” exclaimed the chief justice, “I will commit to Newgate the very first disorderly person I can discover.”
The threat, however, did but partially calm the disturbance, which, in a confused murmur, prevailed from the benches of the counsel to the very galleries of the court.
“What means this?” said the judge, in a voice of anger. “Who is it that dares to interfere with the administration of justice here?”
“A witness,—a witness, my lord,” called out several voices from the passage of the court; while a crowd pushed violently forward, and came struggling onwards till the leading figures were pressed over the inner bar.
Again the judge repeated his question, while he made a signal for the officer of the court to approach him.
“'Tis me, my lord,” shouted a deep-toned voice from the middle of the crowd. “Your lordship was asking for Darby M'Keown, and it isn't himself's ashamed of the name!”
A perfect yell of approval broke from the ragged mob, which now filled every avenue and passage of the court, and even jammed up the stairs and the entrance halls. And now, raised upon the shoulders of the crowd, Darby appeared, borne aloft in triumph; his broad and daring face, bronzed with sun and weather, glowed with a look of reckless effrontery, which no awe of the court nor any fear for himself was able to repress.
Of my own sensations while this scene was enacting I need not speak; and as I gazed at the weather-beaten features of the hardy piper, it demanded every effort of my reason to believe in the testimony of my eyesight. Had he come back from death itself the surprise would scarcely have been greater. Meanwhile the tumult was allayed; and the lawyers on either side—for, now that a glimmer of hope appeared, my advocate had entered with spirit on his duties—were discussing the admissibility of evidence at the present stage of the proceedings. This point being speedily established in my favor, another and a graver question arose: how far the testimony of a convicted felon—for such the lawyer at once called Darby—could be received as evidence.
Cases were quoted and authorities shown to prove that such cannot be heard as witnesses,—that they are among those whom the law pronounces infamous and unworthy of credit; and while the lawyer continued to pour forth on this topic a perfect ocean of arguments, he was interrupted by the court, who affirmed the opinion, and concurred in his view of the case.
“It only remains, then, my lord,” said my counsel, “for the Crown to establish the identity of the individual—”
“Nothing easier,” interposed the other.
“I beg pardon; I was about to add,—and produce the record of his conviction.”
This last seemed a felling blow; for although the old lawyer never evinced here or at any other time the slightest appearance of discomfiture at any opposition, I could see by the puckering of the deep lines around his mouth that he felt vexed and annoyed by this new suggestion.
An eager and animated discussion ensued, in which my advocate was assisted by the advice of some senior counsel; and again the point was ruled in my favor, and Darby M'Keown was desired to mount the table.
It required all the efforts of the various officers of the court to repress another outbreak of mob enthusiasm at the decision; for already the trial had assumed a feature perfectly distinct from any common infraction of the law. Its political bearing had long since imparted a character of party warfare to the whole proceeding; and while Sir Montague Crofts found his well-wishers among the better dressed and more respectable persons present, a much more numerous body of supporters claimed me as their own, and in defiance of all the usages and solemnity of the place, did not scruple to bestow on me looks and even words of encouragement at every stage of the trial. Darby's appearance was the climax of this popular enthusiasm. There were few who had not seen, or at least heard of, the celebrated piper in times past. His daring infraction of the law; his reputed skill in evading detection; his acquaintance with every clew and circumstance of the late rebellion; the confidence he enjoyed among all the leaders—had made him a hero in a land where such qualities are certain of obtaining their due estimation. And now, the reckless effrontery of his presence as a witness in a court of justice while the sentence of transportation still hung over him, was a claim to admiration none refused to acknowledge.
His air and demeanor as he took his seat on the table seemed an acknowledgment of the homage rendered him: for though, as he placed his worn and ragged hat beside his feet, and stroked down his short black hair on his forehead, a careless observer might have suspected him of feeling awed and abashed by the presence in which he sat, one more conversant with his countrymen would have detected in the quiet leer of his roguish black eye, and a certain protrusion of his thick under lip, that Darby was as perfectly at his ease there as the eminent judge was who now fixed his eyes upon him. A short, but not disrespectful nod was the only notice he bestowed on me; and then concealing his joined hands within his sleeves, and drawing his legs back beneath the chair, he assumed that attitude of mock humility your least bashful Irishman is so commonly fond of.
The veteran barrister was meanwhile surveying the witness with the peculiar scrutiny of his caste: he looked at him through his spectacles, and then he stared at him above them; he measured him from head to foot, his eye dwelling on every little circumstance of his dress or demeanor, as though to catch some clew to his habits of thinking or acting. Never did a matador survey the brawny animal with which he was about to contend in skill or strength with more critical acumen than did the lawyer regard Darby the Blast. Nor was the object of this examination unaware of it; very far from this, indeed. He seemed pleased by the degree of attention bestowed on him, and felt all the flattery such notice conveyed; but while doing so, you could only detect his satisfaction in an occasional sidelong look of drollery, which, brief and fleeting as it was, had still a numerous body of admirers through the court, whose muttered expressions of “Divil fear ye, Darby! but ye 're up to them any day;” or “Faix! 't is himself cares little about them!” showed they had no lack of confidence in the piper.