While the “Morning Post” of a certain day, some twenty years ago, was chronicling the illustrious guests who partook of his Majesty's hospitalities at Windsor, the “Dublin Evening Mail,” under the less pretentious heading of “Viceregal Court,” gave a list of those who had dined with his Excellency at the Lodge.
There was not anything very striking or very new in the announcement. Our dramatis personæ, in this wise, are limited; and after the accustomed names of the Lord Chancellor and Mrs. Dobbs, the Master of the Rolls and Mrs. Wiggins, Colonel Somebody of the 105th, Sir Felix and Miss Slasher, you invariably find the catalogue close with an un-der-secretary, a king-at-arms, and the inevitable Captain Lawrence Belcour, the aide-de-camp in waiting!—these latter recorded somewhat in the same spirit that the manager of a provincial theatre swells the roll of his company, by the names of the machinist, the scene-painter, and the leader of the band! We have no peculiar concern, however, with this fact, save that on the day in question our old friend Joseph Nelligan figured as a vice-regal guest. It was the first time he had been so honored, and, although not of a stamp to attach any great prize to the distinction, he was well aware that the recognition was intended as an honor; the more, when an aide-de-camp signified to him that his place at table was on one side of his Excellency.
When this veracious history first displayed young Nelligan at a dinner-party, his manner was shy and constrained; his secluded, student-like habits had given him none of that hardihood so essential in society. If he knew little of passing topics, he knew less of the tone men used in discussing them; and now, although more conversant with the world and its ways, daily brought into contact with the business of life, his social manner remained pretty nearly the same cold, awkward, and diffident thing it had been at first. Enlist him in a great subject, or call upon him on a great occasion, and he could rise above it; place him in a position to escape notice, and you never heard more of him.
The dinner company on this day contained nothing very formidable, either on the score of station or ability,—a few bar celebrities with their wives, an eccentric dean with a daughter, a garrison colonel or two, three country squires, and a doctor from Merrion Square. It was that interregnal period between the time when the castle parties included the first gentry of the land, and that later era when the priest and the agitator became the favored guests of vice-royalty. It is scarce necessary to say it was, as regards agreeability, inferior to either. There was not the courtly urbanity and polished pleasantry of a very accomplished class; nor was there the shrewd and coarse but racy intelligence of Mr. O'Connell's followers.
The Marquis of Reckington had come over to Ireland to “inaugurate,” as the newspapers called it, a new policy; that is, he was to give to the working of the relief bill an extension and a significance which few either of its supporters or opposers in Parliament ever contemplated. The inequality of the Romanist before the law he might have borne; social depreciation was a heavier evil, and one quite intolerable. Now, as the change to the new system required considerable tact and address, they intrusted the task to a most accomplished and well-bred gentleman; and were Ireland only to be won by dinner-parties, Lord Reckington must have been its victor.
To very high rank and great personal advantages he united a manner of the most perfect kind. Dignified enough always to mark his station and his own consciousness of it, it was cordial without effort, frank and easy without display. If he could speak with all the weight of authority, he knew how to listen with actual deference; and there was that amount of change and “play” in his demeanor that made his companion, whoever for the moment he might be, believe that his views and arguments had made a deep impression on the Viceroy. To those unacquainted with such men, and the school to which they belong, there might have appeared something unreal, almost dramatic, in the elegant gracefulness of his bow, the gentle affability of his smile, the undeviating courtesy which he bestowed on all around him; but they were all of the man himself,—his very instincts,—his nature.
It had apparently been amongst his Excellency's instructions from his government to seek out such rising men of the Roman Catholic party as might be elevated and promoted on the just claims of their individual merits,—men, in fact, whose conduct and bearing would be certain to justify their selection for high office. It could not be supposed that a party long proscribed, long estranged from all participation in power, could be rich in such qualifications. At the bar, the ablest men usually threw themselves into the career of politics, and of course by strong partisanship more or less prejudiced their claims to office. It was rare indeed to find one who, with the highest order of abilities, was satisfied to follow a profession whose best rewards were denied him. Such was Joseph Nelligan when he was first “called,” and such he continued to the very hour we now see him. Great as had been his college successes, his triumphs at the bar overtopped them all. They who remembered his shy and reserved manner wondered whence he came by his dignity; they who knew his youth could not imagine how he came by his “law.”
Mr. M'Casky, the castle law-adviser, an old recruiting-serjeant of capacities, who had “tipped the shilling” to men of every party, had whispered his name to the Under-Secretary, who had again repeated it to the Viceroy. He was, as M'Casky said, “the man they wanted, with talent enough to confront the best of the opposite party, and wealthy enough to want nothing that can figure in a budget.” Hence was he, then, there a favored guest, and seated on his Excellency's left hand.
For the magic influence of that manner which we have mentioned as pertaining to the Viceroy, we ask for no better evidence than the sense of perfect ease which Joe Nelligan now enjoyed. The suave dignity of the Marquis was blended with a something like personal regard, a mysterious intimation that seemed to say, “This is the sort of man I have long been looking for; how gratifying that I should have found him at last!” They concurred in so many points, too, not merely in opinions, but actually in the very expressions by which they characterized them; and when at last his Excellency, having occasion to quote something he had said, called him “Nelligan,” the spell was complete.
Oh dear! when we torture our brains to legislate for apothecaries, endeavoring in some way or other to restrict the sale of those subtle ingredients on every grain or drop of which a human life may hang, why do we never think of those far more subtle elements of which great people are the dispensers,—flatteries more soothing than chloroform, smiles more lulling than poppy-juice! Imagine poor Nelligan under a course of this treatment, dear reader; fancy the delicious poison as it insinuates itself through his veins, and if you have ever been so drugged yourself, picture to your mind all the enjoyment he experienced.
By one of those adroit turns your social magician is master of, the Viceroy had drawn the conversation towards Nelligan's county and his native town.
“I was to have paid a visit to poor Martin there,” said he, “and I certainly should have looked in upon you.”
Nelligan's cheek was in a flame; pride and shame were both there, warring for the mastery.
“Poor fellow!” said his Excellency, who saw the necessity of a diversion, “I fear that he has left that immense estate greatly embarrassed. Some one mentioned to me, the other day, that the heir will not succeed to even a fourth of the old property.”
“I have heard even worse, my Lord,” said Nelligan. “There is a rumor that he is left without a shilling.”
“How very shocking! They are connections of my own!” said the Viceroy; as though what he said made the misery attain its climax.
“I am aware, my Lord, that Lady Dorothea is related to your Excellency, and I am surprised you have not heard the stories I allude to.”
“But perhaps I am incorrect,” said the Marquis. “It may be that I have heard them; so many things pass through one's ears every day. But here is Colonel Mas-singbred; he 's sure to know it. Massingbred, we want some news of the Martins—the Martins of—what is it called?”
“Cro' Martin, my Lord,” said Nelligan, reddening.
“I hold the very latest news of that county in my hand, my Lord,” replied the Secretary. “It is an express from my son, who writes from Oughterard.”
Nelligan stood, scarcely breathing, with impatience to hear the tidings.
Colonel Massingbred ran his eyes over the first page of the letter, murmuring to himself the words; then turning over, he said: “Yes, here it is,—'While I write this, the whole town is in a state of intense excitement; the magistrates have sent in for an increased force of police, and even soldiery, to repress some very serious disturbances on the Martin property. It would appear that Merl—the man who assumes to claim the property, as having purchased the reversion from young Martin—was set upon by a large mob, and pursued, himself and his friends, for several miles across the country. They escaped with their lives, but have arrived here in a lamentable plight. There is really no understanding these people. It was but the other day, and there was no surer road to their favor than to abuse and vilify these same Martins, and now they are quite ready to murder any one who aspires to take their place. If one was to credit the stories afloat, they have already wreaked a fatal vengeance on some fellows employed by Merl to serve notices on the tenantry; but I believe that the outrages have really gone no further than such maltreatment as Irishmen like to give, and are accustomed to take.'”
Here his Excellency laughed heartily, and Joe Nelligan looked grave.
Massingbred read on: “'Without being myself a witness to it, I never could have credited the almost feudal attachment of these people to an “Old House.” The Radical party in the borough are, for the moment, proscribed, and dare not show themselves in the streets; and even Magennis, who so lately figured as an enemy to the Martins, passed through the town this morning with his wife, with a great banner flying over his jaunting-car, inscribed “The Martins for Ever!” This burst of sentiment on his part, I ought to mention, was owing to a most devoted piece of heroism performed by Miss Martin, who sought out the lost one and brought her safely back, through a night of such storm and hurricane as few ever remember. Such an act, amidst such a people, is sure of its reward. The peasantry would, to a man, lay down their lives for her; and coming critically, as the incident did, just when a new proprietor was about to enforce his claim, you can fancy the added bitterness it imparted to their spirit of resistance. I sincerely trust that the magistrates will not accede to the demand for an increased force. A terrible collision is sure to be the result, and I know enough of these people to be aware of what can be done by a little diplomacy, particularly when the right negotiator is employed. I mean, therefore, to go over and speak to Mr. Nelligan, who is the only man of brains amongst the magistrates here.'”
“A relative, I presume,” said his Excellency.
“My father, my Lord,” replied Joe, blushing.
“Oh! here is the result of his interview,” said Massing-bred, turning to the foot of the page. “'Nelligan quite agreed in the view I had taken, and said the people would assuredly disarm and perhaps destroy any force we could send against them. He is greatly puzzled what course to adopt; and when I suggested the propriety of invoking Miss Martin's aid, told me that this is out of the question, since she is on a sick-bed. While we were speaking, a Dublin physician passed through on his way to visit her. This really does add to the complication, for she is, perhaps, the only one who could exert a great influence over the excited populace. In any other country it might read strangely, that it was to a young lady men should have recourse in a moment of such peril; but this is like no other country, the people like no other people, the young lady herself, perhaps, like no other young lady!'”
By a scarcely perceptible movement of his head, and a very slight change of voice, Colonel Massingbred intimated to the Viceroy that there was something for his private ear, and Lord Reckington stepped back to hear it. Nelligan, too deeply occupied in his own thoughts to remark the circumstance, stood in the same place, silent and motionless.
“It is to this passage,” whispered the Secretary, “I want to direct your Excellency's attention: 'All that I see here,' my son writes,—'all that I see here is a type of what is going on, at large, over the island. Old families uprooted, old ties severed; the people, with no other instinct than lawlessness, hesitating which side to take. Their old leaders, only bent upon the political, have forgotten the social struggle, and thus the masses are left without guidance or direction. It is my firm conviction that the Church of Rome will seize the happy moment to usurp an authority thus unclaimed, and the priest step in between the landlord and the demagogue; and it is equally my belief that you can only retard, not prevent, this consummation. If you should be of my opinion, and be able to induce his Excellency to think with us, act promptly and decisively. Enlist the Roman Catholic laity in your cause before you be driven to the harder compact of having to deal with the clergy. And first of all, make—for fortunately you have the vacancy,—make young Nelligan your solicitor-general.'”
The Viceroy gave a slight start, and smiled. He had not, as yet, accustomed his mind to such bold exercise of his patronage. He lived, however, to get over this sensation.
“My son,” resumed Massingbred, “argues this at some length. If you permit, I 'll leave the letter in your Excellency's hands. In fact, I read it very hurriedly, and came over here the moment I glanced my eyes over this passage.”
His Excellency took the letter, and turned to address a word to Joe Nelligan, but he had left the spot.
“Belcour,” said the Viceroy, “tell Mr. Nelligan I wish to speak to him. I shall be in the small drawing-room. I 'll talk with him alone. Massingbred, be ready to come when I shall send for you.”
The Viceroy sat alone by the fire, pondering over all he had heard. There was, indeed, that to ponder over, even in the brief, vague description of the writer. “The difficulties of Ireland,” as it was the fashion of the day to call them, were not such as government commissions discover, or blue books describe; they lay deeper than the legislative lead-line ever reaches,—many a fathom down below statutes and Acts of Parliament. They were in the instincts, the natures, the blood of a people who had never acknowledged themselves a conquered nation. Perhaps his Excellency lost himself in speculations, mazy and confused enough to addle deeper heads. Perhaps he was puzzled to think how he could bring the Cabinet to see these things, or the importance that pertained to them; who knows? At all events, time glided on, and still he was alone. At length the aide-de-camp appeared, and with an air of some confusion, said,—“It would appear, my Lord, that Mr. Nelligan has gone away.”
“Why, he never said good-night; he did n't take leave of me!” said the Viceroy, smiling.
The aide-de-camp slightly elevated his brows, as though to imply his sense of what it might not have become him to characterize in words.
“Very strange, indeed!” repeated his Excellency; “is n't it, Belcour?”
“Very strange, indeed, your Excellency,” said the other, bowing.
“There could have been no disrespect in it,” said his Lordship, good-humoredly; “of that I'm quite certain. Send Colonel Massingbred here.”
“He's gone off, Massingbred,” said the Viceroy, as the other appeared.
“So I have just learned, my Lord. I conclude he was not aware—that he was unacquainted with—”
“Oh, of course, Massingbred,” broke in the Viceroy, laughing, “the fault is all with my predecessors in office; they never invited these men as they ought to have done. Have you sounded M'Casky as to the appointment?”
“Yes, my Lord; he thinks 'we might do worse.'”
“A qualified approval, certainly. Perhaps he meant we might select himself!”
“I rather opine, my Lord, that he regards Nelligan's promotion as likely to give offence to Mr. O'Connell, unless that he be himself consulted upon it.”
“Then comes the question, Who is it governs this country, Colonel Massingbred?” said the Marquis; and for the first time a flash of angry meaning darkened his cheeks. “If I be here,”—he stopped and hesitated,—“if you and I be here only to ratify appointments made by irresponsible individuals,—if we hold the reins of power only to be told where we 're to drive to,—I must own the office is not very dignified, nor am I patient enough to think it endurable.”
“M'Casky only suggested that it might be advisable to see O'Connell on the subject, not, as it were, to pass him over in conferring the appointment.”
“I cannot at all concur in this view, Massingbred,” said the Marquis, proudly; “there could be no such humiliation in the world as a patronage administered in this wise. Write to Nelligan; write to him to-night. Say that his abrupt departure alone prevented my making to him personally the offer of the solicitorship; add that you have my directions to place the office in his hands, and express a strong wish, on your own part, that he may not decline it.”
Massingbred bowed in acquiescence, and after a pause his Excellency went on:—
“There would be no objection to your adding something to the effect that my selection of him was prompted by motives in which party has no share; that his acknowledged eminence at the bar,—a character to which even political opponents bear honorable testimony,—in fact, Massingbred,” added he, impatiently, “if the appointment should come to be questioned in the House, let us have it on record that we made it solely on motives directed to the public service. You understand me?”
“I think so, my Lord,” said Massingbred, and withdrew.
If it were not that other cares and other interests call us away, we would gladly linger a little longer to speculate on the Viceroy's thoughts as he reseated himself by the fire. His brow was overcast and his features clouded. Was it that he felt he had entered the lists, and thrown down the glove to a strong and resolute opponent? Had he before him a vista of the terrible conflict between expediency and honor that was soon to be his fate? Had he his doubts as to the support his own Cabinet would afford him? Was his pride the ruling sentiment of the moment, or did there enter into his calculations the subtle hope of all the eager expectancy this appointment would create, all the disposable venality it would lay at his discretion? Who can answer these questions? who solve these doubts? Is it not very possible that his mind wandered amidst them all? Is it not more than likely that they passed in review before him? for when he rejoined his company his manner was more absent, his courtesy less easy than usual.
At length Mr. M'Casky came forward to say goodnight.
“Colonel Massingbred has told you of those disturbances in the West, has he not?” asked the Viceroy.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the other.
“And what opinion—what advice did you give?”
“To let matters alone, my Lord; to be always a little behind time, particularly in sending a force. 'Never despatch the police to quell a riot,' said John Toler, 'unless one of the factions be completely beaten, otherwise you 'll have them both on your back;' and I assure your Excellency, Ireland has been very successfully governed under that maxim for years past.”
“Thank you, M'Casky; thank you for the advice,” said his Excellency, laughing, and wished him good-night.
It was a time of unusual stir and bustle at the Martin Arms; the house was crammed with company. Messengers—some mounted, others on foot—came and went at every moment; horses stood ready saddled and harnessed in the stables, in waiting for any emergency; in fact, there was a degree of movement and animation only second to that of a contested election. In the midst of this confusion a chaise with four smoking posters drew up at the door, and a sharp, clear voice called out,—“Morrissy, are my rooms ready?”
“No, indeed, Mr. Repton,” stammered out the abashed landlord; “the house is full; there's not a spot in it to put a child in.”
“You got my letter, I suppose?” said Repton, angrily.
“I did, sir, but it was too late; the whole house was engaged by Mr. Scanlan, and the same evening the company arrived in two coaches-and-four.”
“And who is the precious company you speak of?”
“Mr. Merl, sir,” said the other, dropping his voice to a whisper, “the new owner of Cro' Martin; he's here, with two or three great lawyers and one or two of his friends. They came down to serve the notices and give warning—”
“Well, what is to be done? where can I be accommodated?” broke in Repton, hastily. “Isn't Mr. Massing-bred in the house?”
“No, sir, he had to move out, too; but, sure enough, he left a bit of a note for you in the bar.” And he hastened off at once to fetch it.
Repton broke open the seal impatiently, and read:—
“My dear Mr. Repton,—I regret that you 'll find the inn full on your arrival; they turned me out yesterday to make room for Mr. Merl and his followers. Happily, Mr. Nelligan heard of my destitution, and offered me a quarter at his house. He also desires me to say that he will deem it a very great favor if you will accept the shelter of his roof, and in hopeful anticipation of your consenting, he will wait dinner for your arrival. From my own knowledge, I can safely assure you that the offer is made in a spirit of true hospitality, and I sincerely wish that you may accept it.
“Yours very faithfully,
“J. Massingbred.”
“Where does Mr. Nelligan live?” asked Repton, as he refolded the letter.
“Just across the street, sir. There it is.”
“Set me down there, then,” said Repton. And the next moment he was at Nelligan's door.
“This is a very great honor, sir,” said old Dan, as he appeared in a suit of decorous black. “It is, indeed, a proud day that gives me the pleasure of seeing you here.”
“My dear sir, if you had no other distinction than being the father of Joseph Nelligan, the honor and the pride lie all in the opposite scale. I am sincerely glad to be your guest, and to know you where every true Irishman is seen to the greatest advantage,—at the head of his own board.”
While Nelligan conducted his guest to his room, he mentioned that Massingbred had ridden over to Cro' Martin early in the morning, but would be certainly back for dinner.
“And what 's the news of Miss Martin? Is she better?”
“They say not, sir. The last accounts are far from favorable.”
“Sir Henry Laurie saw her, did n't he?”
“Yes, sir; he passed all Sunday here, and only returned to town yesterday. He spoke doubtfully,—I might even say, gloomily. He said, however, that we cannot know anything for certain before Friday or, perhaps, Saturday.”
“It is fever, then?”
“Yes, he told my wife, the worst character of typhus.”
“Brought on, as I've been told, by exposure to wet and cold on that night at sea. Is n't that the case?”
“I believe so. Mrs. Nelligan went over the next morning to the cottage. She had heard of poor Mr. Martin's death, and thought she might be of some use to Miss Mary; but when she arrived, it was to find her in fever, talking wildly, and insisting that she must be up and away to Kyle-a-Noe to look after a poor sick family there.”
“Has Mrs. Nelligan seen her since that?”
“She never left her,—never quitted her. She relieves Henderson's daughter in watching beside her bed; for the old housekeeper is quite too infirm to bear the fatigue.”
“What a sad change has come over this little spot, and in so brief a space too! It seems just like yesterday that I was a guest at Cro' Martin,—poor Martin himself so happy and light-hearted; his dear girl, as he called her, full of life and spirits. Your son was there the night I speak of. I remember it well, for the madcap girls would make a fool of me, and insisted on my singing them a song; and I shall not readily forget the shame my compliance inflicted on my learned brother's face.”
“Joe told me of it afterwards.”
“Ah, he told you, did he? He doubtless remarked with asperity on the little sense of my own dignity I possessed?”
“On the contrary, sir, he said, 'Great as are Mr. Rep-ton's gifts, and brilliant as are his acquirements, I envy him more the happy buoyancy of his nature than all his other qualities.'”
“He's a fine fellow, and it was a generous speech; not but I will be vain enough to say he was right,—ay, sir, perfectly right. Of all the blessings that pertain to temperament, there is not one to compare with the spirit that renews in an old man the racy enjoyment of youth, keeps his heart fresh and his mind hopeful. With these, age brings no terrors. I shall be seventy-five, sir, if I live to the second of next month, and I have not lived long enough to dull the enjoyment life affords me, nor diminish the pleasure my heart derives upon hearing of a noble action or a generous sentiment.”
Nelligan gazed at the speaker in mingled astonishment and admiration. Somehow, it was not altogether the man he had expected; but he was far from being disappointed at the difference. The Valentine Repton of his imagination was a crafty pleader, a subtle cross-examiner, an ingenious flatterer of juries; but he was not a man whose nature was assailable by anything “not found in the books.”
Now, though Nelligan was himself essentially a worldly man, he was touched by these traits of one whom he had regarded as a hardened old lawyer, distrustful and suspicious.
“Ay, sir,” said Repton, as, leaning on the other's arm, he entered the drawing-room, “a wiser man than either of us has left it on record, that after a long life and much experience of the world, he met far more of good and noble qualities in mankind than of their opposite. Take my word for it, whenever we are inclined to the contrary opinion, the fault lies with ourselves.”
While they sat awaiting Massingbred's return, a servant entered with a note, which Nelligan, having read, handed over to Repton. It was very brief, and ran thus:—
“My dear Mr. Nelligan,—Forgive my not appearing at dinner, and make my excuses to Mr. Repton, if he be with you, for I have just fallen in with Magennis, who insists on carrying me off to Barnagheela. You can understand, I 'm sure, that there are reasons why I could not well decline this invitation. Meanwhile, till to-morrow, at breakfast,
“I am yours,
“Jack Massingbred.”
If there was a little constraint on Nelligan's part at finding himself alone to do the honors to his distinguished guest, the feeling soon wore away, and a frank, hearty confidence was soon established between these two men, who up to the present moment had been following very different roads in life. Apart from a lurking soreness, the remnants of long-past bitterness, Nelligan's political opinions were fair and moderate, and agreed with Repton's now to a great extent. His views as to the people, their habits and their natures, were also strikingly just and true. He was not over-hopeful, nor was he despondent; too acute an observer to refer their faults to any single source, he regarded their complex, intricate characters as the consequence of many causes, the issue of many struggles. There was about all he said the calm judgment of a man desirous of truth; and yet, when he came to speak of the higher classes, the great country gentry, he displayed prejudices and mistakes quite incredible in one of his discernment. The old grudge of social disqualification had eaten deep into his heart, and, as Repton saw, it would take at least two generations of men, well-to-do and successful, to eradicate the sentiment.
Nelligan was quick enough to see that these opinions of his were not shared by his guest, and said, “I cannot expect, Mr. Repton, that you will join me in these views; you have seen these people always as an equal, if not their superior; they met you with their best faces and sweetest flatteries. Not so with us. They draw a line, as though to say, go on: make your fortunes; purchase estates; educate your children; send them to the universities with our own; teach them our ways, our instincts, our manners, and yet, at the end of all, you shall remain exactly where you began. You shall never be 'of us.'”
“I am happy to say that I disagree with you,” said Repton; “I am a much older man than you, and I can draw, therefore, on a longer experience. Now the change that I myself have seen come over the tone and temper of the world since I was a boy is far more marvellous to me than all the new-fangled discoveries around us in steam and electricity. Why, sir, the man who now addresses you, born of an ancient stock, as good blood as any untitled gentleman of the land, was treated once as Jack Cade might be in a London drawing-room. The repute of liberal notions or politics at that day stamped you as a democrat and atheist If you sided with a popular measure, you were deemed capable of all the crimes of a 'Danton.'
“Do I not remember it!—Ay, as a student, young, ardent, and high-hearted, when I was summoned before the visitors of the university, and sternly asked by the dark-browed Lord Chancellor if I belonged to a society called the 'Friends of Ireland,' and on my acknowledging the fact, without inquiry, without examination, deprived of my scholarship, and sent back to my chambers, admonished to be more cautious, and menaced with expulsion. I had very little to live on in those days; my family had suffered great losses in fortune, and I disliked to be a burden to them. I took pupils, therefore, to assist me in my support. The Vice-Provost stepped in, however, and interdicted this. 'Young men,' he said, 'ran a greater chance of coming out of my hands followers of Paine than disciples of Newton.' I starved on till I was called to the bar. There fresh insults and mortifications met me. My name on a brief seemed a signal for a field-day against Jacobinism and infidelity. The very bench forgot its dignity in its zeal. I remember well one day, when, stung and maddened by these outrages, I so far forgot myself as to reply, and the Court of King's Bench was closed against me for twelve long years,—ay, till I came back to it as the first man in my profession. It was a trumpery cause,—I forget what; a suit about some petty bill of exchange. I disputed the evidence, and sought to show its invalidity. The Chief Justice stopped me, and said, 'The Court is aware of the point on which you rely; we have known evidence of this nature admitted in cases of trial for treason,—cases with which Mr. Repton, we know, is very familiar. I stopped; my blood boiled with indignation, my temples throbbed to bursting, to be thus singled out amongst my brethren—before the public—as a mark of scorn and reprobation. 'It is true, my Lord,' said I, with a slow, measured utterance, 'I am familiar with such cases. Who is there in this unhappy land that is not? I am aware, too, that if I stood in that dock arraigned on such a charge, your Lordship would rule that this evidence was admissible; you would charge against me, sentence, and hang me; but the present is an action for eleven pounds ten, and, therefore, I trust to your Lordship's lenity and mercy to reject it.'
“That reply, sir, cost me twelve years of exile from the court wherein I uttered it. Those were times when the brow-beating judge could crush the bar; nor were the jury always safe in the sanctuary of the jury-box. Now, such abuses are no longer in existence; and if we have made no other stride in progress, even that is considerable.”
“In all that regards the law and its administration, I am sure you are correct, sir,” said Nelligan, submissively.
“At the period I speak of,” resumed Repton, who now was only following out his own thoughts and reminiscences, “the judges were little else than prefects, administering the country through the channel of the penal code, and the jury a set of vulgar partisans, who wielded the power of a verdict with all the caprice of a faction; and as to their ignorance, why, sir, Crookshank, who afterwards sat on the bench, used to tell of a trial for murder at Kells, where the 'murdered man' was two hours under cross-examination on the table! Yes, but that is not all; the jury retired to deliberate, and came out at length with a verdict of 'manslaughter,' as the prisoner was 'a bad fellow, and had once stolen a saddle from the foreman.' You talk of law and civilization; why, I tell you, sir, that the barbaric code of the red man is a higher agent of enlightenment than the boasted institutions of England, when thus perverted and degraded. No, no, Mr. Nelligan, it may be a fine theme for declamation, there may be grand descriptive capabilities about the Ireland of sixty or seventy years ago, but be assured, it was a social chaos of the worst kind; and as a maxim, sir, remember, that the inhabitants of a country are never so much to be pitied as when the aspect of their social condition is picturesque!”
Repton fell into a musing fit when he had finished these observations, and Nelligan felt too much deference for his guest to disturb him, and they sat thus silent for some time, when the old lawyer suddenly arousing himself, said,—“What's all this I hear about disturbances, and attacks on the police, down here?”
“There's nothing political in it,” rejoined Nelligan. “It was resistance offered by the people to the service of certain notices on the part of this London Jew—Merl, I think they call him.”
“Yes, that's the name,” quickly responded Repton. “You are aware of the circumstances under which he claims the estate?”
“I had it from Brierley, who was told by Scanlan, that he purchased, or rather won at play, the entire and sole reversion.”
Repton nodded.
“And such is a legal compact, I presume?” said Nelligan.
“If the immoral obligation be well concealed in the negotiation, I don't see how it is to be broken. The law, sir,” added he, solemnly, “never undertakes the charge of fools till a commission be taken out in their behalf! This young fellow's pleasure it was to squander his succession to a princely estate, and he chanced to meet with one who could appreciate his intentions.”
“Massingbred told me, however, that some arrangement, some compromise was in contemplation; that Merl, knowing that to enforce his claim would subject him to a trial and all its disclosures, had shown a disposition to treat; in fact, Massingbred has already had an interview with him, and but for Scanlan, who desires to push matters to extremity, the affair might possibly be accommodated.”
“The Jew possibly sees, too, that an Irish succession is not a bloodless triumph. He has been frightened, I have no doubt.”
“I believe so; they say he took to his bed the day he got back here, and has never quitted it since. The people hunted them for four miles across the country, and as Merl couldn't leap his horse over the walls, they were several times nearly caught by the delay in making gaps for him.”
“I'd have given fifty pounds to be in at it,” broke out Repton. Then suddenly remembering that the aspiration did not sound as very dignified, he hemmed and corrected himself, saying, “It must, indeed, have been a strange spectacle!”
“They started at Kyle's Wood, and ran them over the low grounds beside Kelly's Mills, and then doubling, brought them along the foot of Barnagheela Mountain, where, it seems, Magennis joined the chase; he was fast closing with them when his gun burst, and rather damaged his hand.”
“He fired, then?”
“Yes, he put a heavy charge of slugs into Merl's horse as he was getting through the mill-race, and the beast flung up and threw his rider into the stream. Scanlan dismounted and gathered him up, discharging his pistol at some country fellow who was rushing forward; they say the man has lost an eye. They got off, however, and, gaining the shelter of the Cro' Martin wood, they managed to escape at last, and reached this about six o'clock, their clothes in tatters, their horses lamed, and themselves lamentable objects of fatigue and exhaustion. Since that, no one but the doctor has seen Merl, and Scanlan only goes out with an escort of police.”
“All this sounds very like 'sixty years ago,'” said Repton, laughing.
“I'm afraid it does, and I half dread what the English newspapers may say under the heading of 'Galway Barbarities.'”
“By Jove! I must say I like it; that is,” said Repton, hesitating and confused, “I can see some palliation for the people in such an outburst of generous but misdirected feeling. The old name has still its spell for their hearts; and even superstitions, sir, are better than incredulity!”
“But of what avail is all this? The law must and will be vindicated. It may cost some lives, on the road, but Mr. Merl must reach his journey's end, at last.”
“He may deem the sport, as I have known some men do tiger-hunting, not worth the danger,” said Repton. “You and I, Mr. Nelligan, acclimated, as I may say, to such incidents, would probably not decline the title to an estate, whose first step in possession should be enforced by the blunderbuss; but make the scene Africa, and say what extent of territory would you accept of, on the compact of enforcing your claim against the natives? Now, for all the purposes of argument, to this cockney's appreciation, these countrymen of ours are Africans.”
“I can well understand his terror,” said Nelligan, thoughtfully. “I 'm sure the yell that followed him through the gap of Kyle-a-Noe will ring in his heart for many a day. It was there the pursuit was hottest. As they came out, a stranger, who had been here during the winter,—a Mr. Barry—”
“What of him? What did he do?” broke in Repton, with great eagerness.
“He stood upon an old wall, and hurrahed the people on, calling out, 'Five gold guineas to the man who will hurl that fellow into the lake.'”
“He said that?” cried Repton.
“Yes, and waved his hat in encouragement to the mob! This was deposed in evidence before the bench; and Scanlan's affidavit went on to say, that when the temper of the people seemed to relent, and the ardor of their pursuit to relax, this man's presence invariably rallied all the energies of mischief, and excited the wildest passions of the populace.”
“Who or what is he supposed to be?” asked the lawyer.
“Some say, a returned convict,—a banker that was transported thirty years ago for forgery; others, that he is Con O'Hara, that killed Major Stackpoole in the famous duel at Bunratty Castle. Magennis swears that he remembers the face well; at all events, there is a mystery about him, and when he came into the shop below stairs—”
“Oh, then, you have seen him yourself?”
“Yes; he came in on Monday last, and asked for some glazed gunpowder, and if we had bullets of a large mould to fit his pistols. They were curiosities in their way; they were made in America, and had a bore large as your thumb.”
“You had some conversation with him?”
“A few words about the country and the crops. He said he thought we had good prospects for the wheat, and, if we should have a fine harvest, a good winter was like to follow. Meaning that, with enough to eat, we should have fewer outrages in the dark nights, and by that I knew he was one acquainted with the country. I said as much, and then he turned fiercely on me, and remarked, 'I never questioned you, sir, about your hides and tallow and ten-penny nails, for they were your affairs; please, then, to pay the same deference to me and mine.' And before I could reply he was gone.”
“It was a rude speech,” said Repton, thoughtfully; “but many men are morose from circumstances whose natures are full of kindliness and gentleness.”
“It was precisely the impression this stranger made upon me. There was that in his manner which implied a hard lot in life,—no small share of the shadiest side of fortune; and even when his somewhat coarse rebuke was uttered, I was more disposed to be angry with myself for being the cause than with him who made it.”
“Where is he stopping just now?”
“At Kilkieran, I have heard; but he has been repeatedly back and forward in the town here during the week, though for the last few days I have not seen him. Perhaps he has heard of Scanlan's intention to summons him for aiding and abetting an assault, and has kept out of the way in consequence.”
“He keep out of the way!” cried Repton; “you never mistook a man more in your life!”
“You are acquainted with him, then?” said Nelligan, in amazement.
“That am I, sir. No one knows him better, and on my knowledge of the man it was that I apologized for his incivility to yourself. If I cannot say more, Mr. Nelligan, it is not because I have any mistrust in your confidence, but that my friend's secret is, in his own charge, and only to be revealed at his own pleasure.”
“I wish you would tell him that I never meant to play the spy upon him,—that my remark was a merely chance observation—”
“I promise you to do so,” broke in Repton. “I promise you still more, that before he leaves this you shall have an apology from his own lips for his accidental rudeness; nay, two men that would know how to respect each other should never part under even a passing misunderstanding. It is an old theory of mine, Mr. Nelligan, that good men's good opinions of us form the pleasantest store of our reminiscences, and I 'd willingly go a hundred miles to remove a misconception that might bring me back to the esteem of an honorable heart, though I never were to set eyes again on him who possessed it.”
“I like your theory well, sir,” said Nelligan, cordially.
“You 'll find the practice will reward you,” said Repton.
“I confess this stranger has inspired me with great curiosity.”
“I can well understand the feeling,” said Repton, musing. “It is with men as with certain spots in landscape, there are chance glimpses which suggest to us the fair scenes that lie beyond our view! Poor fellow! poor fellow!” muttered he once or twice to himself; and then starting abruptly, said, “You have made me so cordially welcome here that I am going to profit by every privilege of a guest. I 'm going to say good-night, for I have much before me on the morrow.”