The curtains were closely drawn, and a cheerful turf fire blazed in the room where Mr. Merl sat at dinner. The fare was excellent, and even rustic cookery sufficed to make fresh salmon and mountain mutton and fat woodcocks delectable; while the remains of Mr. Scanlan's hamper set forth some choice Madeira and several bottles of Sneyd's claret. Nor was he for whose entertainment these good things were provided in any way incapable of enjoying them. With the peculiar sensuality of his race, he loved his dinner all to himself and alone. He delighted in the privileged selfishness that isolation conferred, and he revelled in a sort of complacent flattery at the thought of all the people who were dining worse than himself, and the stray thousands besides who were not destined on that day to dine at all.
The self-caressing shudder that came over him as the sound of a horse at speed on the shore outside was heard, spoke plainly as words themselves the pleasant comparison that crossed his mind between the condition of the rider and his own. He drew nearer the fire, he threw on a fresh log of pine, and, filling up a bumper, seemed to linger as he viewed it, as though wishing health and innumerable blessings to Mr. Herman Merl.
The noise of the clattering hoofs died away in distance and in the greater uproar of the storm, and Mr. Merl thought no more of them. How often happens it, dear reader, that some brief interruption flashes through our seasons of enjoyment; we are startled, perhaps; we even need a word or two to reassure us that all is well, and then the work of pleasure goes on, and we forget that it had ever been retarded; and yet, depend upon it, in that fleeting second of time some sad episode of human life has, like a spectre, crossed our path, and some deep sorrow gone wearily past us.
Let us follow that rider, then, who now, quitting the bleak shore, has entered a deep gorge between the mountain. The rain swept along in torrents; the wind in fitful gusts dashes the mountain stream in many a wayward shape, and snaps the stems of old trees in pieces; landslips and broken rocks impede the way; and yet that brave horse holds ever onward, now stretching to a fast gallop, now gathering himself to clear some foaming torrent, or some fragment of fallen timber.
The night is so dark that the rider cannot see the horse's length in advance; but every feature of the way is well known, and an instinctive sense of the peril to be apprehended at each particular spot guides that hand and nerves that heart. Mary Martin—for she it is—had ridden that same path at all seasons and all hours, but never on a wilder night, nor through a more terrible hurricane than this. At moments her speed relaxed, as if to breathe her horse; and twice she pulled up short, to listen and distinguish between the sound of thunder and the crashing noise of rocks rolling from the mountain. There was a sublimity in the scene, lit up at moments by the lightning; and a sense of peril, too, that exalted the adventurous spirit of the girl, and imparted to her heart a high heroic feeling. The glorious sentiment of confronting danger animated and excited her; and her courage rose with each new difficulty of the way, till her very brain seemed to reel with the wild transport of her emotions.
As she emerged from the gorge, she gained a high tableland, over which the wind swept unimpeded. Not a cliff, not a rock, not a tree, broke the force of the gale, which raged with all the violence of a storm at sea. Crouching low upon the saddle, stooping at times to the mane, she could barely make way against the hurricane; and more than once her noble charger was driven backward, and forced to turn his back to the storm. Her courage never failed. Taking advantage of every passing lull, she dashed forward, ready to wheel and halt when the wind shot past with violence.
Descending at last from this elevated plateau, she again entered a deep cleft between the mountain, the road littered with fallen earth and branches of trees, so as almost to defy a passage. After traversing upwards of a mile of this wearisome way, she arrived at the door of a small cabin, the first trace of habitation since she had quitted the village. It was a mere hovel, abutting against a rock, and in its dreary solitude seemed the last refuge of direst poverty.
She bent down from her saddle to look in at the window; but, except some faint embers on the hearth, all was dark within. She then knocked with her whip against the door, and called “Morris” two or three times; but no reply was given. Springing from her horse, Mary fastened the bridle to the hasp of the door-post, and entered. The heavy breathing of one in deep sleep at once caught her attention > and, approaching the fireplace, she lighted a piece of pine-wood to examine about her. On a low settle in one corner lay the figure of a young woman, whose pale, pinched features contrasted strongly with the bright ribbons of her cap floating loosely at either side. Mary tottered as she drew nigher; a terrible sense of fear was over her,—a terror of she knew not what. She held the flickering flame closer, and saw that she was dead! Poor Margaret, she had been one of Mary's chief favorites; the very cap that now decked her cold forehead was Mary's wedding-gift to her. But a few days before, her little child had been carried to the churchyard; and it was said that the mother never held up her head after. Sick almost to fainting, Mary Martin sank into a chair, and then saw, for the first time, the figure of a man, who, half kneeling, lay with his head on the foot of the bed, fast asleep! Weariness, utter exhaustion, were marked in his pale-worn features, while his attitude bespoke complete prostration. His hand still clasped a little rosary.
It seemed but the other day that she had wished them “joy” upon their wedding, and they had gone home to their little cabin in hopefulness and high-hearted spirit, and there she lay now a cold corpse, and he, bereaved and childless. What a deal of sad philosophy do these words reveal! What dark contrasts do we bring up when we say, “It was but the other day.” It was but “the other day,” and Cro' Martin was the home of one whose thriving tenantry reflected back all his efforts for their welfare, when movement and occupation bespoke a condition of activity and cheerful industry; when, even in their poverty, the people bore bravely up, and the cases of suffering but sufficed to call out traits of benevolence and kind feeling. It was but “the other day,” and Mary herself rode out amidst the people, like some beloved sovereign in the middle of her subjects; happy faces beamed brighter when she came, and even misery half forgot itself in her presence. But “the other day” and the flag waved proudly from the great tower, to show that Cro' Martin was the residence of its owner, and Mary the life and soul of all that household!
Such-like were her thoughts as she stood still gazing on the sad scene before her. She could not bring herself to awaken the poor fellow, who thus, perchance, stole a short respite from his sorrows; but leaving some money beside him on a chair, and taking one farewell look of poor Margaret, she stole silently away, and remounted her horse.
Again she is away through the storm and the tempest! Her pace is now urged to speed, for she knows every field and every fence,—where to press her horse to his gallop, where to spare and husband his strength. At one moment she steals carefully along amid fragments of fallen rocks and broken timber; at another, she flies, with racing speed, over the smooth sward. At length, through the gloom and darkness, the tall towers of Cro' Martin are seen over the deep woods; but her horse's head is not turned thitherward. No; she has taken another direction, and, skirting the wall of the demesne, she is off towards the wild, bleak country beyond. It is past midnight; not a light gleams from a cabin window as she dashes past; all is silent save the plashing rain, which, though the wind has abated, continues to fall in torrents. Crossing the bleak moor, whose yawning pits even in daylight suggest care and watchfulness, she gains the foot of the barren mountain on which Barnagheela stands, and descries in the distance the flickering of a light dimly traceable through the falling rain.
For the first time her horse shows signs of fatigue, and Mary caresses him with her hand, and speaks encouragingly to him as she slackens her pace, ascending the hill at a slow walk. After about half an hour of this toilsome progress, for the surface is stony and rock-covered, she reaches the little “boreen” road which forms the approach to the house. Mary has never been there before, and advances now slowly and carefully between two rude walls of dry masonry which lead to the hall-door. As she nears the house, the gleam of lights from between the ill-closed shutters attracts her, and suddenly through the swooping rain come the sounds of several voices in tones of riot and revelry. She listens; and it is now the rude burst of applause that breaks forth,—a din of voices loudly proclaiming the hearty approval of some sentiment or opinion.
While she halts to determine what course next to follow,—for these signs of revelry have disconcerted her,—she hears a rough, loud voice from within call out, “There's another toast you must drink now, and fill for it to the brim. Come, Peter Hayes, no skulking; the liquor is good, and the sentiment the same. Gentlemen, you came here to-night to honor my poor house—my ancestral house, I may call it—on the victory we 've gained over tyranny and oppression.” Loud cheers here interrupted him, but he resumed: “They tried—by the aid of the law that they made themselves—to turn me out of my house and home. They did all that false swearing and forged writing could do, to drive me—me, Tom Magennis, the last of an ancient stock—out upon the highways.” (Groans from the hearers.) “But they failed,—ay, gentlemen, they failed. Old Repton, with all his skill, and Scanlan, with all his treachery, could n't do it. Joe Nelligan, like Goliath—no, like David, I mean—put a stone between their two eyes, and laid them low.” (Loud cheering, and cries of “Why is n't he here?” “Where is he to-night?”) “Ay, gentlemen,” resumed the speaker, “ye may well ask where is he this night? when we are celebrating not only our triumph, but his; for it was the first brief he ever held,—the first guinea he ever touched for a fee! I 'll tell you where he is. Skulking—ay, that's the word for it—skulking in Oughterard,—hiding himself for shame because he beat the Martins!” ( Loud expressions of anger, and some of dissent, here broke forth; some inveighing against this cowardice, others defending him against the charge.) “Say what you like,” roared Magennis; “I know, and he knows that I know it. What was it he said when Mahony went to him with my brief? 'I'll not refuse to undertake the case,' said he, 'but I 'll not lend myself to any scurrilous attack upon the family at Cro' Martin!'” (Groans.) “Ay, but listen,” continued he: “'And if I find,' said he—'if I find that in the course of the case such an attempt should be made, I 'll throw down my brief though I never should hold another.' There's Joe Nelligan for you! There's the stuff you thought you 'd make a Patriot out of!”
“Say what you like, Tom Magennis, he's a credit to the town,” said old Hayes, “and he won your cause this day against one of the 'cutest of the Dublin counsellors.”
“He did so, sir,” resumed Magennis, “and he got his pay, and there's nothing between us; and I told him so, and more besides; for I said, 'You may flatter them and crawl to them; you may be as servile as a serpent or a boa-constrictor to them; but take my word for it, Mister Joe,—or Counsellor Nelligan, if you like it better,—they'll never forget who and what you are,—the son of old Dan there, of the High Street,—and you 've a better chance to be the Chief Justice than the husband of Mary Martin!'”
“You told him that!” cried several together. “I did, sir; and I believe for a minute he meant to strike me; he got pale with passion, and then he got red—blood red; and, in that thick way he has when he 's angry, he said, 'Whatever may be my hopes of the Bench, I'll not win my way to it by ever again undertaking the cause of a ruffian!' 'Do you mean me?' said I,—'do you mean me?' But he turned away into the house, and I never saw him since. If it had n't been for Father Neal there, I 'd have had him out for it, sir!”
“We've other work before us than quarrelling amongst ourselves,” said the bland voice of Father Rafferty; “and now for your toast, Tom, for I 'm dry waiting for it.”
“Here it is, then,” cried Magennis. “A speedy downfall to the Martins!”
“A speedy downfall to the Martins!” was repeated solemnly in chorus; while old Hayes interposed, “Barring the niece,—barring Miss Mary.”
“I won't except one,” cried Magennis. “My august leader remarked, 'It was false pity for individuals destroyed the great revolution of France.' It was—” Mary did not wait for more, but, turning her horse's head, moved slowly around towards the back of the house.
Through a wide space, of which the rickety broken gate hung by a single hinge, Mary entered a large yard, a court littered with disabled carts, harrows, and other field implements, all equally unserviceable. Beneath a low shed along one of the walls stood three or four horses, with harness on them, evidently belonging to the guests assembled within. All these details were plainly visible by the glare of an immense fire which blazed on the kitchen hearth, and threw its light more than half-way across the yard. Having disposed of her horse at one end of the shed, Mary stealthily drew nigh the kitchen window, and looked in. An old, very old woman, in the meanest attire, sat crouching beside the fire; and although she held a huge wooden ladle in her hand, seemed, by her drooped head and bent-down attitude, either moping or asleep. Various cooking utensils were on the fire, and two or three joints of meat hung roasting before it, while the hearth was strewn with dishes, awaiting the savory fare that was to fill them.
These, and many other indications of the festivity then going on within, Mary rapidly noticed; but it was evident, from the increasing eagerness of her gaze, that the object which she sought had not yet met her eye. Suddenly, however, the door of the kitchen opened and a figure entered, on which the young girl bent all her attention. It was Joan Landy, but how different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that last we saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on either side with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head, she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparkling with excitement. Hastily snatching up a check apron that lay on a chair, she fastened it about her, and drew near the fire. It was plain from her gesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman's hand, that she was angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone, however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingers towards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed to her. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealous activity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; she scrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, now moved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, “Alas, I have come in vain!” Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan, turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glass that stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, she stood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron, too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feet she seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. Mary Martin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, “In vain!”
Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy which so often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to the kitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one step within the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they both stood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely the difficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighing the consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate all she had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who now recognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect and a feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happily for Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxiety Joan drew near her and said,—“Has anything happened? I trust in God no accident has befell you.”
“Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting,” said Mary,—“some little fatigue; and I'll think but little of either if they have brought me here to a good end. May I speak with you alone,—quite alone?”
“Come in here,” said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off the kitchen which served for a species of larder,—“come in here.”
“I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is for you to decide that! have not come in vain.”
“What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness spread over her features.
“These are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere,” said Mary, gloomily. “Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no,” cried she, as a sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,—“no, not yet; he is still alive, and entreats to see you.”
“To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from the door, and pray down curses on me,—is it for that he wants to see me?”
“Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you—to give you his last kiss—his last blessing—to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers on,—nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too late. Come now—now.”
“And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do now?”
“Let your own good heart guide you for that,” cried Mary; “all I ask is that you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for your coming, and you will not dishonor my words to one on his death-bed.”
“And I 'll be an outcast for it. Tom will drive me from the door and never see me again. I know it,—I know him!”
“You are wrong, Joan Landy.”
“Joan!—who dares to call me Joan Landy when I'm Mrs. Magennis of Barnagheela? and if I'm not your equal, I 'm as good as any other in the barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up to me who I am and where I came from? That 's the errand that brought you through the storm! Ay,” cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her own words,—“ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we 'd not have the roof to shelter us this night. It 's only to-day that we won the trial against you.”
“Whatever my errand here this night,” said Mary, with a calm dignity, “it was meant to serve and not insult you. I know, as well as your bitterest words can tell me, that this is not my place; but I know, too, if from yielding to my selfish pride I had refused your old grandfather this last request, it had been many a year of bitter reproach to me.”
“Oh, you 'll break my heart, you will, you will!” cried Joan, bitterly. “You 'll turn the only one that's left against me, and I 'll be alone in the world.”
“Come with me this night, and whatever happen I 'll befriend you,” said Mary.
“And not desert me because I 'm what I am?”
“Never, Joan, never!”
“Oh, my blessings on you,—if the blessing of one like me is any good,” cried she, kissing Mary's hand fervently. “Oh, they that praised you said the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for us all! I 'll go with you to the world's end.”
“We'll pass Cro' Martin, and you shall have my horse—”
“No, no, Miss Mary, I 'll go on my feet; it best becomes me. I 'll go by Burnane—by the Gap—I know it well—too well!” added she, as the tears rushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she wore and threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarse woollen gown of her daily wear. “Oh, God forgive me!” cried she, “if I curse the day that I ever wore better than this.”
Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak over her head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe storm she was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted these little services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, so intensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverish haste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest her escape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, and that she might abandon her own resolution.
“Oh, tell me,” she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and her lips quivered with agony,—“oh, tell me I'm doing right; tell me that God's blessing is going with me this night, or I can't do it.”
“And so it is, dear Joan,” said Mary; “be of good heart, and Heaven will support you. I 'm sure the trial is a sore one.”
“Oh, is it not to leave this—to leave him—maybe forever? To be sure, it's forever,” cried she, bitterly. “He 'll never forgive me!”
A wild burst of revelry now resounded from the parlor, and the discordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears.
Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of her features bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound she sprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; but before she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was already half-way down the mountain. Now catching, now losing sight of her again, Mary at last came up with her.
“Remember, dear Joan,” said Mary, “there are nine weary miles of mountain before you.”
“I know it well,” was the brief reply.
“And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and the path to the shore is full of danger.”
“If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?” cried she. “Oh, Miss Mary,” added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, “leave me to myself; don't come with me,—it's not one like you ought to keep me company.”
“But Joan,—dear Joan,—I have promised to be your friend, and I am not one who forgets a pledge.”
“My heart will break; it will break in two if you talk to me. Leave me, for the love of Heaven, and let me go my road all alone. There, at the two trees there, is the way to Cro' Martin; take it, and may the Saints guide you safe home!”
“And if I do, Joan, will you promise me to come straight back to Cro' Martin after you 've seen him? Will you do this?”
“I will,—I will,” cried she, bathing Mary's hand with her tears as she kissed it.
“Then God bless and protect you, poor girl!” said Mary. “It is not for me to dictate to your own full heart. Goodbye,—good-bye.”
Before Mary had dried the warm tears that rose to her eyes, Joan was gone.
There are few things more puzzling to the uninitiated than the total separation lawyers are able to exercise between their private sentiments and the emotions they display in the wear and tear of their profession. So widely apart are these two characters, that it is actually difficult to understand how they ever can unite in one man. But so it is. He can pass his morning in the most virulent assaults upon his learned brother, ridiculing his law, laughing at his logic, arraigning his motives,—nay, sometimes ascribing to him some actually base and wicked. Altercations, heightened by all that passion stimulated by wit can produce, ensue. Nothing that can taunt, provoke, or irritate, is omitted. Personalities even are introduced to swell the acrimony of the contest; and yet, when the jury have given in their verdict and the court breaks up, the gladiators, who seemed only thirsting for each other's blood, are seen laughingly going homeward arm-in-arm, mayhap discoursing over the very cause which, but an hour back, seemed to have stamped them enemies for the rest of life.
Doubtless there is a great deal to be pleased at in all this, and, we ought to rejoice in the admirable temper by which men can discriminate between the faithful performance of a duty and the natural course of their affections. Still, small-minded folk—of which wide category we own ourselves to be a part—may have their misgivings that the excellence of this system is not without its alloy, and that even the least ingenious of men will ultimately discover how much principle is sapped, and how much truthfulness of character is sacrificed in this continual struggle between fiction and reality.
The Bar is the nursery of the Senate, and it would not be a very fanciful speculation were we to ascribe the laxity of purpose, the deficient earnestness, and the insincerity of principle we often deplore in our public men, to this same legal training.
The old lawyer, however, finds no difficulty in the double character. With his wig and gown he puts on his sarcasm, his insolence, and his incredulity. His brief bag opens to him a Pandora's box of noxious influences; and as he passes the precincts of the court, he leaves behind him all the amenities of life and all the charities of his nature. The young barrister does not find the transmutation so easy. He gives himself unreservedly to his client, and does not measure his ardor by the instructions in his brief. Let us ask pardon of our reader for what may seem a mal à propos digression; but we have been led to these remarks by the interests of our story.
It was in the large dining-room of the “Martin Arms” at Oughterard, that a party of lawyers spent the evening, some of whose events, elsewhere, our last chapter has recorded. It was the Bar mess of the Western Circuit, and the chair was filled by no less a person than “Father Repton.” This able “leader” had determined not to visit the West of Ireland so long as his friend Martin remained abroad; but a very urgent entreaty from Scanlan, and a pressing request for his presence, had induced him to waive that resolve, and come down special to Oughterard for the Magennis case.
A simple case of ejectment could scarcely have called for that imposing array of learned counsel who had repaired to this unfrequented spot; so small a skirmish could never have called for the horse, foot, and dragoons of law,—the wily conveyancer, the clap-trap orator, the browbeater of witnesses, and the light sharpshooter at technicalities; and yet there they were all met, and—with all reverence be it spoken—very jolly companions they were.
An admirable rule precluded the introduction of, or even an allusion to, professional subjects, save when the burden of a joke, whose success might excuse the transgression; and thus these crafty, keen intelligences argued, disputed, jested, and disported together, in a vein which less practised talkers would find it hard to rival. To the practice of these social amenities is doubtless ascribable the absence of any rancor from the rough contests and collisions of public life, and thus men of every shade of politics and party, differing even in class and condition, formed admirable social elements, and cohered together to perfection.
As the evening wore on, the company insensibly thinned off. Some of the hard-workers retired early; a few, whose affectation it was to pretend engagements, followed. The “juniors” repaired in different groups to the chambers of their friends, where loo and brandy-and-water awaited them; and at last Repton was left, with only two others, sole occupants of that spacious apartment. His companions were, like himself, soldiers of the “Vieille Garde” veterans who remembered Curran and Lawrence Parsons, John Toler and Saurin, and a host of others, who only needed that the sphere should have been greater to be themselves among the great of the nation.
Rawlins was Repton's schoolfellow, and had been his rival at the Bar for nigh fifty years. Niel, a few years younger than either, was the greatest orator of his time. Both had been opposed to Repton in the present suit, and had held heavy retainers for their services.
“Well, Repton,” said Rawlins, as soon as they were left thus to themselves, “are you pondering over it still? I see that you can't get it out of your head.”
“It is quite true, I cannot,” said Repton. “To summon us all down here,—to bring us some fifty miles away from our accustomed beat, for a trumpery affair like this, is totally beyond me. Had it been an election time, I should probably have understood it.”
“How so?” cried Niel, in the shrill piercing voice peculiar to him, and which imparted to him, even in society, an air of querulous irritability.
“On the principle that Bob Mahon always puts a thoroughbred horse in his gig when he drives over to a country race. He's always ready for a match with what he jocularly calls 'the old screw I 'm driving this minute;' so, Niel, I thought that the retainer for the ejectment might have turned out to be a special fee for the election.”
“And he 'd have given them a speech, and a rare good one, too, I promise you,” said Rawlins; “and even if he had not time to speak it, the county paper would have had it all printed and corrected from his own hand, with all the appropriate interruption of 'vociferous cheering,' and the places where the orator was obliged to pause, from the wild tumult of acclamation that surrounded him.”
“Which all resolves itself into this,” screamed Niel,—“that some men's after-grass is better than other men's meadows.”
“Mine has fallen to the scythe many a day ago,” said Rawlins, plaintively; “but I remember glorious times and glorious fellows. It was, indeed, worth something to say, 'Vixissi cum illis.'”
“There 's another still better, Rawlins,” cried Repton, joyously, “which is to have survived them!”
“Very true,” cried Niel. “I 'd always plead a demurrer to any notice to quit; for, take it all in all, this life has many enjoyments.”
“Such as Attorney-Generalships, Masters of the Rolls, and such like,” said Repton.
“By the way,” said Rawlins, “who put that squib in the papers about your having refused the rolls,—eh, Niel?”
“Who but Niel himself?” chimed in Repton. “It was filing a bill of discovery. He wanted to know the intentions of the Government.”
“I could have had but little doubt of them,” broke in Niel. “It was my advice, man, cancelled your appointment as Crown Counsel, Repton. I told Massingbred, 'If you do keep a watch-dog, let it be, at least, one who 'll bite some one beside the family.'”
“He has muzzled you there, Repton,” said Rawlins, laughing. “Eh, that was a bitter draught!”
“So it was,” said Repton. “It was Curran wine run to the lees! and very unlike the racy flavor of the true liquor. And to speak in all seriousness, what has come over us all to be thus degenerate and fallen? It is not alone that we have not the equals of the first-rate men, but we really have nothing to compare with O'Grady, and Parsons, and a score of others.”
“I 'll tell you why,” cried Niel,—“the commodity is n't marketable. The stupid men, who will always be the majority everywhere, have got up the cry, that to be agreeable is to be vulgar. We know how large cravats came into fashion; tiresome people came in with high neckcloths.”
“I wish they 'd go out with hempen ones, then,” muttered Repton.
“I 'd not refuse them the benefit of the clergy,” said Niel, with a malicious twinkle of the eye, that showed how gladly, when occasion offered, he flung a pebble at the Church.
“They were very brilliant,—they were very splendid, I own,” said Rawlins; “but I have certain misgivings that they gave themselves too much to society.”
“Expended too much of their powder in fireworks,” cried Niel, sharply,—“so they did; but their rockets showed how high they could rise to.”
“Ay, Niel, and we only burn our fingers with ours,” said Repton, sarcastically.
“Depend upon it,” resumed Rawlins, “as the world grows more practical, you will have less of great convivial display. Agreeability will cease to be the prerogative of first-rate men, but be left to the smart people of society, who earn their soup by their sayings.”
“He's right,” cried Niel, in his shrillest tone. “The age of alchemists is gone; the sleight-of-hand man and the juggler have succeeded him.”
“And were they not alchemists?” exclaimed old Repton, enthusiastically. “Did they not transmute the veriest dross of the earth, and pour it forth from the crucible of their minds a stream of liquid gold?—glorious fellows, who, in the rich abundance of their minds, brought the learning of their early days to illustrate the wisdom of their age, and gave the fresh-heartedness of the schoolboy to the ripe intelligence of manhood.”
“And yet how little have they bequeathed to us!” said Niel.
“Would it were even less,” broke in Repton. “We read the witticism of brilliant conversera in some diary or journal, often ill recorded, imperfectly given, always unaccompanied by the accessories of the scene wherein they occurred. We have not the crash, the tumult, the headlong flow of social intercourse, where the impromptu fell like a thunderbolt, and the bon mots rattled like a fire of musketry. To attempt to convey an impression of these great talkers by a memoir, is like to picture a battle by reading out a list of the killed and wounded.”
“Repton is right!” exclaimed Niel. “The recorded bon mot is the words of a song without the music.”
“And often where it was the melody that inspired the verses,” added Repton, always glad to follow up an illustration.
“After all,” said Rawlins, “the fashion of the day is changed in other respects as well as in conversational excellence. Nothing is like what we remember it!—literature, dress, social habits, oratory. There, for instance, was that young fellow to-day; his speech to the jury,—a very good and sensible one, no doubt,—but how unlike what it would have been some five-and-thirty or forty years ago.”
“It was first-rate,” said Repton, with enthusiasm. “I say it frankly, and 'fas est ab hoste,' for he tripped me up in a point of law, and I have, therefore, a right to applaud him. To tell you the truth,” he added slyly, “I knew I was making a revoke, but I thought none of the players were shrewd enough to detect me.”
“Niel and I are doubtless much complimented by the remark,” said Rawlins.
“Pooh, pooh!” cried Repton, “what did great guns like you and Niel care for such 'small deer.' You were only brought down here as a great corps de réserve. It was young Nelligan who fought the battle, and admirably he did it. While I was listening to him to-day, I could not help saying to myself, 'It's well for us that there were no fellows of this stamp in our day.' Ay, Rawlins, you know it well. We were speech-makers; these fellows are lawyers.”
“Why didn't he dine with us to-day?” asked Niel, sharply.
“Heaven knows. I believe his father lives in the town here; perhaps, too, he had no fancy for a dress-parade before such drill-sergeants as you and Rawlins there.”
“You are acquainted with him, I think?” asked Rawlins.
“Yes, slightly; we met strangely enough, at Cro' Martin last year. He was then on a visit there, a quiet, timid youth, who actually seemed to feel as though his college successes were embarrassing recollections in a society who knew nothing of deans or proctors. There was another young fellow also there at the time,—young Massingbred,—with about a tenth of this man's knowledge, and a fiftieth of his capacity, who took the lead of him on every subject, and by the bare force of an admirable manner and a most unabashed impudence, threw poor Nelligan completely into the background. It was the same kind of thing I 've often seen Niel there perform at the Four Courts, where he has actually picked up his law from a worsted opponent, as a highwayman arms himself with the pistols of the man he has robbed.”
“I never pillaged you, Repton,” said Niel, with a sarcastic smile. “You had always the privilege the poet ascribes to him who laughs 'before a robber.'”
“Vacuus sed non Inanis,” replied Repton, laughing good-humoredly.
“But tell us more of this man, Nelligan,” said Rawlins. “I 'm curious to hear about him.”
“And so you are sure to do some of these days, Rawlins. That fellow is the man to attain high eminence.”
“His religion will stop him!” cried Niel, sharply; for, being himself a Romanist, he was not sorry to have an opportunity of alluding to the disqualifying element.
“Say, rather, it will promote him,” chimed in Repton. “Take my word for it, Niel, there is a spirit of mawkish reparation abroad which affects to feel that all your coreligionists have a long arrear due to them, and that all the places and emoluments so long withheld from their ancestors should be showered down upon the present generation;—pretty much upon the same principle that you 'd pension a man now because his grandfather had been hanged for rebellion!”
“And very justly, too, if you discovered that what you once called rebellion had been very good loyalty!” cried Niel.
“We have not, however, made the discovery you speak of,” said Rep ton; “we have only commuted a sentence, in the sincere hope that you are wiser than your forefathers. But to come back. You may trust me when I say that a day is coming when you 'll not only bless yourself because you're a Papist, but that you are one! Ay, sir, it is in 'Liffey Street Chapel' we 'll seek for an attorney-general, and out of the Church of the Conception, if that be the name of it, we 'll cull our law advisers of the Crown. For the next five-and-twenty years, at least,” said he, solemnly, “the fourth-rate Catholic will be preferred to the first-rate Protestant.”
“I only hope you may be better at Prophecy than you are in Logic,” cried Niel, as he tossed off his glass; “and so, I 'm sure, does Nelligan!”
“And Nelligan is exactly the man who will never need the preference, sir. His abilities will raise him, even if there were obstacles to be surmounted. It is men of a different stamp that the system will favor,—fellows without industry for the toils of a laborious profession, or talents for the subtleties of a difficult career; men who cherish ambition and are yet devoid of capacity, and will plead the old disabilities of their faith,—pretty much as a man might claim his right to be thought a good dancer because his father had a club foot.”
“A most lame conclusion!” cried Niel. “Ah, Rawlins,” added he, with much compassion, “our poor friend here is breaking terribly. Sad signs there are of decay about him. Even his utterance begins to fail him.”
“No, no,” said Repton, gayly. “I know what you allude to. It is an old imperfection of mine not to be able to enunciate the letter r correctly, and that was the reason today in court that I called you my ingenious Bother; but I meant Brother, I assure you.”
They all laughed good-humoredly at the old man's sally; in good truth, so trained were they to these sort of combats, that they cared little for the wounds such warfare inflicted. And although the tilt was ever understood as with “reversed lances,” none ever cherished an evil memory if an unlucky stroke smote too heavily.
“I have asked young Nelligan to breakfast with me tomorrow,” said Repton; “will you both come and meet him?”
“We 're off at cock-crow!” cried Kiel. “Tell him, however, from me that I am delighted with his débuts and that all the best wishes of my friends and myself are with him.”
And so they parted.
Repton, however, did not retire to bed at once; his mind was still intent upon the subject which had engaged him during the day, and as he walked to and fro in his room, he still dwelt upon it. Scanlan's instructions had led him to believe that the Martins were in this case to have been “put upon their title;” and the formidable array of counsel employed by Magennis seemed to favor the impression. Now it was true that a trifling informality in the service of the writ had quashed the proceedings for the present; but the question remained, “Was the great struggle only reserved for a future day?”
It was clear that a man embarrassed as was Magennis could never have retained that strong bar of eminent lawyers. From what fund, then, came these resources? Was there a combination at work? And if so, to what end, and with what object?
The crafty old lawyer pondered long and patiently over these things. His feelings might not inaptly be compared to those of a commandant of a garrison, who sees his stronghold menaced by an enemy he had never suspected. Confident as he is in the resources of his position, he yet cannot resist the impression that the very threat of attack has been prompted by some weakness of which he is unaware.
“To put us on our title,” said he, “implies a great war. Let us try and find out who and what are they who presume to declare it!”
The reader has been already told that Joe Nelligan had achieved a great success in his first case. A disputed point of law had been raised, in itself insignificant, but involving in its train a vast variety of momentous interests. Repton, with an ingenuity all his own, had contrived to draw the discussion beyond its original limits, that he might entangle and embarrass the ambitious junior who had dared to confute him. Nelligan accepted the challenge at once, and after a stormy discussion of some hours came out the victor. For a while his timid manner, and an overpowering sense of the great odds against him, seemed to weigh oppressively on him. The very successes he had won elsewhere were really so many disparagements to him now, giving promise, as it were, of his ability. But, despite all these disadvantages, he entered the lists manfully and courageously.
What a many-sided virtue is this same courage, and how prone is the world to award its praises unequally for it! We are enthusiastic for the gallant soldier the earliest in the breach, or the glorious sailor who first jumps upon the enemy's quarter-deck, and yet we never dream of investing with heroism him who dares to combat with the most powerful intellects of debate, or enters the field of argument against minds stored with vast resources of knowledge, and practised in all the subtleties of disputation.
It is time, existence is not in the issue; but are there not things a thousand times dearer than life at peril? Think of him who has gone on from success to success; whose school triumphs have but heralded the riper glories of college life; who, rising with each new victory, is hailed by that dearest and best of all testimonies,—the prideful enthusiasm of his own age. Fancy him, the victor in every struggle, who has carried all before him,—the vaunted chief of his contemporaries,—fancy him beaten and worsted on his first real field of action. Imagine such a man, with all the prestige of his college fame, rudely encountered and overcome in the contest of public life, and say if any death ever equalled the suffering!
Happily, our task has not to record any such failure in the present case. Young Nelligan sat down amidst the buzzing sound of approving voices, and received a warm eulogy from the Court on the promise of so conspicuous an opening. And a proud man was Dan Nelligan on that day! At any other time how deeply honored had he felt by the distinguished notice of the great dignitaries who now congratulated him on his son's success! With what pride had he accepted the polite recognition of Chief Barons and silk-gowned “leaders”! Now, however, his heart had but room for one thought,—Joe himself,—his own boy,—the little child as it were of yesterday, now a man of mark and note, already stamped with the impress of success in what, to every Irishman's heart at least, is the first of all professions. The High Sheriff shook old Nelligan's hand in open court, and said, “It is an honor to our county, Nelligan, to claim him.” The Judge sent a message that he wished to see him in his robing-room, and spoke his warm praises of the “admirable speech, as remarkable for its legal soundness as for its eloquence;” and Repton overtook him in the street, and, catching his hand, said, “Be proud of him, sir, for we are all proud of him.”
Mayhap the hope is not a too ambitious one, that some one of those who may glance over these humble lines may himself have once stood in the position of Joe Nelligan, in so far as regards the hour of his triumph, and have felt in his heart the ecstasy of covering with his fame the “dear head” of a father.
If so, I ask him boldly,—whatever may have been the high rewards of his later fire, whatever honors may have been showered upon him, however great his career, and however brilliant its recognitions,—has he ever, in his proudest moments, tasted such a glorious thrill of delight as when he has fallen into his father's arms overcome by the happiness that he has made that father proud of him? Oh, ye who have experienced this thrill of joy within you, cherish and preserve it. The most glowing eulogies of eloquence, the most ornate paragraphs of a flattering press, are sorry things in comparison to it. For ourselves, we had rather have been Joe Nelligan when, with his father's warm tears dimming his eyes, he said, “God bless you, my boy!” than have gained all the honors that even talents like his can command!
He could not bear to absent himself from home that day; and although his father would gladly have celebrated his triumph by gathering his friends about him, Joe entreated that they might be alone. And they were so. The great excitement of the day over, a sense of weariness, almost sadness, stole over the young man; and while his father continued to relate for his mother's hearing various little incidents of the trial, he listened with a half-apathetic dreaminess, as though the theme oppressed him. The old man dwelt with delight on the flattering attention bestowed by the Court on Joseph's address, the signs of concurrence vouchsafed from time to time by the Bench, the approving murmur of the Bar while he spoke, and then the honest outburst of enthusiasm that shook the very walls as he concluded. “I tried,” continued Dan Nelligan,—“I tried to force my way through the crowd, and come and tell you that he had gained the day, but I couldn't; they were all around me, shaking my hands, patting me on the shoulders, and saying, as if I did n't know it in my own heart, 'He 'll make you a proud man yet, Mr. Nelligan.'”
“I heard it all, five minutes after it was over,” said Mrs. Nelligan; “and you 'd never guess who told me.”
“Counsellor Walsh,” cried Nelligan.
“No, indeed; I never seen him.”
“It was Hosey Lynch, then, for I saw him running like mad through the town, spreading the news everywhere.”
“It was not Hosey,” said she, half contemptuously. “I wish, Joe, you'd give a guess yourself who told me.”
“Guess, mother,—guess who told you what?” said he, suddenly starting from some deep meditation.
“Who told me that you won the cause, and beat all the great counsellors from Dublin.”
“I'm sure, mother, it would be hard for me to say,” said Joseph, smiling faintly; “some of our kind townsfolk, perhaps. Father Neal, old Peter Hayes, or—”
“I'll just tell you at once,” broke she in, half irritated at the suggested source of her information. “It was Miss Mary herself, and no other.”
“Miss Martin!” exclaimed old Nelligan.
“Miss Mary Martin!” echoed Joe; while a sickly paleness crept over his features, and his lips trembled as he spoke.
“How came you to see her? Where was she?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.
“I 'll tell you,” replied she, with all the methodical preparation by which she heralded in the least important communications,—“I 'll tell you. I was sitting here, working at the window, and wondering when the trial would be over, for the goose that was for dinner was too near the fire, and I said to myself—”
“Never mind what you said to yourself,—confound the goose,” broke in old Dan, fiercely.
“Faith, then, I 'd like to know if you 'd be pleased to eat your dinner on the cold loin of veal—”
“But Miss Martin, mother,—Miss Martin,” urged Joe, impatiently.
“I'm coming to her, if you'll let me; but when you flurry me and frighten me, I 'm ready to faint. It was last Candlemas you gave me a start, Dan, about—what was it, now? Lucky Mason's dog, I believe. No, it was the chimney took fire—”
“Will you just go back to Miss Martin, if you please,” said old Nelligan, sternly.
“I wish I knew where I was,—what I was saying last,” said she, in a tone of deep sorrow and contrition.
“You were going to say how Miss Mary told you all about the trial, mother,” said Joe, taking her hand kindly within his own.
“Yes, darling; now I remember it all. I was sitting here at the window hemming them handkerchiefs of yours, and I heard a sharp sound of a horse coming along quick, and, by the way he cantered, I said to myself, 'I know you,' and, sure enough, when I opened the window, there she was, Miss Mary herself, all dripping with wet, and her hat flattened on her face, at the door.
“'Don't ask me to get down, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'for I'm in a great hurry. I have to ride out to Kilkieran with this'—and she showed me a bottle she had in the pocket of her saddle. 'I only called to tell you that your son has gained another—' What was it she called it?—a victory, or a battle,—no, it was something else—”
“Never mind—go on,” cried Joe; “and then?”
“'But, my dear Miss Mary,' says I, 'you 're wet through and through. It's more than your life's worth to go off now another ten miles. I'll send our gossoon, Mickey Slater, with the medicine, if you 'll just come in and stay with us.' I did n't say to dinner, for I was ashamed to ask her to that.
“'I should be delighted, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'but it is impossible to-day. I 'd have stayed and asked you for my dinner,'—her very words,—'asked you for my dinner, but I have promised poor Mat Landy to go back to him. But perhaps it is as well as it is; and my aunt Dorothy might say, if she heard of it, that it was a strange choice I had made of a festive occasion,—the day on which we were beaten, and the society of him that worsted us.'
“'Oh, but, Miss Mary,' says I, 'sure you don't think the worse of poor Joe—'
“'I never thought more highly of him, my dear Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'than at this moment; and, whatever others may say or think, I'll maintain my opinion, that he is a credit to us all. Good-bye! good-bye!' and then she turned short round, and said, 'I can't answer for how my uncle may feel about what has occurred to-day, but you know my sentiments. Farewell!' And with that she was off; indeed, before I had time to shut down the window, she was out of sight and away.”
“She ought to know, and she will know, that Joe never said one hard thing of her family. And though he had in his brief enough to tempt him to bring the Martins up for judgment, not a word, not a syllable did he utter.” This old Nelligan spoke with a proud consciousness of his son's honorable conduct.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Joe, “is it not enough that a man sells his intellect, pawns his capacity, and makes traffic of his brains, without being called on to market his very nature, and set up his very emotions for sale? If my calling demands this at my hands, I have done with it,—I renounce it.”
“But I said you refrained, Joe. I remarked that you would not suffer the heat of discussion to draw you into an angry attack—”
“And you praise me for it!” broke in Joe, passionately. “You deem it an occasion to compliment me, that, in defending the cause of a worthless debauchee, I did not seize with avidity the happy moment to assail an honorable gentleman; and not alone you, but a dozen others, congratulated me on this reserve,—this constraint,—as though the lawyer were but a bravo, and, his stiletto once paid for, he must produce the body of his victim. I regard my profession in another and a higher light; but if even its practice were the noblest that could engage human faculties, and its rewards the highest that could crown them, I'd quit it tomorrow, were its price to be the sacrifice of an honorable self-esteem and the regard of—of those we care for.” And in the difficult utterance of the last words his cheek became crimson, and his lip trembled.
“I 'll tell you what you 'll do, Joe,” said his mother, whose kindness was not invariably distinguished by tact,—“just come over with me to-morrow to Cro' Martin. I 'm going to get slips of the oak-leaf geranium and the dwarf rose, and we 'll just go together in a friendly way, and when we 're there you 'll have some opportunity or other to tell Miss Mary that it wasn't your fault for being against them.”
“He 'll do no such thing,” broke in Nelligan, fiercely. “Miss Mary Martin wants no apologies,—her family have no right to any. Joe is a member of a high and powerful profession. If he does n't fill as great a place now, who knows where he 'll not be this day fifteen years, eh, my boy? Maybe I 'll not be here to see,—indeed, it's more than likely I 'll not,—but I know it now. I feel as sure of it as I do that my name 's Dan.”
“And if you are not to see it, father,” said Joe, as he pressed his father's hand between both his own,—“you and my dearest mother,—the prize will be nigh valueless. If I cannot, when my reward is won, come home,—to such a home as this,—the victory will be too late.” And so saying he rose abruptly, and hurried from the room. The moment after he had locked his door, and, flinging himself upon his bed, buried his face between his hands.
With all the proud sensations of having achieved a great success, his heart was heavily oppressed. It seemed to him as though Destiny had decreed that his duty should ever place him in antagonism to his affections. Up to a short period before this trial came on he had frequently been in Miss Martin's company. Now, it was some trifling message for his mother; now, some book he had himself promised to fetch her; then visits to the sick—and Joe, latterly, had taken a most benevolent turn—had constantly brought them together; and often, when Mary was on foot, Joe had accompanied her to the gates of the demesne. In these meetings one subject usually occupied them,—the sad condition of the country, the destitution of the poor,—and on this theme their sympathies and hopes and fears all agreed. It was not only that they concurred in their views of the national character, but that they attributed its traits of good or evil to the very same causes; and while Nelligan was amazed at finding the daughter of a proud house deeply conversant with the daily life of the humblest peasant, she, too, was astonished how sincere in his respect for rank, how loyal in his devotion to the claims of blood, was one whose birth might have proclaimed him a democrat and a destroyer.
These daily discussions led them closer and closer to each other, till at length confidences grew up between them, and Mary owned to many of the difficulties that her lone and solitary station exposed her to. Many things were done on the property without—some in direct opposition to—her concurrence. As she once said herself, “We are so ready to satisfy our consciences by assuming that whatever we may do legally we have a right to do morally, and at the same time, in the actual condition of Ireland, what is just may be practically the very heaviest of all hardships.” This observation was made with reference to some law proceedings of Scanlan's instituting, and the day after she chanced to make it Joe started for Dublin. It was there that Magennis's attorney had sent him the brief in that cause,—a charge which the etiquette of his profession precluded his declining.
In what way he discharged the trust we have seen,—what sorrow it cost him is more than we can describe. “Miss Martin,” thought he, “would know nothing of the rules which prescribe our practice, and will look upon my conduct here as a treason. For weeks long she has conversed with me in candor over the state of the county and its people; we separate for a few days, and she finds me arrayed with others against the interests of her family, and actually paid to employ against her the very knowledge she has imparted to me! What a career have I chosen,” cried he, in his agony, “if every success is to be purchased at such a price!” With such men as Magennis he had nothing in common; their society, their habits, their opinions were all distasteful to him, and yet it was for him and his he was to sacrifice the dearest hope of his heart,—to lose the good esteem of one whose praise he had accounted more costly than the highest distinction a sovereign could bestow on him. “And what a false position mine!” cried he again. “Associated by the very closest ties with a party not one of whose objects have my sympathies, I see myself separated by blood, birth, and station from all that I venerate and respect. I must either be a traitor to my own or to myself; declare my enmity to all I think most highly of, or suffer my motives to be impugned and my fame tarnished.”
There was, indeed, one circumstance in this transaction which displeased him greatly, and of which he was only aware when too late. The Magennis defence had been “got up” by a subscription,—a fund to which Joseph's own father had contributed. Amongst the machinery of attack upon the landed gentry, Father Neal Rafferty had suggested the expediency of “putting them on their titles” in cases the most trivial and insignificant. Forfeiture and confiscation had followed each other so frequently in Irish history,—grants and revocations were so mixed up together,—some attested in all formality, others irregular and imperfect,—that it was currently believed there was scarcely one single estate of the whole province could establish a clear and indisputable title. The project was, therefore, a bold one which, while disturbing the rights of property, should also bring under discussion so many vexed questions of English rule and tyranny over the Irish. Libraries and cabinets were ransacked for ancient maps of the counties; and old records were consulted to ascertain how far the original conditions of service, and so forth, had been complied with on which these estates were held.
Joseph had frequently carried home books from the library of Cro' Martin, rare and curious volumes, which bore upon the ancient history of the country. And now there crossed him the horrible suspicion that the whole scheme of this attack might be laid to his charge, the information to substantiate which he had thus surreptitiously-obtained. It was clear enough, from what his mother had said, that such was not Miss Martin's present impression; but who could say what representations might be made to her, and what change effected in her sentiments? “And this,” cried he, in indignation—“and this is the great career I used to long for!—this the broad highway I once fancied was to lead me to honor and distinction! Or is it, after all, my own fault, for endeavoring to reconcile two-things which never can have any agreement,—an humble origin and high aspirings? Were I an Englishman, the difficulty would not be impassable; but here, in Ireland, the brand of a lowly fortune and a despised race is upon me. Can I—dare I resist it?”
A long and arduous conflict was that in which he passed the night,—now inclining to abandon his profession forever, now to leave Ireland and join the English or some Colonial Bar; and at length, as day was breaking, and as though the fresh morning air which now blew upon him from his open window had given fresh energy to his nature, he determined he would persist in his career in his own country. “My fate shall be an example or a warning!” cried he. “They who come after me shall know whether there be rewards within reach of honest toil and steady industry without the contamination of a mock patriotism! If I do rise, it shall be from no aid derived from a party or a faction; and if I fail, I bring no discredit upon 'my order.'”
There are men who can so discipline their minds that they have but to establish a law to their actions to make their whole lives “a system.” Such individuals the Germans not inaptly call “self-contained men,” and of these was Joe Nelligan one.
A certain concentration of his faculties, and the fatigues of a whole night passed thus in thought, gave a careworn, exhausted look to his features as he entered the room where Repton sat awaiting him for breakfast.
“I see what's the matter with you,” said the old lawyer, as he entered. “You have passed the night after a 'first brief.' This day ten years you'll speak five hours before the Lords 'in error,' and never lose a wink of sleep after it's over!”