"An honest man!" exclaimed the trumpeter, turning fiercely on the

clarionet-player. "He's the biggest _villain_ unhanged for sthrivin' to

get me murthered, and refusin' the evidence for me!" The man's eyes

flashed fury as he spoke, and throwing his trumpet down, "Mooney!--by

jakers, you're no man!" Clenching his fist as he spoke, he made a rush

on the clarionet-player, and planted a hit on his mouth with such

vigour, that he rolled in the dust; and when he rose, it was with such

an upper lip that his clarionet-playing was evidently finished for the

next week certainly.

Now the fifer was the clarionet-player's brother; and he, turning on

the trumpeter, roared--

"Bad luck to you!--you did not sthrek him fair!"

But while in the very act of reprobating the foul blow, he let fly

under the ear of the trumpeter, who was quite unprepared for it,--and

he, too, measured his length on the road. On recovering his legs he

rushed on the fifer for revenge, and a regular scuffle ensued among

"the musicianers," to the great delight of the crowd of retainers, who

were so well primed with whisky that a fight was just the thing to

their taste.

In vain O'Grady swore at them, and went amongst them, striving to

restore order, but they would not be quiet till several black eyes and

damaged noses bore evidence of a busy five minutes having passed. In

the course of "the scrimmage," Fate was unkind to the fifer, whose

mouth-piece was considerably impaired; and "the boys" remarked, that

the worst stick you could have in a crowd was a "whistling stick," by

which name they designated the fifer's instrument.

At last, however, peace was restored, and the trumpeter again ordered

to play by O'Grady.

He protested, again, it was impossible.

The fifer, in revenge, declared he was only humbugging the Squire.

Hereupon O'Grady, seizing the unfortunate trumpeter, gave him a more

sublime kicking than ever fell to the lot of even piper or fiddler,

whose pay[21] is proverbially oftener in that article than the coin of

the realm.

[21] Fiddlers' fare, or pipers' pay--more kicks than halfpence.

Having tired himself, and considerably rubbed down the toe of his boot

with his gentlemanly exercise, O'Grady dragged the trumpeter to the

ditch, and rolled him into it, there to cool the fever which burned in

his seat of honour.

O'Grady then re-entered the carriage with Scatterbrain, and the party

proceeded; but the clarionet-player could not blow a note; the fifer

was not in good playing condition, and tootled with some difficulty;

the drummer was obliged now and then to relax his efforts in making a

noise that he might lift his right arm to his nose, which had got

damaged in the fray, and the process of wiping his face with his cuff

changed the white facings of his jacket to red. The negro cymbal-player

was the only one whose damages were not to be ascertained, as a black

eye would not tell on him, and his lips could not be more swollen than

nature had made them. On the procession went, however; but the rival

mob, the Eganites, profiting by the delay caused by the row, got ahead,

and entered the town first, with their pipers and fiddlers, hurrahing

their way in good humour down the street, and occupying the best places

in the court-house before the arrival of the opposite party, whose

band, instead of being a source of triumph, was only a thing of jeering

merriment to the Eganites, who received them with mockery and laughter.

All this by no means sweetened O'Grady's temper, who looked thunder as

he entered the court-house with his candidate, who was, though a

good-humoured fellow, a little put out by the accidents of the morning;

and Furlong looked more sheepish than ever, as he followed his leaders.

The business of the day was opened by the high-sheriff, and Major Dawson

lost no time in rising to propose, that Edward Egan, Esquire, of

Merryvale, was a fit and proper person to represent the county in

parliament.

The proposition was received with cheers by "the boys" in the body of

the court-house; the Major proceeded, full sail, in his speech--his

course aided by being on the popular current, and the "sweet voices" of

the multitude blowing in his favour. On concluding (as "the boys"

thought) his address, which was straightforward and to the point, a

voice in the crowd proposed "Three cheers for the owld Major." Three

deafening peals followed the hint.

"And now," said the Major, "I will read a few extracts here from some

documents, in support of what I have had the honour of addressing to

you." And he pulled out a bundle of papers as he spoke, and laid them

down before him.

The movement was not favoured by "the boys," as it indicated a tedious

reference to facts by no means to their taste, and the same voice that

suggested the three cheers, now sung out--

"Never mind, Major--sure we'll take your word for it!"

Cries of "Order!" and "Silence!" ensued; and were followed by murmurs,

coughs, and sneezes, in the crowd, with a considerable shuffling of

hobnailed shoes on the pavement.

"Order!" cried a voice in authority.

"Order anything you plaze, sir!" said the voice in the crowd.

"Whisky!" cried one.

"Porther!" cried another.

"Tabakky!" roared a third.

"I must insist on silence!" cried the sheriff, in a very husky voice.

"Silence!--or I'll have the court-house cleared."

"'Faith, if you cleared your own throat it would be better," said the

wag in the crowd.

A laugh followed. The sheriff felt the hit, and was silent.

The Major all this time had been adjusting his spectacles on his nose,

unconscious, poor old gentleman, that Dick, according to promise, had

abstracted the glasses from them that morning. He took up his documents

to read, made sundry wry faces, turned the papers up to the light,--now

on this side, and now on that,--but could make out nothing; while Dick

gave a knowing wink at Murphy. The old gentleman took off his spectacles

to wipe the glasses.

The voice in the crowd cried, "Thank you, Major."

The Major pulled out his handkerchief, and his fingers met where he

expected to find a lens:--he looked very angry, cast a suspicious glance

at Dick, who met it with the composure of an anchorite, and quietly

asked what was the matter.

"I shall not trouble you, gentlemen, with the extracts," said the

Major.

"Hear, hear," responded the genteel part of the auditory.

"I tould you we'd take your word, Major," cried the voice in the crowd.

Egan's seconder followed the Major, and the crowd shouted again. O'Grady

now came forward to propose the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain, as a

fit and proper person to represent the county in parliament. He was

received by his own set of vagabonds with uproarious cheers, and

"O'Grady for ever!" made the walls ring. "Egan for ever!" and hurras,

were returned from the Merryvalians. O'Grady thus commenced his

address:--

"In coming forward to support my honourable friend, the Honourable

Sackville Scatterbrain, it is from the conviction--the conviction----"

"Who got the conviction agen the potteen last sishin?" said the voice

in the crowd.

Loud groans followed this allusion to the prosecution of a few little

private stills, in which O'Grady had shown some unnecessary severity

that made him unpopular. Cries of "Order!" and "Silence!" ensued.

"I say the conviction," repeated O'Grady fiercely, looking towards the

quarter whence the interruption took place,--"and if there is any

blackguard here who dares to interrupt me, I'll order him to be taken

out by the ears. I say, I propose my honourable friend, the Honourable

Sackville Scatterbrain, from the conviction that there is a necessity

in this county----"

"'Faith, there is plenty of necessity," said the tormentor in the

crowd.

"Take that man out," said the sheriff.

"Don't hurry yourself, sir," returned the delinquent, amidst the

laughter of "the boys," in proportion to whose merriment rose O'Grady's

ill-humour.

"I say there is a necessity for a vigorous member to represent this

county in parliament, and support the laws, the constitution, the

crown, and the--the--interests of the county!"

"Who made the new road?" was a question that now arose from the

crowd--a laugh followed--and some groans at this allusion to a bit of

jobbing on the part of O'Grady, who got a grand jury presentment to

make a road which served nobody's interest but his own.

"The frequent interruptions I meet here from the lawless and

disaffected show too plainly that we stand in need of men who will

support the arm of the law in purging the country."

"Who killed the 'pothecary?" said a fellow, in a voice so deep as

seemed fit only to issue from the jaws of death.

The question, and the extraordinary voice in which it was uttered,

produced one of those roars of laughter which sometimes shake public

meetings in Ireland; and O'Grady grew furious.

"If I knew who that gentleman was, I'd pay him!" said he.

"You'd better pay _them you know_," was the answer; and this

allusion to O'Grady's notorious character of a bad payer, was relished

by the crowd, and again raised the laugh against him.

"Sir," said O'Grady, addressing the sheriff, "I hold this ruffianism in

contempt. I treat it, and the authors of it, those who no doubt have

instructed them, with contempt." He looked over to where Egan and his

friends stood, as he spoke of the crowd having had instruction to

interrupt him.

"If you mean, sir," said Egan, "that I have given any such instructions,

I deny, in the most unqualified terms, the truth of such an assertion."

"Keep yourself cool, Ned," said Dick Dawson, close to his ear.

"Never fear me," said Egan; "but I won't let him bully."

The two former friends now exchanged rather fierce looks at each other.

"Then why am I interrupted?" asked O'Grady.

"It is no business of mine to answer that," replied Egan; "but I repeat

the unqualified denial of your assertion."

The crowd ceased its noise when the two Squires were seen engaged in

exchanging smart words, in the hopes of catching what they said.

"It is a disgraceful uproar," said the sheriff.

"Then it is your business, Mister Sheriff," returned Egan, "to suppress

it--not mine; they are quiet enough now."

"Yes, but they'll make a wow again," said Furlong, "when Miste' O'Gwady

begins."

"You seem to know all about it," said Dick; "maybe _you_ have

instructed them."

"No, sir, I didn't instwuct them," said Furlong, very angry at being

twitted by Dick.

Dick laughed in his face, and said, "Maybe that's some of your

electioneering tactics--eh?"

Furlong got very angry, while Dick and Murphy shouted with laughter at

him--"No, sir," said Furlong, "I don't welish the pwactice of such

di'ty twicks."

"Do you apply the word 'dirty' to me, sir?" said Dick the Devil, ruffling

up like a game-cock. "I'll tell you what, sir, if you make use of the

word 'dirty' again, I'd think very little of kicking you--ay, or eight

like you--I'll kick eight Furlongs one mile."

"Who's talking of kicking?" asked O'Grady.

"I am," said Dick, "do you want any?"

"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" cried the sheriff, "order! pray order! do

proceed with the business of the day."

"I'll talk to you after about this!" said O'Grady, in a threatening

tone.

"Very well," said Dick; "we've time enough, the day's young yet."

O'Grady then proceeded to find fault with Egan, censuring his politics,

and endeavouring to justify his defection from the same cause. He

concluded thus: "Sir, I shall pursue my course of duty; I have chalked

out my own line of conduct, sir, and I am convinced no other line is

the right line. Our opponents are wrong, sir--totally wrong--all wrong;

and, as I have said, I have chalked out my own line, sir, and I propose

the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain as a fit and proper person to sit

in parliament for the representation of this county."

The O'Gradyites shouted as their chief concluded; and the Merryvalians

returned some groans, and a cry of "Go home, turncoat!"

Egan now presented himself, and was received with deafening and

long-continued cheers, for he was really beloved by the people at

large; his frank and easy nature, the amiable character he bore in all

his social relations, the merciful and conciliatory tendency of his

decisions and conduct as a magistrate, won him the solid respect as

well as affection of the country.

He had been for some days in low spirits in consequence of Larry Hogan's

visit and mysterious communication with him; but this, its cause, was

unknown to all but himself, and therefore more difficult to support; for

none but those whom sad experience has taught can tell the agony of

enduring in secret and in silence the pang that gnaws a proud heart,

which, Spartan like, will let the tooth destroy, without complaint or

murmur.

His depression, however, was apparent, and Dick told Murphy he feared

Ned would not be up to the mark at the election; but Murphy, with a

better knowledge of human nature, and the excitement of such a cause,

said, "Never fear him--ambition is a long spur, my boy, and will stir

the blood of a thicker-skinned fellow than your brother-in-law. When he

comes to stand up and assert his claims before the world, he'll be all

right!"

Murphy was a true prophet, for Egan presented himself with confidence,

brightness, and good-humour on his open countenance.

"The first thing I have to ask of you, boys," said Egan, addressing the

assembled throng, "is a fair hearing for the other candidate."

"Hear, hear," followed from the gentlemen in the gallery.

"And, as he's a stranger amongst us, let him have the privilege of

first addressing you."

With these words he bowed courteously to Scatterbrain, who thanked him

very much like a gentleman, and accepting his offer, advanced to address

the electors. O'Grady waved his hand in signal to his body-guard, and

Scatterbrain had three cheers from the ragamuffins.

He was no great things of a speaker, but he was a good-humoured fellow,

and this won on the Paddies; and although coming before them under the

disadvantage of being proposed by O'Grady, they heard him with good

temper:--to this, however, Egan's good word considerably contributed.

He went very much over the ground his proposer had taken, so that,

bating the bad temper, the pith of his speech was much the same, quite

as much deprecating the political views of his opponent, and harping on

O'Grady's worn-out catch-word of "Having chalked out a line for

himself," &c. &c. &c.

Egan now stood forward, and was greeted with fresh cheers. He began in

a very Irish fashion; for, being an unaffected, frank, and free-hearted

fellow himself, he knew how to touch the feelings of those who possess

such qualities. He waited till the last echo of the uproarious greeting

died away, and the first simple words he uttered were--

"Here I am, boys!"

Simple as these words were, they produced "one cheer more."

"Here I am, boys--_the same I ever was_."

Loud huzzas and "Long life to you!" answered the last pithy words, which

were sore ones to O'Grady, who, as a renegade, felt the hit.

"Fellow-countrymen, I come forward to represent you, and, however I may

be unequal to _that_ task, at least I will never _mis_represent you."

Another cheer followed.

"My past life is evidence enough on _that_ point; God forbid I were of

the mongrel breed of Irishmen who speak ill of their own country. I

never did it, boys, and I never will! Some think they get on by it, and

so they do, indeed;--they get on as sweeps and shoe-blacks get on--they

drive a dirty trade and find employment;--but are they respected?"

Shouts of "No!--no!"

"You're right!--No!--they are not respected--even by their very

employers. Your political sweep and shoe-black is no more respected than

he who cleans our chimneys or cleans our shoes. The honourable gentleman

who has addressed you last confesses he is a stranger amongst you; and

is _he_, a stranger, to be your representative? You may be civil to a

stranger--it is a pleasing duty,--but he is not the man to whom you

would give your confidence. You might share a hearty glass with a

stranger, but you would not enter into a joint lease of a farm without

knowing a little more of him; and if you would not trust a single farm

with a stranger, will you give a whole county into his hands? When a

stranger comes to these parts, I'm sure he'll get a civil answer from

every man I see here,--he will get a civil 'yes' or a civil 'no' to his

questions; and if he seeks his way, you will show him his road. As to

the honourable gentleman who has done you the favour to come and ask you

civilly, will you give him the county, you as civilly may answer 'No,'

and _show him his road home again_. ('So we will.') As for the gentleman

who proposed him, he has chosen to make certain strictures upon my

views, and opinions, and conduct. As for views--there was a certain

heathen god the Romans worshipped, called Janus; he was a fellow with

two heads--and by-the-bye, boys, he would have been just the fellow to

live amongst us; for when one of his heads was broken he would have had

the other for use. Well, this Janus was called 'double-face,' and could

see before and behind him. Now, _I'm no double-face_, boys; and as for

seeing before and behind me, I can look back on the past and forward to

the future, and _both_ the roads are _straight ones_. (Cheers.) I wish

every one could say as much. As for my opinions, all I shall say is, _I_

never changed _mine_; Mr. O'Grady can't say as much."

"Sure there's a weathercock in the family," said the voice in the

crowd.

A loud laugh followed this sally, for the old dowager's eccentricity

was not _quite_ a secret. O'Grady looked as if he could have eaten

the whole crowd at a mouthful.

"Much has been said," continued Egan, "about gentlemen chalking out

lines for themselves;--now, the plain English of this determined

chalking of _their own_ line is _rubbing out every other man's line_.

(Bravo.) Some of these chalking gentlemen have lines chalked up against

them, and might find it difficult to pay the score if they were called

to account. To such, rubbing out other men's lines, and their own too,

may be convenient; but I don't like the practice. Boys, I have no more

to say than this, _We know and can trust each other!_"

Egan's address was received with acclamation, and when silence was

restored, the sheriff demanded a show of hands; and a very fine show of

hands there was, _and every hand had a stick in it_.

The show of hands was declared to be in favour of Egan, whereupon a

poll was demanded on the part of Scatterbrain, after which every one

began to move from the court-house.

O'Grady, in very ill-humour, was endeavouring to shove past a herculean

fellow, rather ragged and very saucy, who did not seem inclined to give

place to the savage elbowing of the Squire.

"What brings such a ragged rascal as you here?" said O'Grady, brutally;

"you're not an elector."

"Yis, I am!" replied the fellow, sturdily.

"Why, _you_ can't have a lease, you beggar."

"No, but maybe I have an article."[22]

[22] A name given to a written engagement between landlord and

tenant, promising to grant a lease, on which registration is

allowed in Ireland.

"What is your article?"

"What is it?" retorted the fellow, with a fierce look at O'Grady.

"'Faith, it's a fine brass blunderbuss; _and I'd like to see the man

would dispute the title_."

O'Grady had met his master, and could not reply; the crowd shouted for

the ragamuffin, and all parties separated, to gird up their loins for

the next day's poll.

CHAPTER XIX

After the angry words exchanged at the nomination, the most peaceable

reader must have anticipated the probability of a duel;--but when the

inflammable stuff of which Irishmen are made is considered, together

with the excitement and pugnacious spirit attendant upon elections in

all places, the certainty of a hostile meeting must have been apparent.

The sheriff might have put the gentlemen under arrest, it is true, but

that officer was a weak, thoughtless, irresolute person, and took no

such precaution; though, to do the poor man justice, it is only fair to

say that such an intervention of authority at such a time and place

would be considered on all hands as a very impertinent, unjustifiable,

and discourteous interference with the private pleasures and privileges

of gentlemen.

Dick Dawson had a message conveyed to him from O'Grady, requesting the

honour of his company the next morning to "grass before breakfast!" to

which, of course, Dick returned an answer expressive of the utmost

readiness to oblige the Squire with his presence; and, as the business

of the election was of importance, it was agreed they should meet at a

given spot on the way to the town, and so lose as little time as

possible.

The next morning, accordingly, the parties met at the appointed place,

Dick attended by Edward O'Connor and Egan--the former in capacity of

his friend; and O'Grady, with Scatterbrain for his second, and Furlong

a looker-on: there were some straggling spectators besides, to witness

the affair.

"O'Grady looks savage, Dick," said Edward.

"Yes," answered Dick, with a smile of as much unconcern as if he were

going to lead off a country dance. "He looks as pleasant as a bull in a

pound."

"Take care of yourself, my dear Dick," said Edward seriously.

"My dear boy, don't make yourself uneasy," replied Dick, laughing.

"I'll bet you two to one he misses me."

Edward made no reply, but, to his sensitive and more thoughtful nature,

betting at such a moment savoured too much of levity, so, leaving his

friend, he advanced to Scatterbrain, and they commenced making the

preliminary preparations.

During the period which this required O'Grady was looking down sulkily

or looking up fiercely, and striking his heel with vehemence into the

sod, while Dick Dawson was whistling a planxty and eyeing his man.

The arrangements were soon made, the men placed on their ground, and

Dick saw by the intent look with which O'Grady marked him, that he meant

mischief; they were handed their pistols--the seconds retired--the word

was given, and as O'Grady raised his pistol, Dick saw he was completely

covered, and suddenly exclaimed, throwing up his arm, "I beg your pardon

for a moment."

O'Grady involuntarily lowered his weapon, and seeing Dick standing

perfectly erect, and nothing following his sudden request for this

suspension of hostilities, asked, in a very angry tone, why he had

interrupted him. "Because I saw you had me covered," said Dick, "and

you'd have hit me if you had fired that time: now fire away as soon as

you like!" added he, at the same moment rapidly bringing up his own

pistol to the level.

O'Grady was taken by surprise, and fancying Dick was going to blaze at

him, fired hastily, and missed his adversary.

Dick made him a low bow, and fired in the air.

O'Grady wanted another shot, saying Dawson had tricked him, but

Scatterbrain felt the propriety of Edward O'Connor's objection to

further fighting, after Dawson receiving O'Grady's fire; so the

gentlemen were removed from the ground and the affair terminated.

O'Grady, having fully intended to pink Dick, was excessively savage at

being overreached, and went off to the election with a temper by no

means sweetened by the morning's adventure, while Dick roared with

laughing, exclaiming at intervals to Edward O'Connor, as he was putting

up his pistols, "Did not I _do_ him neatly?"

Off they cantered gaily to the high road, exchanging merry and cheering

salutations with the electors, who were thronging towards the town in

great numbers and all variety of manner, group, and costume, some on

foot, some on horseback, and some on cars; the gayest show of holiday

attire contrasting with the every-day rags of wretchedness; the fresh

cheek of health and beauty making gaunt misery look more appalling, and

the elastic step of vigorous youth outstripping the tardy pace of feeble

age. Pedestrians were hurrying on in detachments of five or six--the

equestrians in companies less numerous; sometimes the cavalier who could

boast a saddle carrying a woman on a pillion behind him. But saddle or

pillion were not an indispensable accompaniment to this equestrian duo,

for many a "bare-back" _garran_ carried his couple, his only harness

being a halter made of a hay-rope, which in time of need sometimes

proves a substitute for "rack and manger," for it is not uncommon in

Ireland to see the _garran_ nibbling the end of his bridle when

opportunity offers. The cars were in great variety; some bore small

kishes,[23] in which a woman and some children might be seen; others had

a shake-down of clean straw to serve for cushions; while the better sort

spread a feather-bed for greater comfort, covered by a patchwork quilt,

the work of the "good woman" herself, whose own quilted petticoat vied

in brightness with the calico roses on which she was sitting. The most

luxurious indulged still further in some arched branches of hazel,

which, bent above the car in the fashion of a booth, bore another

coverlid, by way of awning, and served for protection against the

weather; but few there were who could indulge in such a luxury as this

of the "_chaise marine_," which is the name the contrivance bears, but

why, Heaven only knows.

[23] A large basket of coarse wicker-work, used mostly for carrying

turf--_Anglice_, peat.

The street of the town had its centre occupied at the broadest place

with a long row of cars, covered in a similar manner to the _chaise

marine_, a door or a shutter laid across underneath the awning,

after the fashion of a counter, on which various articles were

displayed for sale; for the occasion of the election was as good as a

fair to the small dealers, and the public were therefore favoured with

the usual opportunity of purchasing uneatable gingerbread, knives that

would not cut, spectacles to increase blindness, and other articles of

equal usefulness.

While the dealers here displayed their ware, and were vociferous in

declaring its excellence, noisy groups passed up and down on either side

of these ambulatory shops, discussing the merits of the candidates,

predicting the result of the election, or giving an occasional cheer for

their respective parties, with the twirl of a stick or the throwing up

of a hat; while from the houses on both sides of the street the scraping

of fiddles, and the lilting of pipes, increased the mingled din.

But the crowd was thickest and the uproar greatest in front of the inn

where Scatterbrain's committee sat, and before the house of Murphy, who

gave up all his establishment to the service of the election, and whose

stable-yard made a capital place of mustering for the tallies of Egan's

electors to assemble ere they marched to the poll. At last the hour for

opening the poll struck, the inn poured forth the Scatterbrains, and

Murphy's stable-yard the Eganites, the two bodies of electors uttering

thundering shouts of defiance, as, with rival banners flying, they

joined in one common stream, rushing to give their votes--for as for

their _voices_, they were giving _them_ most liberally and strenuously

already. The dense crowd soon surrounded the hustings in front of the

court-house, and the throes and heavings of this living mass resembled a

turbulent sea lashed by a tempest:--but what sea is more unruly than an

excited crowd?--what tempest fiercer than the breath of political

excitement?

Conspicuous amongst those on the hustings were both the candidates, and

their aiders and abettors on either side--O'Grady and Furlong, Dick

Dawson and Tom Durfy for work, and Growling to laugh at them all. Edward

O'Connor was addressing the populace in a spirit-stirring appeal to

their pride and affections, stimulating them to support their tried and

trusty friend, and not yield the honour of their county either to fears

or favours of a stranger, nor copy the bad example which some (who ought

to blush) had set them, of betraying old friends and abandoning old

principles. Edward's address was cheered by those who heard it:--but

being heard is not essential to the applause attendant on political

addresses, for those who do not hear cheer quite as much as those who

do. The old adage hath it, "Show me your company, and I'll tell you who

you are;"--and in the spirit of the adage one might say, "Let me see the

speech-maker, an' I'll tell you what he says." So when Edward O'Connor

spoke, the boys welcomed him with a shout of "Ned of the Hill for

ever!"--and knowing to what tune his mouth would be opened, they cheered

accordingly when he concluded. O'Grady, on evincing a desire to address

them, was not so successful;--the moment he showed himself, taunts were

flung at him: but spite of this, attempting to frown down their

dissatisfaction, he began to speak; but he had not uttered six words

when his voice was drowned in the discordant yells of a trumpet. It is

scarcely necessary to tell the reader that the performer was the

identical trumpeter of the preceding day, whom O'Grady had kicked so

unmercifully, who, in indignation at his wrongs, had gone over to the

enemy; and having, after a night's hard work, disengaged the cork which

Andy had crammed into his trumpet, appeared in the crowd ready to do

battle in the popular cause.--"Wait," he cried, "till that savage of a

baste of a Squire dares for to go for to spake!--won't I smother him!"

Then he would put his instrument of vengeance to his lips, and produce a

yell that made his auditors put their hands to their ears. Thus armed,

he waited near the platform for O'Grady's speech, and put his threat

effectually into execution. O'Grady saw whence the annoyance proceeded,

and shook his fist at the delinquent, with protestations that the police

should drag him from the crowd, if he dared to continue; but every

threat was blighted in the bud by the withering blast of a trumpet,

which was regularly followed by a peal of laughter from the crowd.

O'Grady stamped and swore with rage, and calling Furlong, sent him to

inform the sheriff how riotous the crowd were, and requested him to have

the trumpeter seized.

Furlong hurried off on his mission, and after a long search for the

potential functionary, saw him in a distant corner, engaged in what

appeared to be an urgent discussion between him and Murtough Murphy, who

was talking in the most jocular manner to the sheriff, who seemed

anything but amused with his argumentative merriment. The fact was,

Murphy, while pushing the interests of Egan with an energy unsurpassed,

did it with all the utmost cheerfulness, and gave his opponents a laugh

in exchange for the point gained against them, and while he defeated,

amused them. Furlong, after shoving and elbowing his way through the

crowd, suffering from heat and exertion, came _fussing_ up to the

sheriff, wiping his face with a scented cambric pocket-handkerchief. The

sheriff and Murphy were standing close beside one of the polling-desks,

and on Furlong's lisping out "Miste' Shewiff," Murphy, recognising the

voice and manner, turned suddenly round, and with the most provoking

cordiality addressed him thus, with a smile and a nod, "Ah! Mister

Furlong, how d'ye do?--delighted to see you; here we are at it, sir,

hammer and tongs--of course you are come to vote for Egan?"

Furlong, who intended to annihilate Murphy with an indignant repetition

of the provoking question put to him, threw as much of defiance as he

could in his namby-pamby manner, and exclaimed, "_I_ vote for Egan!"

"Thank you, sir," said Murphy. "Record the vote," added he to the

clerk.

There was loud laughter on one side, and anger as loud on the other, at

the way in which Murphy had entrapped Furlong, and cheated him into

voting against his own party. In vain the poor gull protested he never

_meant_ to vote for Egan.

"But you did it," cried Murphy.

"What the deuce have you done?" cried Scatterbrain's agent, in a rage.

"Of course, they know I wouldn't vote that way," said Furlong. "I

_couldn't_ vote that way--it's a mistake, and I pwotest against

the twick."

"We've got the trick, and we'll keep it, however," said Murphy.

Scatterbrain's agent said 't was unfair, and desired the polling-clerk

not to record the vote.

"Didn't every one hear him say, '_I vote for Egan_'?" asked

Murphy.

"But he didn't mean it, sir," said the agent.

"I don't care what he meant, but I know he said it," retorted Murphy;

"and every one round knows he said it; and as I mean what I say myself,

I suppose every other gentleman does the same--down with the vote,

Mister Polling-clerk."

A regular wrangle now took place between the two agents, amidst the

laughter of the bystanders, whose merriment was increased by Furlong's

vehement assurances he did not mean to vote as Murphy wanted to make it

appear he had; but the more he protested, the more the people laughed.

This increased his energy in fighting out the point, until Scatterbrain's

agent recommended him to desist, for that he was only interrupting their

own voters from coming up. "Never mind now, sir," said the agent, "I'll

appeal to the assessor about that vote."

"Appeal as much as you like," said Murtough; "that vote is as dead as a

herring to you."

Furlong, finding further remonstrance unavailing, as regarded his vote,

delivered to the sheriff the message of O'Grady, who was boiling over

with impatience, in the meantime, at the delay of his messenger, and

anxiously expecting the arrival of sheriff and police to coerce the

villainous trumpeter and chastise the applauding crowd, which became

worse and worse every minute.

They exhibited a new source of provocation to O'Grady, by exposing a

rat-trap hung at the end of a pole, with the caged vermin within, and

vociferated "Rat, rat," in the pauses of the trumpet. Scatterbrain,

remembering the hearing they gave him the previous day, hoped to

silence them, and begged O'Grady to permit _him_ to address them;

but the whim of the mob was up, and could not be easily diverted, and

Scatterbrain himself was hailed with the name of "Rat-catcher."

"You cotch him--and I wish you joy of him!" cried one.

"How much did you give for him?" shouted another.

"What did you bait your thrap with?" roared a third.

"A bit o' _threasury bacon_," was the answer from a stentorian voice

amidst the multitude, who shouted with laughter at the apt rejoinder,

which they reiterated from one end of the crowd to the other, and the

cry of "threasury bacon" rang far and wide.

Scatterbrain and O'Grady consulted together on the hustings what was to

be done, while Dick the Devil was throwing jokes to the crowd, and

inflaming their mischievous merriment, and Growling looking on with an

expression of internal delight at the fun, uproar, and vexation around

him. It was just a dish to his taste and he devoured it with silent

satisfaction.

"What the deuce keeps that sneaking dandy?" cried O'Grady to Scatterbrain.

"He should have returned long ago." Oh! could he have only known at that

moment, that his sweet son-in-law elect was voting against them, what

would have been the consequence?

Another exhibition, insulting to O'Grady, now appeared in the crowd--a

chimney-pot and weathercock, after the fashion of his mother's, was

stuck on a pole, and underneath was suspended an old coat, turned inside

out; this double indication of his change, so peculiarly insulting, was

elevated before the hustings, amidst the jeers and laughter of the

people. O'Grady was nearly frantic--he rushed to the front of the

platform, he shook his fist at the mockery, poured every abusive epithet

on its perpetrators, and swore he would head the police himself and

clear the crowd. In reply, the crowd hooted, the rat-trap and

weathercock were danced together after the fashion of Punch and Judy, to

the music of the trumpet; and another pole made its appearance, with a

piece of bacon on it, and a placard bearing the inscription of "Treasury

bacon," all which Tom Durfy had run off to procure at a huckster's shop

the moment he heard the waggish answer, which he thus turned to account.

"The military must be called out!" said O'Grady; and with these words

he left the platform to seek the sheriff.

Edward O'Connor, the moment he heard O'Grady's threat, quitted the

hustings also, in company with old Growling. "What a savage and

dangerous temper that man has!" said Edward; "calling for the military

when the people have committed no outrage to require such interference."

"They have poked up the bear with their poles, sir, and it is likely

he'll give them a hug before he's done with them," answered the doctor.

"But what need of military?" indignantly exclaimed Edward. "The people

are only going on with the noise and disturbance common to any election,

and the chances are, that savage man may influence the sheriff to

provoke the people, by the presence of soldiers, to some act which

would not have taken place but for their interference; and thus they

themselves originate the offence which they are forearmed with power to

chastise. In England such extreme measures are never resorted to until

necessity compels them. How I have envied Englishmen, when, on the

occasion of assizes, every soldier is marched from the town while the

judge is sitting; in Ireland the place of trial bristles with bayonets!

How much more must a people respect and love the laws, whose own purity

and justice are their best safeguard--whose inherent majesty is

sufficient for their own protection! The sword of justice should never

need the assistance of the swords of dragoons; and in the election of

their representatives, as well as at judicial sittings, a people should

be free from military despotism."

"But, as an historian, my dear young friend," said the doctor, "I need

not remind you, that dragoons have been considered 'good lookers-on' in

Ireland since the days of Strafford."

"Ay!" said Edward; "and scandalous it is, that the abuses of the

seventeenth century should be perpetuated in the nineteenth.[24] While

those who govern show, by the means they adopt for supporting their

authority, that their rule requires undue force to uphold it, they

tacitly teach resistance to the people, and their practices imply that

the resistance is righteous."

[24] When Strafford's infamous project of the wholesale robbery of

Connaught was put in practice, not being quite certain of his

juries, he writes that he will send three hundred horse to the

province during the proceedings, as "good lookers-on."

"My dear Master Ned," said the doctor, "you're a patriot, and I'm sorry

for you; you inherit the free opinions of your namesake 'of the hill,'

of blessed memory; with such sentiments you may make a very good Irish

barrister, but you'll never be an Irish judge--and as for a silk gown,

'faith you may leave the wearing of _that_ to your wife, for stuff

is all that will ever adorn your shoulders."

"Well, I would rather have stuff there than in my head," answered

Edward.

"Very epigrammatic, indeed, Master Ned," said the doctor. "Let us make

a distich of it," added he, with a chuckle; "for, of a verity, some of

the K. C.'s of our times are but dunces. Let's see--how will it go?"

Edward dashed off this couplet in a moment--

"Of modern king's counsel this truth may be said,

They have _silk_ on their shoulders, and _stuff_ in their head."

"Neat enough," said the doctor; "but you might contrive more sting in

it--something to the tune of the impossibility of making 'a silk purse

out of a sow's ear,' but the facility of manufacturing silk gowns out

of _bores'_ heads."

"That's out of your bitter pill-box, Doctor," said Ned, smiling.

"Put it into rhyme, Ned--and set it to music--and dedicate it to the

bar mess, and see how you'll rise in your profession! Good bye--I will

be back again to see the fun as soon as I can, but I must go now and

visit an old woman who is in doubt whether she stands most in need of

me or the priest. It's wonderful, how little people think of the other

world till they are going to leave this; and, with all their praises of

heaven, how very anxious they are to stay out of it as long as they

can."

With this bit of characteristic sarcasm, the doctor and Edward

separated.

Edward had hardly left the hustings, when Murphy hurried on the

platform and asked for him.

"He left a few minutes ago," said Tom Durfy.

"Well, I dare say he's doing good wherever he is," said Murtough; "I

wanted to speak to him, but when he comes back send him to me. In the

meantime, Tom, run down and bring up a batch of voters--we're getting a

little ahead, I think, with the bothering I'm giving them up there, and

now I want to push them with good strong tallies--run down to the yard,

like a good fellow, and march them up."

Off posted Tom Durfy on his mission, and Murphy returned to the

court-house.

Tom, on reaching Murphy's house, found a strange posse of O'Grady's

party hanging round the place, and one of the fellows had backed a car

against the yard gate which opened on the street, and was the outlet for

Egan's voters. By way of excuse for this, the car was piled with

cabbages for sale, and a couple of very unruly pigs were tethered to the

shafts, and the strapping fellow who owned all kept guard over them. Tom

immediately told him he should leave that place, and an altercation

commenced; but even an electioneering dispute could not but savour of

fun and repartee, between Paddies.

"Be off!" said Tom.

"Sure I can't be off till the market's over," was the answer.

"Well, you must take your car out o' this."

"Indeed now, you'll let me stay, Misther Durfy."

"Indeed I won't."

"Arrah! what harm?"

"You're stopping up the gate on purpose, and you must go."

"Sure your honour wouldn't spile my stand!"

"'Faith, I'll spoil more than your stand, if you don't leave that."

"Not finer cabbage in the world."

"Go out o' that now, 'while your shoes are good,'"[25] said Tom, seeing

he had none; for, in speaking of shoes, Tom had no intention of alluding

to the word _choux_, and thus making a French pun upon the _cabbage_--for

Tom did not understand French, but rather despised it as a jack-a-dandy

acquirement.

[25] A saying among the Irish peasantry--meaning there is danger

in delay.

"Sure, you wouldn't ruin my market, Misther Durfy."

"None of your humbugging--but be off at once," said Tom, whose tone

indicated he was _very much in earnest_.

"Not a nicer slip of a pig in the market than the same pigs--I'm

expectin' thirty shillin's apiece for them."

"'Faith, you'll get more than thirty shillings," cried Tom, "in less

than thirty seconds, if you don't take your dirty cabbage and

blackguard pigs out o' that!"

"Dirty cabbages!" cried the fellow, in a tone of surprise.

The order to depart was renewed.

"Blackguard pigs!" cried Paddy, in affected wonder. "Ah, Masther Tom,

one would think it was afther dinner you wor."

"What do you mean, you rap?--do you intend to say I'm drunk?"

"Oh no, sir! But if it's not afther dinner wid you, I think you

wouldn't turn up your nose at bacon and greens."

"Oh, with all your joking," said Tom, laughing, "you won't find me

a chicken to pluck for your bacon and greens, my boy; so,

start!--vanish!--disperse!--my bacon-merchant."

While this dialogue was going forward, several cars were gathered round

the place, with a seeming view to hem in Egan's voters, and interrupt

their progress to the poll; but the gate of the yard suddenly opened,

and the fellows within soon upset the car which impeded their egress,

gave freedom to the pigs, who used their liberty in eating the cabbages,

while their owner was making cause with his party of O'Gradyites against

the outbreak of Egan's men. The affair was not one of importance; the

numbers were not sufficient to constitute a good row--it was but a

hustling affair, after all, and a slight scrimmage enabled Tom Durfy to

head his men in a rush to the poll.

The polling was now prosecuted vigorously on both sides, each party

anxious to establish a majority on the first day; and of course the

usual practices for facilitating their own, and retarding their

opponents' progress were resorted to.

Scatterbrain's party, to counteract the energetic movement of the

enemy's voters and Murphy's activity, got up a mode of interruption

seldom made use of, but of which they availed themselves on the present

occasion. It was determined to put the oath of allegiance to all the

Roman Catholics, by which some loss of time to the Eganite party was

effected.

This gave rise to odd scenes and answers, occasionally:--some of the

fellows did not know what the oath of allegiance meant; some did not

know whether there might not be a scruple of conscience against making

it; others, indignant at what they felt to be an insulting mode of

address, on the part of the person who said to them, in a tone savouring

of supremacy--"_You're_ a Roman Catholic?"--would not answer immediately,

and gave dogged looks and sometimes dogged answers; and it required

address on the part of Egan's agents to make them overcome such

feelings, and expedite the work of voting. At last the same herculean

fellow who gave O'Grady the fierce answer about the _blunderbuss tenure_

he enjoyed, came up to vote, and fairly bothered the querist with his

ready replies, which, purposely, were never to the purpose. The

examination ran nearly thus:--

"You're a Roman Catholic?"

"Am I?" said the fellow.

"Are you not?" demanded the agent.

"You say I am," was the answer.

"Come, sir, answer--What's your religion?"

"The thrue religion."

"What religion is that?"

"My religion."

"And what's _your_ religion?"

"My mother's religion."

"And what was your mother's religion?"

"_She tuk whisky in her tay._"

"Come, now, I'll find you out, as cunning as you are," said the agent,

piqued into an encounter of wits with this fellow, whose baffling of

every question pleased the crowd.

"You bless yourself, don't you?"

"When I'm done with, I think I ought."

"What place of worship do you go to?"

"The most convaynient."

"But of what persuasion are you?"

"My persuasion is that you won't find it out."

"What is your belief?"

"My belief is that _you're_ puzzled."

"Do you confess?"

"Not to you."

"Come! now I have you. Who would you send for if you were likely to

die?"

"Doctor Growlin'."

"Not for the priest?"

"I must first get a messenger."

"Confound your quibbling!--tell me, then, what your opinions are--your

conscientious opinions I mean."

"They are the same as my landlord's."

"And what are your landlord's opinions?"

"Faix, his opinion is, that I won't pay him the last half-year's rint;

and I'm of the same opinion myself."

A roar of laughter followed this answer, and dumb-foundered the agent

for a time; but, angered at the successful quibbling of the sturdy and

wily fellow before him, he at last declared, with much severity of

manner, that he _must_ have a direct reply. "I insist, sir, on your

answering, at once, _are_ you a Roman Catholic?"

"I am," said the fellow.

"And could not you say so at once?" repeated the officer.

"You never axed me," returned the other.

"I did," said the officer.

"Indeed, you didn't. You said I was a great many things, but you never

_axed_ me--you wor dhrivin' _crass_ words and _cruked_ questions at me,

and I gev you answers to match them, for sure I thought it was manners

to cut out my _behavor_ on your patthern."

"Take the oath, sir."

"Where am I to take it to, sir?" inquired the provoking blackguard.

The clerk was desired to "swear him," without further notice being

taken of his impertinent answer.

"I hope the oath is not _woighty_, sir, for my conscience is

tindher since the last _alibi_ I swore."

The business of the interior was now suspended for a time by the sounds

of fierce tumult which arose from without. Some rushed from the

court-house to the platform outside, and beheld the crowd in a state of

great excitement, beating back the police, who had been engaged in

endeavouring to seize the persons and things which had offended O'Grady;

and the police falling back for support on a party of military which

O'Grady had prevailed on the sheriff to call out. The sheriff was a

weak, irresolute man, and was over-persuaded by such words as "mob" and

"riot," and breaches of the peace being _about to be_ committed, if the

ruffians were not checked beforehand. The wisdom of _preventive

measures_ was preached, and the rest of the hackneyed phrases were

paraded, which brazen-faced and iron-handed oppressors are only too

familiar with.

The people were now roused, and thoroughly defeated the police, who

were forced to fly to the lines of the military party for protection;

having effected this object, the crowd retained their position, and did

not attempt to assault the soldiers, though a very firm and louring

front was presented to them, and shouts of defiance against the

"Peelers"[26] rose loud and long.

[26] The name given to the police by the people--the force being

first established by Sir Robert Peel, then Mr. Peel, Secretary for

Ireland.

"A round of ball cartridge would cool their courage," said O'Grady.

The English officer in command of the party, looking with wonder and

reproach upon him, asked if _he_ had the command of the party.

"No, sir;--the sheriff, of course;--but if I were in his place, I'd

soon disperse the rascals."

"Did you ever witness the _effect_ of a fusilade, sir?" inquired

the officer.

"No, sir," said O'Grady, gruffly; "but I suppose I know pretty well

what it is."

"For the sake of humanity, sir, I hope you do not, or I am willing to

believe you would not talk so lightly of it; but it is singular how

much fonder civilians are of urging measures that end in blood, than

those whose profession is arms, and who know how disastrous is their

use."

The police were ordered to advance again and seize the "ringleaders:"

they obeyed unwillingly; but being saluted with some stones, their

individual wrath was excited, and they advanced to chastise the mob,

who again drove them back; and a nearer approach to the soldiers was

made by the crowd in the scuffle which ensued.

"Now, will you fire?" said O'Grady to the sheriff.

The sheriff, who was a miserable coward, was filled with dread at the

threatening aspect of the mob, and wished to have his precious person

under shelter before hostilities commenced; so, with pallid lips, and

his teeth chattering with fear, he exclaimed:--

"No! no! no!--don't fire--don't fire--don't be precipitate: besides, I

haven't read the Riot Act."

"There's no necessity for firing, I should say," said the captain.

"I thought not, captain--I hope not, captain," said the sheriff, who now

assumed a humane tone. "Think of the effusion of blood, my dear sir,"

said he to O'Grady, who was grinning like a fiend all the time--"the

sacrifice of human life--I couldn't, sir--I can't, sir--besides, the

Riot Act--haven't it about me--must be read, you know, Mister O'Grady."

"Not always," said O'Grady, fiercely.

"But the inquiry is always very strict after, if it is not, sir--I

should not like the effusion of human blood, sir, unless the Riot Act

was read, and the thing done regularly,--don't think I care for the

d----d rascals a button, sir,--only the regularity, you know; and the

effusion of human blood is serious, and the inquiry, too, without the

Riot Act. Captain, would you oblige me to fall back a little closer

round the court-house, and maintain the freedom of election? Besides,

the Riot Act is up-stairs in my desk. The court-house must be protected,

you know, and I just want to run up-stairs for the Riot Act; I'll be

down again in a moment. Captain, do oblige me--draw your men a _leetle_

closer round the court-house."

"I'm in a better position here, sir," said the captain.

"I thought you were under my command, sir," said the sheriff.

"Under your command to fire, sir, but the choice of position rests with

me; and we are stronger where we are; the court-house is completely

covered, and while my men are under arms here, you may rely on it the

crowd is completely in check without firing a shot."

Off ran the sheriff to the court-house.

"You're saving of your gunpowder, I see, sir," said O'Grady to the

captain, with a sardonic grin.

"You seem to be equally sparing of your humanity, sir," returned the

captain.

"God forbid I should be afraid of a pack of ruffians," said O'Grady.

"Or I of a single one," returned the captain, with a look of stern

contempt.

There is no knowing what this bitter bandying of hard words might have

led to, had it not been interrupted by the appearance of the sheriff at

one of the windows of the court-house; there, with the Riot Act in his

hand, he called out:--

"Now I've read it--fire away, boys--fire away!" and all his compunction

about the effusion of blood vanished the moment his own miserable

carcass was safe from harm. Again he waved the Riot Act from the window,

and vociferated, "Fire away, boys!" as loud as his frog-like voice

permitted.

"Now, sir, you're ordered to fire," said O'Grady to the captain.

"I'll not obey that order, sir," said the captain; "the man is out of

his senses with fear, and I'll not obey such a serious command from a

madman."

"Do you dare disobey the orders of the sheriff, sir?" thundered

O'Grady.

"I am responsible for my act, sir," said the captain--"seriously

responsible; but I will not slaughter unarmed people until I see

further and fitter cause."

The sheriff had vanished--he was nowhere to be seen--and O'Grady as a

magistrate had now the command. Seeing the cool and courageous man he

had to deal with in the military chief, he determined to push matters

to such an extremity that he should be forced, in self-defence, to

fire. With this object in view he ordered a fresh advance of the police

upon the people, and in this third affair matters assumed a more

serious aspect; sticks and stones were used with more effect, and the

two parties being nearer to each other, the missiles meant only for the

police overshot their mark and struck the soldiers, who bore their

painful situation with admirable patience.

"Now will you fire, sir?" said O'Grady to the officer.

"If I fire now, sir, I am as likely to kill the police as the people;

withdraw your police first, sir, and then I will fire."

This was but reasonable--so reasonable, that even O'Grady, enraged

almost to madness as he was, could not gainsay it; and he went forward

himself to withdraw the police force. O'Grady's presence increased the

rage of the mob, whose blood was now thoroughly up, and as the police

fell back they were pressed by the infuriated people, who now began

almost to disregard the presence of the military, and poured down in a

resistless stream upon them.

O'Grady repeated his command to the captain, who, finding matters thus

driven to extremity, saw no longer the possibility of avoiding

bloodshed; and the first preparatory word of the fatal order was given,

the second on his lips, and the long file of bright muskets flashed in

the sun ere they should quench his light for ever to some, and carry

darkness to many a heart and hearth, when a young and handsome man,

mounted on a noble horse, came plunging and ploughing his way through

the crowd, and, rushing between the half-levelled muskets and those who

in another instant would have fallen their victims, he shouted in a

voice whose noble tone carried to its hearers involuntary obedience,

"Stop!--for God's sake, stop!" Then wheeling his horse suddenly round,

he charged along the advancing front of the people, plunging his horse

fiercely upon them, and waving them back with his hand, enforcing his

commands with words as well as actions. The crowd fell back as he

pressed upon them with fiery horsemanship unsurpassable by an Arab; and

as his dark clustering hair streamed about his noble face, pale from

excitement, and with flashing eyes, he was a model worthy of the best

days of Grecian art--ay, and he had a soul worthy of the most glorious

times of Grecian liberty!

It was Edward O'Connor.

"Fire!" cried O'Grady again.

The gallant soldier, touched by the heroism of O'Connor, and roused by

the brutality of O'Grady beyond his patience, in the excitement of the

moment, was urged beyond the habitual parlance of a gentleman, and

swore vehemently, "I'll be _damned_ if I do! I wouldn't run the

risk of shooting that noble fellow for all the magistrates in your

county."

O'Connor had again turned round, and rode up to the military party,

having heard the word "fire!" repeated.

"For mercy's sake, sir, don't fire, and I pledge you my soul the crowd

shall disperse."

"Ay!" cried O'Grady, "they won't obey the laws nor the magistrates; but

they'll listen fast enough to a d----d rebel like you."

"Liar and ruffian!" exclaimed Edward. "I'm a better and more loyal

subject than you, who provoke resistance to the laws you should make

honoured."

At the word "liar," O'Grady, now quite frenzied, attempted to seize a

musket from a soldier beside him; and had he succeeded in obtaining

possession of it, Edward O'Connor's days had been numbered; but the

soldier would not give up his firelock, and O'Grady, intent on immediate

vengeance, then rushed upon Edward, and seizing him by the leg,

attempted to unhorse him; but Edward was too firm in his seat for this,

and a struggle ensued.

The crowd, fearing Edward was about to fall a victim, raised a fierce

shout, and were about to advance, when the captain, with admirable

presence of mind, seized O'Grady, dragged him away from his hold, and

gave freedom to Edward, who instantly used it again to charge the

advancing line of the mob, and drive them back.

"Back, boys, back!" he cried, "don't give your enemies a triumph by

being disorderly. Disperse--retire into houses, let nothing tempt you

to riot--collect round your tally-rooms, and come up quietly to the

polling--and you will yet have a peaceful triumph."

The crowd, obeying, gave three cheers for "Ned-o'-the-Hill," and the

dense mass, which could not be awed, and dreaded not the engines of

war, melted away before the breath of peace.

As they retired on one side, the soldiers were ordered to their

quarters on the other, while their captain and Edward O'Connor stood in

the midst; but ere they separated, these two, with charity in their

souls, waved their hands towards each other in token of amity, and

parted, verily, in friendship.

CHAPTER XX

After the incidents just recorded, of course great confusion and

excitement existed, during which O'Grady was forced back into the

court-house in a state bordering on insanity. Inflamed as his furious

passions had been to the top of their bent, and his thirst of revenge

still remaining unslaked, foiled in all his movements, and flung back as

it were into the seething cauldron of his own hellish temper, he was a

pitiable sight, foaming at the mouth like a wild animal, and uttering

the most horrid imprecations. On Edward O'Connor principally his curses

fell, with denunciations of immediate vengeance, and the punishment of

dismissal from the service was prophesied on oath for the English

captain. The terrors of a court-martial gleamed fitfully through the

frenzied mind of the raving Squire for the soldier; and for O'Connor,

instant death at his own hands was his momentary cry.

"Find the rascal for me," he exclaimed, "that I may call him out and

shoot him like a dog--yes, by ----, a dog--a dog; I'm disgraced while he

lives--I wish the villain had three lives that I might take them all at

once--all--all!" and he stretched out his hands as he spoke, and grasped

at the air as if in imagination he clutched the visionary lives his

bloodthirsty wishes conjured up.

Edward, as soon as he saw the crowd dispersed, returned to the hustings

and sought Dick Dawson, that he might be in readiness to undertake, on

his part, the arrangement of the hostile meeting, to which he knew he

should be immediately called. "Let it be over, my dear Dick, as soon as

possible," said Edward; "it's not a case in which delay can be of any

service; the insult was mortal between us, and the sooner expiated by a

meeting the better."

"Don't be so agitated, Ned," said Dick; "fair and easy, man--fair and

easy--keep yourself cool."

"Dear Dick--I'll be cool on the ground, but not till then--I want the

meeting over before my father hears of the quarrel; I'm his only child,

Dick, and you know how he loves me!"

He wrung Dick's hand as he spoke, and his eye glistened with tenderness;

but with the lightning quickness of thought all gentle feeling vanished

as he saw Scatterbrain struggling his way towards him, and read in his

eye the purport of his approach. He communicated to Edward his object in

seeking him, and was at once referred to Dawson, who instantly retired

with him and arranged an immediate meeting. This was easily done, as

they had their pistols with them since the duel in the morning; and if

there be those who think it a little too much of a good thing to have

two duels in one day, pray let them remember it was election time, and

even in sober England that period often gives rise to personalities

which call for the intervention of the code of honour. Only in Ireland

the thing is sooner over. We seldom have three columns of a newspaper

filled with notes on the subject, numbered from 1 to 25.[27] Gentleman

don't consider whether it is too soon or too late to fight, or whether a

gentleman is perfectly entitled to call him out or not. The title in

Ireland is generally considered sufficient in the _will_ to do it, and

few there would wait for the poising of a very delicately balanced scale

of etiquette before going to the ground; they would be more likely to

fight first, and leave the world to argue about the niceties after.

[27] Just such a lengthy correspondence had appeared in the

London journals when the first edition of this book was

published.

In the present instance a duel was unavoidable, and it was to be feared

a mortal one, for deadly insult had been given on both sides.

The rumour of the hostile meeting flew like wildfire through the town,

and when the parties met in a field about a quarter of a mile beyond

the bridge, an anxious crowd was present. The police were obliged to be

in strong force on the ground to keep back the people, who were not

now, as an hour before, in the town, in uproarious noise and action,

but still as death; not a murmur was amongst them; the excitement of

love for the noble young champion, whose life was in danger for his

care of _them_, held them spell-bound in a tranquillity almost

fearful.

The aspect of the two principals was in singular contrast. On the one

side a man burning for revenge, who, to use a common but terrible

parlance, desired to "wash out the dishonour put upon him in blood." The

other was there, regretting that cause existed for the awful

arbitrament, and only anxious to defend his own, not take another's

life. To sensitive minds the reaction is always painful of having

insulted another, when the excitement is over which prompted it. When

the hot blood which inflamed the brain runs in cooler currents, the man

of feeling always regrets, if he does not reproach himself with, having

urged his fellow-man to break the commandments of the Most High, and

deface, perhaps annihilate, the form that was moulded in His image. The

words "liar and ruffian" haunted Edward's mind reproachfully; but then

the provocation--"rebel!"--no gentleman could brook it. Because his

commiseration for a people had endeared him to them, was he to be called

"_rebel_"? Because, at the risk of his own life, he had preserved

perhaps scores, and prevented an infraction of the law, was he to be

called "_rebel_"? He stood acquitted before his own conscience:--after

all, the most terrible bar before which he can be called in _this_

world.

The men were placed upon their ground, and the word to fire given.

O'Grady, in his desire for vengeance, deliberately raised his pistol

with deadly aim, and Edward was thus enabled to fire first, yet with

such cool precision, that his shot took effect as he intended; O'Grady's

arm was ripped up from the wrist to the elbow; but so determined was his

will, and so firm his aim, that the wound, severe as it was, produced

but a slight twitch in his hand, which threw it up slightly, and saved

Edward's life, for the ball passed through his hat _just_ above his

head.

O'Grady's arm instantly after dropped to his side, the pistol fell from

his hand, and he staggered, for the pain of the wound was extreme. His

second ran to his assistance.

"It is only in the arm," said O'Grady, firmly, though his voice was

changed by the agony he suffered; "give me another pistol."

Dick at the same moment was beside Edward.

"You're not touched," he said.

Edward coolly pointed to his hat.

"Too much powder," said Dick; "I thought so when his pistols were

loaded."

"No," said Edward, "it was my shot; I saw his hand twitch."

Scatterbrain demanded of Dick another shot on the part of O'Grady.

"By all means," was the answer, and he handed a fresh pistol to Edward.

"To give the devil his due," said Dick, "he has great pluck, for you

hit him hard--see how pale he looks--I don't think he can hurt you much

this time--but watch him well, my dear Ned."

The seconds withdrew; but with all O'Grady's desperate courage, he could

not lift the pistol with his right arm, which, though hastily bound in a

handkerchief, was bleeding profusely, and racked with torture. On

finding his right hand powerless, such was his unflinching courage, that

he took the pistol in his left; this of course impaired his power of

aim, and his nerve was so shattered by his bodily suffering, that his

pistol was discharged before coming to the level, and Edward saw the sod

torn up close beside his foot. He then, of course, fired in the air.

O'Grady would have fallen but for the immediate assistance of his

friends; he was led from the ground and placed in a carriage, and it was

not until Edward O'Connor mounted his horse to ride away, that the crowd

manifested their feelings. Then three tremendous cheers arose; and the

shouts of their joy and triumph reached the wounded man as he was driven

slowly from the ground.

CHAPTER XXI

The Widow Flanagan had long ago determined that, whenever the election

should take place, she would take advantage of the great influx of

visitors that event would produce, and give a grand party. Her

preparations were all made to secure a good muster of her country

friends, when once the day of nomination was fixed; and after the

election began, she threw out all her hooks and lines in every

direction, to catch every straggler worth having, whom the election

brought into the town. It required some days to do this; and it was not

until the eve of the fifth, that her house was turned upside down and

inside out for the reception of the numerous guests whose company she

expected.

The toil of the day's election was over; the gentlemen had dined and

refreshed themselves with creature comforts; the vicissitudes, and

tricks, and chances of the last twelve hours were canvassed--when the

striking of many a clock, or the consultation of the pocket-dial, warned

those who were invited to Mrs. O'Flanagan's party, that it was time to

wash off the dust of the battle-field from their faces, and mount fresh

linen and cambric. Those who were pleased to call themselves "good

fellows" declared for "another bottle;" the faint-hearted swore that an

autograph invitation from Venus herself to the heathen Olympus, with

nectar and ambrosia for tea and bread-and-butter, could not tempt them

from the Christian enjoyment of a feather-bed after the fag of such a

day; but the _preux chevaliers_--those who did deserve to win a fair

lady--shook off sloth and their morning trousers, and taking to tights

and activity, hurried to the party of the buxom widow.

The widow was in her glory; hospitable, she enjoyed receiving her

friends,--mirthful, she looked forward to a long night of downright

sport,--coquettish, she would have good opportunity of letting Tom Durfy

see how attractive she was to the men,--while from the women her love of

gossip and scandal (was there ever a lady in her position without it?)

would have ample gratification in the accumulated news of the county of

twenty miles round. She had but one _large_ room at her command, and

_that_ was given up to the dancing; and being cleared of tables, chairs,

and carpet, could not be considered by Mrs. Flanagan as a proper

reception-room for her guests, who were, therefore, received in a

smaller apartment, where tea and coffee, toast and muffins, ladies and

gentlemen, were all smoking-hot together, and the candles on the

mantel-piece trickling down rivulets of fat in the most sympathetic

manner, under the influence of the gentle sighing of a broken pane of

glass, which the head of an inquiring youth in the street had stove in,

while flattening his nose against it in the hope of getting a glimpse of

the company through the opening in the window-curtain.

At last, when the room could hold no more, the company were drafted off

to the dancing-room, which had only long deal forms placed against the

wall to rest the weary after the exertions of the jig. The aforesaid

forms, by-the-bye, were borrowed from the chapel; the old wigsby who had

the care of them for some time doubted the propriety of the sacred

property being put to such a profane use, until the widow's arguments

convinced him it was quite right, after she had given him a

tenpenny-piece. As the dancing-room could not boast of a lustre, the

deficiency was supplied by tin sconces hung against the wall; for ormulu

branches are not expected to be plenty in the provinces. But let the

widow be heard for herself, as she bustled through her guests and caught

a critical glance at her arrangements: "What's that you're faulting

now?--is it my deal seats without cushions? Ah! you're a _lazy Larry_,

Bob Larkin. Cock you up with a cushion indeed! if you sit the less,

you'll dance the more. Ah, Matty, I see you're eyeing my tin sconces

there; well, sure they have them at the county ball, when candlesticks

are scarce, and what would you expect grander from a poor lone woman?

besides, we must have plenty of lights, or how could the beaux see the

girls?--though I see, Harry Cassidy, by your sly look, that _you_ think

they look as well in the dark--ah! you _divil_!" and she slapped his

shoulder as she ran past. "Ah! Mister Murphy, I'm delighted to see you;

what kept you so late?--the election to be sure. Well, we're beating

them, ain't we? Ah! the old country for ever. I hope Edward O'Connor

will be here. Come, begin the dance; there's the piper and the fiddler

in the corner as idle as a mile-stone without a number. Tom Durfy, don't

ask me to dance, for I'm engaged for the next four sets."

"Oh! but the first to me," said Tom.

"Ah! yis, Tom, I was; but then, you know, I couldn't refuse the stranger

from Dublin, and the English captain that will be there by-and-by; he's

a nice man, too, and long life to him, wouldn't fire on the people the

other day; I vow to the Virgin, all the women in the room ought to kiss

him when he comes in. Ah, doctor! there you are; there's Mrs. Gubbins in

the corner dying to have a chat with you; go over to her. Who's that

_taazing_ the piano there? Ah! James Reddy, it's _you_, I see. I hope

it's in tune; 't is only four months since the tuner was here. I hope

you've a new song for us, James. The tuner is so scarce, Mrs. Riley, in

the country--not like Dublin; but we poor country people, you know, must

put up with what we can get; not like you citizens, who has lashings of

luxuries as easy as peas." Then, in a confidential whisper, she said, "I

hope your daughter has practised the new piece well to-day, for I

couldn't be looking after her, you know, to-day, being in such a bustle

with my party; I was just like a dog in a fair, in and out everywhere;

but I _hope_ she's _perfect_ in the piece;" then, still more

confidentially, she added, "for _he's_ here--ah! I _wish it was_, Mrs.

Riley;" then, with a nod and a wink, off she rattled through the room

with a word for everybody.

The Mrs. Riley, to whom she was so confidential, was a friend from

Dublin, an atrociously vulgar woman, with a more vulgar daughter, who

were on a visit with Mrs. Flanagan. The widow and the mother thought

Murtough Murphy would be a good speculation for the daughter to "cock

her cap at" (to use their own phrase), and with this view the visit to

the country was projected. But matters did not prosper; Murphy was not

much of a marrying man; and if ever he might be caught in the toils of

Hymen, some frank, joyous, unaffected, dashing girl would have been the

only one likely to serve a writ on the jovial attorney's heart. Now,

Miss Riley was, to use Murtough Murphy's own phrase, "a batch of brass

and a stack of affectation," and the airs she attempted to play off on

the country folk (Murphy in particular) only made her an object for his

mischievous merriment; as an example, we may as well touch on one

little incident _en passant_.

The widow had planned one day a walking party to a picturesque ruin,

not far from the town, and determined that Murphy should give his arm

to Miss Riley; for the party was arranged in couples, with a most

deadly design on the liberty of the attorney. At the appointed hour all

had arrived but Murphy; the widow thought it a happy chance, so she

hurried off the party, leaving Miss Riley to wait and follow under his

escort. In about a quarter of an hour he came, having met the widow in

the street, who sent him back for Miss Riley. Now Murtough saw the trap

which was intended for him, and thought it fair to make what fun he

could of the affair, and being already sickened by various disgusting

exhibitions of the damsel's affectation, he had the less scruple of

"taking her down a peg," as he said himself.

When Murtough reached the house and asked for Miss Riley, he was ushered

into the little drawing-room; and there was that very full-blown young

lady, on a chair before the fire, her left foot resting on the fender,

her right crossed over it, and her body thrown back in a reclining

attitude, with a sentimental droop of the head over a greasy novel: her

figure was _rather_ developed by her posture, indeed more so than Miss

Riley quite intended, for her ankles were not unexceptionable, and the

position of her feet revealed rather more. A bonnet and green veil lay

on the hearth-rug, and her shawl hung over the handle of the

fire-shovel. When Murphy entered, he was received with a faint "How d'

do?"

"Pretty well, I thank you--how are you?" said Murphy, in his rollicking

tone.

"Oh! Miste' Murphy, you are so odd."

"Odd, am I--how am I odd?"

"Oh! _so_ odd."

"Well, you'd better put on your bonnet and come walk, and we can talk

of my oddity after."

"Oh, indeed, I _cawn't_ walk."

"Can't walk!" exclaimed Murphy. "Why can't you walk? I was sent for

you."

"'Deed I cawn't."

"Ah, now!" said Murphy, giving her a little tender poke of his

forefinger on the shoulder.

"Don't, Mister Murphy, _pray_ don't."

"But why won't you walk?"

"I'm too delicate."

Murphy uttered a very long "Oh!!!!!"

"'Deed I am, Miste' Murphy, though you may disbelieve it."

"Well--a nice walk is the best thing in the world for the health. Come

along!"

"Cawn't indeed; a gentle walk on a terrace, or a shadowy avenue, is all

very well--the Rotunda Gardens, for instance."

"Not forgetting the military bands that play there," said Murphy,

"together with the officers of all the barracks in Dublin, clinking

their sabres at their heels along the gravel walks, all for the small

charge of a fi'penny bit."

Miss Riley gave a reproachful look and shrug at the vulgar mention of a

"fi'penny bit," which Murphy purposely said to shock her "Brummagem

gentility."

"How can you be so odd, Miste' Murphy?" she said. "I don't joke,

indeed; a gentle walk--I repeat it--is all very well; but these horrid

rough country walks--these _masculine_ walks, I may say--are not

consistent with a delicate frame like mine."

"A delicate frame!" said Murtough. "'Faith, I'll tell you what it is,

Miss Riley," said he, standing bolt upright before her, plunging his

hands into his pockets, and fixing his eyes on her feet, which still

maintained their original position on the fender--"I'll tell you what it

is, Miss Riley; by the _vartue_ of my oath, if your _other_ leg is a

match for the one I see, the _divil_ a harm a trot from this to Dublin

would do you!"

Miss Riley gave a faint scream, and popped her legs under her chair,

while Murphy ran off in a shout of laughter, and joined the party, to

whom he made no secret of his joke.

But all this did not damp Miss Riley's hopes of winning him. She

changed her plan; and seeing he did not bow to what she considered the

supremacy of her very elegant manners, she set about feigning at once

admiration and dread of him. She would sometimes lift her eyes to

Murtough with a languishing expression, and declare she never knew any

one she was so afraid of; but even this double attack on his vanity

could not turn Murphy's flank, and so a very laughable flirtation went

on between them, he letting her employ all the enginery of her sex

against him, with a mischievous enjoyment in her blindness at not

seeing she was throwing away her powder and shot.

But to return to the party; a rattling country dance called out at once

the energies of the piper, the fiddler, and the ladies and gentlemen,

and left those who had more activity in their heads than their heels to

sit on the forms in the background and exercise their tongues in open

scandal of their mutual friends and acquaintances under cover of the

music, which prevented the most vigorous talker from being heard further

than his or her next-door neighbour. Dr. Growling had gone over to Mrs.

Gubbins', as desired, and was buried deep in gossip.

"What an extraordinary affair that was about Miss O'Grady, doctor."

"Very, ma'am."

"In the man's bed she was, I hear."

"So the story goes, ma'am."

"And they tell me, doctor, that when her father, that _immaculate_

madman--God keep us from harm!--said to poor Mrs. O'Grady, in a great

rage, 'Where have you brought up your daughters to go to, ma'am?' said

he; and she, poor woman, said, 'To church, my dear,' thinking it was the

different religion the Saracen was after; so, says he, '_Church_,

indeed! there's the church she's gone to, ma'am,' says he, turning down

a quilted counterpane."

"Are you sure it was not Marseilles, ma'am?" said the doctor.

"Well, whatever it was, '_There's_ the church she is in,' says he,

pulling her out of the bed."

"Out of the bed?" repeated the doctor.

"Out of the bed, sir!"

"Then _her_ church was in the Diocese of _Down_," said the

doctor.

"That's good, docthor--indeed, that's good. 'She was caught in bed,'

says I; and 'It's the diocese of _Down_,' says _you_: 'faith, that's

good. I wish the diocese was your own; for you're funny enough to be a

bishop, docthor, you lay howld of everything."

"That's a great qualification for a mitre, ma'am," said the doctor.

"And the poor young man that has got her is not worth a farthing, I

hear, docthor."

"Then _he_ must be the curate, ma'am; though I don't think it's a

chapel of ease he has got into."

"Oh! what a tongue you have, docthor," said she, laughing; "'faith

you'll kill me."

"That's my profession, ma'am. I am a licentiate of the Royal College;

but, unfortunately for me, my humanity is an overmatch for my science.

Phrenologically speaking, my benevolence is large, and my

destructiveness and acquisitiveness small."

"Ah, there you go off on another tack; and what a funny new thing that

is you talk of!--that free knowledge or crow-knowledge, or whatever

sort of knowledge you call it. And there's one thing I want to ask you

about: there's a bump the ladies have, the gentlemen always laugh at, I

remark."

"That's very rude of them, ma'am," said the doctor drily. "Is it in the

anterior region, or the----"

"Docthor, don't talk queer."

"I'm only speaking scientifically, ma'am."

"Well, I think your scientific discourse is only an excuse for saying

impudent things; I mean the back of their heads."

"I thought so, ma'am."

"They call it--dear me, I forget--something--motive--motive--it's

Latin--but I am no _scholard_, docthor."

"That's manifest, ma'am."

"But a lady is not bound to know Latin, docthor."

"Certainly not, ma'am--nor any other language except that of the eyes."

Now, this was a wicked hit of the doctor's, for Mrs. Gubbins squinted

frightfully; but Mrs. Gubbins did not know that, so she went on.

"The bump I mean, docthor, is motive something--motive--motive--I have

it!--motive-_ness_."

"Now, I know what you mean," said the doctor; "amativeness."

"That's it," said Mrs. Gubbins; "they call it number one, sometimes; I

suppose amativeness is Latin for number one. Now, what does that bump

mean?"

"Ah, madam," said the doctor, puzzled for a moment to give an

explanation; but in a few seconds he answered, "That's a beautiful

provision of nature. That, ma'am, is the organ which makes your sex

take compassion on ours."[28]

[28] This very ingenious answer was really given by an Irish

professor to an over-inquisitive lady.

"Wonderful!" said Mrs. Gubbins; "but how good nature is in giving us

provision! and I don't think there is a finer provision county in

Ireland than this."

"Certainly not, ma'am," said the doctor;--but the moment Mrs. Gubbins

began to speak of provisions, he was sure she would get into a very

solid discourse about her own farms; so he left his seat beside her and

went over to Mrs. Riley, to see what fun could be had in that quarter.

Her daughter was cutting all sorts of barefaced capers about the room,

"astonishing the natives," as she was pleased to say; and Growling was

looking on in amused wonder at this specimen of vulgar effrontery, whom

he had christened "The Brazen Baggage" the first time he saw her.

"You are looking at my daughter, sir," said the delighted mother.

"Yes, ma'am," said the doctor, profoundly.

"She's very young, sir."

"She'll mend of that, ma'am. We were young once ourselves."

This was not very agreeable to the mother, who dressed rather in a

juvenile style.

"I mean, sir, that you must excuse any little awkwardness about

her--that all arises out of timidity--she was lost with bashfulness

till I roused her out of it--but now I think she is beginning to have a

little self-possession."

The doctor was amused, and took a large pinch of snuff; he enjoyed the

phase "_beginning_ to have a _little_ self-possession" being applied to

the most brazen baggage he ever saw.

"She's very accomplished, sir," continued the mother. "Mister Jew-val

(Duval) taitches her dancin', and Musha Dunny-ai (Mons. Du Noyer)[29]

French. Misther Low-jeer (Logier) hasn't the like of her in his academy

on the pianya; and as for the harp, you'd think she wouldn't lave a

sthring in it."

[29] My own worthy and excellent master, to whom I gladly pay this

tribute of kindly remembrance.

"She must be a treasure to her teachers, ma'am," said the doctor.

"'Faith, you may well say _threasure_, it costs handfuls o' money; but

sure, while there's room for improvement, every apartment must be

attended to, and the vocal apartment is filled by Sir John--fifteen

shillin's a lesson, no less."

"What silvery tones she ought to bring out, ma'am, at that rate!"

"'Faith, you may say that, sir. It's coining, so it is, with them

tip-top men, and ruins one a'most to have a daughter; every shake I get

out of her is to the tune of a ten-poun' note, at least. You shall hear

her by-and-by; the minit the dancin' is over, she shall sing you the

'Bewildhered Maid.' Do you know the 'Bewildhered Maid,' sir?"

"I haven't the honour of her acquaintance, ma'am," said the doctor.

The dancing _was_ soon over, and the mother's threat put into execution.

Miss Riley was led over to the piano by the widow, with the usual

protestations that she was hoarse. It took some time to get the piano

ready, for an extensive clearance was to be made from it of cups and

saucers, and half-empty glasses of negus, before it could be opened;

then, after various thrummings and hummings and hawings, the

"Bewildhered Maid" made her appearance in the wildest possible manner,

and the final shriek was quite worthy of a maniac. Loud applause

followed, and the wriggling Miss Riley was led from the piano by James

Reddy, who had stood at the back of her chair, swaying backward and

forward to the music, with a maudlin expression of sentiment on his

face, and a suppressed exclamation of "B-u-tiful!" after every extra

shout from the young lady.

Growling listened with an expression of as much dissatisfaction as if

he had been drinking weak punch.

"I see you don't like that," said the widow to him, under her breath;

"ah, you're too hard, doctor--consider she sung out of good-nature."

"I don't know if it was out of good-nature," said he; "but I am sure it

was out of tune."

[Illustration: The Widow Flanagan's Party]

James Reddy led back Miss Riley to her mamma, who was much delighted

with the open manifestations of "the poet's" admiration.

"She ought to be proud, sir, of your _conjunction_, I'm sure. A poet

like you, sir!--what beautiful rhymes them wor you did on the 'lection."

"A trifle, ma'am--a mere trifle--a little occasional thing."

"Oh! but them two beautiful lines--

"We tread the land that bore us

Our green flag glitters o'er us!"

"_They_ are only a quotation, ma'am," said Reddy.

"Oh, like every man of true genius, sir, you try and undervalue your

own work; but call them lines what you like, to my taste they are the

most beautiful lines in the thing you done."

Reddy did not know what to answer, and his confusion was increased by

catching old Growling's eye, who was chuckling at the _mal-a-propos_

speech of the flourishing Mrs. Riley.

"Don't you sing yourself, sir?" said that lady.

"To be sure he does," cried the Widow Flanagan; "and he must give us

one of his own."

"Oh!"

"No excuses; now, James!"

"Where's Duggan?" inquired the poetaster, affectedly; "I told him to be

here to accompany me."

"I attend your muse, sir," said a miserable structure of skin and bone,

advancing with a low bow and obsequious smile: this was the poor

music-master, who set Reddy's rhymes to music as bad, and danced

attendance on him everywhere.

The music-master fumbled over a hackneyed prelude to show his command

of the instrument.

Miss Riley whispered to her mamma that it was out of one of her first

books of lessons.

Mrs. Flanagan, with a seductive smirk, asked, "what he was going to

give them?" The poet replied, "a little thing of his own--'Rosalie; or,

the Broken Heart,'--sentimental, but rather sad."

The musical skeleton rattled his bones against the ivory in a very one,

two, three, four symphony; the poet ran his fingers through his hair,

pulled up his collar, gave his head a jaunty nod, and commenced:

ROSALIE;

OR, THE BROKEN HEART.

Fare thee--fare thee well--alas!

Fare--farewell to thee!

On pleasure's wings, as dew-drops fade,

Or honey stings the bee,

My heart is as sad as a black stone

Under the blue sea.

Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie!

As ruder rocks with envy glow,

Thy _coral_ lips to see,

So the weeping waves more briny grow

With my salt tears for thee!

My heart is as sad as a black stone

Under the blue sea.

Oh, Rosalie! Oh, Rosalie!

After this brilliant specimen of the mysteriously-sentimental and

imaginative school was sufficiently applauded, dancing was recommenced,

and Reddy seated himself beside Mrs. Riley, the incense of whose praise

was sweet in his nostrils. "Oh, you _have_ a soul for poetry indeed,

sir," said the lady. "I was bewildered with all your beautiful _idays_;

that 'honey stings the bee' is a beautiful _iday_--so expressive of the

pains and pleasures of love. Ah! I was the most romantic creature myself

once, Mister Reddy, though you wouldn't think it now; but the cares of

the world and a family takes the shine out of us. I remember when the

men used to be making hats in my father's establishment--for my father

was the most extensive hatter in Dublin--I don't know if you knew my

father was a hatter; but you know, sir, manufactures must be followed,

and that's no reason why people shouldn't enjoy po'thry and refinement.

Well, I was going to tell you how romantic I was, and when the men were

making the hats--I don't know whether you ever saw them making hats----"

Reddy declared he never did.

"Well, it's like the witches round the iron pot in _Macbeth_; did

you ever see Kemble in _Macbeth_? Oh! he'd make your blood freeze,

though the pit is so hot you wouldn't have a dhry rag on you. But to

come to the hats. When they're making them, they have hardly any crown

to them at all, and they are all with great sprawling wide flaps to

them; well, the moment I clapt my eyes on one of them, I thought of a

Spanish nobleman directly, with his slouched hat and black feathers

like a hearse. Yes, I assure you, the broad hat always brought to my

mind a Spanish noble or an Italian noble (that would do as well, you

know), or a robber or a murderer, which is all the same thing."

Reddy could not conceive a hat manufactory as a favourable nursery for

romance; but as the lady praised his song, he listened complacently to

her hatting.

"And that's another beautiful iday, sir," continued the lady, "where

you make the rocks jealous of each other--that's so beautiful to bring

in a bit of nature into a metaphysic that way."

"You flatter me, ma'am," said Reddy; "but if I might speak of my own

work--that is, if a man may _ever_ speak of his own work----"

"And why not, sir?" asked Mrs. Riley, with a business-like air; "who

has so good a right to speak of the work as the man who _done_ it,

and knows what's in it?"

"That's a very sensible remark of yours, ma'am, and I will therefore

take leave to say, that the idea _I_ am proudest of, is the _dark_ and

_heavy_ grief of the heart being compared to a _black_ stone, and its

_depth_ of misery implied by the _sea_."

"Thrue for you," said Mrs. Riley; "and the _blue_ sea--ah! that didn't

escape me; that's an elegant touch--the black stone and the blue sea;

and black and blue, such a beautiful conthrast!"

"I own," said Reddy, "I attempted, in that, the bold and daring style of

expression which Byron has introduced."

"Oh, he's a fine _pote_ certainly, but he's not moral, sir; and I'm

afeard to let my daughter read such combustibles."

"But he's grand," said Reddy; "for instance--

'She walks in beauty like the night.'

How fine!"

"But how wicked!" said Mrs. Riley. "I don't like that night-walking

style of poetry at all, so say no more about it; we'll talk of something

else. You admire music, I'm sure."

"I adore it, ma'am."

"Do you like the piano?"

"Oh, ma'am! I could live under a piano."

"My daughter plays the piano beautiful."

"Charmingly."

"Oh, but if you heerd her play the harp, you'd think she wouldn't lave

a sthring on it" (this was Mrs. Riley's favourite bit of praise); "and

a beautiful harp it is, one of Egan's double action, all over goold,

and cost eighty guineas; Miss Cheese chuse it for her. Do you know Miss

Cheese? she's as plump as a partridge, with a voice like a lark; she

sings elegant duets. Do you ever sing duets?"

"Not often."

"Ah! if you could hear Pether Dowling sing duets with my daughter! he'd

make the hair stand straight on your head with the delight. Oh, he's a

powerful singer! you never heerd the like; he runs up and down as fast

as a lamplighter;--and the beautiful turns he gives; oh! I never heerd

any one sing a second like Pether. I declare he sings a _second_ to that

degree _that you'd think it was the first_, and never at a loss for a

shake; and then off he goes in a run that you'd think he'd never come

back; but he _does_ bring it back into the tune again with as nate a fit

as a Limerick glove. Oh! I never heerd a singer like Pether!!!"

There is no knowing how much more Mrs. Riley would have said about

"Pether," if the end of the dance had not cut her eloquence short by

permitting the groups of dancers, as they promenaded, to throw in their

desultory discourse right and left, and so break up anything like a

consecutive conversation.

But let it not be supposed that all Mrs. Flanagan's guests were of the

Gubbins and Riley stamp. There were some of the better class of the

country people present; intelligence and courtesy in the one sex, and

gentleness and natural grace in the other, making a society not to be

ridiculed in the mass, though individual instances of folly and

ignorance and purse-proud effrontery were amongst it.

But to Growling every phase of society afforded gratification; and

while no one had a keener relish for such scenes as the one in which we

have just witnessed him, the learned and the courteous could be met

with equal weapons by the doctor when he liked.

Quitting the dancing-room, he went into the little drawing-room, where

a party of a very different stamp was engaged in conversation. Edward

O'Connor and the "dear English captain," as Mrs. Flanagan called him,

were deep in an interesting discussion about the relative practices in

Ireland and England on the occasions of elections and trials, and most

other public events; and O'Connor and two or three listeners--amongst

whom was a Mr. Monk, whose daughters, remarkably nice girls, were of

the party--were delighted with the feeling tone in which the Englishman

spoke of the poorer classes of Irish, and how often the excesses into

which they sometimes fell were viewed through an exaggerated or

distorted medium, and what was frequently mere exuberance of spirit

pronounced and punished as riot.

"I never saw a people over whom those in authority require more good

temper," remarked the captain.

"Gentleness goes a long way with them," said Edward.

"And violence never succeeds," added Mr. Monk.

"You are of opinion, then," said the soldier, "they are not to be

forced?"

"Except to do what they like," chimed in Growling.

"That's a very _Irish_ sort of coercion," said the captain,

smiling.

"And therefore fit for Irishmen," said Growling; "and I never knew an

intelligent Englishman yet, who came to Ireland, who did not find it

out. Paddy has a touch of the pig in him--he won't be _driven_; but

you may _coax_ him a long way: or if you appeal to his reason--for he

happens to _have_ such a thing about him--you may persuade him into what

is right if you take the trouble."

"By Jove!" said the captain, "it is not easy to argue with Paddy; the

rascals are so ready with quip, and equivoque, and queer answers, that

they generally get the best of it in talk, however fallacious may be

their argument; and when you think you have Pat in a corner and escape

is inevitable, he's off without your knowing how he slipped through

your fingers."

When the doctor joined the conversation, Edward, knowing his powers,

gave up the captain into his hands and sat down by the side of Miss

Monk, who had just entered from the dancing-room, and retired to a

chair in the corner.

She and Edward soon got engaged in a conversation particularly

interesting to him. She spoke of having lately met Fanny Dawson, and

was praising her in such terms of affectionate admiration, that Edward

hung upon every word with delight. I know not if Miss Monk was aware of

Edward's devotion in that quarter before, but she could not look upon

the bland though somewhat sad smile which arched his expressive mouth,

and the dilated eye which beamed as her praises were uttered, without

being then conscious that Fanny Dawson had made him captive.

She was pleased, and continued the conversation with that inherent

pleasure a woman has in touching a man's heart, even though it be not on

her own account; and it was done with tact and delicacy which only women

possess, and which is so refined that the rougher nature of man is

insensible of its drift and influence, and he is betrayed by a net whose

meshes are too fine for his perception. Edward O'Connor never dreamt

that Miss Monk saw he was in love with the subject of their discourse.

While they were talking, the merry hostess entered; and the last words

the captain uttered fell upon her ear, and then followed a reply from

Growling, saying that Irishmen were as hard to catch as quicksilver.

"Ay, and as hard to keep as any other silver," said the widow; "don't

believe what these wild Irish fellows tell you of themselves, they are

all mad divils alike--you steady Englishmen are the safe men--and the

girls know it. And 'faith, if you try them," added she, laughing, "I

don't know any one more likely to have luck with them than yourself;

for, 'pon my conscience, captain, we all doat on you since you would not

shoot the people the other day."

There was a titter among the girls at this open avowal.

"Ah, why wouldn't I say it?" exclaimed she, laughing. "I am not a

mealy-mouthed miss; sure _I_ may tell truth; and I wouldn't trust

one o' ye," she added, with a very significant nod of the head at the

gentlemen, "except the captain. Yes--I'd trust one more--I'd trust

Mister O'Connor; I think he really could be true to a woman."

The words fell sweetly upon his ear; the expression of trust in his

faith at that moment, even from the laughing widow, was pleasing; for

his heart was full of the woman he adored, and it was only by long

waiting and untiring fidelity she could ever become his.

He bowed courteously to the compliment the hostess paid him; and she,

immediately taking advantage of his acknowledgment, said that after

having paid him such a pretty compliment he couldn't refuse her to sing

a song. Edward never liked to sing in mixed companies, and was about

making some objections, when the widow interrupted him with one of those

Irish "Ah, now's," so hard to resist. "Besides, all the noisy pack are

in the dancing-room, or indeed I wouldn't ask you; and here there's not

one won't be charmed with you. Ah, look at Miss Monk, there--I know

she's dying to hear you; and see all the ladies _hanging on your lips_

absolutely. Can you refuse me after _that_, now?"

It was true that in the small room where they sat there were only those

who were worthy of better things than Edward would have ventured on to

the many; and filled with the tender and passionate sentiment his

conversation with Miss Monk had awakened, one of those effusions of

deep, and earnest, and poetic feeling which love had prompted to his

muse rose to his lips, and he began to sing.

All were silent, for the poet singer was a favourite, and all knew with

what touching expression he gave his compositions; but now the mellow

tones of his voice seemed to vibrate with a feeling in more than common

unison with the words, and his dark earnest eyes beamed with a devotion

of which she who was the object might be proud.

A LEAF THAT REMINDS OF THEE

I

How sweet is the hour we give,

When fancy may wander free,

To the friends who in memory live!--

For then I remember thee!

Then wing'd, like the dove from the ark,

My heart, o'er a stormy sea,

Brings back to my lonely bark

A leaf that reminds of thee!

II

But still does the sky look dark,

The waters still deep and wide;

Oh! when may my lonely bark

In peace on the shore abide?

But through the future far,

Dark though my course may be,

_Thou_ art my guiding star!

My heart still turns to thee.

III

When I see thy friends I smile,

I sigh when I hear thy name;

But they cannot tell the while

Whence the smile or the sadness came;

Vainly the world may deem

The cause of my sighs they know:

The breeze that stirs the stream

Knows not the depth below.

Before the first verse of the song was over, the entrance to the room

was filled with eager listeners, and, at its conclusion, a large

proportion of the company from the dancing-room had crowded round the

door, attracted by the rich voice of the singer, and fascinated into

silence by the charm of his song. Perhaps after mental qualities, the

most valuable gift a man can have is a fine voice; it at once commands

attention, and may therefore be ranked in a man's possession as highly

as beauty in a woman's.

In speaking thus of voice, I do not allude to the power of singing, but

the mere physical quality of a fine voice, which in the bare utterance

of the simplest words is pleasing, but, becoming the medium for the

interchange of higher thoughts, is irresistible. Superadded to this

gift, which Edward possessed, the song he sang had meaning in it which

could reach the hearts of all his auditory, though its poetry might be

appreciated by but few; its imagery grew upon a stem whose root was in

every bosom, and the song that possesses this quality, whatever may be

its defects, contains not only the elements of future fame, but of

immediate popularity. Startling was the contrast between the silence the

song had produced and the simultaneous clapping of hands outside the

door when it was over; not the poor plaudit of a fashionable assembly,

whose "bravo" is an attenuated note of admiration, struggling into a

sickly existence and expiring in a sigh--applause of so suspicious a

character, that no one seems desirous of owning it--a feeble forgery of

satisfaction which people think it disgraceful to be caught uttering.

The clapping was not the plaudits of high-bred hands, whose sound is

like the fluttering of small wings, just enough to stir gossamer--but

not the heart. No; such was not the applause which followed Edward's

song; he had the outburst of heart-warm and unsophisticated satisfaction

unfettered by chilling convention. Most of his hearers did not know that

it was disgraceful to admit being too well pleased, and the poor

innocents really opened their mouths and clapped their hands. Oh, fie!

tell it not in Grosvenor-square.

And now James Reddy contrived to be asked to sing; the coxcomb, not

content with his luck in being listened to before, panted for such

another burst of applause as greeted Edward, whose song he had no notion

was any better than his own; the puppy fancied his rubbish of the "black

stone under the blue sea" partook of a grander character of composition,

and that while Edward's "breeze" but "stirred the stream," he had

fathomed the ocean. But a "heavy blow and great discouragement" was in

store for Master James, for as he commenced a love ditty which he called

by the fascinating title of "The Rose of Silence," and verily believed

would have enraptured every woman in the room, a powerful voice, richly

flavoured with the brogue, shouted forth outside the door, "_Ma'am, if

you plaze, supper's sarved_." The effect was magical; a rush was made to

supper by the crowd in the doorway, and every gentleman in the little

drawing-room offered his arm to a lady, and led her off without the

smallest regard to Reddy's singing.

His look was worth anything as he saw himself thus unceremoniously

deserted and likely soon to be left in sole possession of the room; the

old doctor was enchanted with his vexation; and when James ceased to

sing, as the last couple were going, the doctor interposed his request

that the song should be finished.

"Don't stop, my dear fellow," said the doctor; "that's the best song I

have heard for a long time, and you must indulge me by finishing

it--that's a gem."

"Why, you see, doctor, they have all gone to supper."

"Yes, and the devil choke them with it," said Growling, "for their want

of taste; but never mind that: one judicious listener is worth a crowd

of such fools, you'll admit; so sit down again and sing for me."

The doctor seated himself as he spoke, and there he kept Reddy, who he

knew was very fond of a good supper, singing away for the bare life,

with only one person for audience, and that one humbugging him. The

scene was rich; the gravity with which the doctor carried on the quiz

was admirable, and the gullibility of the coxcomb who was held captive

by his affected admiration exquisitely absurd and almost past belief;

even Growling himself was amazed, as he threw in a rapturous "charming"

or "bravissimo," at the egregious folly of his dupe, who still continued

singing, while the laughter of the supper-room and the inviting clatter

of its knives and forks were ringing in his ear. When Reddy concluded,

the doctor asked might he venture to request the last verse again;

"for," continued he, "there is a singular beauty of thought and felicity

of expression in its numbers, leaving the mind unsatisfied with but one

hearing; once more, if you please."

Poor Reddy repeated the last verse.

"Very charming, indeed!" said the doctor.

"You really like it?" said Reddy.

"Like?" said the doctor--"sir, _like_ is a faint expression of what I

think of that song. Moore had better look to his laurels, sir!"

"Oh, doctor!"

"Ah, you know yourself," said Growling.

"Then that last, doctor----?" said Reddy, inquiringly.

"Is your most successful achievement, sir; there is a mysterious

shadowing forth of something in it which is very fine."

"You like it better than the 'Black Stone'?"

"Pooh! sir; the 'Black Stone,' if I may be allowed an image, is but

ordinary paving, while that 'Rose of Silence' of yours might strew the

path to Parnassus."

"And is it not strange, doctor," said Reddy, in a reproachful tone,

"that _them_ people should be insensible to that song, and leave the

room while I was singing it?"

"Too good for them, sir--above their comprehension."

"Besides, so rude!" said Reddy.

"Oh, my dear friend," said the doctor, "when you know more of the world,

you'll find out that an appeal from the lower house to the upper," and

he changed his hand from the region of his waistcoat to his head as he

spoke, "is most influential."

"True, doctor," said Reddy, with a smile; "and suppose _we_ go to

supper now."

"Wait a moment," said Growling, holding his button. "Did you ever try

your hand at an epic?"

"No, I can't say that I did."

"I wish you would."

"You flatter me, doctor; but don't you think we had better go to

supper?"

"Ha!" said the doctor, "your own House of Commons is sending up an

appeal--eh?"

"Decidedly, doctor."

"Then you see, my dear friend, you can't wonder at those poor inferior

beings hurrying off to indulge their gross appetites, when a man of

genius like you is not insensible to the same call. Never wonder again

at people leaving your song for supper, Master James," said the doctor,

resting his arm on Reddy, and sauntering from the room. "Never wonder

again at the triumph of supper over song, for the Swan of Avon himself

would have no chance against roast ducks."

Reddy smacked his lips at the word ducks, and the savoury odour of the

supper-room which they approached heightened his anticipation of an

onslaught on one of the aforesaid tempting birds; but, ah! when he

entered the room, skeletons of ducks there were, but nothing more; the

work of demolition had been in able hands, and the doctor's lachrymose

exclamation of "the devil a duck!" found a hollow echo under Reddy's

waistcoat. Round the room that deluded minstrel went, seeking what he

might devour, but his voyage of discovery for any hot fowl was

profitless; and Growling, in silent delight, witnessed his

disappointment.

"Come, sir," said the doctor, "there's plenty of punch left, however;

I'll take a glass with you, and drink success to your next song, for

the last is all I could wish;" and so indeed it was, for it enabled him

to laugh at the poetaster, and cheat him out of his supper.

"Ho, ho!" said Murtough Murphy, who approached the door; "you have

found out the punch is good, eh? 'Faith it is that same, and I'll take

another glass of it with you before I go, for the night is cold."

"Are you going so soon?" asked Growling, as he clinked his glass

against the attorney's.

"Whisht!" said Murphy, "not a word,--I'm slipping away after

Dick the Divil; we have a trifle of work in hand quite in his line,

and it is time to set about it. Good bye, you'll hear more of it

to-morrow--snug's the word."

Murphy stole away, for the open departure of so merry a blade would not

have been permitted, and in the hall he found Dick mounting a large

top-coat and muffling up.

"Good people are scarce, you think, Dick," said Murphy.

"I'd recommend you to follow the example, for the night is bitter cold,

I can tell you."

"And as dark as a coal-hole," said Murphy, as he opened the door and

looked out.

"No matter, I have got a dark lantern," said Dick, "which we can use

when required; make haste, the gig is round the corner, and the little

black mare will roll us over in no time."

They left the house quietly, as he spoke, and started on a bit of

mischief which demands a separate chapter.