It was about nine o'clock of a calm summer evening as I entered
Dublin,--nearly the same hour at which, some ten years before, I had
approached that city, poor, houseless, friendless; and still was I the
same. In that great capital of my country I had not one to welcome
me; not one who would rejoice at my coming, or feel any interest in my
fortunes. This indeed was loneliness,--utter solitude. Still, if there
be something which weighs heavily on the heart in the isolation of
one like me, there is a proportionate sense of independence of his
fellow-man that sustains the courage and gives energy to the will. I
felt this as I mixed with the crowds that thronged the streets, and
shrank not from the inquisitive glances which my questionable appearance
excited as I passed.
Though considerable changes had taken place in the outskirts of the
capital since I had seen it last, the leading thoroughfares were just
as I remembered them; and as I walked along Dame Street, and one by one
each familiar object caught my eye, I could almost have fancied the
long interval since I had been there before like a mere dream. National
physiognomy, too, has a strange effect on him who has been long absent
from his country. Each face you meet seems well known. The traits of
features, to which the eye was once so well accustomed, awake a memory
of individuals, and it is sometimes a moat difficult task to distinguish
between the acquaintance and the passing stranger.
This I experienced at every moment; and at length, as I stood gazing
on the space before the Bank, and calling to mind the last scene I
witnessed there, a tall, strongly-built man brushed close past me,
and then turning round, fixed a steady and searching look on me. As I
returned his stare, a sudden thought flashed upon me that I had seen
the face before; but where, how, and when, I could not call to mind. And
thus we stood silently confronting each other for some minutes.
“I see you are a stranger here, sir,” said he, touching his hat
courteously; “can I be of service to you with any information as to the
city?”
“I was curious to know, sir,” said I, still more puzzled by the voice
than I had been by the features of the stranger, “if Miley's Hotel,
which was somewhere in the neighborhood, exists still?”
“It does, sir; but it has changed proprietors several times since you
knew it,” replied he, significantly. “The house is yonder, where you
see that large lamp. I perceive, sir, I was mistaken in supposing you a
foreigner. I wish you good-evening.” And again saluting me, he resumed
his way.
As I crossed the street towards the hotel, I remarked that he turned as
if to watch me, and became more than ever embarrassed as to who he might
be.
The doorway of the hotel was crowded with loungers and idlers of every
class, from the loitering man about town to the ragged newsvendor,
between whom, whatever disparity of condition existed, a tone of the
most free-and-easy condition prevailed; the newsmen interpolating, amid
the loud announcements of the latest intelligence, the reply to the
observation beside him.
One figure was conspicuous in the group. He was a short, dwarfish
creature, with an enormous head, covered with a fell of black hair,
falling in masses down his back and on his shoulders. A pair of
fierce, fiery black eyes glared beneath his heavy brows; and a large,
thick-lipped mouth moved with all the glib eloquence of his class and
calling. Fearfully distorted legs and club feet gave to his gait a
rolling motion, which added to the singularity of his whole appearance.
Terry Regan was then at the head of his walk in Dublin; and to his
capacious lungs and voluble tongue were committed the announcement of
those great events which, from time to time, were given to the Irish
public through the columns of the “Correspondent” and the “Dublin
Journal.”
I soon found myself in the crowd around this celebrated character,
who was, as usual, extolling the great value of that night's paper by
certain brief suggestions regarding its contents.
[Illustration: 410]
“Here's the whole, full, and true account (bad luck to the less!) of the
great and sanguinary battle between Boney and the Roosians; with all the
particklars about the killed, wounded, and missing; with what Boney said
when it was over.”
“What was that, Terry?”
“Hould yer peace, ye spalpeen! Is it to the likes of yez I 'd be telling
cabinet sacrets? (Here, yer honor),--'Falkner,' is it, or 'The Saunders'.
With the report of Mr. O'Gogorman's grand speech in Ennis on the
Catholic claims. There's, yer sowl, there's fippence worth any day ay
the week. More be token, the letter from Jemmy O'Brien to his wife, wid
an elegant epic poem called 'The Gauger.' Bloody news, gentlemen! bloody
news! Won't yez sport a tester for a sight of a real battle, and
ten thousand kilt; with 'The Whole Duty of an Informer, in two easy
lessons.' The price of stocks and shares--Ay, Mr. O'Hara, and what
boroughs is bringing in the market.”
This last sally was directed towards a large, red-faced man, who
good-humoredly joined in the laugh against himself.
“And who's this, boys?” cried the fellow, turning suddenly his piercing
eyes on me, as I endeavored, step by step, to reach the door of the
hotel. “Hurrool look at his beard, acushla! On my conscience, I wouldn't
wonder if it was General Hoche himself. 'Tis late yer come, sir,” said
he, addressing me directly; “there's no fun here now at all, barrin'
what Beresford has in the riding-house.”
“Get away, you ruffian!” said a well-dressed and respectable-looking
man, somewhat past the middle of life; “how dare you permit your tongue
to take liberties with a stranger? Allow me to make room for you, sir,”
continued he, as he politely made an opening in the crowd, and suffered
me to enter the house.
“Ah, counsellor, dear, don't be cross,” whined out the newsvendor;
“sure, isn't it wid the bad tongue we both make our bread. And here,”
vociferated he once more,--“and here ye have the grand dinner at the
Lord Mayor's, wid all the speeches and toasts; wid the glorious, pious,
and immortial memory of King William, who delivered us from Popery (by
pitched caps), from slavery (by whipping), from brass money (by bad
ha'pence), and from wooden shoes (by bare feet). Haven't we reason to
bless his--? Ay, the heavens be his bed! 'Tis like Molly Crownahon's
husband he was.”
“How was that, Terry?” asked a gentleman near.
“Take a 'Saunders,' yer honor, and I 'll tell you.”
“Here, then, here's fippence; and now for the explanation.”
“Molly Crownahon, yer honor, was, like us poor craytures, always
grateful and contented wid the Lord's goodness to us, even in taking
away our chief comfort and blessing,--the darling up there on the horse!
(Ah, 'tis an elegant sate ye have, without stirrups!) And she went
one day to say a handful of prayers oyer his grave,--the husband's, ye
mind,--and sure if she did, when she knelt down on the grass she sprung
up again as quick as she went down, for the nettles was all over the
place entirely. 'Bad scran to ye, Peter!' says she, as she rubbed her
legs,--'bad scran to ye! living or dead, there was always a sting in
ye.'”
[Illustration: 414]
As the latter part of this speech was addressed in a tone of apostrophe
to the statue of King William, it was received by the assembled crowd
with a roar of laughter.
By this time I had entered the house, and only bethought me how little
suited was the great hotel of the city to pretensions as humble as mine.
It was now, however, too late to retreat, and I entered the coffee-room,
carrying my knapsack in my hand. As I passed up the room in search of
a vacant table, the looks of astonishment my appearance excited on each
side were most palpable evidences that the company considered me as
an interloper. While some contented themselves with a stare of steady
surprise, others, less guarded in their impertinence, whispered with,
and even winked at their neighbors, to attract attention towards me.
Offensive as this unquestionably was, it amazed even more than it
annoyed me. In France, such a display of feeling would have been
impossible; and the humblest soldier of the army would not have been so
received had he deemed fit to enter Beauvilliers' or Véry's.
Whether hurt at this conduct, and consequently more alive to affront
from any quarter, or that the waiters participated in the sentiments
of their betters, I cannot exactly say; but I certainly thought their
manner even less equivocally betrayed the same desire of impertinence.
This was not long a mere suspicion on my part; for on inquiring whether
I could have a room for the night, the waiter, touching my knapsack,
which lay on the ground beside me, with his foot, replied,--
“Is this your luggage, sir?”
Amazement so completely mastered my indignation at this insolence, that
I could make no answer but by a look. This had its effect, however; and
the fellow, without further delay, bustled off to make the inquiry.
He returned in a few minutes with a civil message, that I could be
accommodated, and having placed before me the simple meal I ordered,
retired.
As I sat over my supper, I could not help feeling that unless memory
played me false, the company were little like the former frequenters
of this house. I remembered it of old, when Bubbleton and his brother
officers came there; and when the rooms were thronged with members
of both Houses of Parliament,--when peers and gentlemen of the first
families were grouped about the windows and fireplaces, and the highest
names of the land were heard in the din of recognition; handsome
equipages and led horses stood before the doors. But now the ragged mob
without was scarce a less worthy successor to the brilliant display than
were the company within to the former visitants. A tone of pretentious
impertinence, an air of swagger and mock defiance,--the most opposite to
the polished urbanity which once prevailed,--was now conspicuous; and
in their loud speech and violent gesticulation, it was easy to mark
how they had degenerated from that high standard which made the Irish
gentleman of his day the most polished man of Europe.
If in appearance and manner they fell far short of those my memory
recalled, their conversation more markedly still displayed the long
interval between them. Here, of old, were retailed the latest news of
the debate,--the last brilliant thing of Grattan, or the last biting
retort of Flood; here came, hot from debate, the great champions of
either party to relax and recruit for fresh efforts; and in the groups
that gathered around them you might learn how great genius can diffuse
its influence and scatter intelligence around it,--as the Nile
waters spread plenty and abundance wherever they flow: high and noble
sentiments, holy aspirations and eloquent thoughts, made an atmosphere,
to breathe which was to feel an altered nature. But now a vapid mixture
of conceit and slang had usurped the place of these, and a tone of
vulgar self-sufficiency unhappily too much in keeping with the externals
of those who displayed it: the miserable contentions of different
factions had replaced the bolder strife of opposite parties, and
provincialism had put its stamp on everything. The nation, too, if I
might trust my ears with what fell around me, had lost all memory of its
once great names, and new candidates for popular favor figured in their
places.
Such were some of the changes I could mark, even as I sat. But my
attention was speedily drawn from them by a circumstance more nearly
concerning myself. This was the appearance in the coffee-room of the
gentleman who first addressed me in the street.
As he passed round the room, followed by a person whose inferiority was
evident, he was recognized by most of those present, many of whom shook
him warmly by the hand, and pressed him to join their parties. But this
he declined, as he continued to walk slowly on, scrutinizing each face
as he went. At last I saw his eyes turn towards me. It was scarcely a
glance, so rapid was it, and so quickly were his looks directed to a
different quarter; but I could mark that he whispered something to a
person who followed, and then, after carelessly turning over a newspaper
on the table, sauntered from the room. As he did so, the shaggy head of
the dwarf newsvendor peeped in, and the great black eyes took a survey
of the coffee-room, till finally they settled on me.
“Ah!” cried the fellow, with a strange blending of irony and compassion
in his voice; “be gorra, I knew how it would be,--the major has ye!” At
this a general laugh broke out from all present, and every eye was fixed
on me.
Meanwhile the follower had taken his place nearly opposite me at the
table, and was busily engaged examining a paper which he had taken from
his pocket.
“May I ask, sir, if your name be Burke?” said he, in a low voice, across
the table.
I started with amazement to hear my name pronounced where I believed
myself so completely a stranger, and in my astonishment, forgot to
answer.
“I was asking, sir--” repeated he.
“Yes, you are quite correct,” interrupted I; “that is my name. May I beg
to know, in return, for what purpose you make the inquiry?”
“Thomas Burke, sir?” continued he, inattentive to my observation, and
apparently about to write the name on the paper before him.
I nodded, and he wrote down the words.
“That saves a deal of trouble to all of us, sir,” said he, as he
finished writing. “This is a warrant for your arrest; but the major is
quite satisfied if you can give bail for your appearance.”
“Arrest!” repeated I; “on what charge am I arrested?”
“You'll hear in the morning, I suppose,” said he, quietly. “What shall
we say about the bail? Have you any acquaintance or friend in town?”
“Neither; I am a perfect stranger here. But if you are authorized to
arrest me, I here surrender myself at once.”
By this time, several persons of the coffee-room had approached the
table, and among the rest the gentleman who so politely made way for me
in the crowd to reach the door.
“What is it, Roche?” said he, addressing the man at the table; “a
warrant?”
“Yes, sir; for this gentleman here. But we can take bail, if he has it.”
“I have told you already that I am a stranger, and know no one here.”
The gentleman threw his eyes over the warrant, and then looking me
steadily in the face, muttered in a whisper to the officer, “Why, he
must have been a boy, a mere child, at the time.”
“Very true, sir; but the major says it must be done. Maybe you'd bail
him yourself.”
These words were added in a tone of half irony, as the fellow gave a sly
look beneath his eyelashes.
“I tell you, again,” said I, impatient at the whole scene, “I am quite
ready to accompany you.”
“Is this your name, sir?” said the strange gentleman, addressing me, as
he pointed to the warrant.
“Yes,” interposed the officer, “there's no doubt about that; he gave it
himself.”
“Come, come, then, Roche,” said he, cajolingly; “these are not times
for undue strictness. Let the gentleman remain where he is to-night,
and to-morrow he will attend you. You can remain here, if you like, with
him.”
“If you say so, I suppose we may do it,” replied the officer, as he
folded up the paper, and arose from the table.
“Yes, yes; that's the proper course. And now,” said he, addressing me,
“will you permit me to join you while I finish this bottle of claret?”
I could have no objection to so pleasant a proposal; and thus, for the
time at least, ended this disagreeable affair.