It is a singularly impressive sensation, and one, too, of which even
frequency will scarcely diminish the effect, to pass from the busy
streets and moving population of Dublin, and enter the quiet courts of
the University. The suddenness of the change is most striking, and you
pass at once from all the bustling interests of life--its cares and
ambitions, its pursuits of wealth and pleasure--into the stillness of a
cloister. Scarcely within the massive gates, and the noise of the great
capital is hushed and subdued, its sounds seem to come from afar, and
in their place is an unbroken calm, or the more solemn echoes of its
vaulted roofs.
In a corner of the Old Square, and in a building almost entirely
occupied by the University authorities, and whose stairs had seldom
echoed beneath less reverend footsteps than those of deans and bursars,
were the chambers of Joe Nelligan. He had obtained them in this peculiar
locality as a special favor from “the Board,” as eminently suited to
his habits of study and seclusion; for his was indeed a life of
labor,--labor, hard, unremitting, and unbroken! Dreary as was the aspect
of the spot, it was one dear to the heart of him who occupied it. If it
had been the cell wherein he had passed nights of severest toil and days
of intense effort, so had it been the calm retreat into which he had
retired as a sanctuary, and at times the scene of the hallowed joy he
felt when success had crowned all his labors. Thither had he bent his
steps at nightfall, as to a home; thence had he written the few lines
which more than once announced his triumph to his father.
Within those halls had he experienced all that he had ever tasted of
successful ambition, and in the depths of that old chair had he dreamed
away all the visions of a glorious future. The room in which he sat was
a large and lofty one, lighted by two windows deeply set in the wall.
Its sides were lined with book-shelves, and books littered the tables
and even the floor,--for it was one of his caprices to read as he lay
at full length, either on the ground or a sofa,--and the paper and pens
were scattered about in different quarters, as accident suggested. The
only thing like ornament to be seen was a lithographic print of Cro'
Martin Castle over the fireplace,--a strange exception would it seem,
but traceable, perhaps, to some remote scene of boyish admiration for
what had first awakened in him a feeling of awe and admiration; and
there it now remained, time-worn and discolored, perhaps unnoticed, or
looked on with very different emotions. Ay! these pictures are terrible
landmarks of our thoughts! I speak not of such as appeal to our hearts
by the features we loved, the eyes into whose depths we have gazed, the
lips on whose accents we have hung entranced, but even when they trace
the outlines of some spot well known to us in boyhood,--some scene of
long, long years ago. It is not alone that the “Then” and “Now” stand
out in strongest contrast, that what we were and what we are are in
juxtaposition, but that whole memories of what we once hoped to be come
rushing over us, and all the spirit-stirring emotions of early ambitions
mingle themselves with the stern realities of the present. And, after
all, what success in life, however great and seemingly unexpected it may
be, ever equals one of the glorious daydreams of our boyish ambition,
in which there comes no alloy of broken health, wasted energies, and
exhausted spirits? or, far worse again, the envious jealousy of those
we once deemed friends, and who, had we lived obscurely, still might
be such? Student life is essentially imaginative. The very division of
time, the objects which have value to a student's eyes, the seclusion
in which he lives, the tranquil frame of mind coexistent with highly
strained faculties, all tend to make his intervals of repose periods of
day-dream and revery. It is not improbable that these periods are the
fitting form of relaxation for overtaxed minds, and that the Imagination
is the soothing influence that repairs the wear and tear of Reason.
The peculiar circumstances of young Nelligan's position in life had
almost totally estranged him from others. The constraint that attaches
to a very bashful temperament had suggested to him a certain cold and
reserved manner, that some took for pride, and many were repelled from
his intimacy by this seeming haughtiness. The unhappy course of what
had been his first friendship--for such was it with Massingbred--had
rendered him more distrustful than ever of himself, and more firmly
convinced that to men born as he had been the world imposes a barrier
that only is passable by the highest and greatest success. It is true,
his father's letter of explanation assuaged the poignancy of his sorrow;
he saw that Massingbred had proceeded under a misconception, and had
believed himself the aggrieved individual; but all these considerations
could not obliterate the fact that an insult to his social station was
the vengeance adopted by him, and that Massingbred saw no more galling
outrage in his power than to reflect upon his rank in life.
There are men who have a rugged pride in contrasting what they were
with what they are. Their self-love finds an intense pleasure in
contemplating difficulties overcome, obstacles surmounted, and a goal
won, all by their own unaided efforts, and to such the very obscurity of
their origin is a source of boastful exultation. Such men are, however,
always found in the ranks of those whose success is wealth. Wherever the
triumphs are those rewarded by station, or the distinctions conferred
on intellectual superiority, this vainglorious sentiment is unknown.
An inborn refinement rejects such coarse pleasure, just as their
very habits of life derive no enjoyment from the display and splendor
reflected by riches.
Joe Nelligan felt his lowly station most acutely, because he saw in it a
disqualification for that assured and steady temperament which can make
most of success. He would have given half of all he might possess in the
world for even so much of birth as might exempt him from a sneer.
The painful sensitiveness that never rested nor slept--that made him
eternally on the watch lest some covert allusion might be made to
him--was a severe suffering; and far from decreasing, it seemed to grow
with him as he became older, and helped mainly to withdraw him further
from the world.
No error is more common than for bashful men to believe that they are
unpopular in society, and that the world “will none of them.” They
interpret their own sense of difficulty as a feeling of dislike in
others, and retire to their solitudes convinced that these are their
fitting dwelling-places. To this unpalatable conviction was Joseph
Nelligan now come; and as he entered his chambers, and closed the heavy
door behind him, came the thought: “Here at least no mortifications
can reach me. These old books are my truest and best of friends, and in
their intercourse there is neither present pain nor future humiliation!”
It was on a dark and dreary day in winter, and in that cheerless hour
before the closing in of night, that Joseph sat thus in his solitary
home. The sound of carriage-wheels and the sharp tramp of horses'
feet--a rare event in these silent courts--slightly aroused him from a
revery; but too indolent to go to the window, he merely raised his head
to listen; and now a loud knock shook the outer door of his chambers.
With a strange sense of perturbation at this unwonted summons, he arose
and opened it.
“The Chief Secretary begs to know if Mr. Nelligan is at home?” said a
well-powdered footman, in a plain but handsome livery.
“Yes; I am the person,” said Joseph, with a diffidence strongly in
contrast with the composure of the other; and while he yet stood,
door in hand, the steps of the carriage were let down, and a tall
venerable-looking man, somewhat past the prime of life, descended and
approached him.
“I must be my own introducer, Mr. Nelligan,” said he; “my name is
Massingbred.”
With considerable confusion of manner, and in all that hurry in which
bashful men seek to hide their awkwardness, Joseph ushered his visitor
into his dimly lighted chamber.
Colonel Massingbred, with all the staid composure of a very quiet
demeanor, had quite sufficient tact to see that he was in the company
of one little versed in the world, and, as soon as he took his seat,
proceeded to explain the reason of his visit.
“My son has told me of the great pleasure and profit he has derived from
knowing you, sir,” said he; “he has also informed me that a slight and
purely casual event interrupted the friendship that existed between you;
and although unable himself to tender personally to you at this moment
all his regrets on the subject, he has charged me to be his interpreter,
and express his deep sorrow for what has occurred, and his hope that,
after this avowal, it may never be again thought of by either of you.”
“There was a misunderstanding,--a fault on both sides. I was wrong in
the first instance,” said Nelligan, faltering and stammering at every
word.
“Mr. Nelligan is in a position to be generous,” said the Colonel,
blandly, “and he cannot better show the quality than by accepting a
frank and full apology for a mere mistake. May I trust,” continued
he,--but with that slight change of tone that denoted a change of
topic,--“that you have somewhat abated those habits of severe study you
have hitherto pursued? Jack is really uneasy on that score, and wisely
remarks that great talents should be spared the penalty of great labor.”
“I am not reading now. I have read very little of late,” said Joseph,
diffidently.
“I can imagine what that means,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Mr.
Nelligan's relaxations would be the hard labor of less zealous students;
but I will also say that upon other grounds this must be done with more
consideration. The public interests, Mr. Nelligan,--the country, to
whose service you will one day be called on to contribute those high
abilities,--will not be satisfied to learn that their exercise should
have been impaired by over-effort in youth.”
“You overrate me much, sir. I fear that you have been misled both as to
my capacity and my objects.”
“Your capacity is matter of notoriety, Mr. Nelligan! your objects may be
as high as any ambition can desire. But perhaps it is obtrusive in one
so new to your acquaintance to venture on these topics; if so, pray
forgive me, and set it down to the error I have fallen into of fancying
that I know you as well personally as I do by reputation and character.”
Before Nelligan could summon words to reply to this complimentary
speech, the door of his room was flung suddenly open, and a short,
thickset figure, shrouded in a coarse shawl and a greatcoat, rushed
towards him, exclaiming in a rich brogue,--
“Here I am, body and bones; just off the coach, and straight to your
quarters.”
“What! Mr. Crow; is it possible?” cried Nelligan, in some confusion.
“Just himself, and no other,” replied the artist, disengaging himself
from his extra coverings. “When you said to me, 'Come and see me when
you visit Dublin,' I said to myself, 'There 's a trump, and I 'll do it;'
and so here I am.”
“You left the country yesterday. Did you bring me any letters?” asked
Nelligan; but in the uncertain tone of a man who talked merely to say
something.
“Not a line,--not a word. Your father was over head and ears at work
this week back about the election, and it was only the night before last
it was over.”
“And is it over?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.
“To be sure it is. Young Massingbred is in, and a nice business it is.”
“Let me inform you, Mr. Crow, before you proceed further--” broke in
Nelligan; but as he got so far, Colonel Massingbred laid his hand on his
arm, and said, in a bland but steady voice, “Pray allow the gentleman to
continue; his account promises to be most interesting.”
“Indeed, then, that's what it is not,” said Crow; “for I think it's
all bad from beginning to end.” Another effort to interrupt by Nelligan
being repressed by the Colonel, Crow resumed: “Everybody trying to cheat
somebody else; the Martins wanting to cheat the borough, the borough
wanting to jockey the Martins, and then young Massingbred humbugging
them both! And there he is now, Member for Oughterard; and much he cares
for them both.”
“Was there a contest, sir?” asked the Colonel, while by a gesture he
enforced silence on Nelligan.
“As bitter a one as ever you saw in your life,” continued Simmy, quite
flattered at the attention vouchsafed him; “for though the Martins put
young Massingbred forward at first, they quarrelled with him before
the day for the nomination,--something or other about the franchise, or
Maynooth, or the Church Establishment. Sorra one o' me know much about
these matters; but it was a serious difference, and they split about it!
And after all their planning and conniving together, what do they do
but propose Martin's son, the man in the dragoons, for the borough!
Massingbred bids them do their worst, packs up, sets out for the town,
and makes a speech exposing them all! The next morning he comes to the
poll, with Joe's father there, and Peter Hayes, to propose and second
him. Martin drives in with three elegant coaches and four, and tries to
do the thing 'grand.' 'It's too late, sir; the people know their power,'
as Father Neal told them; and, upon my conscience, I believe it's a
most dangerous kind of knowledge. At all events, at it they go; and such
fighting and murdering nobody ever saw before. There's not a whole
pane of glass in the town, and many a skull cracked as well! One of the
wickedest of the set was young Massingbred himself; he 'd assault the
cars as they drove in, and tear out the chaps he thought were his own
voters, in spite of themselves. He has the spirit of the devil in him!
And then to hear how he harangued the people and abused the aristocracy.
Maybe he did n't lay it on well! To be sure, the Martins drove him to
it very hard. They called him a 'renegade' and a 'spy.' They ransacked
everything they could get against his character, and at last declared
that he had no qualification, and wasn't worth sixpence.”
“And how did he answer that?” cried the Colonel, who, fixing his eyes on
the other, entirely engaged his attention.
“I 'll tell you how he did. Just producing the title-deeds of an estate
that old Nelligan settled on him eight days before,--ay, and so well and
securely that Counsellor Repton himself, with all his cuteness, could
n't find a flaw in it. Repton said, in my own hearing, 'That 's the
cleverest blackguard in Ireland!'”
“Mr. Crow--Crow, I say,” broke in young Nelligan.
“Pray don't interrupt him,” said the Colonel, in a tone that seemed to
demand obedience; “I want to learn by what majority he gained the day.”
“Thirty-eight or thirty-nine; and there's only two hundred and odd in
the borough. There may be, perhaps, a dozen of these to strike off on a
petition; but he 's all safe after that.”
“And will they petition against his return?”
“They say so, but nobody believes them. His father,”--and here he made a
gesture towards Nelligan,--“his father has a strong purse, and will see
him well through it all.”
“This is very interesting news to me, sir,” said the Colonel, with
another sign to Joseph not to betray him; “for although I could well
imagine Jack Massingbred equal to such an occasion as you describe, I
was scarcely prepared to hear of the generous confidence reposed in him,
nor the prompt and able co-operation of the Liberal party.”
“Ah, I perceive,” said Crow, with a significant motion of his eyebrows.
“You thought that his name would be against him, and that people would
say, 'Is n't he the son of old Moore Massingbred, that took his bribe
for the Union?'”
“This is intolerable,” cried Nelligan, starting up from his seat and
speaking with all the vehemence of outraged feelings. “It is to Colonel
Massingbred himself you have dared to address this impertinence.”
“What--how--what's this!” exclaimed Crow, in a perfect horror of shame.
“The fault, if there be any, is all mine, sir,” said the Colonel,
pressing him down into his seat. “I would not have lost the animated
description you have just given me, uttered, as it was, in such perfect
frankness, for any consideration; least of all, at the small price
of hearing a public expression on a public man's conduct. Pray, now,
continue to use the same frankness, and tell me anything more that
occurs to you about this remarkable contest.”
This appeal, uttered in all the ease of a well-bred manner, was quite
unsuccessful. Mr. Crow sat perfectly horrified with himself, endeavoring
to remember what possible extent of offence he might have been betrayed
into by his narrative. As for Nelligan, his shame and confusion were
even greater still; and he sat gazing ruefully and reproachfully at the
unlucky painter.
Colonel Massingbred made one or two more efforts to relieve the
awkwardness of the incident, but so palpably fruitless were the attempts
that he desisted, and arose to take his leave. As Joe accompanied him
to the door, he tried to blunder out some words of excuse. “My dear Mr.
Nelligan,” broke in the other, with a quiet laugh, “don't imagine for
a moment that I am offended. In the first place, your friend was the
bearer of very pleasant tidings, for Jack has not condescended to write
to me about his success; and secondly, public life is such a stern
schoolmaster, that men like myself get accustomed to rather rough usage,
particularly at the hands of those who do not know us. And now, as I am
very unwilling to include you in this category, when will you come and
see me? What day will you dine with me?”
Nelligan blushed and faltered, just as many another awkward man has done
in a similar circumstance; for, however an easy matter for you, my dear
sir, with all your tact and social readiness, to fix the day it will
suit you to accept of an almost stranger's hospitality, Joseph had no
such self-possession, and only stammered and grew crimson.
“Shall it be on Saturday? for to-morrow I am engaged to the Chancellor,
and on Friday I dine with his Excellency. Will Saturday suit you?” asked
the Colonel.
“Yes, sir, perfectly; with much pleasure,” answered Nelligan.
“Then Saturday be it, and at seven o'clock,” said Massingbred, shaking
his hand most cordially; while Joe, with sorrowful step, returned to his
chamber.
“Well, I think I did it there, at all events!” cried Simmy, as the other
entered. “But what, in the name of all that's barefaced, prevented your
stopping me? Why did n't you pull me up short before I made a beast of
myself?”
“How could I? You rushed along like a swollen river. You were so full of
your blessed subject that you would n't heed an interruption; and as to
signs and gestures, I made twenty without being able to catch your eye.”
“I believe I 'm the only man living ever does these things,” said Simmy,
ruefully. “I lost the two or three people that used to say they were my
friends by some such blundering folly as this. I only hope it won't do
_you_ any mischief. I trust he 'll see that you are not responsible for
my delinquencies!”
There was a hearty sincerity in poor Simmy's sorrow that at once
conciliated Nelligan, and he did his best to obliterate every trace of
the unhappy incident.
“I scarcely supposed my father would have forgiven Massingbred so
easily,” said Joe, in his desire to change the topic.
“Blarney,--all blarney!” muttered Crow, with an expressive movement of
his eyebrows.
“Father Neal himself is rather a difficult subject to treat with,” added
Joe.
“Blarney again!”
“Nor do I think,” continued Nelligan, “that the constituency of the
borough, as a body, are remarkable for any special liability to be
imposed on!”
“Nor would they, had it been an Irishman was trying to humbug them,”
said Crow, emphatically. “Take my word for it,--and I 've seen a great
deal of the world, and perhaps not the best of it either,--but take _my_
word for it, English blarney goes further with us here than all else.
It 's not that it's clever or insinuating or delicate,--far from it; but
you see that nobody suspects it. The very blunders and mistakes of it
have an air of sincerity, and we are, besides, so accustomed always to
be humbugged with a brogue, that we fancy ourselves safe when we hear an
English accent.”
“There's some ingenuity in your theory,” said Joe, smiling.
“There's fact in it; that's what there is,” said Crow, rising from his
seat. “I 'll be going now, for I 'm to dine with Tom Magennis at six.”
“Is he here, too?”
“Yes; and was n't it a piece of good luck that I did n't say anything
about him before Colonel Massingbred?”
“Why so?”
“Just for this, then,--that it was young Massingbred gave him a letter
to his father, recommending him for some place or other. Half of the
borough expects to be in the Treasury, or the Post-Office, or the Board
of Trade; and I was just on the tip of saying what a set of rapscallions
they were. I 'm sure I don't know what saved me from it.”
“Your natural discretion, doubtless,” said Joe, smiling.
“Just so; it must have been that!” replied he, with a sigh.
“You'll breakfast with me to-morrow, Crow, at eight,” said Nelligan, as
he parted with him at the door. And Simmy, having pledged himself to be
punctual, hurried off to keep his dinner appointment.