The great Ossory Bank, with its million sterling of paid-up capital, its
royal charter, its titled directory, and its shares at a premium, stood
at the top of Patrick Street, Kilkenny, and looked, in the splendor of
its plate-glass windows and the security of its iron railings, the very
type of solvency and safety. The country squire ascended the hall-door
steps with a sort of feeling of acquaintanceship, for he had known the
Viscount who once lived there in days before the Union, and the farmer
experienced a sense of trustfulness in depositing his hard-earned gains
in what he regarded as a temple of Croesus. What an air of prosperity
and business did the interior present! The massive doors swung
noiselessly at the slightest touch, meet emblem of the secrecy that
prevailed, and the facility that pervaded all transactions, within. What
alacrity, too, in that numerous band of clerks who counted and cashed
and checked unceasingly! How calmly they passed from desk to desk, a
word, a mere whisper, serving for converse; and then what a grand and
mysterious solemnity about that back office with its double doors,
within which some venerable cashier, bald-headed and pursy, stole
at intervals to consult the oracle who dwelt within! In the spacious
apartment devoted to cash operations, nothing denoted the former destiny
of the mansion but a large fireplace, with a pretentious chimney-piece
of black oak, over which a bust of our gracious Queen now figured, an
object of wonderment and veneration to many a frieze-coated gazer.
On the morning of the 12th August, to which day we have brought our
present history, the street in front of the Bank presented a scene of no
ordinary interest. From an early hour people continued to pour in, till
the entire way was choked up with carriages and conveyances of every
description, from the well-equipped barouche of the country gentleman to
the humblest “shandradan” of the petty farmer. Sporting-looking fellows
upon high-conditioned thoroughbreds, ruddy old squires upon cobs,
and hard-featured country-folk upon shaggy ponies, were all jammed up
together amidst a dense crowd of foot passengers. A strong police-force
was drawn up in front of the Bank, although nothing in the appearance of
the assembled mass seemed to denote the necessity for their presence.
A low murmur of voices ran through the crowd as each talked to his
neighbor, consulting, guessing, and speculating, as temperament
inclined: some were showing placards and printed notices they had
received through the post; some pointed to newspaper paragraphs; others
displayed great rolls of notes; but all talked with a certain air of
sadness that appeared to presage coming misfortune. As ten o'clock drew
nigh, the hour for opening the Bank, the excitement rose to a painful
pitch; every eye was directed to the massive door, whose gorgeous brass
knocker shone with a sort of insolent brilliancy in the sun. At every
moment watches were consulted, and in muttered whispers men broke their
fears to those beside them. Some could descry the heads of people
moving about in the cash-office, where a considerable bustle appeared to
prevail; and even this much of life seemed to raise the spirits of the
crowd, and the rumor ran quickly on every side that the Bank was about
to open. At last the deep bell of the town-hall struck ten. At each fall
of the hammer all expected to see the door move, but it never stirred;
and now the pent-up feeling of the multitude might be marked in a sort
of subdued growl,--a low, ill-boding sound, that seemed ta come out
of the very earth. As if to answer the unspoken anger of the crowd,--a
challenge accepted ere given,--a heavy crash was heard, and the police
proceeded to load with ball in the face of the people,--a demonstration
whose significance there was no mistaking. A cry of angry defiance burst
from the assembled mass at the sight, but as suddenly was checked again
as the massive door was seen to move, and then, with a loud bang, fly
wide open. The rush was now tremendous. With some vague impression that
everything depended upon being amongst the first, the people poured in
with all the force of a mighty torrent. Each, fighting his way as if for
life itself, regardless of the cries of suffering about him, strove to
get forward; nor could all the efforts of the police avail to restrain
them in the slightest. Bleeding, wounded, half suffocated, with bruised
faces and clothes torn to tatters, they struggled on,--no deference
to age, no respect to condition. It was a fearful anarchy, where every
thought of the past was lost in the present emergency. On they poured,
breathless and bloody, with gleaming eyes and faces of demoniacal
meaning; they pushed, they jostled, and they tore, till the first line
gained the counter, against which the force behind now threatened to
crush them to death.
What a marvellous contrast to the storm-tossed multitude, steaming and
disfigured, was the calm attitude of the clerks within the counter!
Not deigning, as it seemed, to bestow a glance upon the agitated scene
before them, they moved placidly about, pen behind the ear, in voices of
ordinary tone, asking what each wanted, and counting over the proffered
notes with all the impassiveness of every-day habit. “Gold for these,
did you say?” they repeated, as though any other demand met the ear!
Why, the very air rang with the sound, and the walls gave back the cry.
From the wild voice of half-maddened recklessness to the murmur that
broke from fainting exhaustion, there was but one word,--“Gold!” A
drowning crew, as the surging waves swept over them, never screamed for
succor with wilder eagerness than did that tangled mass shout, “Gold,
gold!”
In their savage energy they could scarcely credit that their demands
should be so easily complied with; they were half stupefied at the
calm indifference that met their passionate appeal. They counted and
recounted the glittering pieces over and over, as though some trick were
to be apprehended, some deception to be detected. When drawn or pulled
back from the counter by others eager as themselves, they might be seen
in corners, counting over their money, and reckoning it once more. It
was so hard to believe that all their terrors were for nothing, their
worst fears without a pretext. Even yet they couldn't imagine but that
the supply must soon run short, and they kept asking those that came
away whether they, too, had got their gold. Hour after hour rolled
on, and still the same demand, and still the same unbroken flow of the
yellow tide continued. Some very large checks had been presented; but no
sooner was their authenticity acknowledged than they were paid. An agent
from another bank arrived with a formidable roll of “Ossory” notes, but
was soon seen issuing forthwith two bursting little bags of sovereigns.
Notwithstanding all this, the pressure never ceased for a moment; nay,
as the day wore on, the crowds seemed to have grown denser and more
importunate; and when the half-exhausted clerks claimed a few minutes'
respite for a biscuit and a glass of wine, a cry of impatience burst
from the insatiable multitude. It was three o'clock. In another hour the
Bank would close, as many surmised, never to open again. It was evident,
from the still increasing crowd and the excitement that prevailed, how
little confidence the ready payments of the Bank had diffused. They who
came forth loaded with gold were regarded as fortunate, while they
who still waited for their turn were in all the feverish torture of
uncertainty.
A little after three the crowd was cleft open by the passage of a large
travelling-barouche, which, with four steaming posters, advanced slowly
through the dense mass.
“Who comes here with an earl's coronet?” said a gentleman to his
neighbor, as the carriage passed. “Lord Glengariff, and Davenport Dunn
himself, by George!” cried he suddenly.
The words were as quickly caught up by those at either side, and the
news, “Davenport Dunn has arrived,” ran through the immense multitude.
If there was an eager, almost intense anxiety to catch a glimpse of him,
there was still nothing that could indicate, in the slightest degree,
the state of popular feeling towards him. Slightly favorable it might
possibly have been, inasmuch as a faint effort at a cheer burst forth at
the announcement of his name; but it was repressed just as suddenly, and
it was in a silence almost awful that he descended from the carriage at
the private door of the Bank.
“Do, I beg of you, Mr. Dunn,” said Lady Augusta, as he stood to assist
her to alight; “let me entreat of you not to think of us. We can be most
comfortably accommodated at the hotel.”
“By all means, Dunn. I insist upon it,” broke in the Earl.
“In declining my poor hospitality, my Lord,” said Dunn, “you will grieve
me much, while you will also favor the impression that I am not in a
condition to offer it.”
“Ah! quite true,--very justly observed. Dunn is perfectly right,
Augusta. We ought to stop here.” And he descended at once, and gave his
hand to his daughter.
Lady Augusta turned about ere she entered the house, and looked at the
immense crowd before her. There was something of almost resentfulness
in the haughty gaze she bestowed; but, let us own, the look, whatever it
implied, well became her proud features; and more than one was heard to
say, “What a handsome woman she is!”
This little incident in the day's proceedings gave rise to much
conjecture, some auguring that events must be grave and menacing when
Dunn's own presence was required, others inferring that he came to give
assurance and confidence to the Bank. Nor was the appearance of Lord
Glen-gariff less open to its share of surmise; and many were the
inquiries how far he was personally interested,--whether he was a large
stockholder of the concern, or deep in its books as debtor. Leaving the
speculative minds who discussed the subject without doors, let us
follow Mr. Dunn, as, with Lady Augusta on his arm, he led the way to the
drawing-room.
The rooms were handsomely furnished, that to the back opening upon a
conservatory filled with rich geraniums, and ornamented with a pretty
marble fountain, now in full play. Indeed, so well had Dunn's orders
been attended to, that the apartments which he scarcely occupied for
above a day or so in a twelvemonth had actually assumed the appearance
of being in constant use. Books, prints, and newspapers were scattered
about, fresh flowers stood in the vases, and recent periodicals lay on
the tables.
“What a charming house!” exclaimed Lady Augusta; and, really, the
approbation was sincere, for the soft-cushioned sofas, the perfumed
air, the very quiet itself, were in delightful contrast to the heat and
discomfort of a journey by “rail.”
It was in vain Dunn entreated his noble guests to accept some luncheon;
they peremptorily refused, and, in fact, declared that they would only
remain there on the condition that he bestowed no further thought upon
them, addressing himself entirely to the weighty cares around him.
“Will you, at least, tell me at what hour you'd like dinner, my Lord?
Shall we say six?”
“With all my heart. Only, once more, I beg, never think of us. We are
most comfortable here, and want for nothing.”
With a deep bow of obedience, Dunn moved towards the door, when suddenly
Lady Augusta whispered a few rapid words in her father's ear.
“Stop a moment, Dunn!” cried the Earl. “Augusta is quite right. The
observation is genuine woman's wit She says I ought to go down along
with you, to show myself in the Bank; that my presence there will have a
salutary effect. Eh, what d'ye think?”
“I am deeply indebted to Lady Augusta for the suggestion,” said
Dunn, coloring highly. “There cannot be a doubt that your Lordship's
countenance and support at such a moment are priceless.”
“I 'm glad you think so, glad she thought of it,” muttered the Earl, as
he arranged his white locks before the glass, and made a sort of hasty
toilet for his approaching appearance in public.
To judge from the sensation produced by the noble Lord's appearance
in the Bank, Lady Augusta's suggestion was admirable. The arrival of
a wagon-load of bullion could scarcely have caused a more favorable
impression. If Noah had been an Englishman, the dove would have brought
him not an olive-branch but a lord. I say it in no spirit of sarcasm or
sneer, for, _coteris paribus_, lords are better company than commoners;
I merely record it passingly, as a strong trait of our people and our
race. So was it now, that from the landed gentleman to the humblest
tenant-farmer, the Earl's presence seemed a fresh guarantee of solvency.
Many remarked that Dunn looked pale,--some thought anxious; but all
agreed that the hearty-faced, white-haired old nobleman at his side was
a perfect picture of easy self-satisfaction.
They took their seats in the cash-office, within the counter, to be seen
by all, and see everything that went forward. If Davenport Dunn regarded
the scene with a calm and unmoved indifference, his attention being, in
fact, more engrossed by his newspaper than by what went on around, Lord
Glengariff's quick eye and ear were engaged incessantly. He scanned the
appearance of each new applicant as he came up to the table; he listened
to his demand, noted its amount, and watched with piercing glance what
effect it might produce on the cashier. Nor was he an unmoved spectator
of the scene; for while he simply contented himself with an angry stare
at the frieze-coated peasant, he actually scowled an insolent defiance
when any of higher rank or more pretentious exterior presented himself,
muttering in broken accents beneath his breath, “Too bad, too bad!”
“Gross ingratitude!” “A perfect disgrace!” and so on.
He was at the very climax of his indignation, when a voice from the
crowd addressed him with “How d' ye do, my Lord? I was not aware you
were in this part of the country.”
He put up his double eyeglass, and speedily recognized the Mr. Barnard
whom Dunn mentioned as so unworthily requiting all he had done for him.
“No, sir,” said the Earl, haughtily; “and just as little did I expect to
see you here on such an errand as this. In _my_ day, country gentlemen
were the first to give the example of trust and confidence, and not
foremost in propagating unworthy apprehensions.”
“I'm not a partner in the Bank, my Lord, and know nothing of its
solvency,” said the other, as he handed in two checks over the counter.
“Eight thousand six hundred and forty-eight. Three thousand, twelve,
nine, six,” said the clerk, mechanically. “How will you have it, sir?”
“Bank of Ireland notes will do.”
Dunn lifted his eyes from the paper, and then, raising his hat, saluted
Mr. Barnard.
“I trust you left Mrs. Barnard well?” said he, in a calm voice.
“Yes, thank you--well--quite well,” said Barnard, in some confusion.
“Will you remember to tell her that she shall have the acorns of
the Italian pines next week? I have heard of their arrival at the
Custom-house.”
While Barnard muttered a very confused expression of thanks, the
old Earl looked from one to the other of the speakers in a sort of
bewilderment. Where was the angry indignation he had looked for from
Dunn,--where the haughty denunciation of a black ingratitude?
“Why, Dunn, I say,” whispered he, “isn't this Barnard the fellow you
spoke of,--the man you returned to Parliament t' other day?”
“The same, my Lord,” replied Dunn, in a low, cautious voice. “He is here
exacting a right,--a just right,--and no more. It is not now, nor in
this place, that I would remind him how ungraciously he has treated me.
This day is _his_. _Mine_ will come yet.”
Before Lord Glengariff could well recover from the astonishment of this
cold and calculating patience, Mr. Hankes pushed his way through the
crowd, with an open letter in his hand.
It was a telegram just received, with an account of an attack made by
the mob on Mr. Dunn's house in Dublin. Like all such communications, the
tidings were vague and unsatisfactory: “A terrific attack by mob on
No. 18. Windows smashed, and front door broken, but not forced. Police
repulsed; military sent for.”
“So much for popular gratitude, my Lord,” said Dunn, as he handed the
slip of paper to the Earl. “Fortunately, it was never the prize on which
I had set my heart. Mr. Hankes,” said he, in a bland, calm voice, “the
crowd seems scarcely diminished outside. Will you kindly affix a notice
on the door, to state that, to convenience the public, the Bank will on
this day continue open till five o'clock?”
“By Heaven! they don't deserve such courtesy!” cried the old Lord,
passionately. “Be as just as you please, but show them no generosity. If
it be thus they treat the men who devote their best energies, their very
lives, to the country, I, for one, say it is not a land to live in, and
I spurn them as countrymen!”
“What would you have, my Lord? The best troops have turned and fled
under the influence of a panic; the magic words, 'We are mined!' once
routed the very column that had stormed a breach! You don't expect to
find the undisciplined masses of mankind more calmly courageous than the
veterans of a hundred fights.”
A wild hoarse cheer burst forth in the street at this moment, and
drowned all other sounds.
“What is it now? Are they going to attack us here?” cried the Earl.
The cry again arose, louder and wilder, and the shouts of “Dunn forever!
Dunn forever!” burst from a thousand voices.
“The placard has given great satisfaction, sir,” said Hankes,
reappearing. “Confidence is fully restored.”
And, truly, it was strange to see how quickly a popular sentiment spread
its influence; for they who now came forward to exchange their notes
for gold no longer wore the sturdy air of defiance of the earlier
applicants, but approached half reluctantly, and with an evident sense
of shame, as though yielding to an ignoble impulse of cowardice and
fear. The old Earl's haughty stare and insolent gaze were little
calculated to rally the diffident; for with his double eyeglass he
scanned each new-comer with the air of a man saying, “I mark, and I 'll
not forget you!”
What a contrast was Dunn's expression,--that look so full of gentle pity
and forgiveness! Nothing of anger, no resentfulness, disfigured the
calm serenity of his pale features. He had a word of recognition--even
a smile and a kind inquiry--for some of those who now bashfully tried
to screen themselves from notice. The great rush was already over; a
visible change had come over that vast multitude who so lately clamored
aloud for gold. The very aspect of that calm, unmoved face was a
terrible rebuke to their unworthy terror.
“It's nigh over, sir,” whispered Hankes to his chief, as he stood with
his massive gold watch in the hollow of his hand. “Seven hundred only
have been paid out in the last twelve minutes. The battle is finished!”
The vociferous cheering without continued unceasingly, and yells for
Dunn to come forth and show himself filled the air.
“Do you hear them?” asked Lord Glengariff, looking eagerly at Dunn.
“Yes, my Lord. It is a very quick reaction. Popular opinion is generally
correct in the main; but it is rare to find it reversing its own
judgments so suddenly.”
“Very dispassionately spoken, sir,” said the old Lord, haughtily; “but
what if you had been unprepared for this onslaught to-day,--what if
they had succeeded in compelling you to suspend payments?”
“Had such been possible, my Lord, we would have richly deserved any
reverse that might have befallen us. What is it, Hankes?” cried he, as
that gentleman endeavored to get near him.
“You'll have to show yourself, sir; you must positively address them in
a few words from the balcony.”
“I do not think so, Hankes. This is a mere momentary burst of popular
feeling.”
“Not at all, sir. Listen to them now; they are shouting madly for you.
To decline the call will be taken as pride. I implore you to come out,
if only for a few minutes.”
“I suppose he is right, Dunn,” said Lord Glengariff, half doggedly.
“For my own part, I have not the slightest pretension to say how popular
demonstrations--I believe that is the word for them--are to be treated.
Street gatherings, in my day, were called mobs, and dispersed by horse
police; our newer civilization parleys to them and flatters them. I
suppose you understand the requirements of the times we live in.”
The clamor outside was now deafening, and by its tone seemed, in some
sort, to justify what Hankes had said, that Dunn's indifference to their
demands would be construed into direct insult.
“Do it at once!” cried Hankes, eagerly, “or it will be too late. A few
words spoken now will save us thirty thousand pounds to-morrow.”
This whisper in Dunn's ear decided the question, and, turning to the
Earl, he said, “I believe, my Lord, Mr. Hankes is right; I ought to show
myself.”
“Come along, then,” said the old Lord, heartily; and he took his arm
with an air that said, “I 'll stand by you throughout.”
Scarcely had Dunn entered the drawing-room, than Lady Augusta met him,
her cheek flushed and her eyes flashing. “I am so glad,” cried she,
“that you are going to address them. It is a proud moment for you.”
When the window opened, and Davenport Dunn appeared on the balcony, the
wild roar of the multitude made the air tremble; for the cry was taken
up by others in remote streets, and came echoing back, again and again.
I have heard that consummate orators--men practised in all the arts of
public speaking--have acknowledged that there is no such severe test,
in the way of audience, as that mixed assemblage called a mob, wherein
every class has its representative, and every gradation its type. Now,
Dunn was not a great public speaker. The few sentences he was obliged
to utter on the occasions of his health being drunk cost him no uncommon
uneasiness; he spoke them, usually, with faltering accents and much
diffidence. It happens, however, that the world is often not displeased
at these small signs of confusion--these little defects in oratorical
readiness--in men of acknowledged ability, and even prefer them to the
rapid flow and voluble ease of more practised orators. There is, so to
say, a mock air of sincerity in the professions of a man whose feelings
seem fuller than his words,--something that implies the heart to be
in the right place, though the tongue be but a poor exponent of
its sentiments; and lastly, the world is always ready to accept the
embarrassment of the speaker as an evidence of the grateful emotions
that are swaying him. Hence the success of country gentlemen in the
House; hence the hearty cheers that follow the rambling discursiveness
of bucolic eloquence!
If Mr. Dunn was not an orator, he was a keen and shrewd observer, and
one fact he had noticed, which was that the shouts and cries of
popular assemblages are to an indifferent speaker pretty much what
an accompaniment is to a bad singer,--the aids by which he surmounts
difficult passages and conceals his false notes. Mr. Hankes, too, well
understood how to lead this orchestra, and had already taken his place
on the steps of the door beneath.
Dunn stood in front of the balcony, Lord Glengariff at his side and a
little behind him. With one hand pressed upon his heart, he bowed deeply
to the multitude. “My kind friends,” said he, in a low voice, but
which was audible to a great distance, “it has been my fortune to have
received at different times of my life gratifying assurances of sympathy
and respect, but never in the whole course of a very varied career do I
remember an occasion so deeply gratifying to my feelings as the present.
(Cheers, that lasted ten minutes and more.) It is not,” resumed he, with
more energy,--“it is not at a moment like this, surrounded by brave
and warm hearts, when the sentiments of affection that sway _you_ are
mingled with the emotions of my own breast, that I would take a dark or
gloomy view of human nature, but truth compels me to say that the attack
made this day upon my credit--for _I_ am the Ossory Bank--(loud and wild
cheering)--yes, I repeat it, for the stability of this institution
_I_ am responsible by all I possess in this world. Every share, every
guinea, every acre I own are here! Far from me to impute ungenerous or
unworthy motives to any quarter; but, my worthy friends, there has been
foul play--(groans)--there has been treachery--(deeper groans)--and my
name is not Davenport Dunn but it shall be exposed and punished.
(Cries of “More power to ye,” and hearty cheers, greeted this solemn
assurance.)
“I am, as you are well aware, and I glory in declaring it, one of
yourselves. (Here the enthusiasm was tremendous.) By moderate abilities,
hard work, and unflinching honesty--for that is the great secret--I have
become that you see me to-day! (Loud cheering.) If there be amongst you
any who aspire to my position, I tell him that nothing is easier than to
attain it. I was a poor scholar--you know what a poor scholar is--when
the generous nobleman you see now at my side first noticed me. (Three
cheers for the Lord were proposed and given most heartily.) His generous
patronage gave me my first impulse in life. I soon learned how to do the
rest. (“That ye did;” “More power and success to ye,” here ran through
the mob.) Now, it was at the table of that noble Lord--enjoying
the first real holiday in thirty years of toil--that I received a
telegraphic despatch, informing me there would be a run for gold upon
this Bank before the week was over. I vow to you I did not believe it.
I spurned the tidings as a base calumny upon the people, and as I handed
the despatch to his Lordship to read, I said, 'If this be possible--and
I doubt it much--it is the treacherous intrigue of an enemy, not the
spontaneous movement of the public.' (Here Lord Glengariff bowed an
acquiescence to the statement, a condescension on his part that speedily
called for three vociferous cheers for “the Lord,” once more.)
“I am no lawyer,” resumed Dunn, with vigor,--“I am a plain man of the
people, whose head was never made for subtleties; but this I tell you,
that if it be competent for me to offer a reward for the discovery of
those who have hatched this conspiracy, my first care will be on my
return to Dublin to propose ten thousand pounds for such information
as may establish their guilt! (Cheering for a long time followed these
words.) They knew that they could not break the Bank,--in their hearts
they knew that our solvency was as complete as that of the Bank of
England itself,--but they thought that by a panic, and by exciting
popular feeling against me, I, in my pride of heart and my conscious
honesty, might be driven to some indignant reaction; that I might turn
round and say, Is this the country I have slaved for? Are these the
people for whose cause I have neglected personal advancement, and
disregarded the flatteries of the great? Are these the rewards of days
of labor and nights of anxiety and fatigue?”
They fancied, possibly, that, goaded by what I might have construed into
black ingratitude, I would say, like Coriolanus, 'I banish you!' But
they little knew either you or me, my warm-hearted friends! (Deafening
cheers.) They little knew that the well-grounded confidence of a nation
cannot be obliterated by the excitement of a moment. A panic in the
commercial, like a thunder-storm in the physical world, only leaves the
atmosphere lighter, and the air fresher than before; and so I say to
you, we shall all breathe more freely when we rise to-morrow,--no longer
to see the dark clouds overhead, nor hear the rumbling sounds that
betoken coming storm.
“I have detained you too long. (“No, no!” vociferously broke forth.) I
have spoken also too much about myself. (“Not a bit; we could listen to
ye till mornin',” shouted a wild voice, that drew down hearty laughter.)
But, before I go, I wish to say, that, hard pressed as we are in the
Bank--sorely inconvenienced by the demands upon us--I am yet able to ask
your excellent Mayor to accept of five hundred pounds from me for the
poor of this city--(what a yell followed this announcement! plainly
indicating what a personal interest the tidings seemed to create )--and
to add--(loud cheers)--and to add--(more cheers)--and to add,” cried he,
in his deepest voice, “that the first toast I will drink this day shall
be, The Boys of Kilkenny!”
It is but justice to add that Mr. Dunn's speech was of that class of
oratory that “hears” better than it reads, while his audience was also
less critically disposed than may be our valued reader. At all events,
it achieved a great success; and within an hour after its delivery
hawkers cried through the streets of the city, “The Full and True
Account of the Run for Gold, with Mr. Dunn's Speech to the People;” and,
sooth to say, that though the paper was not “cream laid,” and though
many of the letters were upside down, the literature had its admirers,
and was largely read. Later on, the city was illuminated, two immense
letters of D. D. figuring in colored lamps in front of the town-hall,
while copious libations of whiskey-punch were poured forth in honor
of the Man of the People. In every rank and class, from the country
gentleman who dined at the club-house, to the smallest chop-house in
John Street, there was but one sentiment,--that Dunn was a fine fellow,
and his enemies downright scoundrels. If a few of nicer taste and more
correct feeling were not exactly pleased with his speech, they wisely
kept their opinions to themselves, and let “the Ayes have it,” who
pronounced it to be manly, above-board, modest, and so forth.
Throughout the entire evening Mr. Hankes was everywhere, personally
or through his agents; his care was to collect public sentiment, to
ascertain what popular opinion thought of the whole events of the
morning, and to promote, so far as he could with safety, the flattering
estimate already formed of his chief. Scarcely half an hour elapsed
without Dunn's receiving from his indefatigable lieutenant some small
scrap of paper, with a few words hastily scrawled in this fashion:--
“Rice and Walsh's, Nine o'clock.--Company in the coffee-room
enthusiastic; talk of a public dinner; some propose portrait in
town-hall.”
“A quarter to Ten, Judy's, Rose Inn Street.--Comic song, with a
chorus:--
“'If for gold ye run,
Says the Shan van Voght;
If for gold ye run,
I'll send for Davy Dunn,
He's the boy to show ye fun,
Says the Shan van Voght!'”
“Eleven o'clock, High Street.--Met the Dean, who says, 'D. D. is an
honor to us; we are all proud of him.' The county your own when you want
it.”
“Twelve o'clock.--If any one should venture to ask for gold to-morrow,
he will be torn to pieces by the mob.”
Assuredly it was a triumph; and every time that the wild cheers from
the crowds in the street broke in upon the converse in the drawing-room,
Lady Augusta's eyes would sparkle as she said, “I don't wonder at your
feeling proud of it all!”
And he _did_ feel proud of it. Strange as it may seem, he was as proud
as though the popularity had been earned by the noblest actions and the
most generous devotion. We are not going to say why or wherefore this.
And now for a season we take our leave of him to follow the fortunes
of some others whose fate we seem to have forgotten. We have the less
scruple for deserting Davenport Dunn at this moment, that we leave him
happy, prospering, and in good company.