THE LITTLE MAN IN BLUE AND SILVER.
Among the loungers who loitered at the door of the "Cock and Anchor,"
as the day wore on, there appeared a personage whom it behoves us to
describe. This was a small man, with a very red face and little grey
eyes--he wore a cloth coat of sky blue, with here and there a piece of
silver lace laid upon it without much regard to symmetry; for the
scissors had evidently displaced far the greater part of the original
decorations, whose primitive distribution might be traced by the
greater freshness of the otherwise faded cloth which they had covered,
as well as by some stray threads, which stood like stubbles here and
there to mark the ravages of the sickle. One hand was buried in the
deep flap pocket of a waistcoat of the same hue and material, and
bearing also, in like manner, the evidences of a very decided
retrenchment in the article of silver lace. These symptoms of economy,
however, in no degree abated the evident admiration with which the
wearer every now and then stole a glance on what remained of its
pristine splendours--a glance which descended not ungraciously upon a
leg in whose fascinations its owner reposed an implicit faith. His
right hand held a tobacco-pipe, which, although its contents were not
ignited, he carried with a luxurious nonchalance ever and anon to the
corner of his mouth, where it afforded him sundry imaginary puffs--a
cheap and fanciful luxury, in which my Irish readers need not be told
their humbler countrymen, for lack of better, are wont to indulge. He
leaned against one of the stout wooden pillars on which the front of
the building was reared, and interlarded his economical pantomime of
pipe-smoking with familiar and easy conversation with certain of the
outdoor servants of the inn--a familiarity which argued not any sense
of superiority proportionate to the pretension of his attire.
"And so," said the little man, turning with an aristocratic ease
towards a stout fellow in a jerkin, with bluff visage and folded arms,
who stood beside him, and addressing him in a most melodious
brogue--"and so, for sartain, you have but five single gintlemen in the
house--mind, I say _single_ gintlemen--for, divil carry me if ever I
take up with a _family_ again--it doesn't answer--it don't _shoot_
me--I was never made for a family, nor a family for me--I can't stand
their b----y regularity; and--" with a sigh of profound sentiment, and
lowering his voice, he added--"and, the maid-sarvants--no, devil a
taste--they don't answer--they don't _shoot_. My disposition, Tom, is
tindher--tindher to imbecility--I never see a petticoat but it flutters
my heart--the short and the long of it is, I'm always falling in
love--and sometimes the passion is not retaliated by the object, and
more times it is--but, in both cases, I'm aiqually the victim--for my
intintions is always honourable, and of course nothin' comes of it. My
life was fairly frettin' away in a dhrame of passion among the
housemaids--I felt myself witherin' away like a flower in autumn--I was
losing my relish for everything, from bacon and table-dhrink
upwards--dangers were thickening round me--I had but one way to
execrate myself--I gave notice--I departed, and here I am."
Having wound up the sentence, the speaker leaned forward and spat
passionately on the ground--a pause ensued, which was at length broken
by the same speaker.
"Only two out of the five," said he, reflectively, "only two unprovided
with sarvants."
"And neither of 'em," rejoined Tom, a blunt English groom, "very likely
to want one. The one is a lawyer, with a hack as lean as himself, and
more holes, I warrant, than half-pence in his breeches pocket. He's out
a-looking for lodgings, I take it."
"He's not exactly what I want," rejoined the little man. "What's
th'other like?"
"A gentleman, every inch, or _I'm_ no judge," replied the groom. "He
came last night, and as likely a bit of horseflesh under him as ever my
two hands wisped down. He chucked me a crown-piece this morning, as if
it had been no more nor a cockle shell--he did."
"By gorra, he'll do!" exclaimed the little man energetically. "It's a
bargain--I'm his man."
"Ay, but you mayn't answer, brother; he mayn't take you," observed Tom.
"Wait a bit--_jist_ wait a bit, till he sees me," replied he of the
blue coat.
"Ay, wait a bit," persevered the groom, coolly--"wait a bit, and when
he _does_ see you, it strikes me wery possible he mayn't like your
cut."
"Not like my cut!" exclaimed the little man, as soon as he had
recovered breath; for the bare supposition of such an occurrence
involved in his opinion so utter and astounding a contradiction of all
the laws by which human antipathies and affections are supposed to be
regulated, that he felt for a moment as if his whole previous existence
had been a dream and an illusion. "Not like my _cut_!"
"No," rejoined the groom, with perfect imperturbability.
The little man deigned no other reply than that conveyed in a glance of
the most inexpressible contempt, which, having wandered over the person
and accoutrements of the unconscious Tom, at length settled upon his
own lower extremities, where it gradually softened into a gaze of
melancholy complacency, while he muttered, with a pitying smile, "Not
like my cut--not like it!" and then, turning majestically towards the
groom, he observed, with laconic dignity,--
"I humbly consave the gintleman has an eye in his head."
This rebuke had hardly been administered when the subject of their
conference in person passed from the inn into the street.
"There he goes," observed Tom.
"And here _I_ go after him," added the candidate for a place; and in a
moment he was following O'Connor with rapid steps through the narrow
streets of the town, southward. It occurred to him, as he hurried after
his intended master, that it might not be amiss to defer his interview
until they were out of the streets, and in some more quiet place; nor
in all probability would he have disturbed himself at all to follow the
young gentleman, were it not that even in the transient glimpse which
he had had of the person and features of O'Connor, the little man
thought, and by no means incorrectly, that he recognized the form of
one whom he had often seen before.
"That's Mr. O'Connor, as sure as my name's Larry Toole," muttered the
little man, half out of breath with his exertions--"an' it's himself'll
be proud to get me. I wondher what he's afther now. I'll soon see, at
any rate."
Thus communing within himself, Larry alternately walked and trotted to
keep the chase in view. He might very easily have come up with the
object of his pursuit, for on reaching St. Patrick's Cathedral,
O'Connor paused, and for some minutes contemplated the old building.
Larry, however, did not care to commence his intended negotiation in
the street; he purposed giving him rope enough, having, in truth, no
peculiar object in following him at that precise moment, beyond the
gratification of an idle curiosity; he therefore hung back until
O'Connor was again in motion, when he once more renewed his pursuit.
O'Connor had soon passed the smoky precincts of the town, and was now
walking at a slackened pace among the green fields and the trees, all
clothed in the rich melancholy hues of early autumn. The evening sun
was already throwing its mellow tint on all the landscape, and the
lengthening shadows told how far the day was spent. In the transition
from the bustle of a town to the lonely quiet of the country at
eventide, and especially at that season of the year when decay begins
to sadden the beauties of nature, there is something at once soothing
and unutterably melancholy. Leaving behind the glare, and dust, and
hubbub of the town, who has not felt in his inmost heart the still
appeal of nature? The saddened beauty of sear autumn, enhanced by the
rich and subdued light of gorgeous sunset--the filmy mist--the
stretching shadows--the serene quiet, broken only by rural sounds, more
soothing even than silence--all these, contrasted with the sounds and
sights of the close, restless city, speak tenderly and solemnly to the
heart of man of the beauty of creation, of the goodness of God, and,
along with these, of the mournful condition of all nature--change,
decay, and death. Such thoughts and feelings, stealing in succession
upon the heart, touch, one by one, the springs of all our sublimest
sympathies, and fill the mind with the beautiful sense of brotherhood,
under God, with all nature. Under the not unpleasing influence of such
suggestions, O'Connor slackened his pace to a slow irregular walk,
which sorely tried the patience of honest Larry Toole.
"After all," exclaimed that worthy, "it's nothin' more nor less than an
evening walk he's takin', God bless the mark! What business have I
followin' him? unless--see--sure enough he's takin' the short cut to
the manor. By gorra, this is worth mindin'--I must not folly him,
however--I don't want to meet the family--so here I'll plant myself
until sich times as he's comin' back again."
So saying, Larry Toole clambered to the top of the grassy embankment
which fenced the road, and seating himself between a pair of aged
hawthorn-trees, he watched young O'Connor as he followed the wanderings
of a wild bridle-road until he was at length fairly hidden from view by
the intervening trees and brushwood.