THE MOATE STATION
The train by which Miss Betty O’Shea expected her nephew was late in its
arrival at Moate, and Peter Gill, who had been sent with the car to fetch
him over, was busily discussing his second supper when the passengers
arrived.
‘Are you Mr. Gorman O’Shea, sir?’ asked Peter of a well-dressed and
well-looking young man, who had just taken his luggage from the train.
‘No; here he is,’ replied he, pointing to a tall, powerful young fellow,
whose tweed suit and billycock hat could not completely conceal a
soldierlike bearing and a sort of compactness that comes of ‘drill.’
‘That’s my name. What do you want with me?’ cried he, in a loud but
pleasant voice.
‘Only that Miss Betty has sent me over with the car for your honour, if
it’s plazing to you to drive across.’
‘What about this broiled bone, Miller?’ asked O’Shea. ‘I rather think I
like the notion better than when you proposed it.’
‘I suspect you do,’ said the other; ‘but we’ll have to step over to the
“Blue Goat.” It’s only a few yards off, and they’ll be ready, for I
telegraphed them from town to be prepared as the train came in.’
‘You seem to know the place well.’
‘Yes. I may say I know something about it. I canvassed this part of the
county once for one of the Idlers, and I secretly determined, if I ever
thought of trying for a seat in the House, I’d make the attempt here. They
are a most pretentious set of beggars these small townsfolk, and they’d
rather hear themselves talk politics, and give their notions of what they
think “good for Ireland,” than actually pocket bank-notes; and that,
my dear friend, is a virtue in a constituency never to be ignored or
forgotten. The moment, then, I heard of M----‘s retirement, I sent off a
confidential emissary down here to get up what is called a requisition,
asking me to stand for the county. Here it is, and the answer, in this
morning’s _Freeman_. You can read it at your leisure. Here we are now at
the “Blue Goat”; and I see they are expecting us.’
Not only was there a capital fire in the grate, and the table ready laid
for supper, but a half-dozen or more of the notabilities of Moate were in
waiting to receive the new candidate, and confer with him over the coming
contest.
‘My companion is the nephew of an old neighbour of yours, gentlemen,’ said
Miller; ‘Captain Gorman O’Shea, of the Imperial Lancers of Austria. I know
you have heard of, if you have not seen him.’
A round of very hearty and demonstrative salutations followed, and O’Gorman
was well pleased at the friendly reception accorded him.
Austria was a great country, one of the company observed. They had got
liberal institutions and a free press, and they were good Catholics, who
would give those heretical Prussians a fine lesson one of these days; and
Gorman O’Shea’s health, coupled with these sentiments, was drank with all
the honours.
‘There’s a jolly old face that I ought to remember well,’ said Gorman, as
he looked up at the portrait of Lord Kilgobbin over the chimney. ‘When I
entered the service, and came back here on leave, he gave me the first
sword I ever wore, and treated me as kindly as if I was his son.’
The hearty speech elicited no response from the hearers, who only exchanged
significant looks with each other, while Miller, apparently less under
restraint, broke in with, ‘That stupid adventure the English newspapers
called “The gallant resistance of Kilgobbin Castle” has lost that man the
esteem of Irishmen.’
A perfect burst of approval followed these words; and while young O’Shea
eagerly pressed for an explanation of an incident of which he heard for the
first time, they one and all proceeded to give their versions of what had
occurred; but with such contradictions, corrections, and emendations that
the young man might be pardoned if he comprehended little of the event.
‘They say his son will contest the county with you, Mr. Miller,’ cried one.
‘Let me have no weightier rival, and I ask no more.’
‘Faix, if he’s going to stand,’ said another, ‘his father might have taken
the trouble to ask us for our votes. Would you believe it, sir, it’s going
on six months since he put his foot in this room?’
‘And do the “Goats” stand that?’ asked Miller.
‘I don’t wonder he doesn’t care to come into Moate. There’s not a shop in
the town he doesn’t owe money to.’
‘And we never refused him credit---’
‘For anything but his principles,’ chimed in an old fellow, whose oratory
was heartily relished.
‘He’s going to stand in the National interest,’ said one.
‘That’s the safe ticket when you have no money,’ said another.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Miller, who rose to his legs to give greater importance
to his address:--‘If we want to make Ireland a country to live in, the
only party to support is the Whig Government! The Nationalist may open the
gaols, give license to the press, hunt down the Orangemen, and make the
place generally too hot for the English. But are these the things that you
and I want or strive for? We want order and quietness in the land, and the
best places in it for ourselves to enjoy these blessings. Is Mr. Casey down
there satisfied to keep the post-office in Moate when he knows he could
be the first secretary in Dublin, at the head office, with two thousand a
year? Will my friend Mr. McGloin say that he’d rather pass his life here
than be a Commissioner of Customs, and live in Merrion Square? Ain’t
we men? Ain’t we fathers and husbands? Have we not sons to advance and
daughters to marry in the world, and how much will Nationalism do for
these?
‘I will not tell you that the Whigs love us or have any strong regard for
us; but they need us, gentlemen, and they know well that, without the
Radicals, and Scotland, and our party here, they couldn’t keep power for
three weeks. Now why is Scotland a great and prosperous country? I’ll tell
you. Scotland has no sentimental politics. Scotland says, in her own homely
adage, “Claw me and I’ll claw thee.” Scotland insists that there should
be Scotchmen everywhere--in the Post-Office, in the Privy Council, in
the Pipewater, and in the Punjab! Does Scotland go on vapouring about an
extinct nationality or the right of the Stuarts? Not a bit of it. She says,
Burn Scotch coal in the navy, though the smoke may blind you and you never
get up steam! She has no national absurdities: she neither asks for a flag
nor a Parliament. She demands only what will pay. And it is by supporting
the Whigs you will make Ireland as prosperous as Scotland. Literally, the
Fenians, gentlemen, will never make my friend yonder a baronet, or put me
on the Bench; and now that we are met here in secret committee, I can say
all this to you and none of it get abroad.
‘Mind, I never told you the Whigs love us, or said that we love the Whigs;
but we can each of us help the other. When _they_ smash the Protestant
party, they are doing a fine stroke of work for Liberalism in pulling
down a cruel ascendency and righting the Romanists. And when we crush the
Protestants, we are opening the best places in the land to ourselves by
getting rid of our only rivals. Look at the Bench, gentlemen, and the high
offices of the courts. Have not we Papists, as they call us, our share
in both? And this is only the beginning, let me tell you. There is a
university in College Green due to us, and a number of fine palaces that
their bishops once lived in, and grand old cathedrals whose very names show
the rightful ownership; and when we have got all these--as the Whigs will
give them one day--even then we are only beginning. And now turn the other
side, and see what you have to expect from the Nationalists. Some very hard
fighting and a great number of broken heads. I give in that you’ll drive
the English out, take the Pigeon-House Fort, capture the Magazine, and
carry away the Lord-Lieutenant in chains. And what will you have for it,
after all, but another scrimmage amongst yourselves for the spoils. Mr.
Mullen, of the _Pike_, will want something that Mr. Darby McKeown, of the
_Convicted Felon_, has just appropriated; Tom Casidy, that burned the Grand
Master of the Orangemen, finds that he is not to be pensioned for life; and
Phil Costigan, that blew up the Lodge in the Park, discovers that he is not
even to get the ruins as building materials. I tell you, my friends, it’s
not in such convulsions as these that you and I, and other sensible men
like us, want to pass our lives. We look for a comfortable berth and
quarter-day; that’s what we compound for--quarter-day--and I give it to you
as a toast with all the honours.’
And certainly the rich volume of cheers that greeted the sentiment vouched
for a hearty and sincere recognition of the toast.
‘The chaise is ready at the door, councillor,’ cried the landlord,
addressing Mr. Miller, and after a friendly shake-hands all round, Miller
slipped his arm through O’Shea’s and drew him apart.
‘I’ll be back this way in about ten days or so, and I’ll ask you to present
me to your aunt. She has got above a hundred votes on her property, and I
think I can count upon you to stand by me.’
‘I can, perhaps, promise you a welcome at the Barn,’ muttered the young
fellow in some confusion; ‘but when you have seen my aunt, you’ll
understand why I give you no pledges on the score of political support.’
‘Oh, is that the way?’ asked Miller, with a knowing laugh.
‘Yes, that’s the way, and no mistake about it,’ replied O’Shea, and they
parted.