MR. O'Shea's man was not one to put his light under a bushel; so, when
he received at the post-office a very portentous-looking letter, heavily
sealed, and marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” he duly stopped the two
or three English loungers he saw about to show them the document, on
pretence of asking if any demand for postage could be made; if it had
not been wrongfully detained; if they thought it had been opened and
read; and so on,--all these inquiries having for their object to inform
the general public that the Member for Inch was in close relation and
correspondence with Downing Street.
In sooth, the letter had as significant an external as any gentleman in
pursuit of a place might have desired. In color, texture, and fashion
there was nothing wanting to its authenticity, and it might, without any
disparagement to its outside, have named Mr. O'Shea a Governor of the
Bahamas, or a Mahogany Commissioner at Ruatan. It was, in fact, a
document that, left negligently in the way, might have made a dun
appeasable, and a creditor patient. There were few men it might not in
some degree have imposed on, but of that few the O'Shea himself was one.
He knew well--too well--that it foretold neither place nor employment;
that it was the shell of a very small kernel; nothing more, in short,
than a note from an old friend and schoolfellow, then acting as the
Private Secretary of a Cabinet Minister,--one who, indeed, kept his
friend O'Shea fully informed as to everything that fell vacant, but,
unhappily, accompanied the intelligence with a catalogue of the
applicants, usually something like the list of the Smiths in a
Directory.
So little impatient was O'Shea for the contents, that he had half eaten
his breakfast and looked through “Punch” before he broke the seal. The
enclosure was from the hand of his friend Tom Radwell, but whose
peculiar drollery it was to correspond in the form of a mock despatch.
The note, therefore, though merely containing gossip, was written with
all attention to margin and calligraphy, and even in places affected the
solemn style of the Office. It was headed “Secret and Confidential,” and
opened thus:--
“Sir,--By your despatch of the 18th ult, containing four enclosures,--
three protested bills, and your stepmother's I O for 18L. 5s.,--I am
induced to believe that no material change has occurred in the situation
of your affairs,--a circumstance the more to be deplored, inasmuch as
her Majesty's Government cannot at this moment, with that due regard
imposed on them for the public service, undertake either to reconsider
your claims, or by an extraordinary exercise of the powers vested in
them by the Act of Teddy the Tiler, chap. 4, secs. 9 and 10, appoint you
in the way and manner you propose. So much, my dear Gorman, old Rivers
declared to me this morning, confidentially adding, I wish that Irish
party would understand that, when we could buy them altogether in a
basket, as in O'Connell's day, the arrangement was satisfactory; but to
have to purchase them separately--each potato by himself--is a terrible
loss of time, and leads to no end of higgling. Why can't you agree
amongst yourselves,--make your bargain, and then divide the spoils
quietly? It is the way your forefathers understood the law of commonage,
and nobody ever grumbled that his neighbor had a cow or a pig too many!
The English of all this is, they don't want you just now, and they won't
have you, for you 're an article that never kept well, and, even when
bonded, your loss by leakage is considerable.
“Every Irishman I ever met makes the same mistake of offering himself
for sale when the commodity is not wanted. If you see muffs and boas in
Regent Street in July, ain't they always ticketed 'a great sacrifice'?
Can't you read the lesson? But so it is with you. You fancy you 'll
induce people to travel a bad road by putting up a turnpike.
“I 'm sorry to say all this to you, but I see plainly politics will not
do any longer as a pursuit. It is not only that all appointments are so
scrutinized nowadays, but that every man's name in a division is weighed
and considered in a fashion that renders a mere majority of less moment
than the fact of how it was composed. If I cannot manage something for
you in the West Indies, you must try Cheltenham.
“Rivers has just sent for me.
“'What of your friend O'Shea? Did n't you tell me he was in the north of
Italy?'
“'Yes,' said I; 'he's getting up the Italian question. He has
accumulated a mass of facts which will astonish the House next session.'
“'Confound his facts!' muttered he. 'Here has been Lord Sommerville with
me, about some young ward of his. I don't well understand what he wants,
or what he wishes me to do; but the drift is, to find some one--a
gentleman, of course--who would take charge of the boy for a short time;
he is a marquis, with large expectations, and one day or other will be a
man of mark.'
“I tried the dignity tone, but old Rivers interrupted me quickly,--
“'Yes, yes, of course. Mere companionship, nothing more. Sound O'Shea
upon it, and let me hear.'
“Here, then, my dear Gorman, is the 'opening' you so long have looked
for; and if _you_ cannot turn such a position to good profit, _who_ can?
Nor are you the man I take you for, if you 're not married into the
family before this day twelvemonth! There is no time to be lost, so
telegraph back at once. A simple 'Yes' will do, if you accept, which I
sincerely hope you will. All the minor arrangements you may safely trust
to _me_.”
When Mr. O'Shea had read thus far, he arose, and, walking with head
erect and well thrown-out chest towards the looking-glass, he desired to
“take stock” of his appearance, and to all semblance was not displeased
at the result. He was autumnalizing, it is true; tints were mellowing,
colors more sombre; but, on the whole, there was nothing in the
landscape, viewed at due distance and with suitable light, to indicate
much ravage from Time. Your hard-featured men, like mountains in
scenery, preserve the same appearance unchanged by years. It is your
genial fellow, with mobile features, that suffers so terribly from age.
The plough of Time leaves deep furrows in the arable soil of such faces.
As in those frescos which depend altogether on color, the devastations
of years are awfully felt; when black degenerates into gray, mellow
browns grow a muddy yellow, and the bright touches that “accentuated”
expression are little else than unmeaning blotches! If the Member for
Inch had not travelled far upon the dreary road, I am bound in truth to
own that he had begun the journey. A light, faint silvering showed on
his whiskers, like the first touch of snow on an Alpine fern in October.
The lines that indicated a ready aptitude for fun had deepened, and
grown more marked at the angles at the mouth,--a sad sign of one whose
wit was less genial and more biting than of yore. Then--worst of all--he
had entered upon the pompous lustre wherein men feel an exaggerated
self-importance, imagine that their opinions are formed, and their
character matured. Nothing is so trying as that quarantine period, and
both men and women make more egregious fools of themselves in it than in
all the wild heydey of early youth. Mr. O'Shea, however, was an
Irishman, and, in virtue of the fact, he had a light, jaunty, semi-
careless way with him, which is a sort of electroplate youth, and looks
like the real article, though it won't prove so lasting.
“I must have a look into the Peerage,” said he, as he turned to the
bulky volume that records the alliances and the ages of the “upper ten
thousand “:--
“'Lady Maria Augusta Sofronia Montserrat, born '--oh, by the powers,
that won't do!--'born 1804.' Oh, come, after all, it's not so bad; 'died
in '46.--Charlotte Rose Leopoldine, died in infancy.--Henrietta Louisa,
born 1815; married in 1835 to Lord Julius de Raby; again married to
Prince Beerstenshoften von Hahnsmarkt, and widowed same year, 1846.'
I'll put a mark against her. And there's one more, 'Juliana de Vere,
youngest daughter, born '26 '--that's the time of day!--born '26, and no
more said. The paragraph has yet to be filled with, 'Married to the
O'Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, High Sheriff of Tipperary,
and head of the ancient copt known as O'Meadhlin Shamdoodhlin Naboklish
O'Shea'--I wonder if they 'd put it in--'formerly Kings of Tulloch
Reardhin and Bare-ma-bookle, and all the countries west of the Galtee
Mountains.' If pedigree would do it, O'Shea may call himself first
favorite! And now, Miss Leslie,” continued he, aloud, “you have no time
to lose; make your bidding quickly, or the O'Shea will be knocked down
to another purchaser. As Eugene Aram says, 'I 'm equal to either
fortune.'”
“Well,” said Joe, entering the room, and approaching his master
confidentially, “is it a place?”
“Nothing of the kind; a friendly letter from a member of the Cabinet,”
replied he, carelessly.
“Devil take them! It isn't friendship we want; it's something to live
on.”
“You are a low-minded, mercenary creature,” said O'Shea, oratorically.
“Is our happiness in this life, our self-respect, our real worth,
dependent upon the accident of our station, or upon the place we occupy
in the affections of men,--what we possess of their sympathy and love? I
look around me, and what do I see?”
“Sorra bit of me knows,” broke in Joe.
Unmindful of the interruption, O'Shea continued: “I see the high places
occupied by the crafty, the subtle, and the scheming.”
“I wish we had one of them,” muttered Joe.
“I see that humble merit shivers at the door, while insolent pretension
struts proudly in.”
“Ay, and more power to him, if he's able,” grumbled out the other.
“I see more,” said O'Shea, raising his voice, and extending his arm at
full length,--“I see a whole nation,--eight millions of men,--great,
glorious, and gifted,--men whose genius has shed a lustre over the dull
swamp of their oppressors' nature, but who one day, rising from her
ashes--”
“Ah! by my conscience, I knew it was comin'; and I said to myself,
'Here's the phaynix!'”
“Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. Where are you
now, Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent triumph in his look.
“I 'd just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. “Go on.”
“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes himself would stand
confused in presence of such vulgar interruptions. It is in such
temperaments as yours men of genius meet their worst repulses. You are
at once the _feræ naturæ_ of humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere
that poisons--that poisons--”
“Oh! there you are 'pounded '! Poisons what?”
“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul of man! I'm
never pounded. O'Connell himself had to confess that he never saw my
equal in graceful imagery and figurative embellishment. 'Listening to
O'Shea,' says he, 'is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying
round and about him. You may think it impossible he 'll be in time, but
never one of them will he fail to catch.' That's what _I_ call oratory.
Why is it, I ask, that, when I rise in the house, you 'd hear a pin
drop?”
“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, innocently.
“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the Greeks of old
to catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish you saw old P------ working
away with his pencil while I 'm speaking.”
“Making a picture of you, maybe!”
“You are as insolent as you are ignorant,--one of those who, in the
unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, repel the attempts of all
who would advocate the popular cause. I have said so over and over
again. If you would constitute yourself the friend of the people, take
care to know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor mix in
their society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 'It's a beautiful country
to live out of.'”
“And _he_ was a patriot!” said Joe, contemptuously.
“There are no patriots among those who soar above the miserable limits
of a nationality. Genius has no concern with geographies. To think for
the million you must forget the man.”
“Say that again. I like the sound of that,” cried Joe, admiringly.
“If anything could illustrate the hopelessness of your class and
condition in life,” continued O'Shea, “it is yourself. There you are,
daily, hourly associating with one whose sentiments you hear, whose
opinions you learn, whose judgments you record; one eagerly sought after
in society, revered in private, honored in the Senate; and what have you
derived from these unparalleled advantages? What can you say has been
the benefit from these relations?”
“It's hard to say,” muttered Joe, “except, maybe, it's made me a
philosopher.”
“A philosopher!--you a philosopher!”
“Ay; isn't it philosophy to live without wages, and work without pay?
'Tis from yourself I heerd that the finest thing of all is to despise
money.”
“So it is,--so it would be, I mean, if society had not built up that
flimsy card edifice it calls civilization. Put out my blue pelisse with
the Astrachan collar, and my braided vest; I shall want to go over to
the Villa this morning. But, first of all, take this to the telegraph-
office: 'The O'Shea accepts.'”
“Tear and ages! what is it we've got?” asked Joe, eagerly.
“'The O'Shea accepts,'--four words if they charge for the 'O.' Let me
know the cost at once.”
“But why don't you tell me where we're going? Is it Jamaica or
Jerusalem?”
“Call your philosophy to your aid, and be anxious for nothing,” said
O'Shea, pompously. “Away, lose no more time.”
If Joe had been the exponent of his feelings, as he left the room, he
would probably have employed his favorite phrase, and confessed himself
“humiliated.” He certainly did feel acutely the indignity that had been
passed upon him. To live on a precarious diet and no pay was bad enough,
but it was unendurable that his master should cease to consult with and
confide in him. Amongst the shipwrecked sufferers on a raft, gradations
of rank soon cease to be remembered, and of all equalizers there is none
like misery! Now, Mr. O'Shea and his man Joe had, so to say, passed
years of life upon a raft. They had been storm-tossed and cast away for
many a day. Indeed, to push the analogy further, they had more than once
drawn lots who should be first devoured; that is to say, they had tossed
up whose watch was to go first to the pawnbroker. Now, was it fair or
reasonable, if his master discovered a sail in the distance, or a
headland on the horizon, that he should conceal the consoling fact, and
leave his fellow-sufferer to mourn on in misery? Joe was deeply wounded;
he was insulted and outraged.
From the pain of his personal wrongs he was suddenly aroused by the
telegraph clerk's demand for thirty francs.
“Thirty francs for four words?”
“You might send twenty for the same sum,” was the bland reply.
“Faix, and so we will,” said Joe. “Give me a pen and a sheet of paper.”
His first inspirations were so full of vengeance that he actually
meditated a distinct refusal of whatever it was had been offered to his
master, and his only doubt was how to convey the insolent negative in
its most outrageous form. His second and wiser thoughts suggested a
little diplomacy; and though both the consideration and the mode of
effectuating it cost no small labor, we shall spare the reader's
patience, and give him the result arrived at after nearly an hour's
exertion, the message transmitted by Joe running thus:--
“Send the fullest particulars about the pay and the name of the place we
're going to.
“O'Shea.”
“I don't think there will be many secrets after I see the answer to
that; and see it I will, if I tear it open!” said Joe, sturdily, as he
held his way back to the inn.
A rather warm discussion ensued on the subject of his long absence,
O'Shea remarking that for all the use Joe proved himself he might as
well be without a servant, and Joe rejoining that, for the matter of pay
and treatment, _he_ might be pretty nearly as well off if he had no
master; these polite passages being interchanged while the O'Shea was
busily performing with two hair-brushes, and Joe equally industriously
lacing his master's waistcoat, with an artistic skill that the valet of
a corpulent gentleman alone attains to, as Joe said a hundred times.
“I wonder why I endure you,” said O'Shea, as he jauntily settled his hat
on one side of his head, and carefully arranged the hair on the other.
“And you 'll wondher more, when I 'm gone, why I did n't go before,” was
Joe's surly rejoinder.
“How did you come by that striped cravat, sir?” asked O'Shea, angrily,
as he caught sight of Joe in front.
“I took it out of the drawer.”
“It's mine, then!”
“It was wonst I did n't suppose you 'd wear it after what the widow
woman said of you up at the Villa,--that Mrs. Morris. 'Here 's the
O'Shea,' says she, 'masquerading as a zebra;' as much as to say it was
another baste you was in reality.”
“She never dared to be so insolent”
“She did; I heard it myself.”
“I don't believe you; I never do believe one word you say.”
“That's exactly what I hear whenever I say you 're a man of fine fortune
and good estate; they all cry out, 'What a lying rascal he is!'”
O'Shea made a spring towards the poker, and Joe as rapidly took up a
position behind the dressing-glass.
“Hush!” cried O'Shea, “there's some one at the door.”
And a loud summons at the same time confirmed the words. With a ready
instinct Joe speedily recovered himself, and hastened to open it.
“Is your master at home?” asked a voice.
“Oh, Heathcote, is it you?” exclaimed O'Shea; “Just step into the next
room, and I 'll be with you in a second or two. Joe, show Captain
Heathcote into the drawing-room.”
“I wondher what's the matter with him?” said Joe, confidentially, as he
came back. “I never see any one look so low.”
“So much the better,” said O'Shea, merrily; “it's a sign he's coming to
pay money. When a man is about to put you off with a promise, he lounges
in with an easy, devil-may-care look that seems to say, 'It's all one,
old fellow, whether you have an I O or the ready tin.'”
“There's a deal of truth in that,” said Joe, approvingly, and with a
look that showed how pleasurable it was to him to hear such words of
wisdom.