A very brief chapter will suffice to record the doings of two of our
characters, not destined to perform very foreground parts in the present
drama. We mean Mr. O'Shea and Charles Heathcote. They had established
themselves in lodgings in a certain locality called Manchester
Buildings, much favored by some persons who haunt the avenues of “the
House,” and are always in search of “our Borough Member.” Neither the
aspect of their domicile, nor their style of living, bespoke flourishing
circumstances. O'Shea, indeed, had returned to town in cash, but an
unlucky night at the “Garottoman” had finished him, and he returned to
his lodgings one morning at daybreak two hundred and seventeen pounds
worse than nothing.
Heathcote had not played; nay, he had lived almost penuriously; but in a
few weeks all his resources were nigh exhausted, and no favorable change
had occurred in his fortunes. At the Horse Guards he had been completely
unsuccessful. He had served, it is true, with distinction, but, as he
had quitted the army, he could not expect to be restored to his former
rank, while, by the rules of the service, he was too old to enter as a
subaltern. And thus a trained soldier, who had won fame and honor in two
campaigns, was, at the age of twenty-six, decided to be superannuated.
It was the chance meeting of O'Shea in the street, when this dilemma was
mentioned, that led to their ultimate companionship, for the Member at
once swore to bring the case before the House, and to make the country
ring from end to end with the enormity. Poor Heathcote, friendless and
alone at the moment, caught at the promise, and a few days afterwards
saw them domesticated as chums at No.--, in the locality already
mentioned.
“You 'll have to cram me, Heathcote, with the whole case. I must be able
to make an effective speech, narrating all the great exploits you have
done, with everywhere you have been, before I come to the grievance, and
the motion for 'all the correspondence between Captain Heathcote and the
authorities at the Horse Guards, respecting his application to be
reinstated in the army.' I 'll get a special Tuesday for the motion, and
I 'll have Howley in to second me, and maybe we won't shake the Treasury
benches! for you see the question opens everything that ever was, or
could be, said about the army. It opens Horse Guards cruelty and
irresponsibility, those Bashi-Bazouks that rule the service like
despots; it opens the purchase system from end to end; it opens the
question of promotion by merit; it opens the great problem of retirement
and superannuation. By my conscience! I think I could bring the Thirty-
nine Articles into it, if I was vexed.”
The Member for Inch had all that persuasive power a ready tongue and an
unscrupulous temper supply, and speedily convinced the young soldier
that his case would not alone redound to his own advancement but become
a precedent, which should benefit hundreds of others equally badly
treated as himself.
It was while thus conning over the project, O'Shea mentioned, in deepest
confidence, the means of that extraordinary success which, he averred,
had never failed to attend all his efforts in the House, and this was,
that he never ventured on one of his grand displays without a previous
rehearsal at home; that is, he assembled at his own lodgings a supper
company of his most acute and intelligent friends--young barristers, men
engaged on the daily or weekly press--the smart squib-writers and
caricaturists of the day--alive to everything ridiculous, and unsparing
in their criticism; and by these was he judged in a sort of mock
Parliament formed by themselves. To each of these was allotted the
character of some noted speaker in the House, who did his best to
personate the individual by every trait of manner, voice, and action,
while a grave, imposing-looking man, named Doran, was a capital
counterfeit of the “Speaker.”
O'Shea explained to Heathcote that the great advantage of this scheme
consisted in the way it secured one against surprises; no possible
interruption being omitted, nor any cavilling objection spared to the
orator. “You'll see,” he added, “that after sustaining these assaults,
the attack of the real fellows is only pastime.”
The day being fixed on, the company, numbering nigh twenty, assembled,
and Charles Heathcote could not avoid observing that their general air
and appearance were scarcely senatorial. O'Shea assured him gravity
would soon succeed to the supper, and dignity come in with the whiskey-
punch. This was so far borne out that when the cloth was removed, and a
number of glasses and bottles were distributed over the blackened
mahogany, a grave and almost austere bearing was at once assumed by the
meeting. Doran also took his place as Speaker, his cotton umbrella being
laid before him as the mace. The orders of the day were speedily
disposed of, and a few questions as to the supply of potables
satisfactorily answered, when O'Shea arose to bring on the case of the
evening,--a motion “for all the correspondence between the authorities
of the Horse Guards and Captain Heathcote, respecting the application of
the latter to be reinstated in the service.”
The Secretary-at-War, a red-faced, pimply man, subeditor of a Sunday
paper, objected to the production of the papers; and a smart sparring-
match ensued, in which O'Shea suffered rather heavily, but at last came
out victorious, being allowed to state the grounds for his application.
O'Shea began with due solemnity, modestly assuring the House that he
wished the task had fallen to one more competent than himself, and more
conversant with those professional details which would necessarily
occupy a large space in the narrative.
“Surely the honorable member held a commission in the Clare Fencibles.”
“Was not the honorable member's father a band-master in the Fifty-
fourth?” cried another.
“To the insolent interruptions which have met me,” said O'Shea,
indignantly--
“Order! order!”
“Am I out of order, sir?” asked he of the Speaker.
“Clearly so,” replied that functionary. “Every interruption, short of a
knock-down, is parliamentary.”
“I bow to the authority of the chair, and I say that the ruffianly
allusions of certain honorable members 'pass by me like the idle wind,
that I regard not.'”
“Where 's that from? Take you two to one in half-crowns you can't tell,”
cried one.
“Done!” “Order! order!” “Spoke!” with cries of “Goon!” here convulsed
the meeting; after which O'Shea resumed his discourse.
“When, sir,” said he, “I undertook to bring under the notice of this
House, and consequently before the eyes of the nation, the case of a
distinguished officer, one whose gallant services in the tented field,
whose glorious achievements before the enemy have made his name famous
in all the annals of military distinction, I never anticipated to have
been met by the howls of faction, or the discordant yells of
disappointed and disorderly followers--mere condottieri--of the
contemptible tyrant who now scowls at me from the cross-benches.”
Loud cheers of applause followed this burst of indignation.
An animated conversation now ensued as to whether this was strictly
parliamentary; some averring that they “had heard worse,” others deeming
it a shade too violent, O'Shea insisting throughout that there never was
a sharp debate in the House without far blacker insinuations, while in
the Irish Parliament such courtesies were continually interchanged, and
very much admired.
“Was n't it Lawrence Parsons who spoke of the 'highly gifted blackguard
on the other side?'” and “Didn't John Toler allude to the 'ignorant and
destitute spendthrift who now sat for the beggarly borough of Athlone?'”
cried two or three advocates of vigorous language.
“There's worse in Homer,” said another, settling the question on
classical authority.
The discussion grew warm. What was, and what was not, admissible in
language was eagerly debated; the interchange of opinion, in a great
measure, serving to show that there were few, if any, freedoms of speech
that might not be indulged in. Indeed, Heathcote's astonishment was only
at the amount of endurance exhibited by each in turn, so candid were the
expressions employed, so free from all disguise the depreciatory
sentiments entertained.
In the midst of what had now become a complete uproar, and while one of
the orators, who by dint of lungs had overcome all competitors, was
inveighing against O'Shea as “a traitor to his party, and the scorn of
every true Irishman,” a fresh arrival, heated and almost breathless,
rushed into the room.
“It's all over,” cried he; “the Government is beaten. The House is to be
dissolved on Wednesday, and the country to go to a general election.”
Had a shell fallen on the table, the dispersion could not have been more
instantaneous. Barristers, reporters, borough agents, and penny-a-
liners, all saw their harvest-time before them, and hurried away to make
their engagements; and, in less than a quarter of an hour, O'Shea was
left alone with his companion, Charles Heathcote.
“Here's a shindy!” cried the ex-M. P., “and the devil a chance I have of
getting in again, if I can't raise five hundred pounds.”
Heathcote never spoke, but sat ruminating over the news.
“Bad luck to the Cabinet!” muttered O'Shea. “Why would they put that
stupid clause into their Bill? Could n't they wait to smuggle it in on a
committee? Here I am clean ruined and undone, just as I was on the road
to fame and fortune. And I can't even help a friend!” said he, turning a
pitiful look at Heathcote.
“Don't waste a thought about me!” said Heathcote, good-humoredly.
“But I will!” cried O'Shea. “I 'll go down to the Horse Guards myself.
Sure I'm forgetting already,” added he, with a sigh, “that we 're all
'out;' and now, for a trifle of five hundred, there's a fine chance lost
as ever man had. You don't know anybody could accommodate one with a
loan,--of course, on suitable terms?”
“Not one,--not one!”
“Or who 'd do it on a bill at three months, with our own names?”
“None!”
“Is n't it hard, I ask,--isn't it cruel,--just as I was making a figure
in the House? I was the 'rising man of the party,'--so the 'Post' called
me,--and the 'Freeman' said, 'O'Shea has only to be prudent, and his
success is assured.' And wasn't I prudent? Didn't I keep out of the
divisions for half the session? Who's your father's banker, Heathcote?”
“Drummonds, I believe; but I don't know them.”
“Murther! but it is hard! five hundred,--only five hundred. A real true-
hearted patriot, fresh for his work, and without engagements, going for
five hundred! I see you feel for me, my dear fellow,” cried he, grasping
Heathcote's hand. “I hear what your heart is saying this minute:
'O'Shea, old boy, if I had the money, I 'd put it in the palm of your
hand without the scratch of a pen between us.'”
“I 'm not quite so certain I should,” muttered the other, half sulkily.
“But I know you better than you know yourself, and I repeat it. You 'd
say, 'Gorman O'Shea, I 'm not the man to see a first-rate fellow lost
for a beggarly five hundred. I 'd rather be able to say one of these
days, “Look at that man on the Woolsack,--or, maybe, Chief Justice in
the Queen's Bench--well, would you believe it? if I hadn't helped him
one morning with a few hundreds, it's maybe in the Serpentine he 'd have
been, instead of up there.”' And as we 'd sit over a bottle of hock in
the bay-window at Richmond, you 'd say, 'Does your Lordship remember the
night when you heard the House was up, and you had n't as much as would
pay your fare over to Ireland?'”
“I'm not so certain of _that_, either,” was the dry response of
Heathcote.
“And of what _are_ you certain, then?” cried O'Shea, angrily; “for I
begin to believe you trust nothing, nor any one.”
“I 'll tell you what I believe, and believe firmly too,--which is, that
a pair of fellows so completely out at elbows as you and myself had far
better break stones on a highroad for a shilling a day than stand
cudgelling their wits how to live upon others.”
“That is not my sentiment at all,--_suum cuique_,--stone-breaking to the
hard-handed; men of our stamp, Heathcote, have a right--a vested right--
to a smoother existence.”
“Well, time will tell who is right,” said Heathcote, carelessly, as he
put on his hat and walked to the door. A half-cold good-bye followed,
and they parted.
Hour after hour he walked the streets, unmindful of a thin misty rain
that fell unceasingly. He was now completely alone in the world, and
there was a sort of melancholy pleasure in the sense of his desolation.
“My poor father!” he would mutter from time to time; “if I could only
think that he would forget me! if I could but bring myself to believe
that after a time he would cease to sorrow for me!” He did not dare to
utter more, nor even to himself declare how valueless he deemed life,
but strolled listlessly onward, till the gray streaks in the murky sky
proclaimed the approach of morning.
Was it with some vague purpose or was it by mere accident that he found
himself standing at last near the barracks at Knightsbridge, around the
gate of which a group of country-looking young fellows was gathered,
while here and there a sergeant was seen to hover, as if speculating on
his prey? It was a time in which more than one young man of station had
enlisted as a private, and the sharp eye of the crimp Boon scanned the
upright stature and well-knit frame of Heathcote.
“Like to be a dragoon, my man?” said he, with an easy, swaggering air.
“I have some thought of it,” said the other, coldly.
“You 've served already, I suspect,” said the sergeant, in a more
respectful tone.
“For what regiment are you enlisting?” asked Heathcote, coldly,
disregarding the other's inquiry.
“Her Majesty's Bays,--could you ask better? But here's my officer.”
Before Heathcote had well heard the words, his name was called out, and
a slight, boyish figure threw his arms about him.
“Charley, how glad I am to see you!” cried he.
“Agincourt!--is this you?” said Heathcote, blushing deeply as he spoke.
“Yes, I have had my own way at last; and I'm going to India too.”
“I am not,” said Heathcote, bitterly. “They 'll not have me at the Horse
Guards; I am too old, or too something or other for the service, and
there's nothing left me but to enter the ranks.”
“Oh, Charley,” cried the other, “if you only knew of the breaking heart
you have left behind you!--if you only knew how _she_ loves you!”
Was it that the boyish accents of these few words appealed to
Heathcote's heart with all the simple force of truth?--was it that they
broke in upon his gloom so unexpectedly,--a slanting sun-ray piercing a
dark cloud? But so it is, that he turned away, and drew his hand across
his eyes.
“I was off for a day's hunting down in Leicestershire,” said Agincourt.
“I sent the nags away yesterday. Come with me, Charley; we shall be back
again to-morrow, and you 'll see if my old guardian won't set all
straight with the War-Office people for you. Unless,” added he, in a
half-whisper, “you choose in the mean while to put your trust in what I
shall tell you, and go back again.”
“I only hope that I may do so,” said Heathcote, as he wrung the other's
hand warmly, “and I'd bless the hour that led me here this morning.”
It was soon arranged between them that Agincourt should drive round by
Heathcote's lodgings and take him up, when he had packed up a few things
for the journey. O'Shea was so sound asleep that he could scarcely be
awakened to hear his companion say “good-bye.” Some vague, indistinct
idea floated before him that Heathcote had fallen upon some good
fortune, and, as he shook his hand, he muttered,--
“Go in and win, old fellow; take all you can get, clear the beggars out,
that's _my_ advice to you.” And with these sage counsels he turned on
his pillow, and snored away once more.
“Wasn't that Inch-o'-brogue I heard talking to you?” asked Agincourt.
“Yes. The poor fellow, like myself, is sorely hard up just now.”
“My old governor must get him something. We 'll think of him on our
return; so jump in, Charley, or we shall be late for the train.”
How contagious was that happy boy's good humor, and how soon did his
light-heartedness impart its own quality to Heathcote's spirits. As they
whirled along through the brisk fresh air of the morning, the youth
recounted all that passed with him since they met,--no very great or
stirring events were they, it is true, but they were _his_,--and they
were his first experiences of dawning manhood; and, oh! let any of us,
now plodding along wearily on the shady side of life, only bethink us of
the joyful sunshine of our youth, when the most commonplace incidents
came upon us with freshness, and we gloried in the thought of having a
“part,” an actual character to play, in that grand drama they call the
World.
We would not, if we could, recall his story; we could not hope that our
reader would listen as pleasurably as did Heathcote to it; enough that
we say they never felt the miles go over, nor, till their journey was
ended, had a thought that they were already arrived at their
destination.