CHAPTER XXXIII. A DINNER AT “THE LODGE”
While the “Morning Post” of a certain day, some twenty years ago, was chronicling the illustrious guests who partook of his Majesty's hospitalities at Windsor, the “Dublin Evening Mail,” under the less pretentious heading of “Viceregal Court,” gave a list of those who had dined with his Excellency at the Lodge.
There was not anything very striking or very new in the announcement. Our dramatis personæ, in this wise, are limited; and after the accustomed names of the Lord Chancellor and Mrs. Dobbs, the Master of the Rolls and Mrs. Wiggins, Colonel Somebody of the 105th, Sir Felix and Miss Slasher, you invariably find the catalogue close with an un-der-secretary, a king-at-arms, and the inevitable Captain Lawrence Belcour, the aide-de-camp in waiting!—these latter recorded somewhat in the same spirit that the manager of a provincial theatre swells the roll of his company, by the names of the machinist, the scene-painter, and the leader of the band! We have no peculiar concern, however, with this fact, save that on the day in question our old friend Joseph Nelligan figured as a vice-regal guest. It was the first time he had been so honored, and, although not of a stamp to attach any great prize to the distinction, he was well aware that the recognition was intended as an honor; the more, when an aide-de-camp signified to him that his place at table was on one side of his Excellency.
When this veracious history first displayed young Nelligan at a dinner-party, his manner was shy and constrained; his secluded, student-like habits had given him none of that hardihood so essential in society. If he knew little of passing topics, he knew less of the tone men used in discussing them; and now, although more conversant with the world and its ways, daily brought into contact with the business of life, his social manner remained pretty nearly the same cold, awkward, and diffident thing it had been at first. Enlist him in a great subject, or call upon him on a great occasion, and he could rise above it; place him in a position to escape notice, and you never heard more of him.
The dinner company on this day contained nothing very formidable, either on the score of station or ability,—a few bar celebrities with their wives, an eccentric dean with a daughter, a garrison colonel or two, three country squires, and a doctor from Merrion Square. It was that interregnal period between the time when the castle parties included the first gentry of the land, and that later era when the priest and the agitator became the favored guests of vice-royalty. It is scarce necessary to say it was, as regards agreeability, inferior to either. There was not the courtly urbanity and polished pleasantry of a very accomplished class; nor was there the shrewd and coarse but racy intelligence of Mr. O'Connell's followers.
The Marquis of Reckington had come over to Ireland to “inaugurate,” as the newspapers called it, a new policy; that is, he was to give to the working of the relief bill an extension and a significance which few either of its supporters or opposers in Parliament ever contemplated. The inequality of the Romanist before the law he might have borne; social depreciation was a heavier evil, and one quite intolerable. Now, as the change to the new system required considerable tact and address, they intrusted the task to a most accomplished and well-bred gentleman; and were Ireland only to be won by dinner-parties, Lord Reckington must have been its victor.
To very high rank and great personal advantages he united a manner of the most perfect kind. Dignified enough always to mark his station and his own consciousness of it, it was cordial without effort, frank and easy without display. If he could speak with all the weight of authority, he knew how to listen with actual deference; and there was that amount of change and “play” in his demeanor that made his companion, whoever for the moment he might be, believe that his views and arguments had made a deep impression on the Viceroy. To those unacquainted with such men, and the school to which they belong, there might have appeared something unreal, almost dramatic, in the elegant gracefulness of his bow, the gentle affability of his smile, the undeviating courtesy which he bestowed on all around him; but they were all of the man himself,—his very instincts,—his nature.
It had apparently been amongst his Excellency's instructions from his government to seek out such rising men of the Roman Catholic party as might be elevated and promoted on the just claims of their individual merits,—men, in fact, whose conduct and bearing would be certain to justify their selection for high office. It could not be supposed that a party long proscribed, long estranged from all participation in power, could be rich in such qualifications. At the bar, the ablest men usually threw themselves into the career of politics, and of course by strong partisanship more or less prejudiced their claims to office. It was rare indeed to find one who, with the highest order of abilities, was satisfied to follow a profession whose best rewards were denied him. Such was Joseph Nelligan when he was first “called,” and such he continued to the very hour we now see him. Great as had been his college successes, his triumphs at the bar overtopped them all. They who remembered his shy and reserved manner wondered whence he came by his dignity; they who knew his youth could not imagine how he came by his “law.”
Mr. M'Casky, the castle law-adviser, an old recruiting-serjeant of capacities, who had “tipped the shilling” to men of every party, had whispered his name to the Under-Secretary, who had again repeated it to the Viceroy. He was, as M'Casky said, “the man they wanted, with talent enough to confront the best of the opposite party, and wealthy enough to want nothing that can figure in a budget.” Hence was he, then, there a favored guest, and seated on his Excellency's left hand.
For the magic influence of that manner which we have mentioned as pertaining to the Viceroy, we ask for no better evidence than the sense of perfect ease which Joe Nelligan now enjoyed. The suave dignity of the Marquis was blended with a something like personal regard, a mysterious intimation that seemed to say, “This is the sort of man I have long been looking for; how gratifying that I should have found him at last!” They concurred in so many points, too, not merely in opinions, but actually in the very expressions by which they characterized them; and when at last his Excellency, having occasion to quote something he had said, called him “Nelligan,” the spell was complete.
Oh dear! when we torture our brains to legislate for apothecaries, endeavoring in some way or other to restrict the sale of those subtle ingredients on every grain or drop of which a human life may hang, why do we never think of those far more subtle elements of which great people are the dispensers,—flatteries more soothing than chloroform, smiles more lulling than poppy-juice! Imagine poor Nelligan under a course of this treatment, dear reader; fancy the delicious poison as it insinuates itself through his veins, and if you have ever been so drugged yourself, picture to your mind all the enjoyment he experienced.
By one of those adroit turns your social magician is master of, the Viceroy had drawn the conversation towards Nelligan's county and his native town.
“I was to have paid a visit to poor Martin there,” said he, “and I certainly should have looked in upon you.”
Nelligan's cheek was in a flame; pride and shame were both there, warring for the mastery.
“Poor fellow!” said his Excellency, who saw the necessity of a diversion, “I fear that he has left that immense estate greatly embarrassed. Some one mentioned to me, the other day, that the heir will not succeed to even a fourth of the old property.”
“I have heard even worse, my Lord,” said Nelligan. “There is a rumor that he is left without a shilling.”
“How very shocking! They are connections of my own!” said the Viceroy; as though what he said made the misery attain its climax.
“I am aware, my Lord, that Lady Dorothea is related to your Excellency, and I am surprised you have not heard the stories I allude to.”
“But perhaps I am incorrect,” said the Marquis. “It may be that I have heard them; so many things pass through one's ears every day. But here is Colonel Mas-singbred; he 's sure to know it. Massingbred, we want some news of the Martins—the Martins of—what is it called?”
“Cro' Martin, my Lord,” said Nelligan, reddening.
“I hold the very latest news of that county in my hand, my Lord,” replied the Secretary. “It is an express from my son, who writes from Oughterard.”
Nelligan stood, scarcely breathing, with impatience to hear the tidings.
Colonel Massingbred ran his eyes over the first page of the letter, murmuring to himself the words; then turning over, he said: “Yes, here it is,—'While I write this, the whole town is in a state of intense excitement; the magistrates have sent in for an increased force of police, and even soldiery, to repress some very serious disturbances on the Martin property. It would appear that Merl—the man who assumes to claim the property, as having purchased the reversion from young Martin—was set upon by a large mob, and pursued, himself and his friends, for several miles across the country. They escaped with their lives, but have arrived here in a lamentable plight. There is really no understanding these people. It was but the other day, and there was no surer road to their favor than to abuse and vilify these same Martins, and now they are quite ready to murder any one who aspires to take their place. If one was to credit the stories afloat, they have already wreaked a fatal vengeance on some fellows employed by Merl to serve notices on the tenantry; but I believe that the outrages have really gone no further than such maltreatment as Irishmen like to give, and are accustomed to take.'”
Here his Excellency laughed heartily, and Joe Nelligan looked grave.
Massingbred read on: “'Without being myself a witness to it, I never could have credited the almost feudal attachment of these people to an “Old House.” The Radical party in the borough are, for the moment, proscribed, and dare not show themselves in the streets; and even Magennis, who so lately figured as an enemy to the Martins, passed through the town this morning with his wife, with a great banner flying over his jaunting-car, inscribed “The Martins for Ever!” This burst of sentiment on his part, I ought to mention, was owing to a most devoted piece of heroism performed by Miss Martin, who sought out the lost one and brought her safely back, through a night of such storm and hurricane as few ever remember. Such an act, amidst such a people, is sure of its reward. The peasantry would, to a man, lay down their lives for her; and coming critically, as the incident did, just when a new proprietor was about to enforce his claim, you can fancy the added bitterness it imparted to their spirit of resistance. I sincerely trust that the magistrates will not accede to the demand for an increased force. A terrible collision is sure to be the result, and I know enough of these people to be aware of what can be done by a little diplomacy, particularly when the right negotiator is employed. I mean, therefore, to go over and speak to Mr. Nelligan, who is the only man of brains amongst the magistrates here.'”
“A relative, I presume,” said his Excellency.
“My father, my Lord,” replied Joe, blushing.
“Oh! here is the result of his interview,” said Massing-bred, turning to the foot of the page. “'Nelligan quite agreed in the view I had taken, and said the people would assuredly disarm and perhaps destroy any force we could send against them. He is greatly puzzled what course to adopt; and when I suggested the propriety of invoking Miss Martin's aid, told me that this is out of the question, since she is on a sick-bed. While we were speaking, a Dublin physician passed through on his way to visit her. This really does add to the complication, for she is, perhaps, the only one who could exert a great influence over the excited populace. In any other country it might read strangely, that it was to a young lady men should have recourse in a moment of such peril; but this is like no other country, the people like no other people, the young lady herself, perhaps, like no other young lady!'”
By a scarcely perceptible movement of his head, and a very slight change of voice, Colonel Massingbred intimated to the Viceroy that there was something for his private ear, and Lord Reckington stepped back to hear it. Nelligan, too deeply occupied in his own thoughts to remark the circumstance, stood in the same place, silent and motionless.
“It is to this passage,” whispered the Secretary, “I want to direct your Excellency's attention: 'All that I see here,' my son writes,—'all that I see here is a type of what is going on, at large, over the island. Old families uprooted, old ties severed; the people, with no other instinct than lawlessness, hesitating which side to take. Their old leaders, only bent upon the political, have forgotten the social struggle, and thus the masses are left without guidance or direction. It is my firm conviction that the Church of Rome will seize the happy moment to usurp an authority thus unclaimed, and the priest step in between the landlord and the demagogue; and it is equally my belief that you can only retard, not prevent, this consummation. If you should be of my opinion, and be able to induce his Excellency to think with us, act promptly and decisively. Enlist the Roman Catholic laity in your cause before you be driven to the harder compact of having to deal with the clergy. And first of all, make—for fortunately you have the vacancy,—make young Nelligan your solicitor-general.'”
The Viceroy gave a slight start, and smiled. He had not, as yet, accustomed his mind to such bold exercise of his patronage. He lived, however, to get over this sensation.
“My son,” resumed Massingbred, “argues this at some length. If you permit, I 'll leave the letter in your Excellency's hands. In fact, I read it very hurriedly, and came over here the moment I glanced my eyes over this passage.”
His Excellency took the letter, and turned to address a word to Joe Nelligan, but he had left the spot.
“Belcour,” said the Viceroy, “tell Mr. Nelligan I wish to speak to him. I shall be in the small drawing-room. I 'll talk with him alone. Massingbred, be ready to come when I shall send for you.”
The Viceroy sat alone by the fire, pondering over all he had heard. There was, indeed, that to ponder over, even in the brief, vague description of the writer. “The difficulties of Ireland,” as it was the fashion of the day to call them, were not such as government commissions discover, or blue books describe; they lay deeper than the legislative lead-line ever reaches,—many a fathom down below statutes and Acts of Parliament. They were in the instincts, the natures, the blood of a people who had never acknowledged themselves a conquered nation. Perhaps his Excellency lost himself in speculations, mazy and confused enough to addle deeper heads. Perhaps he was puzzled to think how he could bring the Cabinet to see these things, or the importance that pertained to them; who knows? At all events, time glided on, and still he was alone. At length the aide-de-camp appeared, and with an air of some confusion, said,—“It would appear, my Lord, that Mr. Nelligan has gone away.”
“Why, he never said good-night; he did n't take leave of me!” said the Viceroy, smiling.
The aide-de-camp slightly elevated his brows, as though to imply his sense of what it might not have become him to characterize in words.
“Very strange, indeed!” repeated his Excellency; “is n't it, Belcour?”
“Very strange, indeed, your Excellency,” said the other, bowing.
“There could have been no disrespect in it,” said his Lordship, good-humoredly; “of that I'm quite certain. Send Colonel Massingbred here.”
“He's gone off, Massingbred,” said the Viceroy, as the other appeared.
“So I have just learned, my Lord. I conclude he was not aware—that he was unacquainted with—”
“Oh, of course, Massingbred,” broke in the Viceroy, laughing, “the fault is all with my predecessors in office; they never invited these men as they ought to have done. Have you sounded M'Casky as to the appointment?”
“Yes, my Lord; he thinks 'we might do worse.'”
“A qualified approval, certainly. Perhaps he meant we might select himself!”
“I rather opine, my Lord, that he regards Nelligan's promotion as likely to give offence to Mr. O'Connell, unless that he be himself consulted upon it.”
“Then comes the question, Who is it governs this country, Colonel Massingbred?” said the Marquis; and for the first time a flash of angry meaning darkened his cheeks. “If I be here,”—he stopped and hesitated,—“if you and I be here only to ratify appointments made by irresponsible individuals,—if we hold the reins of power only to be told where we 're to drive to,—I must own the office is not very dignified, nor am I patient enough to think it endurable.”
“M'Casky only suggested that it might be advisable to see O'Connell on the subject, not, as it were, to pass him over in conferring the appointment.”
“I cannot at all concur in this view, Massingbred,” said the Marquis, proudly; “there could be no such humiliation in the world as a patronage administered in this wise. Write to Nelligan; write to him to-night. Say that his abrupt departure alone prevented my making to him personally the offer of the solicitorship; add that you have my directions to place the office in his hands, and express a strong wish, on your own part, that he may not decline it.”
Massingbred bowed in acquiescence, and after a pause his Excellency went on:—
“There would be no objection to your adding something to the effect that my selection of him was prompted by motives in which party has no share; that his acknowledged eminence at the bar,—a character to which even political opponents bear honorable testimony,—in fact, Massingbred,” added he, impatiently, “if the appointment should come to be questioned in the House, let us have it on record that we made it solely on motives directed to the public service. You understand me?”
“I think so, my Lord,” said Massingbred, and withdrew.
If it were not that other cares and other interests call us away, we would gladly linger a little longer to speculate on the Viceroy's thoughts as he reseated himself by the fire. His brow was overcast and his features clouded. Was it that he felt he had entered the lists, and thrown down the glove to a strong and resolute opponent? Had he before him a vista of the terrible conflict between expediency and honor that was soon to be his fate? Had he his doubts as to the support his own Cabinet would afford him? Was his pride the ruling sentiment of the moment, or did there enter into his calculations the subtle hope of all the eager expectancy this appointment would create, all the disposable venality it would lay at his discretion? Who can answer these questions? who solve these doubts? Is it not very possible that his mind wandered amidst them all? Is it not more than likely that they passed in review before him? for when he rejoined his company his manner was more absent, his courtesy less easy than usual.
At length Mr. M'Casky came forward to say goodnight.
“Colonel Massingbred has told you of those disturbances in the West, has he not?” asked the Viceroy.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the other.
“And what opinion—what advice did you give?”
“To let matters alone, my Lord; to be always a little behind time, particularly in sending a force. 'Never despatch the police to quell a riot,' said John Toler, 'unless one of the factions be completely beaten, otherwise you 'll have them both on your back;' and I assure your Excellency, Ireland has been very successfully governed under that maxim for years past.”
“Thank you, M'Casky; thank you for the advice,” said his Excellency, laughing, and wished him good-night.