‘I’m much gratified that you do so. In fact, Kearney, you give me courage to speak a little about myself and my own affairs; and, if you will allow me, to ask your advice.’
This was an unusually long speech for the major, and he actually seemed fatigued when he concluded. He was, however, consoled for his exertions by seeing what pleasure his words had conferred on Kearney; and with what racy self-satisfaction, that gentleman heard himself mentioned as a ‘wise opinion.’
‘I believe I do know a little of life, major,’ said he sententiously. ‘As old Giles Dackson used to say, “Get Mathew Kearney to tell you what he thinks of it.” You knew Giles?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you’ve heard of him? No! not even that. There’s another proof of what I was saying—we’re two people, the English and the Irish. If it wasn’t so, you’d be no stranger to the sayings and doings of one of the cutest men that ever lived.’
‘We have witty fellows too.’
‘No, you haven’t! Do you call your House of Commons’ jokes wit? Are the stories you tell at your hustings’ speeches wit? Is there one over there’—and he pointed in the direction of England—‘that ever made a smart repartee or a brilliant answer to any one about anything? You now and then tell an Irish story, and you forget the point; or you quote a French mot, and leave out the epigram. Don’t be angry—it’s truth I’m telling you.’
‘I’m not angry, though I must say I don’t think you are fair to us.’
The last bit of brilliancy you had in the House was Brinsley Sheridan, and there wasn’t much English about him.’
‘I’ve never heard that the famous O’Connell used to convulse the House with his drollery.’