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.