Mr. Elias Howie was one of a peculiar class, which this age, so fertile in inventions, has engendered, a publishers' man-of-all-work, ready for everything, from statistics to satire, and equally prepared to expound prophecy, or write squibs for “Punch.”
Not that lodgings were not inhabited in Grub Street before our day, but that it remained for the glory of this century to see that numerous horde of tourist authors held in leash by fashionable booksellers, and every now and then let slip over some country, to which plague, pestilence, or famine, had given a newer and more terrible interest In this novel walk of literature Mr. Howie was one of the chief proficients; he was the creator of that new school of travel which, writing expressly for London readers, refers everything to the standard of “town;” and whether it be a trait of Icelandic life, or some remnant of old-world existence in the far East, all must be brought for trial to the bar of “Seven Dials,” or stand to plead in the dock of Pall Mall or Piccadilly. Whatever errors or misconceptions he might fall into respecting his subjects, he made none regarding his readers. He knew them by heart,—their leanings, their weakness, and their prejudices; and how pleasantly could he flatter their town-bred self-sufficiency,—how slyly insinuate their vast superiority over all other citizens, insidiously assuring them that the Thames at Richmond was infinitely finer than the Rhine or the Danube, and that a trip to Margate was richer in repayal than a visit to the Bosphorus! Ireland was, just at the time we speak of, a splendid field for his peculiar talents. The misery-mongers had had their day. The world was somewhat weary of Landlordism, Pauperism, and Protestantism, and all the other “isms” of that unhappy country.
There was nothing that had not been said over the overgrown Church establishment, the devouring Middleman, Cottier misery, and Celtic barbarism; people grew weary of hearing about a nation so endowed with capabilities, and which yet did nothing, and rather than puzzle their heads any further, they voted Ireland a “bore.” It was just then that “this inspired Cockney” determined to try a new phase of the subject, and this was not to counsel nor console, not to lament over nor bewail our varied mass of errors and misfortunes, but to laugh at us. To hunt out as many incongruities—many real enough, some fictitious—as he could find; to unveil all that he could discover of social anomaly; and, without any reference to, or any knowledge of, the people, to bring them up for judgment before his less volatile and more happily circumstanced countrymen, certain of the verdict he sought for—a hearty laugh. His mission was to make “Punch” out of Ireland, and none more capable than he for the office.
A word of Mr. Howie in the flesh, and we have done. He was large and heavily built, but neither muscular nor athletic; his frame and all his gestures indicated weakness and uncertainty. His head was capacious, but not remarkable for what phrenologists call moral development; while the sinister expression of his eyes—half submissive, half satirical—suggested doubts of his sincerity. There was nothing honest about him but his mouth; this was large, full, thick-lipped, and sensual,—the mouth of one who loved to dine well, and yet felt that his agreeability was an ample receipt in full for the best entertainment that ever graced Black wall or the “Frères.”
It is a heavy infliction that we story-tellers are compelled to lay upon our readers and ourselves, thus to interrupt our narrative by a lengthened description of a character not essentially belonging to our story; we had rather, far rather, been enabled to imitate Mrs. White, as she advanced into the circle in the drawing-room, saying, “Mr. Cashel, allow me to present to your favorable notice my distinguished friend, Mr. Howie. Lady Janet MacFarline, Mr. Howie,—” sotto,—“the author of 'Snooks in the Holy Land,' the wittiest thing of the day; Sir Andrew will be delighted with him—has been all over the scenes of the Peninsular war. Mrs. Kennyfeck, Mr. Howie.”
Mr. Howie made his round of salutations, and although by his awkwardness tacitly acknowledging that they were palpably more habituated to the world's ways than himself, yet inwardly consoled by remarking certain little traits of manner and accent sufficiently provincial to be treasured up, and become very droll in print or a copper etching.
“It's a vara new pleasure ye are able to confer upon your friends, Mr. Cashel,” said Sir Andrew, “to show them so fine a collection o' pictures in Ireland, whar, methinks, the arts ha' no enjoyed too mickle encouragement.”
“I confess,” said Cashel, modestly, “I am but ill qualified to extend the kind of patronage that would be serviceable, had I even the means; I have not the slightest pretension to knowledge or judgment. The few I have purchased have been as articles of furniture, pleasant to look at, without any pretension to high excellence.”
“Just as Admiral Dalrymple paid ten pounds for a dunghill when he turned farmer,” whispered Mr. Howie in Mrs. White's ear, “and then said, 'he had only bought it because some one said it was a good thing; but that, now, he 'd give any man “twenty” to tell him what to do with it,'”
Mrs. White burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming: