“Success attend him!” chimed in M'Dermot.
“And just think of them now,” continued Nickie, whose ruminations were never interrupted by the running commentary,—“just think of them! selling the country, trade, prosperity, everything, for a few hundred pounds.”
“The blackguards!”
“Some, to be sure, made a fine thing out of it. Not like old Darcy here; they were early in the market, and got both rank and money too.”
“Ay, that was doin' it in style!” exclaimed Mike, who expressed himself this time somewhat equivocally, for safety's sake.
“There 's no denying it, Castlereagh was a clever fellow!”
“The best man ever I seen—I don't care who the other is.”
“He knew when to bid, and when to draw back; never became too pressing, but never let any one feel himself neglected; watched his opportunities slyly, and when the time came, pounced down like a hawk on his victim.”
“Oh, the thieves' breed! What a hard heart he had!” muttered M'Dermot, perfectly regardless of whom he was speaking.
Thus did Mr. Nickie ramble on, in the popular cant, over the subject of the day; for although the Union was now carried, and its consequences—whatever they might be—so far inevitable, the men whose influence effected the measure were still before the bar of public opinion,—an ordeal not a whit more just and discriminating than it usually is. While the current of these reminiscences ran on, varied by some anecdote here or some observation there, both master and man drank deeply. So long as good liquor abounded, Mr. M'Dermot could have listened with pleasure, even to a less entertaining companion; and as for Nickie, he felt a vulgar pride in discussing, familiarly and by name, the men of rank and station who took a leading part in Irish politics. The pamphlets and newspapers of the day had made so many private histories public, had unveiled so many family circumstances before the eyes of the world, that his dissertations had all the seeming authenticity of personal knowledge.