“Were politics discussed at table?” asked Martin, half impatiently.
“All manner of subjects. We had law, and the assizes, and the grand-jury lists, and who ought to be high sheriffs, and who not. And young Massingbred made a kind of a speech—”
“Was he there also?”
“That he was; and did the honors of the foot of the table, and made it the pleasantest place too! The way he introduced a toast to the independent and enlightened electors of Oughterard was as neat a thing as ever I heard.”
“The devil take the whole batch of them!” cried Martin. “To think that I 've spent nearly three thousand pounds for such a set of scoundrels is past endurance. I 'll never set foot amongst them again; as long as I live I 'll never enter that town.”
“Father Neal's own words,” cried Crow. “'We done with Martin forever,' said he. 'This election was his Waterloo. He may abdicate now!'”
“And that sentiment was listened to by the Chief Secretary?” exclaimed Martin.
“If he wasn't deaf he couldn't help hearing it, for we all did; and when I ventured to observe that a country was never the better for losing the patrons of art, and the great families that could encourage a genius, young Massingbred, said, 'Give up Moses, Mr. Crow,—give up Moses, and paint Daniel O'Connell, and you 'll never want admirers and supporters!' And they drowned me in a roar of laughter.”
“I wish my Lady could only hear all this,” said Rep ton, in a whisper to Martin.
“Always provided that I were somewhere else!” answered Martin. “But to be serious, Repton, I 'll hold no intercourse with men who treat us in this fashion. It is absurd to suppose that the Secretary could receive at his table this rabble,—this herd of low, vulgar—”