“Well, there's shooting; but to be sure you know nothing about that, nor fishing, either; and I suppose farming, if you did understand it, would n't be genteel. Indeed, I see little that is n't dangerous, except the dearness of everything. I remark that's a subject nobody ever tires of, and all can take their share in.”
“And I conclude it to be fact, mother?”
“A very melancholy fact, my dear; and so I said to Betty Gargan, yesterday. 'It's well for you,' said I, 'and the likes of you, that use nothing but potatoes; but think of us, that have to pay sixpence a pound for mutton, six-and-a-half for the prime pieces, and veal not to be had under eightpence.' They talk of the poor, indeed! but sure they never suffer from a rise in butcher's meat, and care nothing at all what tea costs. I assure you I made the tears come into her eyes, with the way I described our hardships.”
“So that this will be a safe subject for me, mother?”
“Perfectly safe, my dear, and no ways mean, either; for I always remarked that the higher people are, the stingier they are, and the more pleasure they take in any little sharp trick that saves them sixpence. And when that 's exhausted, just bring in the Rams.”
“The Rams?”
“I mean my aunt Ram, and my relations in Wexford. I 'm sure, with a little address, you 'll be able to show how I came to be married beneath me, and all the misery it cost me.”
“Well, mother, I believe I have now ample material,” said Joe, rising, with a lively dread of an opening which he knew well boded a lengthy exposition; “and to my own want of skill must it be ascribed if I do not employ it profitably.” And with this he hurried to his room to prepare for the great event.
The “Gentlemen of England” do not deem it a very formidable circumstance to repair towards seven, or half-past, to a dinner-party, even of the dullest and most rigid kind. There is a sombre “routine” in these cases, so recognized that each goes tolerably well prepared for the species of entertainment before him. There is nothing very exhilarating in the prospect, and as little to depress. It is a leaf torn out of one of the tamest chapters in life's diary, where it is just as rare to record a new dish as a new idea, and where the company and the cookery are both foreknown.
No one goes with any exaggerated expectations of enjoyment; but as little does he anticipate anything to discompose or displease him. The whole thing is very quiet and well-bred; rather dull, but not unpleasant. Now, Joseph Nelligan had not graduated as a “diner-out;” he was about as ignorant of these solemn festivals as any man well could be. He was not, therefore, without a certain sense of anxiety as to the conversational requisites for such occasions. Would the company rise to themes and places and people of which he had never as much as heard? or would they treat of ordinary events, and if so, on what terms? If politics came to be discussed, would Mr. Martin expect him to hear in silence opinions from which he dissented? Dare he speak his sentiments, at the cost of directing attention to himself?—a course he would fain have avoided. These, and innumerable other doubts, occupied him as he was dressing, and made him more than once regret that he had determined to accept this invitation; and when the hour at last came for him to set out, he felt a sense of shrinking terror of what was before him greater than he had ever known as he mounted the dreaded steps of the College Examination Hall.