He might, it is true, have bethought him of the fact that where Simmy Crow and Maurice Scanlan were guests, he too might pass muster without reproach; but he did not remember this, or, at least, it failed to impress him sufficiently. Nor was his dread without a certain dash of vanity, as he thought of the contrast between the humble place he was perhaps about to occupy at a great man's table, and the proud one he had achieved in the ranks of scholarship and science. Thus musing, he sauntered slowly along till he found himself in front of the little garden of the Osprey's Nest. He looked at his watch,—it was exactly seven; so he pulled the bell, and entered.
CHAPTER IX. THE MARTIN ARMS
In the small and not over-neat parlor of the Martin Arms at Oughterard, a young man sat at his breakfast, at times casting his eyes over the columns of the “Vindicator,” and anon strolling to the window to watch the gathering of the country people at the weekly market. The scene was one of that mingled bustle and languor so characteristically Irish. Cart-loads of turf, vegetables, fruit, or turkeys blocked up the narrow passage between booths of fancy wares, gilt jewelry, crockery, and cutlery; the vendors all eagerly vociferating commendations of their stores, in chorus with still more clamorous beggars, or the discordant notes of vagrant minstrelsy. Some animal monstrosity, announced by a cracked-voiced herald and two clarionets, added to a din to which loud laughter contributed its share of uproar.
The assemblage was entirely formed of the country people, many of whom made the pretext of having a pig or a lamb to sell the reason of their coming; but, in reality, led thither by the native love of a gathering,—that fondness to be where their neighbors were,—without any definite aim or object. There was, then, in strong contrast to the anxious solicitation of all who had aught to sell, the dreary, languid, almost apathetic look of the mere lounger, come to while away his weary hour and kill time just like any very bored fine gentleman who airs his listlessness along St James's Street, or lazily canters his ennui down Rotten Row.
Jack Massingbred—for he was the traveller whose straw hat and knapsack stood upon a table near—was amused at a scene so full of its native characteristics. The physiognomy, the dress, the bearing of the people, their greetings as they met, their conduct of a bargain, all bespoke a nation widely differing from the sister country, and set him a-dreaming as to how it was that equality of laws might very possibly establish anything but equality of condition amongst people so dissimilar.
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While thus musing, his eye chanced to rest upon the half-effaced inscription over a shop door in front, and where the name of Daniel Nelligan figured as “licensed for all kinds of groceries and spirits.” “Nelligan,” repeated he to himself, “I shall certainly quiz my friend Joe, when we meet, about his namesake in Oughterard. How good it would be to pick up some details of our friend opposite to torment him with! What rare fun to affect to have discovered a near relative in this man of hides, glue, sugar, and Jamaica rum! Eh, gad, I'll try it.” And with this resolve he crossed the street at once, and soon found himself in the compact crowd which thronged the doorway of this popular shop.