The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)

CHAPTER XIV. A FINE OLD IRISH BARRISTER

Can any one tell us what has become of that high conversational power for which Ireland, but more especially Dublin, was once celebrated? Have the brilliant talkers of other days left no successors? Has that race of delightful con-vivialists gone and disappeared forever? Or are we only enduring an interregnum of dulness, the fit repose, perhaps, after a period of such excitement? The altered circumstances of the country will doubtless account for much of this change. The presence of a Parliament in Ireland imparted a dignity and importance to society, while it secured to social intercourse the men who made that Senate illustrious. The Bar, too, of former days, was essentially the career of the highest class, of those who had the ambition of political success without the necessity of toiling for it through the laborious paths of the law; and thus the wit, the brilliancy, and the readiness which gives conversation its charm, obtained the high culture which comes of a learned profession, and the social intercourse with men of refined understanding.

With the Union this spirit died out. Some of the brightest and gayest retired from the world, sad, dispirited, and depressed; some felt that a new and very different career was to open before them, and addressed themselves to the task of conforming to new habits and acquiring new influences; and others, again, sought in the richer and greater country the rewards which they once were satisfied to reap in their own. With the Union, society in Dublin – using the word in its really comprehensive sense – ceased to exist. The great interests of a nation departed, men sank to the level of the small topics that engaged them, and gradually the smallest and narrowest views of mere local matters usurped the place of great events and liberal speculations. Towards the end of the first quarter of the present century, a few of those who had once made companionship with Curran and Grattan and Lysaght and Parsons were still in good health and vigor. A fine, high-hearted, manly class they were, full of that peculiar generosity of character which has ever marked the true Irish gentleman, and with a readiness in humor and a genial flow of pleasantry which rendered their society delightful.

Of this school – and probably the last, for he was then the Father of the Bar – was Valentine Repton, a man whose abilities might have won for him the very highest distinctions, but who, partly through indolence, and partly through a sturdy desire to be independent of all party, had all his life rejected every offer of advancement, and had seen his juniors pass on to the highest ranks of the profession, while he still wore his stuff-gown, and rose to address the Court from the outer benches.

He was reported in early life to have professed very democratic opinions, for which he more than once had incurred the deep displeasure of the authorities of the University. The principles of the French Revolution had, however, been gradually toned down in him by time, and probably by a very aristocratic contempt for the party who advocated them; so that soon after he entered on his career at the Bar he seemed to have abandoned politics; nor, except by a sly jest or an epigram upon a party leader, no matter of which side, did he ever advert to the contests of statecraft.

Though closely approaching seventy, he was hale and vigorous, his gray eyes quick and full of fire, his voice clear, and his whole air and bearing that of one many years younger. He had been a “beau” in his youth, and there was in the accurately powdered hair, the lace ruffles in which he still appeared at dinner, and the well-fitting silk stocking, an evidence that he had not forgotten the attractions of dress. At the Bar he still maintained the very highest place. His powers of cross-examination were very great; his management of a jury unrivalled. A lifelong acquaintance with Dublin had familiarized him with the tone and temper of every class of its citizens, and had taught him the precise kind of argument, and the exact nature of the appeal to address to each. As he grew older, perhaps he did not observe all his wonted discretion in the use of this subtle power, and somewhat presumed upon his own skill. Nor was he so scrupulous in his deference to the Court, – a feature which had once pre-eminently distinguished him; but, upon the whole, he had kept wonderfully clear of the proverbial irritability of age, and was, without an exception, the favorite amongst his brethren.

The only touch of years observable about his mind was a fondness for recurring to incidents or events in which he himself had borne a part. A case in which he held a brief, the dinner at which he had been brilliant, the epigram he had dashed off in Lady Somebody’s drawing-room, were bright spots he could not refrain from adverting to; but, generally speaking, he had skill enough to introduce these without any seeming effort or any straining, and thus strangers, at least, were in wonderment at his endless stores of anecdote and illustration. No man better than he knew how to throw a great name into the course of a conversation, and make an audience for himself, by saying, “I remember one day at the Priory with Curran” – or, “We were dining with poor Grattan at Tinnehinch, when – ” “As Flood once remarked to me – ” and so on.

The flattery of being addressed by one who had stood in such intimate relation to those illustrious men never failed of success. The most thoughtless and giddy hearers were at once arrested by such an opening, and Repton was sure of listeners in every company.

The man who finds his place in every society is unquestionably a clever man. The aptitude to chime in with the tone of others infers a high order of humor, – of humor in its real sense; meaning, thereby, the faculty of appreciating, and even cultivating, the individual peculiarities of those around him, and deriving from their display a high order of pleasure.

From these scattered traits let my reader conjure up Valentine Repton before him, and imagine the bustling, active, and brisk-looking old gentleman whose fidgetiness nearly drove Martin mad, as they held converse together in the library after breakfast. Now seated, now rising to pace the room, or drawing nigh the window to curse the pelting rain without, Repton seemed the incarnation of uneasiness.

“Very splendid – very grand – very sumptuous – no doubt,” said he, ranging his eyes over the gorgeous decorations of the spacious apartment, “but would kill me in a month; what am I saying? – in a week!”

“What would kill you, Repton?” said Martin, languidly.

“This life of yours, Martin, – this sombre quiet, this unbroken stillness, this grave-like monotony. Why, man, where ‘s your neighborhood? where are your gentry friends?”

“Cosby Blake, of Swainestown, is abroad,” said Martin, with an indolent drawl. “Randal Burke seldom comes down here now. Rickman, I believe, is in the Fleet. They were the nearest to us!”

“What a country! and you are spending – What did you tell me last night, – was it upwards of ten thousand a year here?”

“What with planting, draining, bridging, reclaiming waste lands, and other improvements, the wages of last year alone exceeded seven thousand!”

“By Jove! it ‘s nigh incredible,” said the lawyer, energetically. “My dear Martin, can’t you perceive that all this is sheer waste, – so much good money actually thrown into Lough Corrib? Tell me, frankly, how long have you been pursuing this system of improvement?”

“About three years; under Mary’s management.”

“And the results, – what of them?”

“It is too early to speak of that; there’s Kyle’s Wood, for instance, – we have enclosed that at considerable cost. Of course we can’t expect that the mere thinnings can repay us, the first year or two.”

“And your reclaimed land, – how has it prospered?”

“Not over well. They pushed draining so far that they ‘ve left a large tract perfectly barren and unproductive.”

“And the harbor, – the pier I saw yesterday?”

“That ‘s a bad business, – it’s filling up the bay with sand! but we’ll alter it in summer.”

“And now for the people themselves, – are they better off, better fed, clothed, housed, and looked after, than before?”

“Mary says so. She tells me that there is a wonderful change for the better in them.”

“I don’t believe a word of it, Martin, – not a word of it. Ireland is not to be redeemed by her own gentry. The thing is sheer impossibility! They both know each other too well. Do you understand me? They are too ready to make allowances for shortcomings that have their source in some national prejudice; whereas your Saxon or your Scotchman would scout such a plea at once. Ireland wants an alternative, Martin, – an alternative; and, amidst our other anomalies, not the least singular is the fact that the Englishman, who knows nothing about us, nor ever will know anything, is precisely the man to better our condition.”

“These are strange opinions to hear from your lips, Repton. I never heard any man so sarcastic as yourself on English ignorance regarding Ireland.”

“And you may hear me again on the same theme whenever you vouchsafe me an audience,” said the lawyer, sharply. “It was but the other day I gave our newly arrived secretary, Mr. Muspratt, a gentle intimation of my sentiments on that score. We were dining at the Lodge. I sat next his Excellency, who, in the course of dinner, directed my attention to a very graphic picture the secretary was drawing of the misery he had witnessed that very day, coming up from Carlow. He did the thing well, I must own. He gave the famished looks, the rags, the wretchedness, all their due; and he mingled his pathos and indignation with all the skill of an artist; while he actually imparted a Raffaelle effect to his sketch, as he portrayed the halt, the maimed, the blind, and the palsied that crowded around the carriage as he changed horses, exclaiming, by way of peroration, ‘Misery and destitution like this no man ever witnessed before, all real and unfeigned as it was sure to be.’

“‘Naas is a miserable place, indeed,’ said I, for he looked directly towards me for a confirmation of his narrative.

“‘There is no denying one word the gentleman has said; I came up that way from circuit three weeks ago, and was beset in the same spot, and in the same manner as we have just heard. I can’t attempt such a description as Mr. Muspratt has given us; but I will say that there was not a human deformity or defect that did n’t appear to have its representative in that ragged gathering, all clamorous and eager for aid. I looked at them for a while in wonderment, and at last I threw out a “tenpenny” in the midst. The “blind” fellow saw it first, but the “lame cripple” had the foot of him, and got the money!’”

Repton leaned back in his chair, and laughed heartily as he finished. “I only wish you saw his face, Martin; and, indeed, his Excellency’s too. The aides-de-camp laughed; they were very young, and could n’t help it.”

“He ‘ll not make you a chief justice, Repton,” said Martin, slyly.

“I ‘ll take care he don’t,” said the other. “Summum jus summa injuria. The chief justice is a great humbug, or a great abuse, whichever way you like to render it.”

“And yet they’d be glad to promote you,” said Martin, thoughtfully.

“To be sure they would, sir; delighted to place me where they had no fear of my indiscretions. But your judge should be ever a grave animal. The temptation to a joke should never sit on the ermine. As Flood once remarked to me of old Romney, ‘A man, sir,’ said he, – and Flood had a semi-sarcastic solemnity always about him, – ‘a man, sir, who has reversed the law of physics; for he rose by his gravity, and only fell by his lightness.’ Very epigrammatic and sharp, that. Ah, Martin, they don’t say these things nowadays. By the way, who is the young fellow who dined with us yesterday?”

“His name is Nelligan; the son of one of our Oughterard neighbors.”

“Pleasing manners, gentle, too, and observant,” said Repton, with the tone of one delivering a judgment to be recorded.

“He’s more than that,” said Martin; “he is the great prize man of the year in Trinity. You must have surely heard of his name up in town.”

“I think somebody did speak of him to me, – recommend him, in some shape or other,” said Repton, abstractedly; “these things are so easily forgotten; for, to say the truth, I hold very cheaply all intellectual efforts accomplished by great preparation. The cramming, the grinding, the plodding, the artificial memory work, and the rest of it, detract terribly, in my estimation, from the glory of success. Give me your man of impromptu readiness, never unprepared, never at a loss. The very consciousness of power is double power.” And as he spoke he drew himself up, threw his head back, and stared steadfastly at Martin, as though to say, “Such is he who now stands before you.”

Martin was amused at the display of vanity, and had there been another there to have participated in the enjoyment, would have willingly encouraged him to continue the theme; but he was alone, and let it pass.

“I ‘ll make a note of that young man. Mulligan, is n’t it?”

“Nelligan.”

“To be sure. I ‘ll remember poor Curran’s epigram: —

Glorious fellow, sir; the greatest of all the convivialists of his time, was Curran. A host in himself; but, as he once said, you could n’t always depend on the ‘elevation.’”

Martin smiled faintly; he relished the lawyer’s talk, but he felt that it demanded an amount of attention on his part that wearied him. Anything that cost him trouble was more or less of a “bore;” and he already began to wish for his accustomed ease and indolence.

“Well, Repton,” said he, “you wished to see the quarries, I think?”

“To see everything and everybody, sir, and with my own eyes, too. As Lysaght said, when I read the book of nature, ‘I let no man note my brief for me.’”

“I thought of being your companion, myself; but somehow, this morning, my old enemy, the gout, is busy again; however, you ‘ll not regret the exchange, Repton, when I give you in charge to my niece. She ‘ll be but too happy to do the honors of our poor country to so distinguished a visitor.”

“And a very artful plan to put me in good humor with everything,” said Repton, laughing. “Well, I consent. I offer myself a willing victim to any amount of seduction. How are we to go? – do we drive, walk, or ride?”

“If Mary be consulted, she’ll say ride,” said Martin; “but perhaps – ”

“I’m for the saddle, too,” broke in Repton. “Give me something active and lively, light of mouth and well up before, and I’ll show you, as Tom Parsons said, that we can cut as good a figure at the wall as the ‘bar.’”

“I ‘ll go and consult my niece, then,” said Martin, hastening out of the room, to conceal the smile which the old man’s vanity had just provoked.

Mary was dressed in her riding-habit, and about to leave her room as her uncle entered it.

“I have just come in the nick of time, Molly, I see,” cried he. “I want you to lionize an old friend of mine, who has the ambition to ‘do’ Connemara under your guidance.”

“What a provoke!” said Mary, half aloud. “Could he not wait for another day, uncle? I have to go over to Glencalgher and Kilduff; besides, there’s that bridge to be looked after, and they ‘ve just come to tell me that the floods have carried away the strong paling around the larch copse. Really, this old gentleman must wait.” It was a rare thing for Mary Martin to display anything either of impatience or opposition to her uncle. Her affection for him was so blended with respect that she scarcely ever transgressed in this wise; but this morning she was ill and irritable, – a restless, feverish night following on a day of great fatigue and as great excitement, – and she was still suffering, and her nerves jarring when he met her.

“But I assure you, Molly, you ‘ll be pleased with the companionship,” began Martin.

“So I might at another time; but I ‘m out of sorts to-day, uncle. I ‘m cross and ill-tempered, and I ‘ll have it out on Mr. Henderson, – that precious specimen of his class. Let Mr. Nelligan perform cicerone, or persuade my Lady to drive him out; do anything you like with him, except give him to me.”

“And yet that is exactly what I have promised him. As for Nelligan, they are not suited to each other; so come, be a good girl, and comply.”

“If I must,” said she, pettishly. “And how are we to go?”

“He proposes to ride, and bespeaks something lively for his own mount.”

“Indeed! That sounds well!” cried she, with more animation. “There ‘s ‘Cropper’ in great heart; he ‘ll carry him to perfection. I ‘ll have a ring-snaffle put on him, and my word for it but he ‘ll have a pleasant ride.”

“Take care, Molly; take care that he’s not too fresh. Remember that Repton is some dozen years or more my senior.”

“Let him keep him off the grass and he ‘ll go like a lamb. I’ll not answer for him on the sward, though; but I ‘ll look to him, uncle, and bring him back safe and sound.” And, so saying, Mary bounded away down the stairs, and away to the stables, forgetting everything of her late discontent, and only eager on the plan before her.

Martin was very far from satisfied about the arrangement for his friend’s equitation; nor did the aspect of Repton himself, as attired for the road, allay that sense of alarm; the old lawyer’s costume being a correct copy of the colored prints of those worthies who figured in the early years of George the Third’s reign, – a gray cloth spencer being drawn over his coat, fur-collared and cuffed, high riding-boots of black polished leather, reaching above the knee, and large gauntlets of bright yellow doeskin, completing an equipment which Martin had seen nothing resembling for forty years back.

“A perfect cavalier, Repton!” exclaimed he, smiling.

“We once could do a little that way,” said the other, with a touch of vanity. “In our early days, Martin, hunting was essentially a gentleman’s pastime. The meet was not disfigured by aspiring linen drapers or ambitious hardwaremen, and the tone of the field was the tone of society; but nous avons changé tout cela. Sporting men, as they call themselves, have descended to the groom vocabulary; and the groom morals, and we, of the old school, should only be laughed at for the pedantry of good manners and good English, did we venture amongst them.”

“My niece will put a different estimate on your companionship; and here she comes. Molly, my old and valued friend, Mr. Repton.”

“I kiss your hand, Miss Martin,” said he, accompanying the speech by the act, with all the grace of a courtier. “It’s worth while being an old fellow, to be able to claim these antiquated privileges.”

There was something in the jaunty air and well-assumed gallantry of the old lawyer which at once pleased Mary, who accepted his courtesy with a gracious smile. She had been picturing to herself a very different kind of companion, and was well satisfied with the reality.

“I proposed to young Mr. Nelligan to join us,” said Repton, as he conducted her to the door; “but it seems he is too deeply intent upon some question or point of law or history – I forget which – whereupon we differed last night, and has gone into the library to search for the solution of it. As for me, Miss Martin, I am too young for such dry labors; or, as the Duc de Nevers said, when somebody rebuked him for dancing at seventy, ‘Only think what a short time is left me for folly.’”

We do not propose to chronicle, the subjects or the sayings by which the old lawyer beguiled the way; enough if we say that Mary was actually delighted with his companionship. The racy admixture of humor and strong common-sense, acute views of life, flavored with, now a witty remark, now a pertinent anecdote, were conversational powers totally new to her. Nor was he less charmed with her. Independently of all the pleasure it gave him to find one who heard him with such true enjoyment, and relished all his varied powers of amusing, he was equally struck with the high-spirited enthusiasm and generous ardor of the young girl. She spoke of the people and the country with all the devotion of one who loved both; and if at times with more of hopefulness than he himself could feel, the sanguine forecast but lent another charm to her fascination.

He listened with astonishment as she explained to him the different works then in progress, – the vast plans for drainage; the great enclosures for planting; the roads projected here, the bridges there. At one place were strings of carts, conveying limestone for admixture with the colder soil of low grounds; at another they met asses loaded with seaweed for the potato land. There was movement and occupation on every side. In the deep valleys, on the mountains, in the clefts of the rocky shore, in the dark marble quarries, hundreds of people were employed; and by these was Mary welcomed with eager enthusiasm the moment she appeared. One glance at their delighted features was sufficient to show that theirs was no counterfeit joy. Wherever she went the same reception awaited her; nor did she try to conceal the happiness it conferred.

“This is very wonderful, very strange, and very fascinating, Miss Martin,” said Repton, as they moved slowly through a rocky path, escarped from the side of the mountain; “but pardon me if I venture to suggest one gloomy anticipation in the midst of such brightness. What is to become of all these people when you leave them, – as leave them you will and must, one day?”

“I never mean to do so,” said Mary, resolutely.

“Stoutly spoken,” said he, smiling; “but, unfortunately, he who hears it could be your grandfather. And again I ask, how is this good despotism to be carried on when the despot abdicates? Nay, nay; there never was a very beautiful girl yet, with every charm under heaven, who did n’t swear she ‘d never marry; so let us take another alternative. Your uncle may go to live in London, – abroad. He may sell Cro’ Martin – ”

“Oh, that is impossible! He loves the old home of his family and his name too dearly; he would be incapable of such a treason to his house!”

“Now, remember, my dear young lady, you are speaking to the most suspectful, unimpulsive, and ungenerously disposed of all natures, an old lawyer, who has witnessed so many events in life he would have once pronounced impossible, – ay, just as roundly as you said the word yourself, – and seen people and things under aspects so totally the reverse of what he first knew them, that he has taught himself to believe that change is the law, and not permanence, in this life, and that you and I, and all of us, ought ever to look forward to anything, everything, but the condition in which at present we find ourselves. Now, I don’t want to discourage you with the noble career you have opened for yourself here. I am far more likely to be fascinated – I was going to say fall in love – with you for it, than to try and turn your thoughts elsewhere; but as to these people themselves, the experiment comes too late.”