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The 27th of May, 1782, was the day on which Parliament was to assemble in Dublin, and under circumstances of more than ordinary interest. The great question of the independence of the Irish Legislature was then to be discussed and determined; and never was the national mind so profoundly excited as when that time drew near. They who have only known Ireland in a later period, when her political convulsions have degenerated into low sectarian disputes,—irregular irruptions, headed by men of inferior ability, and stimulated solely by personal considerations,—can scarcely form any idea of Dublin in the days of the Volunteers. It was not alone that the Court of the Viceroy was unusually splendid, or that the presence of the Parliament crowded the capital with all the country could boast of wealth, station, and influence, but that the pomp and parade of a powerful army added brilliancy and grandeur to a spectacle which, for the magnitude of the interests at stake, and the genius and capacity of those that controlled them, had not its superior in Europe.

The position of England at the moment was pregnant with anxiety; at war with two powerful nations, she had more than ever reason to conciliate the feelings and consult the wishes of Ireland. The modern theory of English necessity being Irish opportunity had not the same prevalence then as in our own day, but still it had some followers, not one of whom more profoundly believed the adage, or was more prepared to stake fortune on the issue, than our acquaintance, Anthony Fagan.

If the Grinder was not possessed of very sage and statesmanlike opinions on politics generally, he was, on Irish questions, fully as far advanced as the patriots of our own time; his creed of “Ireland for the Irish” comprising every article of his political belief, with this advantage over modern patriotism that he was immensely rich, and quite ready to employ his wealth in the furtherance of his conviction. He was no needy adventurer, seeking, as the price of a parliamentary display, the position to which mere professional attainments would never have raised him, but a hard-working, slow-thinking, determined man, stimulated by the ambition that is associated with great riches, and stung by the degradation of low birth and proscribed religion.

Such men are dangerous in proportion as they are single-minded. Fagan, with all his sincerity of purpose, failed in this respect, for he was passionate and resentful to an extent which made him often forget everything else but his desire of a personal reparation. This was his great fault, and, strange enough, too, he knew it. The working of that failing, and his iron efforts to control it, made up the whole character of the man.

The gross corruption which characterized a late period of Irish history was then comparatively unknown. It is very possible that had it been attempted, its success had been very inferior to that it was destined to obtain subsequently, for the whole tone of public feeling was higher and purer. Public men were both more independent in property, as well as principle, and no distinction of talent or capacity could have dispensed with the greater gifts of honesty and good faith. If there were not venality and low ambition, however, to work upon, there were other national traits no less open to the seductive arts of a crafty administration. There was a warm-hearted and generous confidence, and a gratitude that actually accepted a pledge, and acknowledged it for performance. These were weaknesses not likely to escape the shrewd perception of party, and to the utmost were they profited by. The great game of the government was to sow, if not dissension, at least distrust, in the ranks of the national party,—to chill the ardor of patriotism, and, wherever possible, to excite different views, and different roads to success, amongst the popular leaders of the time. There came a day when corruption only asked to see a man's rent-roll and the list of his mortgages, when his price could be estimated as easily as an actuary can calculate an annuity when given the age and the circumstances of the individual. Then, however, the investigation demanded nicer and more delicate treatment, for the question was the more subtle one of the mixed and often discordant motives of the human heart.

The Duke of Portland was well calculated to carry out a policy of this kind; but I am far from suspecting that he was himself fully aware of the drama in which he acted. He was a plain, straightforward man, of average good sense, but more than average firmness and determination. He came over to Ireland thoroughly impressed with the favorite English maxim that whatever Irishmen wish is assuredly bad for them, and thought, like the old physicians of the sixteenth century, that a patient's benefit was in the exact proportion to his repugnance for the remedy. I am not quite sure that this pleasant theory is not even yet the favorite one as regards Ireland, which, perhaps, after all, might be permitted the privilege so generally accorded to the incurable, to take a little medicine of her own prescribing. Be this as it may, I am convinced that the Duke of Portland was no hypocrite, but firmly believed in the efficacy of the system he advocated, and only made use of the blandishments and hospitalities of his station to facilitate connections which he trusted would at last be concurred in on the unerring grounds of reason and judgment. Whatever people may say or think to the contrary, hypocrisy—that is, a really well-sustained and long-maintained hypocrisy—is one of the rarest things to be met with, and might even be suspected never to exist at all, since the qualities and gifts necessary, or indeed indispensable, to its attainment are exactly of an order which bespeaks some of the first and greatest traits of human nature, and for that reason would make the game of dissimulation impossible; and I would be as slow to believe that a man could search the heart, study the passions, weigh the motives, and balance the impulses of his fellow-men, for mere purposes of trick or deception, as that a doctor would devote years of toil and labor in his art for the sole aim of poisoning and destroying his patients.

Few men out of the lists of party took so great an interest in the great struggle as Tony Fagan. With the success of the patriotic side his own ambitions were intimately involved. It was not the section of great wealth, and there was no saying to what eminence a man of his affluence might attain amongst them. He not only kept a registry of all the members, with their peculiar leanings and party connections annexed to it, but he carefully noted down any circumstance likely to influence the vote or sway the motives of the principal leaders of the people. His sources of information were considerable, and penetrated every class of society, from the high world of Dublin down to the lowest resorts of the rabble. The needy gentleman, hard pressed for resources, found his dealings with the Grinder wonderfully facilitated by any little communication of backstairs doings at the Castle, or the secrets of the chief secretary's office; while the humble ballad-singer of the streets, or the ragged newsman, were equally certain of a “tester,” could they only supply some passing incident that bore upon the relations of party.

If not one of the most brilliant, certainly one of the most assiduous of Fagan's emissaries was a certain Samuel Cotterell,—a man who held the high and responsible dignity of state trumpeter in the Irish Court. He was a large, fine-looking, though somewhat over-corpulent, personage, with a most imposing dignity of air, and a calm self-possession of manner that well became his functions. Perhaps this was natural to him; but some of it may well be attributed to his sense of the dignity of one who only appeared in public on the very greatest occasions, and was himself the herald of a splendid ceremonial.

From long association with the Viceregal Court, he had grown to believe himself a part, and by no means an insignificant part, of the Government, and spoke of himself as of one mysteriously but intimately mixed up in all the acts of the State. The pretentious absurdity, the overweening vanity of the man, which afforded so much amusement to others, gave no pleasure to Fagan,—they rather vexed and irritated him; but these were feelings that he cautiously concealed, for he well knew the touchy and irritable nature of the man, and that whatever little information could be derived from him was only come-at-able by indulging his vein of self-esteem.

It had been for years his custom to pay a visit to Fagan on the eve of any great solemnity, and he was snugly installed in the little bow-window on the evening of the 26th May, with a goodly array of glasses and a very formidable square decanter of whiskey on a table in front of him. Fagan, who never could trust to the indiscreet propensity of Polly to “quizz” his distinguished friend, had sent her to spend the day in the country with some acquaintances; Raper was deep in a difficult passage of Richter, in his own chamber; so that the Grinder was free to communicate with the great official unmolested and undisturbed.

Most men carry into private life some little trait or habit of their professional career. The lawyer is apt to be pert, interrogative, and dictatorial; the doctor generally distils the tiresomeness of the patient in his own conversation; the soldier is proverbially pipeclay; and so perhaps we may forgive our friend Cotterell if his voice, in speaking, seemed to emulate the proud notes of his favorite instrument, while his utterance came in short, broken, abrupt bursts,—faint, but faithful, imitations of his brazen performances in public. He was naturally not given to talking, so that it is more than probable the habit of staccato was in itself a great relief to him.

I will not pretend to say that Fagan's patience was not sorely tried as well by the matter as the manner of his friend. His pursuit of politics was, indeed, under the greatest of difficulties; but he labored on, and, like some patient gold-seeker, was satisfied to wash the sand for hours, rewarded with even a few grains of the precious metal at the end of his toil.

“Help yourself, Sam. That's the poteen,—this, here, is Kinahan,” said the Grinder, who well knew that until the finish of the third tumbler, Mr. Cotterell's oracle gave no sound. “Help yourself, and remember you 'll have a fatiguing day to-morrow!”

“A great day,—say rather a great day for Ireland,” tolled out the trumpeter.

“That's to be seen,” replied Fagan, caustically. “I have witnessed a good many of those great days for Ireland, but I 'd be sorely puzzled to say what has come of them.”

“There are three great days for Ireland every year. There's the opening, one; the King's, two; St. Patrick's, three—”

“I know all that,” muttered Tony, discontentedly.

“St. Patrick's, three; and a collar day!” repeated Sam, solemnly.

“Collars, and curs to wear them,” growled out Tony, under his breath.

“Ay, a collar day!” and he raised his eyes with a half devotional expression at these imposing words.

“The Duke will open Parliament in person?” asked Fagan, as a kind of suggestive hint, which chanced to turn the talk.

“So we mean, sir,—we have always done so. Procession to form in the Upper Castle Yard at twelve; battle-axes in full dress; Ulster in his tabard!”

“Yes, yes; I have seen it over and over again,” sighed Fagan, wearily.

“Sounds of trumpet in the court—flourish!”

“Flourish, indeed!” sighed Tony; “it's the only thing does flourish in poor Ireland. Tell me, Sam, has the Court been brilliant lately?”

“We gave two dinners last week—plain dress—bags and swords!”

“And who were the company?”

“Loftus, Lodge, and Morris, Skeffington, Langrishe, and others—Boyle Roche, the Usher-in-waiting. On Friday, we had Rowley, Charlemont—”

“Lord Charlemont,—did he dine with the Viceroy on Friday last?”

“Yes, sir; and it was the first time we have asked him since the Mutiny Bill!”

“This is indeed strange, Sam; I scarcely thought he was on such terms with the Court!”

“We forgive and forget, sir,—we forgive and forget,” said Sam, waving his hand with dignity.

“There was young Carew also.”

“Walter Carew, the member for Wicklow?”

“The same—took in Lady Charlotte Carteret—sat next to her Grace, and spoken to frequently—French wife—much noticed!”

“Is he one of the new converts, then?” asked Fagan, slowly; “is he about to change the color of his coat?”

“A deep claret, with diamond buttons, jabot, and ruffles, Mechlin lace—”

“And the Duke, you say, spoke much with him?”

“Repeatedly.”

“They talked of politics?”

“We talked of everything.”

“And in terms of agreement too?”

“Not about artichokes. Carew likes them in oil,—we always prefer butter.”

“That is a most important difference of opinion,” said Tony, with a sneer.

“We thought nothing of it,” said the other, with an air of dignity; “for shortly after, we accepted an invitation to go down to Castle Carew for a week.”

“To spend a week at Castle Carew?”

“A half state visit.”

“With all the tagrag and bobtail of a Court,—the lazy drones of pageantry, the men of painted coats and patched characters, the women painted too, but beyond the art of patching for a reputation.”

“No, in half state,” replied Cotterell, calmly, and not either heeding or attending to this passionate outburst,—“two aides-de-camp; Mr. Barrold, private secretary; Sir George Gore; and about thirty servants.”

“Thirty thieves in state livery,—thirty bandits in silk stockings and powder!”

“We have made mutual concessions, and shall, I doubt not, be good friends,” continued Sam, only thinking of what he said himself. “Carew is to give our state policy a fair trial, and we are to taste the artichokes with oil. His Grace proposed the contract, and then proposed the visit.”

A deep groan of angry indignation was all that Tony could utter in reply. “And this same visit,” said he, at last, “when is it to take place?”

“Next week; for the present we have much on our hands. We open Parliament to-morrow; Wednesday, grand dinner to peers and peeresses; Thursday, the judges and law officers; Friday, debate on the address—small party of friends; Saturday we go to the play in state,—we like the play.”

“You do, do you?” said the Grinder, with a grin of malice, as some vindictive feeling worked within him.

“We have commanded 'The Road to Ruin,'” continued Cotterell.

“Out of compliment to your politics, I suppose!”

“Holman's Young Rapid always amused us!”

“Carew's performance of the character is better still,—it is real; it is palpable.” Then, suddenly carried beyond himself by a burst of passion, he cried: “Now, is it possible that your heavy browed Duke fancies a country can be ruled in this wise? Does he believe that a little flattery here, a little bribery there, some calumny to separate friends, some gossip to sow dissension amongst intimates, a promise of place, a title or a pension thrown to the hungry hounds that yelp, and bark, and fawn about a Court,—that this means government, or that these men are the nation?”

“You have overturned the sugar-bowl,” observed Cotterell.

“Better than to upset the country,” said the other, with a contemptuous look at his stolid companion. “I tell you what it is, Cotterell,” added he, gravely, “these English had might and power on their side, and had they rested their strength on them, they might defy us, for we are the weaker party; but they have condescended to try other weapons, and would encounter us with subtlety, intrigue, and cabal. Now, mark my words: we may not live to see it, but the time will come when their scheme will recoil upon themselves; for we are their equals,—ay, more than their equals,—with such arms as these! Fools that they are, not to see that if they destroy the influence of the higher classes, the people will elect leaders from their own ranks; and, instead of having to fight Popery alone, the day is not distant when they 'll have to combat democracy too. Will not the tune be changed then?”

“It must always be 'God save the King,' sir, on birthdays,” said Cotterell, who was satisfied if he either caught or comprehended the last words of any discourse.

It is difficult to say whether the Grinder's temper could have much longer endured these assaults of stupidity, but for the sudden appearance of Raper, who, coming stealthily forward, whispered a few words in Fagan's ear.

“Did you say here?—here?” asked Fagan, eagerly.

“Yes, sir,” replied Raper; “below in the office.”

“But why there? Why not show him upstairs? No, no, you 're right,” added he, with a most explanatory glance towards his guest. “I must leave you for a few minutes, Cotterell. Take care of yourself till I come back;” and with this apology he arose, and followed Raper downstairs.

The visitor, who sat on one of the high office-stools, dressed in the first fashion of the day, slapped his boot impatiently with his cane, and did not even remove his hat as Fagan entered, contenting himself with a slight touch of the finger to its leaf for salutation.

“Sorry to disturb you, Fagan,” said he, half cavalierly; “but being in town late this evening, and knowing the value of even five minutes' personal intercourse, I have dropped in to say,—what I have so often said in the same place,—I want money.”

“Grieved to hear it, Mr. Carew,” was the grave, sententious reply.

“I don't believe you, Tony. When a man can lend, as you can, on his own terms, he 's never very sorry to hear of the occasion for his services.”

“Cash is scarce, sir.”

“So I have always found it, Tony; but, like everything else, one gets it by paying for. I 'm willing to do so, and now, what's the rate,—ten, fifteen, or are you Patriarch enough to need twenty per cent?”

“I'm not sure that I could oblige you, even on such terms, Mr. Carew. There is a long outstanding, unsettled account between us. There is a very considerable balance due to me. There are, in fact, dealings between us which call for a speedy arrangement.”

“And which are very unlikely to be favored with it, Tony. Now, I have n't a great deal of time to throw away, for I'm off to the country to-night, so that pray let us understand each other at once. I shall need, before Monday next, a sum of not less than eight thousand pounds. Hacket, my man of law, will show you such securities as I possess. Call on him, and take your choice of them. I desire that our negotiation should be strictly a matter between ourselves, because we live in gossiping times, and I don't care to amuse the town with my private affairs. Are you satisfied with this?”

“Eight thousand, in bills, of course, sir?”

“If you wish it!”

“At what dates?”

“The longer the better.”

“Shall we say in two sums of four thousand each,—six months and nine?”

“With all my heart. When can I touch the coin?”

“Now, sir; this moment if you desire it.”

“Write the check, then, Tony,” said he, hurriedly.

“There, sir, there are the bills for your signature,” said Fagan. “Will you have the goodness to give me a line to Hacket about the securities?”

“Of course,” said he; and he at once wrote the note required. “Now for another point, Tony: I am going to ask a favor of you. Are you in a gracious mood this evening?”

The appeal was sudden enough to be disconcerting, and so Fagan felt it, for he looked embarrassed and confused in no ordinary degree.

“Come, I see I shall not be refused,” said my father, who at once saw that the only course was the bold one. “It is this: we are expecting some friends to spend a few days with us at Castle Carew, a kind of house-warming to that new wing; we have done our best to gather around us whatever our good city boasts of agreeability and beauty, and with tolerable success. There is, I may say, but one wanting to make our triumph complete. With her presence I 'd wager a thousand guineas that no country mansion in Great Britain could contest the palm with us.”

Fagan grew deadly pale as he listened, then flushed deeply, and a second time a sickly hue crept over his features as, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said,—

“You mean my daughter, sir?”

“Of course I do, Tony. A man need n't read riddles to know who is the handsomest girl in Dublin. I hope you 'll not deny us the favor of her company. My wife will meet her at Bray; she'll come into town, if you prefer it, and take her up here.”

“Oh, no, sir; not here,” said Fagan, hurriedly, who, whatever plans he might be forming in his mind, quickly saw the inconvenience of such a step.

“It shall be as you please in every respect, Fagan. Now, on Tuesday morning—”

“Not so fast, sir,—not so fast,” said Fagan, calmly. “You have n't given me time for much reflection now; and the very little thought I have bestowed on the matter suggests grave doubts to me. Nobody knows better than Mr. Carew that a wide gulf separates our walk in life from his; that however contented with our lot in this world, it is a very humble one—”

“Egad! I like such humility. The man who can draw a check for ten thousand at sight, and yet never detect any remarkable alteration in his banker's book, ought to be proud of the philosophy that teaches him contentment. Tony, my worthy friend, don't try to mystify me. You know, and you 'd be a fool if you did n't know, that with your wealth and your daughter's beauty you have only to choose the station she will occupy. There is but one way you can possibly defeat her success, and that is by estranging her from the world, and withdrawing her from all intercourse with society. I can't believe that this is your intention; I can scarcely credit that it could be her wish. Let us, then, have the honor of introducing her to that rank, the very highest position in which she would grace and dignify. I ask it as a favor,—the very greatest you can bestow on us.”

“No, sir; it cannot be. It's impossible, utterly impossible.”

“I am really curious to know upon what grounds, for I confess they are a secret to me!”

“So they must remain, then, sir, if you cannot persuade me to open more of my heart than I am in the habit of doing with comparative strangers. I can be very grateful for the honor you intend me, Mr. Carew; but the best way to be so is, probably, not to accompany that feeling with any sense of personal humiliation!”

“You are certainly not bent on giving me any clew to your motives, Fagan.”

“I'm sorry for it, sir; but frankness to you might be great unfairness to myself.”

“More riddles, Tony, and I 'm far too dull to read them.”

“Well, then, sir, perhaps you'd understand me when I say that Anthony Fagan, low and humble as he is, has no mind to expose his daughter to the sneers and scoffs of a rank she has no pretension to mix with; that, miser as he is, he would n't bring a blush of shame to her cheek for all the wealth of India! and that, rather than sit at home here and brood over every insult that would be offered to the usurer's daughter by those beggarly spendthrifts that are at liberty by his bounty, he 'd earn his name of the Grinder by crushing them to the dust!”

The vehemence of his utterance had gone on increasing as he spoke, till at the end the last words were given with almost a scream of passion.

“I must say, Fagan,” replied my father, calmly, “that you form a very humble, I trust a very unfair, estimate of the habits of my house, not to say of my own feelings. However, we'll not dispute the matter. Good evening to you.”

“Good evening, sir; I 'm sorry I was so warm; I hope I have said nothing that could offend you.”

“Not when you did n't mean offence, believe me, Fagan. I repeat my hope that the friends and acquaintances with whom I live are not the underbred and ill-mannered class you think them; beyond that I have nothing to say. Good evening.”

Probably no amount of discussion and argument on the subject could so palpably have convinced Fagan of the vast superiority of a man of good manners over one of inferior breeding as did the calm and gentleman-like quietude of my father's bearing, in contradistinction to his own passionate outbreak.

“One moment, sir,—one moment,” cried he, laying his hand on my father's arm; “you really believe that one humbly born as Polly, the daughter of a man in my condition, would be received amongst the high and titled of Dublin without a scornful allusion to whence she came,—without a sneer at her rank in life?”

“If I thought anything else, Fagan, Ï should be dishonored in making this request of you.”

“She shall go, sir,—she shall go,” cried Fagan.

“Thanks for the confidence, Fagan; I know you 'd rather trust me with half your fortune without a scratch of my pen in return.”

Fagan turned away his head; but a motion of his hand across his eyes showed how he felt the speech.

To obviate the awkwardness of the moment, my father entered upon the details of the journey, for which it was arranged that Fagan was to send his daughter to Bray, where a carriage from Castle Carew would be in waiting to convey her the remainder of the way. These points being settled, my father once again thanked him for his compliance, and departed.

I should be only mystifying my reader most unjustifiably should I affect any secrecy as to my father's reasons for this singular invitation; for although the gossipry of the day could adduce innumerable plots and plans which were to spring out of it, I sincerely believe his sole motive was the pleasure that he and my mother were sure to feel in doing a piece of graceful and generous politeness. MacNaghten's account of Polly had strongly excited their curiosity, not to speak of a more worthy feeling, in her behalf; and knowing that Fagan's immense wealth would one day or other be hers, they felt it was but fair that she should see, and be seen, by that world of which she was yet to be a distinguished ornament. Beyond this, I implicitly believe they had no motive nor plan. Of course, I do not pretend to say that even amongst his own very guests, the men who travelled down to enjoy his hospitality, his conduct did not come in for its share of criticism. Many an artful device was attributed to this seeming stroke of policy, not one of which, however, did not more redound to my father's craft than to his character for honorable dealing. But what would become of “bad tongues” in this world if there were not generous natures to calumniate and vilify? Of a verity, scandal prefers a high mark and an unblemished reputation for its assaults, far better than a damaged fame and a tattered character; it seems more heroic to shy a pebble through a pane of plate-glass than to pitch a stone through a cracked casement!