Edward O'Connor, on hearing from Gustavus of the old dowager's disappearance from Neck-or-Nothing Hall, joined in the eager inquiries which were made about her; and his being directed with more method and judgment than those of others, their result was more satisfactory. He soon “took up the trail,” to use an Indian phrase, and he and Gusty were not many hours in posting after the old lady. They arrived in town early in the morning, and lost no time in casting about for information.

One of the first places Edward inquired at was the inn where the postchaise generally drove to from the house where the old dowager had obtained her carriage in the country; but there no trace was to be had. Next, the principal hotels were referred to, but as yet without success; when, as they turned into one of the leading streets in continuance of their search, their attention was attracted by a crowd swaying to and fro in that peculiar manner which indicates there is a fight inside of it. Great excitement prevailed on the verge of the crowd, where exclamations escaped from those who could get a peep at the fight.

“The little chap has great heart!” cried one.

“But the sweep is the biggest,” said another.

“Well done, Horish!” [Footnote: The name of a celebrated sweep in Ireland, whose name is applied to the whole.] cried a blackguard, who enjoyed the triumph of his fellow. “Bravo! little fellow,” rejoined a genteel person, who rejoiced in some successful hit of the other combatant. There is an inherent love in men to see a fight, which Edward O'Connor shared with inferior men; and if he had not peeped into the ring, most assuredly Gusty would. What was their astonishment, when they got a glimpse of the pugilists, to perceive Ratty was one of them—his antagonist being a sweep, taller by a head, and no bad hand at the “noble science.”

Edward's first impulse was to separate them, but Gusty requested he would not, saying that he saw by Ratty's eye he was able to “lick the fellow.” Ratty certainly showed great fight; what the sweep had in superior size was equalized by the superior “game” of the gentleman-boy, to whom the indomitable courage of a high-blooded race had descended, and who would sooner have died than yield. Besides, Ratty was not deficient in the use of his “bunch of fives,” hit hard for his size, and was very agile: the sweep sometimes made a rush, grappled, and got a fall; but he never went in without getting something from Ratty to “remember him,” and was not always uppermost. At last, both were so far punished, and the combat not being likely to be speedily ended (for the sweep was no craven), that the bystanders interfered, declaring that “they ought to be separated,” and they were.

While the crowd was dispersing, Edward called a coach; and before Ratty could comprehend how the affair was managed, he was shoved into it and driven from the scene of action. Ratty had a confused sense of hearing loud shouts—of being lifted somewhere—of directions given—the rattle of iron steps clinking sharply—two or three fierce bangs of a door that wouldn't shut, and then an awful shaking, which roused him up from the corner of the vehicle into which he had fallen in the first moment of exhaustion. Ratty “shook his feathers,” dragged his hair from out of his eyes, which were getting very black indeed, and applied his handkerchief to his nose, which was much in need of that delicate attention; and when the sense of perfect vision was restored to him, which was not for some time (all the colours of the rainbow dancing before Ratty's eyes for many seconds after the fight), what was his surprise to see Edward O'Connor and Gusty sitting on the opposite seat!

It was some time before Ratty could quite comprehend his present situation; but as soon as he was made sensible of it, and could answer, the first questions asked of him were about his grandmother. Ratty fortunately remembered the name of the hotel where she put up, though he had left it as soon as the old lady proceeded to the Castle—had lost his way—and got engaged in a quarrel with a sweep in the meantime.

The coach was ordered to drive to the hotel named; and how the fight occurred was the next question.

“The sweep was passing by, and I called him 'snow-ball,'” said Ratty; “and the blackguard returned an impudent answer, and I hit him.”

“You had no right to call him 'snow-ball,'” said Edward.

“I always called the sweeps 'snow-ball' down at the Hall,” said Ratty, “and they never answered.”

“When you are on your own territory you may say what you please to your dependents, Ratty, and they dare not answer; or to use a vulgar saying, 'A cock may crow on his own dunghill.'”

“I'm no dunghill cock!” said Ratty, fiercely.

“Indeed, you're not,” said Edward, laying his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder; “you have plenty of courage.”

“I'd have licked him,” said Ratty, “if they'd have let me have two or three rounds more.”

“My dear boy, other things are needful in this world besides courage. Prudence, temper, and forbearance are required; and this may be a lesson to you, to remember, that, when you get abroad in the world, you are very little cared about, however great your consequence may be at home; and I am sure you cannot be proud about your having got into a quarrel with a sweep.”

Ratty made no answer—his blood began to cool—he became every moment more sensible that he had received heavy blows. His eyes became more swollen, he snuffled more in his speech, and his blackened condition altogether, from gutter, soot, and thrashing, convinced him a fight with a sweep was not an enviable achievement.

The coach drew up at the hotel. Edward left Gusty to see about the dowager, and made an appointment for Gusty to meet him at their own lodgings in an hour; while he in the interim should call on Dick Dawson, who was in town on his way to London.

Edward shook hands with Ratty and bade him kindly good bye. “You're a stout fellow, Ratty,” said he, “but remember this old saying, 'Quarrelsome dogs get dirty coats.'”

Edward now proceeded to Dick's lodgings, and found him engaged in reading a note from Tom Durfy, dated from the “Bower of Repose,” and requesting Dick's aid in his present difficulty.

“Here's a pretty kettle of fish,” said Dick: “Tom Durfy, who is engaged to dine with me to-day to take leave of his bachelor life, as he is going to be married to-morrow, is arrested, and now in quod, and wants me to bail him.”

“The shortest way is to pay the money at once,” said Edward; “is it much?”

“That I don't know; but I have not a great deal about me, and what I have I want for my journey to London and my expenses there—not but what I'd help Tom if I could.”

“He must not be allowed to remain there, however we manage to get him out,” said Edward; “perhaps I can help you in the affair.”

“You're always a good fellow, Ned,” said Dick, shaking his hand warmly.

Edward escaped from hearing any praise of himself by proposing they should repair at once to the sponging-house, and see how matters stood. Dick lamented he should be called away at such a moment, for he was just going to get his wine ready for the party—particularly some champagne, which he was desirous of seeing well iced; but as he could not wait to do it himself, he called Andy, to give him directions about it, and set off with Edward to the relief of Tom Durfy.

Andy was once more in service in the Egan family; for the Squire, on finding him still more closely linked by his marriage with the desperate party whose influence over Andy was to be dreaded, took advantage of Andy's disgust against the woman who had entrapped him, and offered to take him off to London instead of enlisting; and as Andy believed he would be there sufficiently out of the way of the false Bridget, he came off at once to Dublin with Dick, who was the pioneer of the party to London.

Dick gave Andy the necessary directions for icing the champagne, which he set apart and pointed out most particularly to our hero, lest he should make a mistake and perchance ice the port instead.

After Edward and Dick had gone, Andy commenced operations according to orders. He brought a large tub up-stairs containing rough ice, which excited Andy's wonder, for he never had known till now that ice was preserved for and applied to such a use, for an ice-house did not happen to be attached to any establishment in which he had served.

“Well, this is the quarest thing I ever heerd of,” said Andy. “Musha! what outlandish inventions the quolity has among them! They're not contint with wine, but they must have ice along with it—and in a tub, too!—just like pigs!—throth it's a dirty thrick, I think. Well, here goes!” said he; and Andy opened a bottle of champagne, and poured it into the tub with the ice. “How it fizzes!” said Andy, “Faix, it's almost as lively as the soda-wather that bothered me long ago. Well, I know more about things now; sure it's wondherful how a man improves with practice!”—and another bottle of champagne was emptied into the tub as he spoke. Thus, with several other complacent comments upon his own proficiency, Andy poured half-a-dozen of champagne into the tub of ice, and remarked, when he had finished his work, that he thought it would be “mighty cowld on their stomachs.”

Dick and Edward all this time were on their way to the relief of Tom Durfy, who, though he had cooled down from the boiling-pitch to which the misadventure of the morning had raised him, was still simmering, with his elbows planted on the rickety table in Mr. Goggins' “bower,” and his chin resting on his clenched hands. It was the very state of mind in which Tom was most dangerous.

At the other side of the table sat James Reddy, intently employed in writing; his pursed mouth and knitted brows bespoke a labouring state of thought, and the various crossings, interlinings, and blottings gave additional evidence of the same, while now and then a rush at a line which was knocked off in a hurry, with slashing dashes of the pen, and fierce after-crossings of t's, and determined dottings of i's, declared some thought suddenly seized, and executed with bitter triumph.

“You seem very happy in yourself in what you are writing,” said Tom. “What is it? Is it another epithalamium?”

“It is a caustic article against the successful men of the day,” said Reddy; “they have no merit, sir—none. 'T is nothing but luck has placed them where they are, and they ought to be exposed.” He then threw down his pen as he spoke, and, after a silence of some minutes, suddenly put this question to Tom:

“What do you think of the world?”

“'Faith, I think it so pleasant a place,” said Tom, “that I'm confoundedly vexed at being kept out of it by being locked up here; and that cursed bailiff is so provokingly free-and-easy—coming in here every ten minutes, and making himself at home.”

“Why, as for that matter, it is his home, you must remember.”

“But while a gentleman is here for a period,” said Tom, “this room ought to be considered his, and that fellow has no business here—and then his bows and scrapes, and talking about the feelings of a gentleman, and all that—'t is enough to make a dog beat his father. Curse him! I'd like to choke him.”

“Oh! that's merely his manner,” said James.

“Want of manners, you mean,” said Tom. “Hang me, if he comes up to me with his rascally familiarity again, but I'll kick him down stairs.”

“My dear fellow, you are excited,” said Reddy; “don't let these sublunary trifles ruffle your temper—you see how I bear it; and to recall you to yourself, I will remind you of the question we started from, 'What do you think of the world?' There's a general question—a broad question, upon which one may talk with temper and soar above the petty grievances of life in the grand consideration of so ample a subject. You see me here, a prisoner like yourself, but I can talk of the world. Come, be a calm philosopher, like me! Answer, what do you think of the world?”

“I've told you already,” said Tom; “it's a capital place, only for the bailiffs.”

“I can't agree with you,” said James. “I think it one vast pool of stagnant wretchedness, where the malaria of injustice holds her scales suspended, to poison rising talent by giving an undue weight to existing prejudices.”

To this lucid and good-tempered piece of philosophy, Tom could only answer, “You know I am no poet, and I cannot argue with you but, 'pon my soul, I have known, and do know, some uncommon good fellows in the world.”

“You're wrong, you're wrong, my unsuspecting friend. 'T is a bad world, and no place for susceptible minds. Jealousy pursues talent like its shadow—superiority alone wins for you the hatred of inferior men. For instance, why am I here? The editor of my paper will not allow my articles always to appear;—prevents their insertion, lest the effect they would make would cause inquiry, and tend to my distinction; and the consequence is, that the paper I came to uphold in Dublin is deprived of my articles, and I don't get paid; while I see inferior men, without asking for it, loaded with favour; they are abroad in affluence, and I in captivity and poverty. But one comfort is, even in disgrace I can write, and they shall get a slashing.”

Thus spoke the calm philosopher, who gave Tom a lecture on patience.

Tom was no great conjuror; but at that moment, like Audrey, “he thanked the gods he was not poetical.” If there be any one thing more than another to make an “every-day man” content with his average lot, it is the exhibition of ambitious inferiority, striving for distinction it can never attain; just given sufficient perception to desire the glory of success, without power to measure the strength that can achieve it; like some poor fly, which beats its head against a pane of glass, seeing the sunshine beyond, but incapable of perceiving the subtle medium which intervenes—too delicate for its limited sense to comprehend, but too strong for its limited power to pass. But though Tom felt satisfaction at that moment, he had too good feeling to wound the self-love of the vain creature before him; so, instead of speaking what he thought, viz., “What business have you to attempt literature, you conceited fool?” he tried to wean him civilly from his folly by saying, “Then come back to the country, James; if you find jealous rivals here, you know you were always admired there.”

“No, sir,” said James; “even there my merit was unacknowledged.”

“No! no!” said Tom.

“Well, underrated, at least. Even there, that Edward O'Connor, somehow or other, I never could tell why—I never saw his great talents—but somehow or other, people got it into their heads that he was clever.”

“I tell you what it is,” said Tom, earnestly, “Ned-of-the-Hill has got into a better place than people's heads—he has got into their hearts!”

“There it is!” exclaimed James, indignantly. “You have caught up the cuckoo-cry—the heart! Why, sir, what merit is there in writing about feelings which any common labourer can comprehend? There's no poetry in that; true poetry lies in a higher sphere, where you have difficulty in following the flight of the poet, and possibly may not be fortunate enough to understand him—that's poetry, sir.”

“I told you I am no poet,” said Tom; “but all I know is, I have felt my heart warm to some of Edward's songs, and, by jingo, I have seen the women's eyes glisten, and their cheeks flush or grow pale, as they have heard them—and that's poetry enough for me.”

“Well, let Mister O'Connor enjoy his popularity, sir, if popularity it may be called, in a small country circle—let him enjoy it—I don't envy him his, though I think he was rather jealous about mine.”

“Ned jealous!” exclaimed Tom, in surprise.

“Yes, jealous; I never heard him say a kind word of any verses I ever wrote in my life; and I am certain he has most unkind feelings towards me.”

“I tell you what it is,” said Tom, “getting up” a bit; “I told you I don't understand poetry, but I do understand what's an infinitely better thing, and that's fine, generous, manly feeling; and if there's a human being in the world incapable of wronging another in his mind or heart, or readier to help his fellow-man, it is Edward O'Connor: so say no more, James, if you please.”

Tom had scarcely uttered the last word, when the key was turned in the door.

“Here's that infernal bailiff again!” said Tom, whose irritability, increased by Reddy's paltry egotism and injustice, was at its boiling-pitch once more. He planted himself firmly in his chair, and putting on his fiercest frown, was determined to confront Mister Goggins with an aspect that should astonish him.

The door opened, and Mister Goggins made his appearance, presenting to the gentlemen in the room the hinder portion of his person, which made several indications of courtesy performed by the other half of his body, while he uttered the words, “Don't be astonished, gentlemen; you'll be used to it by-and-by.” And with these words he kept backing towards Tom, making these nether demonstrations of civility, till Tom could plainly see the seams in the back of Mr. Goggins's pantaloons.

Tom thought this was some new touch of the “free-and-easy” on Mister Goggins's part, and, losing all command of himself, he jumped from his chair, and with a vigorous kick gave Mister Goggins such a lively impression of his desire that he should leave the room, that Mister Goggins went head foremost down the stairs, pitching his whole weight upon Dick Dawson and Edward O'Connor, who were ascending the dark stairs, and to whom all his bows had been addressed. Overwhelmed with astonishment and twelve stone of bailiff, they were thrown back into the hall, and an immense uproar in the passage ensued.

Edward and Dick were near coming in for some hard usage from Goggins, conceiving it might be a preconcerted attempt on the part of his prisoners and their newly arrived friends to achieve a rescue; and while he was rolling about on the ground, he roared to his evil-visaged janitor to look to the door first, and keep him from being “murthered” after.

Fortunately no evil consequences ensued, until matters could be explained in the hall, and Edward and Dick were introduced to the upper room, from which Goggins had been so suddenly ejected.

There the bailiff demanded in a very angry tone the cause of Tom's conduct; and when it was found to be only a mutual misunderstanding—that Goggins wouldn't take a liberty with a gentleman “in defficulties” for the world, and that Tom wouldn't hurt a fly, “only under a mistake”—matters were cleared up to the satisfaction of all parties, and the real business of the meeting commenced:—that was to pay Tom's debt out of hand; and when the bailiff saw all demands, fees included, cleared off, the clouds from his brow cleared off also, he was the most amiable of sheriff's officers, and all his sentimentality returned.

Edward did not seem quite to sympathise with his amiability, so Goggins returned to the charge, while Tom and Dick were exchanging a few words with James Reddy.

“You see, sir,” said Goggins, “in the first place, it is quite beautiful to see the mind in adversity bearing up against the little antediluvian afflictions that will happen occasionally, and then how fine it is to remark the spark of generosity that kindles in the noble heart and rushes to the assistance of the destitute! I do assure you, sir, it is a most beautiful sight to see the gentlemen in defficulties waitin' here for their friends to come to their relief, like the last scene in Blue Beard, where sister Ann waves her han'kerchief from the tower—the tyrant is slain—and virtue rewarded!

“Ah, sir!” said he to Edward O'Connor, whose look of disgust at the wretched den caught the bailiff's attention, “don't entertain an antifassy from first imprissions, which is often desaivin'. I do pledge you my honour, sir, there is no place in the 'varsal world where human nature is visible in more attractive colours than in this humble retrait.”

Edward could not conceal a smile at the fellow's absurdity, though his sense of the ridiculous could not overcome the disgust with which the place inspired him. He gave an admonitory touch to the elbow of Dick Dawson, who, with his friend Tom Durfy, followed Edward from the room, the bailiff bringing up the rear, and relocking the door on the unfortunate James Reddy, who was left “alone in his glory,” to finish his slashing article against the successful men of the day. Nothing more than words of recognition had passed between Reddy and Edward. In the first place, Edward's appearance at the very moment the other was indulging in illiberal observations upon him rendered the ill-tempered poetaster dumb; and Edward attributed this distance of manner to a feeling of shyness which Reddy might entertain at being seen in such a place, and therefore had too much good breeding to thrust his civility on a man who seemed to shrink from it; but when he left the house he expressed his regret to his companions at the poor fellow's unfortunate situation.

It touched Tom Durfy's heart to hear these expressions of compassion coming from the lips of the man he had heard maligned a few minutes before by the very person commiserated, and it raised his opinion higher of Edward, whose hand he now shook with warm expressions of thankfulness on his own account, for the prompt service rendered to him. Edward made as light of his own kindness as he could, and begged Tom to think nothing of such a trifle.

“One word I will say to you, Durfy, and I'm sure you'll pardon me for it.”

“Could you say a thing to offend me?” was the answer.

“You are to be married soon, I understand?”

“To-morrow,” said Tom.

“Well, my dear Durfy, if you owe any more money, take a real friend's advice, and tell your pretty good-hearted widow the whole amount of your debts before you marry her.”

“My dear O'Connor,” said Tom, “the money you've lent me now is all I owe in the world; 't was a tailor's bill, and I quite forgot it. You know, no one ever thinks of a tailor's bill. Debts, indeed!” added Tom, with surprise; “my dear fellow, I never could be much in debt, for the devil a one would trust me.”

“An excellent reason for your unencumbered state,” said Edward, “and I hope you pardon me.”

“Pardon!” exclaimed Tom, “I esteem you for your kind and manly frankness.”

In the course of their progress towards Dick's lodgings, Edward reverted to James Reddy's wretched condition, and found it was but some petty debt for which he was arrested. He lamented, in common with Dick and Tom, the infatuation which made him desert a duty he could profitably perform by assisting his father in his farming concerns, to pursue a literary path, which could never be any other to him than one of thorns.

As Edward had engaged to meet Gusty in an hour, he parted from his companions and pursued his course alone. But, instead of proceeding immediately homeward, he retraced his steps to the den of the bailiff and gave a quiet tap at the door. Mister Goggins himself answered to the knock, and began a loud and florid welcome to Edward, who stopped his career of eloquence by laying a finger on his lip in token of silence. A few words sufficed to explain the motive of his visit. He wished to ascertain the sum for which the gentleman up-stairs was detained. The bailiff informed him; and the money necessary to procure the captive's liberty was placed in his hand.

The bailiff cast one of his melodramatic glances at Edward, and said, “Didn't I tell you, sir, this was the place for calling out the noblest feelings of human nature?”

“Can you oblige me with writing materials?” said Edward.

“I can, sir,” said Goggins, proudly, “and with other materials too, if you like—and 'pon my honour, I'll be proud to drink your health, for you're a raal gintleman.” [Footnote: The name given in Ireland to the necessary materials for the compounding of whisky-punch.]

Edward, in the civilest manner, declined the offer, and wrote, or rather tried to write, the following note, with a pen like a skewer, ink something thicker than mud, and on whity-brown paper:—

“DEAR SIR,—I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken in your temporary want of money. You can repay me at your convenience. Yours,

“E. O'C.”

Edward left the den, and so did James Reddy soon after—a better man. Though weak, his heart was not shut to the humanities of life—and Edward's kindness, in opening his eyes to the wrong he had done one man, induced in his heart a kinder feeling towards all. He tore up his slashing article against successful men. Would that every disappointed man would do the same.

The bailiff was right: even so low a den as his becomes ennobled by the presence of active benevolence and prejudice reclaimed.