It Is Sad To
Reflect That Two Of The Lot Came To Violent Ends - Keogh, The
Cheeriest Of Men In Society, By His Own Hands.
Bourke I had
often spoken to of the danger he ran in crossing the Phoenix
Park nightly on his way home, on foot and unarmed.
He
laughed at me, and rather indignantly - for he was a very
vain man, though one of the most good-natured fellows in the
world. In the first place, he prided himself on his physique
- he was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and a good boxer
and fencer to boot. In the next place, he prided himself
above all things on being a thorough-bred Irishman, with a
sneaking sympathy with even Fenian grievances. 'They all
know ME,' he would say. 'The rascals know I'm the best
friend they have. I'm the last man in the world they'd harm,
for political reasons. Anyway, I can take care of myself.'
And so it was he fell.
The end of Horsman's secretaryship is soon told. A bishopric
became vacant, and almost as much intrigue was set agoing as
we read of in the wonderful story of 'L'Anneau d'Amethyste.'
Horsman, at all times a profuse letter-writer, wrote folios
to Lord Palmerston on the subject, each letter more
exuberant, more urgent than the last. But no answer came.
Finally, the whole Irish vote, according to the Chief
Secretary, being at stake - not to mention the far more
important matter of personal and official dignity - Horsman
flew off to London, boiling over with impatience and
indignation. He rushed to 10 Downing Street. His Lordship
was at the Foreign office, but was expected every minute;
would Mr. Horsman wait? Mr. Horsman was shown into his
Lordship's room. Piles of letters, opened and unopened, were
lying upon the table. The Chief Secretary recognised his own
signatures on the envelopes of a large bundle, all amongst
the 'un's.' The Premier came in, an explanation EXTREMEMENT
VIVE followed; on his return to Dublin Mr. Horsman resigned
his post, and from that moment became one of Lord
Palmerston's bitterest opponents.
CHAPTER XL
THE lectures at the Royal Institution were of some help to
me. I attended courses by Owen, Tyndall, Huxley, and Bain.
Of these, Huxley was FACILE PRINCEPS, though both Owen and
Tyndall were second to no other. Bain was disappointing. I
was a careful student of his books, and always admired the
logical lucidity of his writing. But to the mixed audience
he had to lecture to - fashionable young ladies in their
teens, and drowsy matrons in charge of them, he discreetly
kept clear of transcendentals. In illustration perhaps of
some theory of the relation of the senses to the intellect,
he would tell an amusing anecdote of a dog that had had an
injured leg dressed at a certain house, after which the
recovered dog brought a canine friend to the same house to
have his leg - or tail - repaired. Out would come all the
tablets and pretty pencil cases, and every young lady would
be busy for the rest of the lecture in recording the
marvellous history.
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