He had since wondered if the Great Exhibition of '51 had
not had something to do with it, by unduly whetting people's
imaginations; so that but a single cry of "Gold!" was needed, to loose
the spirit of vagrancy that lurks in every Briton's blood. His case had
perhaps been peculiar in this: no one had come forward to warn or
dissuade. His next relatives--mother and sisters--were, he thought,
glad to know him well away. In their eyes he had lowered himself by
taking up medicine; to them it was still of a piece with barber's pole
and cupping-basin. Before his time no member of the family had entered
any profession but the army. Oh, that infernal Irish pride! . . . and
Irish poverty. It had choke-damped his youth, blighted the prospects of
his sisters. He could remember, as if it were yesterday, the jibes and
fleers called forth by the suit of a wealthy Dublin brewer, who had been
attracted--by sheer force of contrast, no doubt--to the elder of the
two swan-necked, stiff-backed Miss Townshend-Mahonys, with their long,
thin noses, and the ingrained lines that ran from the curled nostrils to
the corners of their supercilious mouths, describing a sneer so deep
that at a distance it was possible to mistake it for a smile. "Beer, my
dear, indeed and there are worse things in the world than beer!" he
heard his mother declare in her biting way. "By all means take him! You
can wash yourself in it if water gets scarce, and I'll place my kitchen
orders with you.
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