“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Owen, who felt too indignant at the cool insolence with which his generous proposal was accepted, to trust himself with more; and with that, he left the room.
“Well, Owen, my boy,” said Phil, who long since having paid his own rent, was becoming impatient at his friend's absence; “well, Owen, ye might have settled about the whole estate by this time. Why did they keep you so long?”
In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the result of his interview, adding, as he concluded, “And now, there's nothing for it, Phil, but to see the landlord himself, and spake to him. I've got the name of the place he's in, here—it's somewhere in London; and I'll never turn my steps to home, before I get a sight of him. I've the half-year's rent here in my pocket, so that I'll have money enough, and to spare; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell Mary how the whole case is, and to take care of little Patsy for me till I come back—he's at your house now.”
“Never fear, we'll take care of him, Owen; and I believe you're doing the best thing, after all.”
The two friends passed the evening together, at least until the time arrived, when Owen took his departure by the mail. It was a sad termination to a day which opened so joyfully, and not all Phil's endeavours to rally and encourage his friend could dispossess Owen's mind of a gloomy foreboding that it was but the beginning of misfortune. “I have it over me,” was his constant expression as they talked; “I have it over me, that something bad will come out of this;” and although his fears were vague and indescribable, they darkened his thoughts as effectually as real evils.
The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty '“God speed you,” shook his friend's hand, and he was gone.
It would but protract my story, without fulfilling any of its objects, to speak of Owen's journey to England and on to London. It was a season of great distress in the manufacturing districts; several large failures had occurred—great stagnation of trade existed, and a general depression was observable over the population of the great trading cities. There were daily meetings to consider the condition of the working classes, and the newspapers were crammed with speeches and resolutions in their favour. Placards were carried about the streets, with terrible announcements of distress and privation, and processions of wretched-looking men were met with on every side.
Owen, who, from motives of economy, prosecuted his journey on foot, had frequent opportunities of entering the dwellings of the poor, and observing their habits and modes of life. The everlasting complaints of suffering and want rung in his ears from morning till night; and yet, to his unaccustomed eyes, the evidences betrayed few, if any, of the evils of great poverty. The majority were not without bread—the very poorest had a sufficiency of potatoes. Their dwellings were neat-looking and comfortable, and, in comparison with what he was used to, actually luxurious. Neither were their clothes like the ragged and tattered coverings Owen had seen at home. The fustian jackets of the men were generally whole and well cared for; but the children more than all struck him. In Ireland, the young are usually the first to feel the pressure of hardship—their scanty clothing rather the requirement of decency, than a protection against weather: here, the children were cleanly and comfortably dressed—none were in rags, few without shoes and stockings.
What could such people mean by talking of distress, Owen could by no means comprehend. “I wish we had a little of this kind of poverty in ould Ireland!” was the constant theme of his thoughts. “'Tis little they know what distress is! Faix, I wondher what they'd say if they saw Connemarra?” And yet, the privations they endured were such as had not been known for many years previous. Their sufferings were really great, and the interval between their ordinary habits as wide, as ever presented itself in the fortunes of the poor Irishman's life. But poverty, after all, is merely relative; and they felt that as “starvation” which Paddy would hail as a season of blessing and abundance.
“With a fine slated house over them, and plenty of furniture inside, and warm clothes, and enough to eat,—that's what they call distress! Musha! I'd like to see them, when they think they're comfortable,” thought Owen, who at last lost all patience with such undeserved complainings, and could with difficulty restrain himself from an open attack on their injustice.