The marauding exploits they told of, were, to Owen's ears, not devoid of a strange interest, the danger alone had its fascination for him; and, artfully interwoven as their stories were with sentiments of affected patriotism and noble aspirations for the cause of their country, they affected him strongly.
For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country—a mistaken sense of national honour—prompted many to these lawless courses. Vague notions of confiscated lands to be restored to their rightful possessors; ancient privileges reconferred; their church once more endowed with its long-lost wealth and power: such were the motives of the more high-spirited and independent. Others sought redress for personal grievances; some real or imaginary hardship they laboured under; or, perhaps, as was not unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge or malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of requiting. Many were there, who, like the weak-minded in all popular commotions, float with the strong tide, whichever way it may run. They knew not the objects aimed at; they were ignorant of the intentions of their leaders; but would not be under the stain of cowardice among their companions, nor shrink from any cause where there was danger, if only for that very reason. Thus was the mass made up, of men differing in various ways; but all held together by the common tie of a Church and a Country. It might be supposed that the leaders in such a movement would be those who, having suffered some grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure on any course that promised vengeance;—very far from this. The principal promoters of the insurrection were of the class of farmers—men well to do, and reputed, in many cases wealthy. The instruments by which they worked were indeed of the very poorer class—the cottier, whose want and misery had eat into his nature, and who had as little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice denied him; his ejection from his tenement; a chance word, perhaps, spoken to him in anger by his landlord or the agent, were the springs which moved a man like this, and brought him into confederacy with those who promised him a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into the belief that his individual case had all the weight and importance of a national question. Many insurrectionary movements have grown into the magnitude of systematic rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others, that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self-importance suggested by a bold opposition to the law, is a strong agent in arming men against its terrors. The mock martyrdom of Ireland is in this way, perhaps, her greatest and least curable evil.
Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for amongst them. Independent of his personal courage and daring, he was regarded as one fruitful in expedients, and never deterred by difficulties. This mingled character of cool determination and headlong impulse, made him exactly suited to become a leader; and many a plot was thought of, to draw him into their snares, when the circumstances of his fortune thus anticipated their intentions.
It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell upon the life he now led. It was indeed an existence full of misery and suffering. To exaggerate the danger of his position, his companions asserted that the greatest efforts were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies scattered far and wide through the country; and while they agreed with him that nothing could be laid to his charge, they still insisted, that were he once taken, false-swearing and perjury would bring him to the gallows, “as it did many a brave boy before him.”
Half-starved, and harassed by incessant change of place; tortured by the fevered agony of a mind halting between a deep purpose of vengeance and a conscious sense of innocence, his own daily sufferings soon brought down his mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation, in which the very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and blunted. “I cannot be worse!” was his constant expression, as he wandered alone by some unfrequented mountain-path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine. “I cannot be worse!” It is an evil moment that suggests a thought like this!
Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old churchyard, where some of the “boys,” as they called themselves, assembled to deliberate on future measures, or talk over the past. It was less in sympathy with their plans that Owen came, than for the very want of human companionship. His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their voices, and see their faces; while in their recitals of outrage, he felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies, at any tale of sorrow and suffering.
At these meetings the whisky-bottle was never forgotten; and while some were under a pledge not to take more than a certain quantity—a vow they kept most religiously—others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The few moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the coveted minutes of his long dreary day, and he wished for night to come as the last solace that was left him.
His companions knew him too well, to endeavour by any active influence to implicate him in their proceedings. They cunningly left the work to time and his own gloomy thoughts; watching, however, with eager anxiety, how, gradually he became more and more interested in all their doings; how, by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against some deed of unnecessary cruelty; and listened with animation where before he but heard with apathy, if not repugnance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in the rich soil of a heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted and debased. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from disliking the theme of violence and outrage, became half-angry with his comrades, that they neither proposed any undertaking to him, nor even asked his assistance amongst them.
This spirit grew hourly stronger in him; offended pride worked within his heart during the tedious days he spent alone, and he could scarcely refrain from demanding what lack of courage and daring they saw in him, that he should be thus forgotten and neglected.
In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should not propose himself for some hazardous scheme, or still remain a mere spectator of others, he arrived one evening in the old churchyard. Of late, “the boys,” from preconcerted arrangements among themselves, had rather made a show of cold and careless indifference in their manner to Owen—conduct which deeply wounded him.