Oh, human nature! especially Irish human nature, what a mystery art thou!
The foreman, on receiving it, held it in his hands for some time, and so completely was he touched by the beauty of the tress, and the affection of him to whom it had belonged, that the tears gushed from his eyes; and as these men, who were then in the very act of trampling upon the laws of God and men, looked at it, one by one, there was scarcely a dry eye among them. As water, however, is frequently sprinkled over fire, in order to enkindle it into a more scorching heat, so did the tears they shed add fresh strength and fury to the vengeance which smouldered within them.
This closed the case for Captain Right, and the judge asked if there was any one present prepared with a defense for Mat Pur-eel and his sons.
Our old friend, Darby Hourigan, who dressed himself in rags for the occasion, then came forward; and, after pulling up the waistband of his breeches, and twisting his revolting features into what he designed for, but what no earthly being could suppose, a grin, he spoke as follows:—“My lard, an' gintlemen o' the jury, it 'ud be a hard case if we suffered poor Misther Purcel and his two daicent, ginerous, kind-hearted sons, to be condimed 'idout a word at all in their definse. First, then, is it fair that we should be angry bekaise one of our own race and rallagion should spring up from among ourselves, and take his station over us like the Cromwellian shoneens, that are doin' oppression upon uz and our shildres! An', hadn't he as good a right to get the law at his back as they have? an' to make it bring him through the same hard-hearted coorses that made him rich and keep us poor? What had he done but what others had been doin' for ages, an' wor doin' still? ay, by jabers, an' 'ud continue to do unless the people put a stop to it. Worn't his sons gintlemen no less? Didn't they go out to hunt dressed in top-boots, buck-skin breeches, scarlet coats, and velvet jockey-caps; and didn't his daughters ride about upon blood-horses an' side-saddles? An' why are they called blood-horses do yez know? Ah, by jabers, if yez don't I'll tell you—it's bekaise they wor bought and maintained by the blood of the poor? Ay, they do all this, but if they do, who's to blame them? Poor! ershisin! Arra what was I sayin'? Sure they do it bekaise we all have plenty to ait and dhrink, plenty to wear; good coats to our backs, like this”—and here he shook the rags he dangled about him in hundreds; “good breeches to—hem—no matther—good shoes and stockings to our feet; good heads to our hats—hut! I mane good hats to our heads—and fusht-rate linen to our shkins; ay—sich as this,” he added again. “Whisht!” he exclaimed, with a laugh like an Eclipse, “bad luck to the fatther of it, but I forgot at home—along wid the other eleven—or stop—here it is to the good still,” pointing to his naked skin, “an' be my sowl, boys—my lard an' gintlemen o' the jury, I mane—it's the weavor of this linen that'll stand to us yet.
“Gintlemin, I do maintain that there's a great dale to be said for Mat Purcel. To be sure he skrewed the last fardin' out of uz, but where was there ever a tithe-procthor that didn't do the same thing? An' sure if he tuck as much as he could from huz, an' gev as little as he could to the parson, wasn't it all so much the betther? Wasn't it weakenin' their fat church and fattening our weak on'?—where's the honest Catholic could say a word aginst that? To be sure, we all know that, by his knowledge of farmin', and all the ins and outs of our little tillage, he contrived, one way or other, to take about the fifth of our little produce; but then if he did, didn't he say it was all by way of friendship an' indulgence to us? Sure didn't himself tell us that only he pitied us an' felt for us, he'd a' been ten times harsher than he was, an' so he would, be coorse, an' 'tis thankful we have a right to be, an' not grumblin' at all at all.
“I hould half a dozen could an' miserable acres, an' about three weeks ago, he tuck about one-fourth of the whole produce, owin' to citations to the bishop's coorts, an' a long string o' costs jined to the tithe itself—bad luck to it!—an' didn't he prove to me that he let me off for a song, an' was the best-hearted procthor that ever strewed a defaulther? Well, an' isn't every small farmer, that doesn't wish to go law, or isn't able to right himself, as well off as I am—glory be to God! I declare, thin, I don't see why we should be angry wid so kind an' merciful a man.
“Thin, again, it made a man religious, an' was aiquil to goin' to one's duty, to go to ax time or indulgence from his sons. It isn't a clear case that you'd get the indulgence, but it is a clear case that you wor sure to get a horsewhippin'. Now, you know a horse-whippin' 'ud make a man repint goin' to him, an' when a man's in a repintin' state, he may as well repint for whatever sins he has committed, while his hand's in.
“Altogether, thin, my lard an' gintlemin o' the jury, I think it's clear that Purcel an' his sons is a great benefit to the counthry about us, an' that they ought to be acquitted, especially as it's likely that they have more processes to sarve, more auctions to hould an' may be, more widow's sons to take on the hands of their poor strugglin' motherss the crathurs, that's badly able to support them; and anyhow, nobody can blame a man'll that opens the gates of heaven for his fellow creature's sowl, and sends him there.
“I hope, my lard an' gintlemen, that I has now done my duty in defendin' the Purcels and that I've proved to your satisfaction that they ought to be acquitted.”
This harangue of Hourigan's was received with singular alternations of fierce rage, and mirth that was still fiercer and more frightful. At the conclusion of it there was a loud stamping of feet, accompanied by an exulting uproar of approbation. Silence, however, being called, the jurors put their heads together across the table, and in less than two minutes their foreman handed up the issue paper to a person who acted as register and secretary to the meeting. On receipt of this, that worthy functionary, in a solemn, deep, and barely audible voice, read a verdict of “guilty,” which was received in solemn silence by the assembly.