Indeed, it may be observed with truth, that when people are met together under circumstances of a painful nature, they cannot relax or melt into that social ease which generally marks those who come together with no such restraint upon the heart or spirits. Here, too, as in every other department of life, all the various grades of poverty and dependence fall into their respective classes. In one place, for instance, might be seen together those more comfortable farmers who were able to meet their engagements, but who labored under the galling conviction, that, however hard and severely industry might put forth its exertions, there was no ultimate expectation of independence—no cheering reflection, that they resided under a landlord who would feel gratified and proud at their progressive prosperity. Alas! it is wonderful how much happiness a bad landlord destroys! These men stood with their backs to the wind and storm, lowly conversing upon the disastrous change which was coming, and had come, over the estate. Their brows were lowered, their dialogue languid and gloomy, and altogether their whole appearance was that of men who felt that they lived neither for themselves or their families, but for those who took no interest whatsoever in their happiness or welfare.
In another place were grouped together men who were still worse off than the former—men, we mean, who were able to meet their engagements, but at the expense of all, or mostly all, that constitutes domestic comfort—who had bad beds, bad food, and indifferent clothes. These persons were far more humbled in their bearing than the former, took a less prominent situation in the crowd, and seemed to have deeper care, and much more personal feeling to repress or combat. It is an indisputable fact, that the very severe and vexatious tyranny exercised over them had absolutely driven the poor creatures into hypocrisy and falsehood—a general and almost uniform consequence of conduct so peculiarly oppressive. They were all, at best, God knows, but very poorly clothed; yet, if it so happened that one or two of them, somewhat more comfortable than the rest, happened to have got a new coat a little before gale day, he invariably declined to appear in it, knowing, as he did, that he should receive a torrent of abuse from the agent, in consequence of “getting fat, impudent, and well-dressed on his Lordship's property;” terms of abuse, which, together with the cause that produced them, are at this moment well known to thousands as expressions whose general occurrence on such, occasions has almost fixed them into proverb. Will our English neighbors believe this? That we know not, but we can assure them that they may.
There were other groups farther down in the scale of distress, where embarrassment and struggle told a yet more painful tale; those who came with their rent, in full to be sure, but literally racked up from their own private destitution—who were obliged to sell the meal, or oats, or wheat, at a ruinous loss, in order to meet the inexorable demands of the merciless and tyrannical agent. Here were all the' external evidences of their condition legible by a single look at their persons; they also herded together, ill clad, ill fed, timid, broken down, heartless. All these, however, had their rents—had them full and complete in amount; now the reader may well say, this picture is, indeed, very painful, and I am glad it is closed at last. Closed! oh, no, kind reader, it is not closed, nor could it be closed by any writer acquainted either with the subject or the country. What are we to say of those who had not the rent, and who came there only to make that melancholy statement, and to pray for mercy? Here was raggedness, shivering—not merely with the cold assault of the elements—but from the dreaded apprehension of the terrible agent—downcast looks that spoke of keen and cutting misery—eyes that were dead and hopeless in expression—and occasionally, a hasty wringing of the hands, accompanied by an expression so dejected and lamentable, as makes us, when we cast our eye in imagination upon such men as Valentine M'Clutchy, cry out aloud, “where are the lightnings of the Almighty, and why are his thunderbolts asleep?” There was there the poor gray-haired old man—the grandfather—accompanied, perhaps, by his promising young grandsons, left fatherless and motherless to his care, and brought now in order that the agent might see with his eyes how soon he will have their aid to cultivate their little farm, and consequently, to make it pay better, he hopes. Then the widow, tremulous with the excess of many feelings, many cares, and many bitter and indignant apprehensions. If handsome herself, or if the mother of daughters old enough, and sufficiently attractive, for the purposes of debauchery, oh! what has she to contend with? Poor, helpless, friendless, coming to offer her humble apology for not being able to be prepared for the day. Alas! how may she, clutched as she is in the fangs of that man, or his scoundrel and profligate son—how may she fight out the noble battle of religion, and virtue, and poverty, against the united influences of oppression and lust, wealth and villany.
The appearance of these different groups—when the inclemency of the day, their sinking hearts, and downcast pale countenances, were taken into consideration—was really a strong exponent of the greatest evil which characterizes and oppresses the country—the unsettled state of property, and of the relative position of landlord and tenant in Ireland.
At length the hall-door was opened, and a hard-faced ruffian came out upon the steps, shouting the name of a man named O'Hare. The man immediately approached the steps, and after shaking the heavy rain out of his big coat, and having whisked his hat backwards and forwards several times, that he might not soil his honor's office, he was brought in, and having made his humble bow, stood to hear his honor's pleasure. His honor, however, who had divided the labor between himself and Phil, had also, by an arrangement which was understood between them, allotted that young gentleman, at his own request, a peculiar class marked out in the rental, in which class this man stood. “O'Hare,” said Val, “how do you do?”
“Upon my conscience, your honor, but poorly,” replied O'Hare, “the last heavy fit of illness, joined to the bad times, sir—”
“O'Hare,” said Solomon, “suffer me humbly, and without assuming anything to myself, to point out to you the impropriety of swearing; I do it, my friend, in all humility; for I fear, that so long as you indulge in that most sinful practice, the times will seldom be other than bad with you, or, indeed, with any one that gives way to so Wicked a habit. Excuse me, O'Hare, I speak to you as a Christian, I humbly trust.”
“By G—, that's good, father,” exclaimed Phil, “M'Slime preaching to such a fellow as this!”
“I humbly thank you, sir,” said O'Hare to Solomon, “for your kindness in—”
“Thank the devil, sirra,” said Phil; “What the devil does he or I care about your d——d thanks. Have you your rent?”