While uttering these words, he went through with violent gesticulations, the whole course and form of physical action that he deemed necessary to the act of strangling worthy Phil, whose graceful eidolon was receiving at his hands this unpleasant specimen of the pressure from without. He had one knee on the ground, his huge arms moving with muscular energy, as he crushed and compressed the pillow, until the very veins of his forehead stood out nearly black with the force at once of hatred and exertion. Waving thus wrought his vengeance out to his own satisfaction, he once more, in imagination, transformed the pillow into his little white-head, as he loved to call him; and assumed a very different aspect from that which marked the strangulation scene just described.
“Come here,” said he—taking it up tenderly in his arms—“come here—don't be afeard now; there's nobody that can do you any harm. Ah! my poor white-head—don't! you want your mother to keep up your poor sick head, and to lay your poor pale face against her breast? And your father—you would like to get upon his knee and climb up to kiss him—wouldn't you, white-head? Yes, he says he would—white-head says he would—and tell me, sure I have the cock for you still; and if you want a drink I have-something better than bog wather for you—the sickening bog wather! Oh! the poor-pale face—and the poor sickly eye—up in the cowld mountains, and no one to think about you, or to give you comfort! Whisht now—be good—och, why do I say that, poor white-head—for sure you were always good! Well wait—bog wather—ah, no—but wait here—or come wid me—I won't lay you down, for I love you, my poor white-head; but come, and you must have it. My mother's gone out—and she's not good; but you must have it.”
He rose, still holding the pillow like a child in his arms, and going over to a cupboard, took from it a jug of milk, and so completely was he borne away by the force of his imagination that he actually poured a portion of the milk upon the pillow.
The act seemed for the moment to dispel, the illusion—but only for a moment; the benevolent heart of the poor creature seemed, to take delight in these humane reminiscences; and, almost immediately, he was. proceeding with his simple, but touching little drama.
“Well,” said he, “that's better than cowld bog wather; how would the rich like to see their sick childre put on cowld wather and cowld pratees? But who cares for the rich, for the rich doesn't care about huz; but no matther, white-head—if you'll only just open your eyes and spake to me, I'll give you the cock.” He gave a peculiar call, as he spoke, which was perfectly well known to the bird in question, which immediately flew from the roost, and went up to him; Raymond then gently laid the pillow down, and taking the cock up, put his head under one of his wings, and placed him on the pillow where he lay quietly and as if asleep. For many minutes he kept his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, until the image in his mind growing still stronger, and more distinct, became at last so painful that he, burst into tears.
“No,” said he, “he will never open his eyes again; he will never look upon any one more: and what will she do when she hasn't his white head before her?”
Whilst poor Raymond thus indulged himself in the caprices of a benevolent imagination, his mother was hastening to the house of Mr. Hickman, the former agent of the Castle Cumber property, with the intention of rendering an act of justice to an individual and a family whom she had assisted deeply and cruelly to injure. Whilst she is on the way, however, we will take the liberty of introducing our readers to Mr. Hickman's dining-room, where a small party are assembled; consisting of the host himself, Mr. Easel, the artist, Mr. Harman, and the Rev. Mr. Clement; and as their conversation bears upon the topic of which we write, we trust it may not be considered intruding upon private society to detail a part of it.
“Property in this country,” said Hickman, “is surrounded by many difficulties—difficulties which unfortunately fall chiefly upon those who cultivate it. In the first place, there is the neglect of the landlord; in the next, the positive oppression of either himself or his agent; in the third, influence of strong party feeling—leaning too heavily on one class, and sparing or indulging the other; and perhaps, what is worse than all, and may be considered the fons et origo malorum, the absence of any principle possessing shape or form, or that can be recognized as a salutary duty on the part of the landlord. This is the great want and the great evil. There should be a distinct principle to guide, to stimulate, and when necessary to restrain him; such a principle as would prevent him from managing his property according to the influence of his passions, his prejudices, or his necessities.”
“That is very true,” said Mr. Clement, “and there is another duty which a landlord owes to those who reside upon his property, but one which unfortunately is not recognized as such; I mean a moral duty. In my opinion a landlord should be an example of moral propriety and moderation to his tenantry, so as that the influence of his conduct might make a salutary impression upon their lives and principles. At present the landed Proprietary of Ireland find in the country no tribunal by which they are to be judged; a fact which gives them the full possession of unlimited authority; and we all know that the absence of responsibility is a great incentive to crime. No man in a free country should be invested with arbitrary power; and yet, it is undeniable that an Irish landlord can exercise it whenever he pleases.”
“Then what would you do,” said Easel; “where is your remedy?”