There were many reasons for this. In the first place, there existed an apprehension of the yeomanry and cavalry, who had on more than one occasion surprised meetings of this description before. 'Tis true they had sentinels placed—but the sentinels themselves had been made prisoners of by parties of yeomen and blood-hounds, who had come in colored clothes, in twos and threes, like the Ribbon men themselves. There were other motives, however, for the stillness which prevailed—motives which, when we consider them, invest the whole proceedings with something that is calculated to fill the mind with apprehension and fear. Here were men unquestionably assembled for illegal purposes—for the perpetration of crime—for the shedding of human blood. But in what light did they view this terrible determination? Simply as a redress of grievances; as the only means left them of doing that for themselves which the laws refused to do for them. They keenly and bitterly felt the scourge of the oppressor, who, under the sanction, and in the name of those laws which ought to have protected them, left scarcely anything undone to drive them to desperation; and now finding that the law existed only for their punishment, they resolved to legislate for themselves, and retaliate on their oppressor. There is an awful lesson in all this; for it is certainly a frightful thing to see law and justice so partially and iniquitously administered as to disorganize society, and to make men look upon murder as an act of justice, and the shedding of blood as a moral triumph, if not a moral virtue. When, therefore, the very little conversation which took place among them, and that little in so low a tone, is placed in connection with the dark and deadly object of their meeting, it is no wonder that one cannot help feeling strangely and fearfully on contemplating it.
About twelve o'clock they were all assembled but one individual, whom they appeared to expect, and for whom they looked out eagerly. Indeed they all came to a unanimous resolution of doing nothing that pertained to the business of the night until he should come. For this purpose they had not to wait long. A little past twelve a tall and powerful young man entered, leading by the hand poor insane Mary O'Regan—his pitiable and unconscious mother. He had heard of the death of his brother, during the cruel scene at Drum Dhu, and of the other inhuman outrage which had driven her mad. He had come from a remote part of England with the single, fixed, and irrevocable purpose of wreaking vengeance on the head of him who had brought madness, desolation, and death upon his family.
On his entering, there was a slight low murmur of approbation, but the appearance of his mother caused it to die away. This, however, was almost immediately succeeded by another of a very different character—one in which there was a blending of many feelings—compassion, rage, revenge. The first thing the young man did was to take a candle in his hand, and hold it first close to his mother, so as that she might be distinctly seen, and afterward, near to his own face, in order that she might have a clear and equally distinct view of him. “Mother,” said he, then, in a full voice, “do you know your son?” Her eye was upon him as he spoke, but it was vacant; there appeared no trace of recognition or meaning in it.
“You all see that miserable sight,” said he—“there my mother stands, and doesn't know who it is that is spaking to her. There she stands, blasted and destroyed by the oppressor. You all see this heart-breaking sight with your own eyes, and you all know who did it.”
'Tis singular how closely virtue and crime are allied! The very sympathy excited by this touching and melancholy spectacle—the very tenderness of the compassion that was felt for the mother and son, hardened the heart in a different sense, and stimulated them to vengeance.
“Now,” said the young man, whose name was Owen, “let them that have been oppressed and harassed by this Vulture, state their grievances, one at a time.”
An old man near sixty rose up, and after two or three attempts to speak, was overpowered by his feelings, and burst into tears. “Poor Jemmy Devlin!” they exclaimed, “may God pity you!”
“Spake for Jemmy, some of you, as the poor man isn't able to spake for himself.”
“Why, the case was this,” said a neighbor of the poor man's. “Jemmy's son, Peter, was abused by Phil, the boy, because he didn't pay him duty-work, and neglect his own harvest. He told Peter that he was a Popish rebel and would be hanged. Peter told him to his teeth that he was a liar, and that he couldn't be good, havin' the father's bastard dhrop in him. That was very well, but one night in about a month afterwards, the house was surrounded by the bloodhounds, poor Peter's clo'es searched, and some Ribbon papers found in them; they also got, or pretended to get, other papers in the thatch of the house. The boy was dragged out of his bed, sent to goal, tried, found guilty on the evidence of the bloodhounds, and sentenced to be flogged three times; but never was flogged a third time, for he died on the fourth day after the second flogging; and so, bein' an only son—indeed all the child the poor couple had—the old man is now childless and distracted, God help him!”
“Very well,” exclaimed Owen bitterly—“very well—who next?”