THE TITHE-PROCTOR.
By William Carleton
CONTENTS
[ PREFACE.]
[ CHAPTER I.] The Chapel Green of Esker Dearg.
[ CHAPTER II.] The Proctor's Principles and His Family.
[ CHAPTER III.] Mountain Legislation, and its Executive of Blood.
[ CHAPTER IV.] Mirth and Murder—A Tithe-Proctor's Office.
[ CHAPTER V.] A Hang-Choice Shot—The “Garrison” on Short Commons.
[ CHAPTER VI.] Unexpected Generosity—A False Alarm.
[ CHAPTER VII.] A Shoneen Magistrate Distributing Justice.
[ CHAPTER VIII.] An Unreformed Church
[ CHAPTER IX.] Sport in the Mountains.
[ CHAPTER X.] The Sport Continued.
[ CHAPTER XI.] The Sport Still Continued.
[ CHAPTER XII.] Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire.
[ CHAPTER XIII.] Strange Faces—Dare-Devil O'Driscol Aroused
[ CHAPTER XIV.] State of the Country
[ CHARTER XV.] Scene in a Parsonage—Anti-Tithe Ringleader.
[ CHAPTER XVI.] Massacre of Carrickshock
[ CHAPTER XVII.] Midnight Court of Justice
List of Illustrations
[ Page 374— the Priest Interfered, and Prevented A Conflict ]
[ Page 421— Just Trust Yourself to Me ]
[ Page 445— Alarmed at the Appearance of a Lawless Whiteboy ]
PREFACE.
After the reader shall, have perused the annexed startling and extraordinary narrative, on which I have founded the tale of the Tithe-Proctor, I am sure he will admit that there is very little left me to say in the shape of a preface. It is indeed rarely, that ever a document, at once so authentic and powerful, has been found prefixed to any work of modern Irish Fiction—proceeding as it does, let me add, from the pen of a gentleman whose unassuming character and modesty are only surpassed by the distinction which his name has already gained in one of the most difficult but useful departments of our native literature.
I trust that there will be found nothing in the work which follows that is calculated to give any serious offence. Yet, when we look back upon the contentions, both political and polemical, by which this unhappy country in connection with tithe especially, has been so frequently and so bitterly distracted, we can hardly hope, that any writer, however anxious, nay studious, to avoid giving offence, can expect to treat such a subject without incurring animosity in some quarter. Be this as it may, I have only to say, on behalf of myself, that in composing the work I was influenced by nothing but a firm and honest determination to depict the disturbances arising from the tithe impost with a fair and impartial hand: and if any party shall feel hurt by observations which the necessity of rendering full justice to a subject so difficult have imposed upon me in the discharge of a public duty, I beg them to consider that such observations proceeded from no wish to offend existing prejudices, but are to be looked upon as arising inferentially from those stern and uncompromising claims of truth and justice, which equally disregard the prejudices of any and every party. After all, I am of opinion that the spirit in which the work is written will be found, whilst it correctly delineates the state and condition of the country during the fearful tumults and massacres of the Tithe Rebellion, to have left little, if anything, to be complained of in this respect.
In constructing narratives of this sort, it is to be understood that certain allowances are always made for small anachronisms that cannot be readily got over. The murder of the Bolands, for instance, occurred in the year 1808, and the massacre of Carrickshock, as it has been called, in 1832. It was consequently impossible for me to have availed myself of the annexed “Narrative” and brought in the “Massacre” in the same story, without bringing down the murder of the Bolands to a more recent date.
It may be objected that I have assumed, as the period of my story, one which was calculated to bring into light and action the worst feelings and the darkest criminals of my country. This, however, was not my fault. If they had not existed, I could not have painted them; and so long as my country is disgraced by great crimes, and her social state disorganized by men whoso hardened vices bring shame upon civilization itself, so long, I add, these crimes and such criminals shall never be veiled over by me. I endeavor to paint Ireland, sometimes as she was, but always as she is, in order that she may see many of those debasing circumstances which prevent her from being what she ought to be. In the meantime, I trust the reader will have an opportunity of perceiving that I have not in the Tithe-Proctor, any more than in my other work, forgotten to show him that even in the most startling phases of Irish crime and tumult, I have by no means neglected to draw the warm, generous, and natural virtues of my countrymen, and to satisfy him that a very few guilty wretches are quite sufficient, however unjustly, to blacken and degrade a large district.
There is, however, a certain class of pseudo-patriots in this country, who are of opinion that every writer, professing to depict our national character and manners, should make it a point of conscience to suppress all that is calculated “to lessen us in the eyes of the world,” as they are pleased to term it, and only to give to the public the bright and favorable side. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the moral dishonesty and meanness of a principle, at once so disgraceful to literature and so repugnant to truth. These thin-skinned gentlemen are of opinion that the crime itself is a matter of trivial importance compared to the fact of its becoming known, and that provided the outside of the platter is kept clean, it matters not how filthy it may be within.
In the days of my boyhood and early life, the people of Ireland were, generally speaking, an honest, candid, faithful, and grateful people, who loved truth, and felt the practical influence of religious feeling strongly, but so dishonest and degrading has been the long curse of agitation, to which forms of it their moral and social principles have been exposed, that there probably could not be found in any country, an instance in which the virtues of the whole people have been so completely debauched and contaminated (I do not say voluntarily), as those of the Irish have been by the leading advocates of repeal. The degeneracy of character, occasioned by those tampering with our national virtues, is such as we shall not recover from these thirty years to come. Many of our best, mellow-toned, old virtues, that pass in an unbroken link of hereditary beauty from father to son, and from family to family, like some sacred and inestimable heirloom, at once reverenced and loved, are all gone—such as our love of truth, our simple devotion and patriarchal piety, our sincerity in all social intercourse, and others of the same stamp; whilst little else is left us but a barren catalogue of broken and dishonest promises, and the consciousness of having been at once fleeced and laughed at. And it would be well if we could stop here, but truth forces us onward. The Irishman of the present day—the creature of agitation—is neither honest, nor candid, nor manly, nor generous, but a poor, skulking dupe, at once slavish and insolent, offensive and cowardly—who carries, as a necessary consequence, the principles of political dishonesty into the practices of private life, and is consequently disingenuous and fraudulent.
Let me not be misunderstood. I love truth; and have never been either afraid or ashamed to speak it; and I trust I never shall. I now allude to the principles of Conciliation Hall, and the system by which they were led. I feel bound, however, to exempt the party called Young Irelanders from having had any participation in bringing about results so disastrous to the best moral interests of the country. It is true, that, as politicians, they were insane; but then they were at least sincere and honest; and I am satisfied that there is not a man of them, who would not have abandoned the object he had in view, sooner than accomplish it by sacrificing the popular virtues and moral character of the country for its attainment. I have myself been a, strong anti-repealer during my whole life, and though some of the Young Irelanders are my personal friends, yet none know better than they do, that I was strenuously opposed to their principles, and have often endeavored—need I say unsuccessfully?—to dissuade them from the madness of their agitation.
Having made these few necessary observations, I now beg to introduce to my readers the extraordinary narrative already spoken of—a narrative whose force and graphic power will serve only to bring shame upon the feeble superstructure which I have endeavored to erect upon it. It is termed—
THE MURDER OF THE BOLANDS.
In the year 1808, there lived near Croom, in the county of Limerick, a farmer named Michael Boland. He was an intelligent and prosperous man, and the owner of many hundred acres of the best land in that fine county.
He had two sons and two daughters, all grown up to manhood and womanhood, in this year, and the parish chapel never saw, in their time, a finer family for stature, symmetry, and comeliness, attend its mass than Michael Boland, his wife, and children. With the growth of his family, his ambition and desire of increased wealthiness grew; and, by the agency of some hundred pounds, he became the tithe-proctor, or rector of several patches of tithes throughout the county.
At first he was successful in this speculation, and with his increased profits, himself and his children assumed a higher and more important tone and bearing in society. In fact, his sons and daughters passed as ladies and gentlemen, not only in external appearance, but in elegance of manners and cultivation of mind; for he spared no expense on their education, as well in his original as in his subsequent condition of life; besides that at this period, and for a long time previous, the County of Limerick was the great school-house, not only of Munster, but of all Ireland—vide Carleton's “Poor Scholar.”
The sudden departure of the Bolands from the intercourse and intimate acquaintance of their former companions and neighbors, as well as the long brooding hatred and opposition of the people to the payment of tithes, soon gave rise to loud murmurs and sarcastic retrospective observations against them; and people far and near took every occasion to offend and insult them—both men and women—-wherever and whenever an opportunity of doing so, in a galling manner, offered. Often were the Misses Boland asked, when mounted on their side-saddles, did they remember when their mother used to be driving her cart-load of tankards of sour milk to the market of Limerick, and sitting there for days retailing it at a penny a gallon, &c.; and as often were the young brothers asked when bursting over an old neighbor's fence, in scarlet and buckskin, if they remembered when their father and mother bore an active hand and shoulder to the carving out and spreading of the manure to the fields, &c.
Far from being abashed at all this, the Bolands only sought ampler opportunities to annoy and exasperate their ill-wishers by more imperious airs to them, and a closer attendance to the gentlemanly sports of the country, but still they gave no tangible cause to quarrel broadly with them. While matters were going on in this way, they received a nocturnal anonymous letter, ordering them to send a few of their abundant stock of arms to a certain lonely place, for the benefit, of the popular legislators of that turbulent county. This summons the Bolands answered by a letter of defiance, and a challenge to the parties to come and take them forcibly if they durst. They were agan summoned for their arms, and cautioned to lower their demand for tithes. To this they sent an exasperating response of defiance, and a challenge, after which they seriously went about fortifying their dwelling, and putting it into the best posture of defence against the assault which they were very certain would be made on them sooner or later.
They built a line of lofty strong stone walls around their house, offices, and other property, and, thus secure, they awaited anxiously the expected visit of their deadly enemies.
In the meantime the messengers of vengeance passed through all the counties of Munster, with an account of the rebellious designs of the Bolands, against the majesty of midnight legislation; and to collect levies of men, ammunition, army, and friends, for the purpose of making a certain destructive attack upon them.
One evening, about the latter end of November, the roads and paths leading to the little village of Kilteely, a few miles to the east of Boland's house, was observed to be more than usually thronged with men, on foot and on horseback, passing, as it were, to and from Limerick, and strangers, apparently, to all the inhabitants and to each other. Shortly after nightfall, the hill of Kilteely was seen covered with men and horses, and within an old ruined house on the top of the hill a dim light was seen to occasionally flitter. This ruin was full of respectably dressed men, and at one end of it, on chairs, and at a table, provided for the occasion, sat twelve of the most respectable of them, and a portly important-looking gentleman on an elevated chair at the end of the table. Two or three candies were burning, and some slips of paper were on the table.
After a silence of a few seconds, the judge asked, in an audible voice, if there was any business to be brought before the court on that night? He was immediately answered in a solemn tone, by more than one voice, that there was a great deal of business, but that only one case, that of Captain Right against Boland, should be brought before him at that present time. The judge then desired that the case be gone into. Whereupon a middle-sized well-set young man, about six-and-twenty years of age, whose name we know, and who sat behind the judge, now brought his chair forward to the table, on the judge's left hand, and unrolling a roll of paper, read in a low, solemn, but audible tone of voice, a series of charges preferred by the said Captain Right against the said Michael Boland and his sons.
The captain was then called up, and he deposed to different charges against the defendants—such as taking beforehand, or in reversion, several small farms over the heads of poor but solvent tenants, turning them adrift on the world, and converting their small agricultural farms into one or more large farms for grazing; thereby adding to the number of the destitute, and contracting the supply of agricultural produce—the payment to his laboring men of only eight-pence a day, which he compounded for in kind—potatoes, milk, &c, at twice, at least, what those commodities fetched him in the neighboring markets. These were only a few of the many charges of petty tyranny preferred against Boland; but the last and greatest of all was his Tithe Exactions.
Several witnesses were called up to prove these weighty offences, after which it was asked if the accused party had been served with notices to desist from those high misdemeanors; and if he had engaged any one to speak for him, or in his favor. After a short pause, a man above the middle size, with snaggy hair and beard, and of a sinister aspect, came up to the table and said, that although he had not been employed or deputed to appear for Mr. Boland and the young masters and misses, his fine sons and daughters, yet justice to the accused compelled him to come forward, and offer a few words in extenuation of the punishment, if any, which should be inflicted for their alleged misdeeds. “First, then,” he asked, “was it possible that they, the men then present, should be angry or offended at seeing one of their own race and religion spring up from among them, and take his station with the best of the Cromwellian Shoneens that surrounded and oppressed them? And when he did so spring up, was it any blame to him to avail himself of every means which The Law allowed him to maintain his elevation, though it might be by standing on the shoulders and necks of as good fellows as himself? What had Mr. Boland done but what others had been doing for ages, and were doing still? As for the matter of tithes, sure they should be paid to the minister who they never saw nor cared to see, and if Mr. Boland had profit on them, so much the better, because the less tithe that went into the absent minister's pocket the more would they all be pleased. To be sure the tithe-proctor always exacted to the last farthing, and more than the minister—and it is believed that Mr. Boland was not behind any of the trade—and some people say, indeed, that, from his knowledge of farming and the ins and outs of people's little tillage, he sometimes exacted to within a trifle of one-fifth of the produce. Indeed, in my own case—and I am but a poor brogue-maker, with half-a-dozen acres of the |poorest lands of F———, he took from me, between citations to the Bishop's Court and other costs, with the original tithes, at least one-fourth of the entire produce of my little farm; nor do I know any one in the parish that fares better than myself, especially the poor people who don't understand the law, and who are not able, or willing, to get into it. However, I confess, I never regretted my own share of the loss, where I knew and thought that it all went to the glory and grandeur of the Masters and Misses Boland. Nor shall I ever forget the cutting-up which young Mick Boland gave me, with the butt-end of his loaded whip, the day I went to their house to complain that their driver had put all my sheep into the pound, for a debt of sixteen shillings, tithe-money. And now, my Lord Justice, as I have said so much of the truth in favor of Mr. Boland and his family, I hope your lordship will pass a merciful and just sentence oh them, and that this just jury won't find these friends to us, to our religion, and to our country, guilty.”
There was a suppressed murmur of approbation, accompanied by an audible stamping of feet, at the conclusion of this merciful harangue. But silence 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 the secretary, who sat by the side of the judge on receipt of which that functionary arose and in a solemn, scarcely audible voice, read from the paper a verdict of “guilty” against Michael Boland and his two sons. The judge then immediately arose from his chair, and in a low, solemn, but firm and distinct tone of voice, pronounced the verdict of the court to be, “Death and Dark Destruction to Michael Boland and his two sons,” and that the sentence should be executed that very night. On the announcement of the verdict a low shriek of exultation arose from the audience, followed by a simultaneous half-suppressed cry of, “Long life to our Judge! Long life to Buck English!”
The judge stood up again and said: “Now, boys, I know that there is no man here present but a man who has been often well tried in exploits of danger and of death: every man of you is the leader of a party of brave fellows, who, with yourselves, have sworn to sustain the oppressed; crush the tyrant, and right the wronged. Your men are brave, bold, and hearty; keep them to: their duty, and in perfect submission to your orders. Let the old tyrant and his young cubs be cut off, at all hazards, but spare the women—nay, make every possible exertion to save them, but, more especially, and by all means, let the eldest daughter, Miss Anna, be saved, secured, and brought to me, as you all know how long I have vainly endeavored to make her mine. And now, boys, every man to his post, and I, your commander, shall lead you on.”
Buck English is a real character—his real name was Ryan, and he had been respectably reared, but gave himself up to the intoxicating excitement of the French Revolution—he also fought in '98, and subsequently, for his intelligence and daring spirit, became the leader of all the lawless and disaffected parties in his native County of Limerick, and, indeed, of all Munster.
The parties within the old ruin now made their appearance on the hill, and every man of them going to the head of his own body, they marched first to Hospital, a contiguous village, where they boldly beat a drum, the sound of which called up, as by enchantment, such a concourse of armed men as frightened the parties themselves. They marched from that, westwards, to Knockany, where they dug up several extensive fields (of grass) belonging to Mr. O'Grady. They marched on then, in the same direction, towards the residence of the Bolands, their numbers increasing as they went along, by voluntary and involuntary parties.
The Bolands, ever on the watch, soon learned that they were to be visited that night by those parties whom they had so long defied, but they never calculated that they Should be attacked by such a strong force as they now learned was approaching them—for it is believed that the actual number could not have been less than five thousand men, contributed by the Counties of Limerick Clare, Kerry, Cork, Waterford, Tipperary, and Kilkenny.
However, they were not daunted, but immediately put themselves in order of battle. They first sent out (off their premises) all their servants, men and women, lest there should be a spy or a traitor among them. They then carried up all their arms and ammunition to the top floor of their (two-story, long, thatched) house. The father and the younger sons planted themselves at one of the window's facing the front. The elder son and the family tutor, a young man of the neighborhood, who would not abandon them in their hour of danger, took their stand at the window which looked directly at the narrow strong door of the wall which inclosed the house. The two daughters, with their mother, took up their places between the two windows, under cover of the wall, and having been well practiced for som, weeks previous, stood prepared to load and hand up the arms to their heroes when the occasion should arrive. About the hour of one o'clock in the morning, the barking of dogs, and an odd random shot, gave the Bolands certain and unmistakable notice that their hour of terror was at hand. And soon they could hear a monotonous sound of moving feet and suppressed voices, under the outer walls of their fortress. A horn was then sounded, and the besieged were called upon to open their gates and surrender at discretion. But no answer was received from within, where all was total darkness and apparent inactivity. Several attempts were now made to burst the strong yard door, but without effect. The assailants then began to fire at the thatch of the dwelling house, as well as on the out-offices, with the intent of setting them in flames; and after several attempts, they ultimately succeeded in igniting the thatch of a detached cow-house, which stood out from the other buildings, and the wind, unfortunately happening to blow from that quarter to the other offices, carried the fire to them, by which they were soon in a blaze. In the meantime, they procured two sledges from a neighboring forge, with which they assaulted the yard door, which they soon broke in. Now there was a dead pause on the part of the assailants—for they knew very well, that to pass on the threshold of this door was certain death. However, the pressure from the rear was so great, that suddenly several men were involuntarily pushed in through the doorway. And now the work of death commenced, for no sooner had the first batch been pressed in, than there was such a well-directed shower of bullets poured out on them from four well-charged blunderbusses, as levelled every man of them with the earth. A moment's pause ensued, and the door was again filled with new aspirants for “fame in the cannon's mouth,” who, however, fared as badly as the preceding batch. During this time the assailing party had been busy with crowbars and other instruments, in making several breaches in the yard walls. At length they succeeded in opening entrances in three different places at the same time, and thus in a few minutes several hundred men were precipitated into the yard. And now commenced the work of death in earnest. The assailants were shot down in scores, while the upper windows of the house, from which the deadly firing was so ably kept up, received fifty discharges to the one that issued from them. The house was immediately surrounded, and guards of chosen faithful men were placed at its doors and lower windows, with strict orders to let no one, especially the “old fox,” escape, with the exception only of the women.
To add to the dreadful condition of the Bolands, the assailants had now succeeded in igniting the thatch of the dwelling-house, and it was immediately in a blaze. The Bolands and their tutor, ably served by their mother and sisters, still continued to deal death and destruction on the parties outside, without being yet fatigued or disabled. But at length the upper floor became too hot, and the old man, with his wife and daughters, retreated to the lower floor. The brothers and the tutor, however, remained above, but doing less execution, because, when the assailants saw the house on fire, they retreated outside the yard wall, excepting the guard who were placed round the house, and these stood so close to the walls that the party above had not power of injuring them, without fully exposing their own persons at the windows.
While both parties were thus in a fearful state of suspense, the burning roof of the house fell in on the three young men above, and immediately buried them for ever in its destructive flames. The assailing crowds set up a terrific shout of triumph. The floor above now began to crackle, and so dense was the smoke below, that the old man and the woman were in a state little short of suffocation. At last the Proctor became desperate, and opening one of the ground windows, and taking his poor wife by the hand, he attempted to throw himself and her out through it. No sooner, however, had they appeared at the window, than the old man was riddled with bullets from without, and thrown back into the now blazing room from which he had been endeavoring to escape.
The three young men and the old man being now destroyed, a voice in the rear of the crowd called out, in a fierce commanding them, to rescue the women at all hazards, whereupon the sledges were applied to the front door of the house; but while they were thus engaged, the young women unbarred the back door, and rushing out with their mother, uttering the most piercing shrieks, they ran into a stable which was near, before they could be laid hold of. Here, however, the two daughters were immediately seized on by order of the commander of the siege, Buck English, and carried out, but not violently, until they came to the stable-door, where the eldest daughter laid hold of the iron bolt staple of the door-post, and so desperately did she hold it, that she did not let it go till her shoulder was dislocated. They were both carried off then to the Galtee mountains, the usual resort of the Buck, who retained the eldest during pleasure. I forget what became of the younger girl, but the other became deranged, and in that melancholy state was subsequently taken into the “protection,” as it is called, of a certain banker of Limerick, who shot himself in that city, to my own knowledge, in 1815. * * *
The scene at the residence of the Bolands, on the morning after the attack, was truly horrifying. The remains of the four men, almost burned to cinders, were dug out of the still burning ruins, nor was the spectacle in the yard and on the neighboring road less frightful; from the multitude of dead bodies with which they were strewn; for most of their stranger assailants who were killed were left on the spot—the party not choosing to be seen carrying them off by daylight. But such of the people of the neighboring parishes as fell, were carried off by friends and acquaintances, and hid during that day, but buried at night at remote distances from their houses, in the newly-ploughed and in the wheat-sown fields. The inquest, &c, being over, the government and the gentry of the county offered a large reward for any information that would lead to the apprehension or knowledge of the actors, especially the commander, in this fearful tragedy. A strong military force was stationed in the neighborhood, and all the bad and suspicious characters of the district were taken up, and committed to gaol on suspicion. However, the original concocters of the murder made their escape, either to England or to the remote parts of Clare, Kerry, and Cork; whilst terror reigned throughout the whole County of Limerick among the farmers at seeing the numbers that were arrested, and the largeness of the reward.
One morning, as a well-known active magistrate of the county was sitting at his breakfast, a strange woman came to his door, and requested to see him on business of importance. He immediately called up two of his servant men, and ordered them to go to the door and see that the woman was really a woman, and that she had no arms about her. This was soon done, and the woman, a real one, was ushered into his worship's presence. She then told him—the room being first cleared of all other people—that, she was the wife of D—— A———, the brogue-maker of F——, that her husband was an honest, industrious man, who knew his own trade and business well, and who knew a great deal about the business of other people, too, and of what was going on in the country—that he was a man of upright and Christian principles, who would always feel it a conscientious duty to aid the laws of his country to preserve social order and punish crime—that he was not a man to be terrified or bribed by any amount of punishment or reward; but that if he were properly managed and kindly treated, he might be found able to give a good deal of useful information.
His worship had the good-natured poor woman taken good care of for that day—and at a late hour of the same night he took and put her comfortably sitting on a horse, behind one of his constables, and, surrounded by a strong military body, horse and foot, marched her in safety; she showing the way to her own house. They found honest Darby sitting by his fire, reading his prayer-book, and in great grief at the unaccountable absence of his wife. He was dreadfully agitated when he found himself arrested, and strongly protested that he was an honest, industrious tradesman, who knew nothing of the wickedness of the world; and wondered much what this was all about.
His worship advised him to be calm—that all should be well, but that he should accompany himself to his house. After Darby had spent several usefully employed days with his new friend, he was transmitted to Limerick gaol, with orders that he should be well treated, and be allowed to see his wife as often as she desired it. The wife soon found that it would be more convenient for her, and perhaps somewhat safer, to be living near her husband, and therefore went to reside in Limerick. The news of Darby's arrest caused no little alarm through the county, and it was soon whispered about that persons were now arrested, of whose participation in the Boland affair no human being could give any hint except himself alone. His wife's rooms became crowded every day with the wives, daughters, and sisters of the men arrested,—and others not arrested, or suspected by any living being; money in hundreds of pounds was poured into her lap to purchase the ignorance, the silence, or the perjury of Darby—and every one went away apparently satisfied with Darby's promises through his faithful wife.
The assizes came down at last. Darby lost all recollection of any money but the large public reward, and on that occasion over twenty men were hanged chiefly on his evidence—though it was very difficult for the crown counsel to bring the poor reluctant man to the point; but when he did make a convicting admission, he took care that it should be a clincher, wrung from him, as he wished it to appear, by a cunning counsel. The gallows at Limerick continued for years after to be fed by Darby with victims for this crime; and several hundred were transported, or went into voluntary banishment on account of this fearful butchery. The writer of this knew well, and was at school with the secretary of the Court of Kilteely Hill.
CHAPTER I.—The Chapel Green of Esker Dearg.
The chapel of Esker Dearg, or the Red Ridge, was situated in a rich and well-cultivated country, that for miles about it literally teemed with abundance. The Red Ridge under which it stood was one of those long eminences, almost, if not altogether, peculiar to Ireland. It was, as the name betokens, a prolonged elevation that ran for nearly a mile and a half in a north-eastern direction without appearing to yield to, or be influenced by, the natural position or undulations of the country through which it went. The epithet of red which was attached to it, originated, according to popular tradition, in a massacre which had taken place upon it during one of the Elizabethan wars, others imputed it to a cause much more obvious and natural, viz., its peculiar appearance during all seasons of the year, owing to the parched and barren nature of the soil, which, in consequence of its dry and elevated Position, was covered only with furze and tern, or thin, short grass that was parched by the sun into a kind of red-brown color.
Under that end of this Esker which pointed nearest to the south-west, stood the chapel we have just mentioned. It was a rather long building with double gables and a double roof, perfectly plain, and with no other ornament, either inside or out, if we except a marble cross that stood against the wall upon the altar, of which the good priest was not a little vain, inasmuch as it had been of his own procuring. A public road of course ran past it, or rather skirted the green unenclosed space, by which, in common with most country edifices, it was surrounded. Another road joined that which we have mentioned, within a few perches of it, so that it stood at what might be nearly considered a cross-road. One or two large trees grew beside it, which gave to its otherwise simple appearance something of picturesque effect, especially during the summer months, when they were thickly covered with leaves, and waved and rustled in the sun to the refreshing breezes of that delightful season.
It was Sunday in the early part of March—we will not name the year—when our story commences. The Red Ridge Chapel was as usual surrounded by the greater portion of the congregation that had assembled to hear Mass. Within its walls there were only a few classes of youngsters, male and female, formed into circles, learning their catechism from the schoolmaster of the neighborhood, the clerk, or some devotee who possessed education enough to qualify himself for that kind office. Here and there in different parts of the chapel were small groups of adult persons, more religiously disposed than the rest, engaged in saying the rosary, whilst several others were performing solitary devotions, some stationary in a corner of the chapel, and others going the circuit around its walls in the performance of the Fourteen Stations of the Cross. Now, all these religious and devotional acts take place previous to the arrival of the priest, and are suspended the moment he commences Mass; into the more sublime majesty of which they appear, as it were, to lose themselves and be absorbed.
The great body of the congregation, however, until the clergyman makes his appearance, are to be found outside, on what is called the Chapel Green. Here they stand in groups, engaged in discussing the topics of the day, or such local intelligence as may interest them; and it is to one of those groups that we now beg to call the attention of our readers.
Under the larger of the two trees we have described stood a circle of the country people, listening to, and evidently amused by, the conversation of an individual whose bearing and appearance we must describe at great length.
He was a person whom at first sight you would feel disposed to class with young men. In other words, you might be led, from the lively flow of his spirits and his peculiarly buoyant manner, to infer that he had not gone beyond thirty or thirty-five. Upon a closer inspection, however, you could easily perceive that his countenance, despite of its healthy hue, was a good deal wrecked and weatherbeaten, and gave indications of those traces, which not only a much longer period of time, but deep and violent passions, seldom fail to leave behind them. His features were regular, and at first glance seemed handsome, but upon a nearer approach you were certain to find that their expression was heartless and disagreeable. They betokened no symptom of humanity of feeling, but were lit up with a spirit of harsh and reckless levity, which, whilst it made him popular with the unthinking multitude, might have been easily understood as the accompaniment, if not the direct exponent, of a bad and remorseless heart. The expression of his mouth was at the same time both hard and wanton, and his eyes, though full of a lively lustre, resembled in their brightness those of a serpent or hyena. His forehead was constructive but low, and, we may say, rather unintellectual than otherwise. He was without whiskers, a circumstance which caused a wound on the back part of his jaw to be visible, and one-half of the left-hand little finger had been shot off in defence of his church and country, according to his own account. This was a subject however, upon which he always affected a good deal of mystery when conversing with the people, or we should say, he took care to throw out such oracular insinuations of what he had suffered in their defence, as, according to their opinion, almost constituted him a martyr. In size he was somewhat above the middle height, compact, and exceedingly well built. His chest was deep and his shoulders powerful, whilst his limbs were full of muscular strength and great activity.
Having thus given a portrait of his person, it only remains that we describe his costume as he appeared on the Sunday in question, and we do so because it may be right to inform our readers, in the outset, that one of his peculiarities was a habit of seldom appearing, for any lengthened period, in the same dress, or indeed in the same locality.
On this occasion he had on a pair of tight buckskin breeches, top-boots and spurs—for he mostly went on horseback—a blue body-coat, with bright gilt buttons, a buff cassimere waistcoat, and a very fashionable hat.
The cravat he wore was of green silk, and was tied in a knot, which might be understood by the initiated as one that entitled him to their confidence and respect. Our readers may not be surprised at this, for, unfortunately so high and bitter have party prejudices and feelings in our disturbed country run, that the very dress has been often forced to become symbolic of their spirit and existence.
The chapel green, as we have said, was covered by the great bulk of the peasantry who were waiting the arrival of the priest. Here was a circle in which stood some rustic politician, who, having had an opportunity of getting a glimpse at some newspaper of the day, was retailing its contents to a greedy circle of listeners about him. There again stood some well-known storyteller, or perhaps a live old senachie, reciting wild and stirring legends to his particular circle. Some were stretched indolently on the grass, or lying about the ditches in the adjoining fields, but by far the greatest and most anxious crowd was assembled under the tree against which Buck English—for by this name was he known—leaned. We should say here, however, that he was not called Buck English, because his name was English, but in consequence of his attempts at pronouncing the English tongue in such a manner as he himself considered peculiarly elegant and fashionable. The man's education was very limited, indeed he had scarcely received any, but he was gifted at the same time with a low vulgar fluency of language which he looked upon as a great intellectual gift, and which, in his opinion, wanted nothing but “tip-top prononsensation,” as he termed it, to make it high-flown and gentlemanly.
Our friend “the Buck,” as he was universally called, was no sooner perceived in his usual station under the tree than there was a rapid gathering of the assembled crowd to hear him.
“Hallo, Paddy! what's the matther? where are you goin' to in sich a hell of a hurry?”
“Blood alive! man, sure Buck English is at his post to-day.”
“How at his post?”
“Why under the three where he always is when he comes here af a Sunday.”
“Hut! sure I know that; come, begad, let us hear him.”
“Faith, it's he that's up to the outs and ins of everything. Sure the Counsellor himself made mintion of him in a great speech some time ago. It seems the Buck sent him up five pounds in a letther, and the Counsellor read the letther, and said it came from a most respectable gentleman, a friend of his, one Barney—no, not Barney—it wasn't Barney he called him, but—but—let me see—ay, begad—Bir—Birnard—ay, one Birnard English, Esquire, from the Barony of Treena Heela; bekaise, as the Buck doesn't keep himself very closely to any particular place of livin', he dated his letther, I suppose, from the Barony at large.”
“At any rate one thing's clear, that he's high up wid the Counsellor, an' if he wasn't one man in ten thousand he wouldn't be that.”
They had now reached the tree, and found that, short as the time was, a considerable crowd had already assembled about him, so that they were obliged to stand pretty far out in the circle. One or two young men, sons of most respectable farmers—for it somehow happened that the Buck was no great favorite with the seniors—stood, or rather had the honor of standing, within the circle, for the purpose of “houldin' conversation wid him;” for it could not reasonably be supposed that the Buck could throw away such valuable political information and high-flown English upon mere boors, who were incapable of understanding either the one or the other.
“And so, Mr. English,” said one of those whom, he had brought within the circle, “you think the established church, the great heresy of Luther,—will go down at last?”
“Think it, Tom—why, if you get me a book I'll swear it, and that's better than thinking any dee. Didn't Emencipation pess? answer me that.”
“Begad it did so, sir,”—from the crowd. “Well,” proceeded the Buck, “what doubt or hesiteetion can there be that the seem power and authority that riz our own church won't be keepable of puttin' down the great protesting heresy?”
“See that now,” from the crowd; “begad it stands to raison sure enough.”
“Certainly,” he proceeded, “none what-somever; but then the question is, how can it be effectualized?”
The crowd—“Begad, and so it is.”
“Well, my friends, it isn't at oll difficult to determine that particularity: you oll know that a men lives by food—very well; pleece that men in a persition where he can't procur food and the nethrel kensiquence is that he must die. Eh—ha! ha! ha!—do you kimprehind?”
“Not a doubt of it,” replied Mr. Crowd, “but sure, at any rate, we will kimprehend it by-an'-by.”
“Very well; take the protesting? church or the parsons, for it is oll the seem—deprive them of the mains of support, that is to see, deny them their tithes—don't pay a shilling—hold out to the death, as my friend the Counsellor—great O'Connell says—and as we oil say, practice passive resistance,then you know the establishment must stirve and die of femine and distitootion, as a contributive jidgment for its sins.”
Crowd—“Blood alive, isn't that great!”
“What is it?” from the other circle.
“Why, that the parsons, an' all belonging to them, is to die of family prostitution for their sins!”
“Devil's cure to them, then, for they desarve it—at least many of them does, anyhow,” says one segment.
“Faith, an' I don't know that either,” says another segment. “The parsons, bad as they're spoken of, was, for the most part, willin' to live among us; and, begad, you all know that they're kind friends and good neighbors, an' that the money they get out of the parish comes back into the parish agin—not all as one as absentee landlords. They give employment as far as they're able, an' thar's no doubt but their wives and daughters does a great dale of good among the poor, and so, begad, does the parsons themselves often.”
“Who is that wiseecre that spoke last?” asked the Buck; “if I don't misteek he leebors with Dennis Purcel, the procter.”
“Ay, an' a very good masther he is,” replied the spokesman of the segment; “gives plenty of employment anyhow—although the pay's no great shakes—an' that's more than some that abuses him does.”
“There's no one aboosin' him here, my good friend, so don't imegine it—at leest I should be extremely sorry to do so. I respect himself and his family in a very elevated manner, I assoore you. An' what's more, my friend, I'll thank you to report to him that I said so.”
Here he looked significantly among the mob, especially as he perceived that the man's eyes were not fixed upon him whilst he spoke, and having thrust his tongue into his cheek, half in derision, and half as it were by a natural action, he succeeded at all events in creating a general laugh; but so easily is a laugh, among such an audience, created, that it is not altogether within our power or penetration to determine the point which occasioned their mirth, unless it were the grimace with which his words were accompanied—or stay—perhaps it was the strong evil odor in which Purcel, the subject of their conversation, must have been held.
“Talk of the devil, Mr. English,” replied a stern voice from the listeners, “and he will appear; look down the road there and you'll see Purcel himself an' his family drivin' to mass on the sweat and groans of the people!”
“Not all of them,” replied another voice, in a different tone; “there's only himself, his wife, and their two spankin' daughters, upon the jauntin' car; but, blood alive, look at the sons! Devil so purty a lot of sweat and groans I seen this twelvemonth as the two is riding on, in the shape of a pair of blood-horses, so that you may put the blood, Barney, along wid the sweat and the groans, agra. Well done, tithes!—ha! ha! ha!”
The individual laugh that accompanied these last observation was cruel, revolting, and hideous. The Buck sought out the speaker among the crowd, and gave him first a nod of approval—and almost instantly afterward added, with a quick change of countenance, but not until he perceived that this double expression was pretty generally understood—
“Don't, my friend—if they get wealthy and proud upon our groans and tears an' blood, as you say, it is not their invalidity that makes them do so, but ours. Instead, of being cruel to them it is to ourselves we are cruel; for by peeing the aforeseed tithes we are peeing away our heart's blood, an' you know that if we are the fools to pee that way, small bleeme to them if they take it in the shape of good passable cash. They—meening sich men as Purcel—are only the instruments with which the parsons work.”
“Ay,” replied the stern voice, “but, in case we had the country to ourselves, do you think now, Buck darlin', that when we'd settle off the jidges, an' lawyers, an' sheriffs, an' bailiffs, that we'd allow the jails or the gibbets to stan', or the hangmen to live. No, by japers, we'd make a clane sweep of it; and when sich a man as Purcel becomes a tool in the parsons' hands to grind the people, I don't see that we ought to make fish of one an' flesh of the other.”
“Ah, Darby Hourigan, is that you?” exclaimed the Buck; “well, although I don't exaggerate with your severity, yet I will shake hands with you. How do you do Darby? Darby, I think you're a true petriot—but, so far as Mr. Purcel is concirned, I wish you to understand that he is a particular friend of mine, and so is every mimber of his family.”
“Faith, an' Mr. Buck, it's more than you are with them, I can tell you.”
“But perhaps you are a little misteeken there, Mr. Hourigan,” replied the Buck, with a swagger, whilst he raised his head and pulled up the collar of his shirt at both sides, with a great deal of significant self-consequence;—“perhaps you are—I see so, that's oll. Perhaps, I repeat, there is some mimber of that family not presupposed against me, Mr. Hourigan?”
“Well, may be so,” replied the other; “but if it be so, it's of late it must have happened, that's what I say.”
Hourigan, who was by trade a shoemaker, was also a small farmer; but, sooth to say, a more treacherous or ferocious-looking ruffian you could not possibly meet with in a province. He was spare and big-boned slouchy and stealthy in his gait, pale in face with dark, heavy brows that seemed to have been kept from falling into his deep and down-looking eyes only by an effort. His cheekbones stood out very prominently, whilst his thin, pallid cheeks fell away so rapidly as to give him something the appearance of the resuscitated skeleton of a murderer, for never in the same face were the kindred spirits of murder and cowardice so hideously blended.
Much more dialogue of the description just detailed took place, in which the proctor was not without defenders; but at the same time, as we are bound to record nothing but truth, we are compelled to say, that the majority of the voices were fearfully against him. If, however, he, the proctor and the instrument, had but few to support him, what must we not suppose the defence of the system in all its bearings to have been?
At length, as Purcel and his family approached, the conversation was transferred from the political to the personal, and he, his wife, and his children, received at the hands of the people that satirical abuse, equally unjust and ungenerous, which an industrious family, who have raised themselves from poverty to independence, are in general certain to receive from all those who are deficient in the virtues by which the others rose.
“Ay, there he comes now, ridin' on his jauntin' car, an' does he think that we all forget the time when he went wid his basket undher his arm, wid his half-a-crown's worth of beggarly hardware in it. He begun it as a brat of a boy, an' was called nothin' then but Mahon na gair (that is 'Mat of the-grin'); but, by-and-by, when he came to have a pack over the shoulder, and to carry a yard wan' he began to turn Bodagh on our hands. Felix, it's himself that soon thought to set up for the style an' state.”
“At any rate,” said the friendly voice aforesaid, “no one can deny but he's a good employer—if he'd give better wages.”
“A good employer!” said Hourigan; “we all know he must get his work done—small thanks to him for that, an' a small price he-pays for it.”
“We all know the ould proverb,” said another individual; “set a beggar on horseback, an' he'll ride to the devil. Whist! here they come.”
As the last person concluded, Purcel and the female portion of his family drew up under the shadow of the tree already alluded to, which here overhung the road, so that he came right in contact with the crowd.
“Ah, boys,” said he, with his characteristic good-humor, “how are you all? Darby Hourigan, how are your family? Isn't this glorious weather, boys?”
“Blessed weather, sir,” replied Hourigan, who became in some degree spokesman. “I hope your honor an' the mistress, sir, an' the young ladies is all well.”
“My honor, as you are pleased to call me, was never better in my life; as for the mistress and the young ladies there they are, so judge for yourself, Darby: but Darby my good friend, you have a d—d sneaking, slavish way with you. Why do you call me 'your honor' when you know—for I've often told you—that wouldn't bear it? Am I not one of yourselves? and don't most of you know that I began the world upon half-a-crown, and once carried a hardware basket on my arm?—d—n it, then, speak like a man to a man, and not like a slave, as I'm half inclined to think you are.”
“Throth, sir,” replied Hourigan, with an indescribable laugh, “an' for all that you say, there's many that gets the title of 'your honor,' that doesn't desarve it as well.”
“Ah well, man! Why, there's many a man gets it that doesn't desarve it at all, which is saying more than you said—ha! ha! ha!”
Whilst this little dialogue took place, our worthy Buck had abandoned his place under the ikee, and flown to the car to assist the ladies off—a piece of attention not unobserved by Purcel, who obliquely kept his eye upon that worthy's gallantry, and the reception it was getting from the parties to whom it was offered.
“Leedies,” said the Buck, in his politest manner and language, “will you allow me the gallantry to help you off? Mrs. Purcel, I hope you're well. Here, ma'am, aveel yourself of me.”
“Thank you, Mr. English; I'm much obliged,” she returned, rather coolly.
“Leedies,” he proceeded, flying to the other side, “allow me the gallantry.”
The two young women, who were full of spirits and good humor, were laughing most heartily, sub silentio, at the attention thus so ceremoniously paid to their mother by a man whom, beyond all human beings, she detested. Now, however, that he came to proffer his “gallantry” to themselves, they were certainly rather hard pressed to maintain or rather regain their gravity.
“Leedies,” the Buck continued, “may I have the gallantry to help you off?”
“Oh, thank you, it's too much trouble, Mr. English.”
“None on airth, Miss Purcel—do let me have the high-flown satisfaction.”
“Oh, well,” she replied, “since you will be so polite,” and giving him her hand she was about to go down, when suddenly withdrawing it, as if recollecting herself, she said, nodding with comic significance toward her sister Julia—“My sister, Mr. English, have you no gallantry for her?”
“Ah,” he whispered, at the same time gratefully squeezing her hand, “you're a first-rate divinity—a tip-top goddess—divil a thing else. Miss Joolia, may I presoome for to have the plisure and polite gallantry to help you off the car; 'pon honor it'll be quite grateful and prejudicial to my feelings—it will, I assoore you!”
“Bless me, whose is that wedding party, Mr. English?” asked Miss Julia, pointing to the opposite direction of the road.
English instantly turned round to observe, when, by a simultaneous act, both sisters stepped nimbly from the car. Miss Julia, as if offended, but at the same time with a comic gravity of expression, exclaimed—
“Oh, fie! Mr. English, is that your boasted gallantry? I'm afraid your eight years' residence in England, however it may have improved the elegance of your language and accent, hasn't much improved your politeness!”
So saying, she and her sister tripped off to the chapel, which they immediately entered. Much about the same time their brothers arrived, mounted, certainly, upon a pair of magnificent hunters, and having handed them over to two lads to be walked about until the conclusion of Mass, they also entered the chapel, for the priest was not now more than three or four hundred yards; distant.
The jest practised so successfully upon our friend the Buck occasioned a general laugh at his expense, a circumstance which filled, him with serious mortification, if not with actual resentment, for it so happened, that one of his great foibles was such a morbid sensibility to ridicule as was absolutely ludicrous.
“Bedad, Mr. English, you wor fairly done there; in spite o' the tall English, you're no match for the ladies. Miss Julia fairly gev' you the bag to hould.”
The Buck's eye glittered with bitterness.
“Miss Julia, do you say?” he replied; “why, my good friend, the girl was christened Judy—plain Judy; but now that they've got into high-flown life, you persave, nothing will sarve them but to ape their betthers. However, never mind, I'll see the day yet, and that before long, when saucy Judy won't refuse my assistance. Time about's fair play, you know.”
It may be observed here, that Buck English happened to forget himself, which he almost always did whenever he became in earnest: he also forgot his polite language and peculiar elegance of pronunciation. To a vain and weak mind there is nothing more cutting than the consciousness of looking mortified in the eyes of others, and under these circumstances to feel that the laugh is against you, adds one not important item to “the miseries of human life.”
The Buck, now that the priest was at the chapel door, walked, with a stride that very much resembled the mock-heroic, towards the place of worship; but, in the opinion of the shrewd spectators, his dignity was sadly tarnished by the humorous contempt implied in the practical jest that had been so adroitly played off at his expense.
CHAPTER II.—The Proctor's Principles and His Family.
For a considerable time previous to the scene described in our last chapter, a principle of general resistance to tithes had been deepening in and spreading over the country. Indeed the opposition to them had, for at least half a century before, risen up in periodical ebullitions that were characterized by much outrage and cruelty. On this account, then, it was generally necessary that the residence of that unpopular functionary, the tithe-proctor, should be always one of considerable strength, in order the more successfully to resist such midnight attacks as hostile combination might make upon it. Purcel, as well as other proctors of his day, had from time to time received threatening notices, not only of a personal nature, but also of premeditated attacks upon his house. The man was, however, not only intrepid and resolute, but cautious and prudent; and whilst he did not suffer himself to be intimidated by threats that for the most part ended in nothing, he took care to keep himself and his family well provided against any attack that might be made upon them.
The history of Matthew Purcel is soon told. It is that of enterprise, perseverance, and industry, tinged a good deal by a sharp insight into business, a worldly spirit, and although associated with a good deal of pride and display, an uncontrollable love of putting money together, not always under circumstances that were calculated to render him popular, nor which could, in point of feeling or humanity, be at all defended. He had commenced the world, as has been already intimated, in character of a hardware pedlar. From stage to stage of that circulating life he advanced until he was able to become a stationary shopkeeper in the town of C———m. The great predilection of his heart, however, was for farming, and in pursuance with his wishes on this subject, he took a large farm, and entered upon its management with considerable spirit and a good deal of skill. His success was beyond his expectations; and, as the spirit of agriculture continued to gain upon him, he gradually lost his relish for every other description of business. He consequently gave up his large shop in C———m, and went to reside upon his farm, with a capital of some thousands, which he owed to the industry of his previous life. Here he added farm to farm, until he found himself proprietor of nearly six hundred acres, with every prospect of adding largely to his independence and wealth.
It was now that his capacity as a man peculiarly well acquainted with the value of land, and of agricultural produce in general, induced him to accept of offers in connection with the collection of tithe, which were a good deal in accordance with his ability and habits. In short, he became a tithe-proctor, and in the course of a few years rented tithes himself to a very large amount.
Such is the brief history of Matthew Purcel, at the period when he makes his appearance upon our humble stage; and it only remains that we add a few particulars with regard to his family. Out of eleven children only four survived—two sons and two daughters—all of whom were exceedingly well educated, the latter accomplished. Purcel's great object in life was more to establish a family than to secure the individual happiness of his children. This was his ambition—the spirit which prompted him, in his dealings with the people, to forget too frequently that the garb of justice may be often thrown over the form of rapacity, and that the authority of law is also, in too many instances, only another name for oppression.
It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to find in their native province four such children as called him father. His two sons were, in symmetry of figure, strength, courage, manly beauty, and gentlemanly bearing, almost unrivalled. They possessed the manners of gentlemen, without any of that offensive coxcombry on the one side, or awkward affectation of ease on the other, which generally mark the upstart. In fact, although they understood their own worth, and measured their intellectual powers and acquirments successfully with those of rank and birth, they had sense enough to feel that it would have been ridiculous in them to affect by their conduct the prestige of either; and they consequently knew that both discrimination and delicacy were necessary in enabling them to assume and maintain that difficult bearing in society, which prevented them from encroaching on the one side or giving up their proper position on the other. So far so good. Their characters, however, were not without some deep shadows. Whilst we acknowledge that they were generous, resolute, liberal, and of courage, we must also admit that they were warm, thoughtless, and a good deal overbearing to many, but by no means to all, of the peasantry with whom they came in contact. From the ample scale on which their farming was conducted, and in consequence of the vast number of men they necessarily had occasion to employ, they could not but detect among them many instances both of falsehood, dishonesty, and ingratitude. These vices at their hands never received any favor. So far from that, those whom they detected in the commission of them, were instantly turned adrift, Very often after having received a sound horse-whipping. Much abuse also occurred between them and the country people with reference to land, and especially tithes, in which they gave back word for word, and too frequently met concealed or implied threats either by instant chastisement or open defiance; the result of all was, as the reader may perceive, that they had the worst and least scrupulous, and consequently, most dangerous class of persons in the country for their enemies. The name of the elder was John, and the younger Alick; and, soothe to say, two finer-looking, more spirited, or determined young fellows could not be found probably in the kingdom. The relative position, then, in which they and the people, or rather the worst class of them, stood to each other, and the bitter disparaging taunts and observations with which the proctor and his sons were treated, not only on the chapel green, but almost wherever they appeared, are now, we trust, intelligible to the reader.
Of the daughters, Mary and Julia, we have not so much to observe. They were both very beautiful; and, as we have already said, highly accomplished. Both, too, were above the middle height and sizes, and remarkable for the singular elegance and symmetry of their figures. Mary, the eldest, was a dark beauty, with a neck and bosom like snow, and hair black as the raven's wing; whilst Julia, on the contrary, was fair, and if possible, more exquisitely rounded than her sister. Her eyes, of a blue gray, were remarkable for an expression of peculiar depth and softness, whilst Mary's dark brown were full at once of a mellow and penetrating light. In other respects they resembled each other very much, both being about the same height and size, and altogether of a similar bearing and figure. Mary's complexion was evidently inherited from her mother, who was, at the opening of our narrative, a black-haired, handsome woman, with a good deal of determination about her mouth and brow, but with a singularly benevolent expression when she smiled. She, too, had received a good, plain education, and was one of those naturally well-mannered women who, whilst they are borne forward into greater respectability by the current of prosperity, can assume, without effort, the improved tone of better society to which they are raised.
There were few women in her sphere of life, or indeed in any sphere of life, who dispensed more good to the poor and distressed than Mrs. Purcel; and in all her kindness and charities she was most cordially aided and supported by her admirable daughters. Within a wide circle around her dwelling, sickness and destitution, or unexpected calamity, were ever certain to be cheered by the benevolent hand of herself or her daughters. The latter, indeed, had latterly relieved her, in a great degree, if not altogether, of all her distant and outdoor charities, so that little now was left to her management but the claims of such poor as flocked for assistance to the house.
Mass having been concluded, and the benediction given in the chapel of Red Ridge, Mr. Purcel and his family soon appeared among the crowd on the green, preparing to return home. The car was driven up opposite the chapel door, to the place where they were in the habit of waiting for it. The two brothers came out along with their sisters, and signed to the lads who had been holding their horses to bring them up. In the meantime, Buck English, unabashed by the rebuff he had received, once more approached, and just as the car had come up, tendered his gallantry—as he called it—with his usual politeness.
“I trust, leedies, that as you were not kin-descending enough to let me have the gallantry of helping you off, you will let me have the pleasure of helping you on?”
“That lady behind you appears to have prior claims upon you, Mr. English.”
“Behind me!” he exclaimed, turning about. “Why, Miss Joolia, there's no leddy behind me.”
In the meantime she beckoned to her brother who, while the, proctor was assisting his wife to take her seat, helped up both the girls, who nodding to the Buck, said—
“Thank you, Mr. English: we feel much obliged for your gallant intentions; quite as much, indeed, as if you had carried them into effect.”
This joke, so soon played off after that which had preceded it, and upon the same person, too, occasioned another very general laugh at the Buck's expense; and, beyond a doubt, filled him with a double measure of mortification and resentment.
“There you go,” he muttered, “and it was well said before Mass, that if you set a beggar on horseback he'll ride to the divil.”
“To whom do you apply that language?” asked Alick Purcel.
“To one Michael Purcel, a tithe-proctor, an oppressor and a grinder of the poor,” returned Buck, fiercely.
“And, you insolent scoundrel, how dare you use such language to my father?” said the other. “I tell you, that if it were not from a reluctance to create an unbecoming quarrel so near the house of God, and so soon after his worship, I would horsewhip you, you illiterate, vulgar rascal, where you stand.”
“I would be glad to catch you making the attempt,” replied the Buck, with a look of fury; “because I would give you such a lesson as you would never forget. I would let you know that it isn't your father's unfortunate tenants and day-laborers you have before you—and that you scourge like hounds in a kennel.”
Purcel was actually in the act of springing at him, whip in hand, when, fortunately, the priest interfered, and prevented a conflict which, from the strength and spirit by which the parties were animated, must have been a fearful one.
“What is this?” said the worthy man; “in God's name, what does this scandalous conduct, in such a place, and on such an occasion, mean? Come between these madmen,” he proceeded, addressing the crowd, which had now collected about them. “Keep them asunder!”
The two men were separated; but as each felt himself under the influence of strong resentment, they glared at one another with looks of fiery indignation.
“You had better keep out of my way, you impudent scoundrel,” said Purcel, shaking his whip at him; “and hark ye, make no more attempts to pay attention to any of my sisters, or, by the heavens above me, I will trace you through all your haunts, and flog you as I would a dog.”
“I'll take care to give you the opportunity before long, Squire Purcel, or rather Squireen Purcel,” replied the Buck; “and what is more, I'll see you and yours in my power yet.”
“You're too ready wid your whip, Mr. Purcel,” said several voices from among the crowd; “and you do think it's dogs you have to dale wid, as Mr. English says.”
“No,” said Purcel, with scom; “I deny it; my whip is never raised unless to the shoulders of some slavish, lying, and dishonest scoundrel, whom I prefer to punish rather than to prosecute.”
“Take. care it doesn't come aginst you, then, some o' these days,” said a voice.
“Ay,” added another, “or some o' these nights!”
“Ah, you ungrateful and cowardly crew,” he replied, “who have not one drop of manly blood in your veins, I despise you. Like all thorough cowards, you are equally slavish and treacherous. Kindness is thrown away upon you, generosity you cannot understand, for open fight or open resentment you have neither heart nor courage—but give you the hour of midnight, and your unsuspecting victim asleep—or place you behind the shelter of a hedge, where your cowardly person is safe and invisible, with a musket or blunderbuss in your hands, and a man before whom you have crawled in the morning like reptiles, you will not scruple to assassinate that night. Curse upon you! you are a disgrace to any Christian country, and I despise, I say, and defy you. As for you, Buck English, avoid my path, and cross neither me nor any member of my family.”
“Alick Purcel,” said English, “mark my words—I'll put my thumb upon you and yours yet. I say, mark them; for the day will come when you will remember them to your cost.”
Purcel gave him a stern look, and merely said—“I'm prepared for you;” after which he and his brother John mounted their horses and dashed off at a rapid pace towards their father's house, followed by the groans and hootings of the people—far above all whose voices was heard that of Buck English, in loud and contemptuous tones.
On relating the occurrence at home, the father, as was his custom, only laughed at it.
“Pooh, Alick,” said he, “what does it signify? Have we not been annoyed for years by these senseless broils and empty threats? Don't think of them.”
“I, father!” replied his son; “do you imagine that I ever bestow a second thought upon them? Not I, I assure you. However, there is one thing would most unquestionably gratify me, and that is, an opportunity of cudgelling Buck English; because, upon second consideration, horse-whipping would be much too gentlemanly a style of chastisement for such a vulgar and affected ruffian.”
“I regret very much, however,” said his sister Julia, “that I have been the cause of all this; but really, as Mary here knows, the absurdity of his language was perfectly irresistible.”
“Yes,” replied her sister; “but, in fact, he is constantly annoying and persecuting her, and very few would bear such nonsense and absurdity from him with so much good-humor as Julia does. I grant that it is very difficult to be angry with so ridiculous a fool; but I do agree with Julia, that it is better to laugh at him, for two seasons: the first is, because he is a fit object for ridicule; and the second, because it is utterly impossible to resist it.”
“I don't think he will annoy Julia again, however,” said Alick.
“Not until the next opportunity,” observed his brother, “when, you may take my word for it, he will be as ridiculously polite and impudent as ever.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said the father; “the rascal's incurable, and little did I imagine when I asked him once or twice to dine here that I was preparing such an infliction for poor Julia. Julia didn't he write to you?”
“I certainly had the honor of receiving a very elaborate love-letter from him,” replied Julia, laughing, “which I will show you some of these days; but, for my part, I think the fool is beneath resentment, and it is merely on that principle that I have treated him with good-humored contempt.”
“He is certainly as good as a farce,” said the father; “and if the rascal had kept from making love, I should have still been glad to have him here from time to time to amuse us.”
“How does he live at all?” asked Mrs. Purcel; “for, by all accounts, he has no fixed place of residence, nor any known means of support.”
“Faith, Nancy, that's a subject upon which we are all aiqually ignorant,” replied her husband; “but that the fellow lives, and can live comfortably—ay, and has plenty of money, there can be no earthly doubt. At the same time, that there is much talk about him, and a great deal of mystery too, is a sure case on the other hand. Well, never mind, Jack; I asked your old tutor, M'Carthy, to dine here to-day; he has come home to the country after having gained a scholarship, I believe they call it, in Trinity College.”
“I'm glad you did, father,” replied John, “and I'm much obliged to you. Yes, he has gained first place, and I knew he would.”
“He intends going to the bar, he tells me.”
“He will be heard from yet, or I renounce all claims to common sense,” replied the other. “There is, unquestionably, a brilliant career before him.”
“I would rather, in the meantime,” observed Mrs. Purcell, “that he had continued steadfast to his religion. They tell me that he has become a Protestant.”
“Why, I believe he couldn't gain a scholarship, as you call it, Jack, without becoming a member of the Established Church.”
“No, sir, he could not.”
“Well, then,” proceeded the proctor, “what great harm? Why, I believe in my soul, that if it weren't for the bigotry of priests and parsons, who contrive to set the two churches together by the ears, there would be found very little difference between them. For my part, I believe a good, honest Protestant will go to heaven when a scoundrel Papist won't, and vice versa. The truth is, begad, that it's six of one and half a dozen of the other; and sorry would I be to let so slight a change as passing from one religion to the other ever be a bar to the advancement or good fortune of any one of my children!”
“I would much rather not hear you say so, Mat,” replied his wife; “nor do I ever wish my children to gain either wealth or station in the world by the sacrifice of the highest principle that can bind the heart—that of religion.”
“Pooh, Nancy, you speak like a woman who never looked beyond the range of the kitchen and larder, or thought beyond the humdrum prayers of your Manual. I wish to see my children established; I wish to see them gain station in the world; I wish to make them the first of their family; and I do assure you, Nancy, that it is not such a trifle as the difference between popery on the one hand, and Protestantism on the other, that I'd suffer—that is, if they will be guided by me—to stand between them and the solid advantages of good connection, and a proper standing in the world. I say, then, boys and girls, don't be fools; for, as for my part, I scarcely think, to tell God's truth, that there's to the value of sixpence between the two creeds.”
“Father,” said Mary, laughing, “you're a man of a truly liberal disposition in these matters.”
“But, papa,” said Julia, with an arch look, “if there be not the value of sixpence between the two creeds, perhaps there is more than that between the two clergy?”
The proctor shook his head and laughed.
“Ah, Judy, my girl, you have me there,” he replied; “that goes home to the proctor, you baggage. Devil a thing, however, like an endowed church, and may God keep me and all my friends from the voluntary system!—ha! ha! ha! Come, now, for that same hit at the old proctor, you must walk over here and play me my old favorite, the 'Cannie Soogah,' just to pull down your pride. The 'Cannie Soogah,' you know, is the Irish for Jolly Pedlar, and a right jolly pedlar your worthy father was once in his days.”
“By the way, papa,” said Mary, “talking of that—what has become of the pleasant man that goes under that name or nickname—the pedlar that calls here occasionally?”
“I saw him in the market yesterday,” replied her father, “and a fine, hale fellow he is of his years. For a man of fifty he's a miracle of activity and energy.”
“They say he is wealthy,” observed John, “and I shouldn't wonder. You ought to give a good guess at that, father—ha! ha! ha!”
“Right, John, I ought, and I think he is. You don't know how money gathers with a successful pedlar, who is up to his business. I am inclined to think that the Cannie Soogah is the only man who can throw any light on the history of Buck English.”
“Who the devil is that impudent scoundrel, father? for it appears that, as regards his birth, family, and origin, nobody knows anything certain about him.”
“And that is just the position in which I stand,” replied his father. “It is a subject on which he himself gives no satisfaction to any one. When asked about it, he laughs in jour face, and replies that he doesn't exactly know, but is of the opinion that he is the son of his father—whoever that was; but that, he says, he is not wise enough to know either, and then, after another laugh at you, he leaves you.”
“How does he live?” asked John, “for he has no visible means of support—he neither works nor is engaged in any profession, and yet he dresses well.”
“Well! John;” exclaimed Julia.
“Perhaps I ought not to say—well, Julia; but at all events, he is very fond of being considered a buck, and he certainly dresses up to that character.”
“He admits that he was eight years in England,” said his father; “although, for my part, it's just as likely that he spent seven years of that time in Botany Bay; if not, I should have no objection that something should occur to make him spend the remainder of his life there.”
“Why should you wish the man so ill, papa'?” asked Mary.
“Why, Mary—faith for a very good reason, my dear child; because I don't wish to see your sister annoyed and persecuted by the scoundrel. The fellow is so impudent that he will take no rebuff.”
“By the way, father, where does M'Carthy stop, now that he is in the country?” asked Alick, with some hesitation, and a brow a little heightened in color.
“For the present,” replied the other, “he stops with our friend, O'Driscol, the new magistrate. Faith, it's a shove-up for O'Driscol to get on the Bench. Halloo! there's M'Carthy's knock—I'm sure I know it.”
The proctor was right; but notwithstanding his quickness and sagacity, there was another individual in the room at that moment who recognized it sooner than he did. Julia arose, and withdrew under some pretence which we cannot now remember, but I really because she felt that had she remained until M'Carthy's entrance, her blushes would have betrayed her.
“M'Carthy is a very handsome young-fellow,” observed John—“would he think of entering any pretensions to Katherine O'Driscol?”
“What d—d stuff you often talk, John—begging your pardon,” replied his brother; “he has hard reading, and his profession to think of—both of which he will find enough for him, setting Katherine O'Driscol and love out of the question.”
“Very good, Alick,” said John. “Ha! ha ha! I thought I would touch you there. The bait took, my boy; jealousy, jealousy, father.”
Alick, on finding that he was detected, forced himself into a confused laugh, and, in the meantime, M'Carthy entered.
Nothing could surpass the cordiality of his reception. A holiday spirit was obvious among the family—at least among all who were then visible. Secretly, however, did his eye glance about in search of one, on whose reception of him more depended than a thousand welcomes from all the rest. In about twenty minutes Julia made her appearance, but to any person in the secret, it was obvious that she was combating with much inward, if not with some appearance of external confusion and restraint. After the first greetings were over, however, she gradually recovered her self-possession, and was able to join in the conversation without embarrassment or difficulty.
CHAPTER III.—Mountain Legislation, and its Executive of Blood.
After dinner that day, and while the gentlemen were yet at table, Mary and Julia, who, as we have said, had relieved their mother of those benevolent attentions which she had been in the habit of paying to the neighboring sick and poor, proceeded on their way to the cottage of a destitute woman in the next village, who was then lying in what was considered to be a hopeless state. The proctor himself, while he exacted with a heartless and rapacious hand the last penny due to him, was yet too good a tactician to discountenance these spontaneous effusions of benevolence on the part of his wife and daughters. With a good deal of ostentation, and that peculiar swagger for which many shrewd and hard-hearted men of the world are remarkable, he actually got the medicine himself for the helpless invalid in question, not forgetting at the same time to make the bystanders in the apothecary's shop acquainted with the extent of his own private charity and that of his family besides. The girls had proceeded a part of the way on their charitable errand, when it occurred to them that the medicine, which their father had procured on the preceding day, had been forgotten, and as the sick woman was to commence taking it at a certain hour that evening, it was necessary that either one or both should return for it.
“You needn't come back, Julia,” said Mary; “I will myself run home and fetch it. And accordingly her sister went back at a quick step towards her father's house. The spot where Julia stood to await the return, of her sister was within a few yards of a large white-thorn double ditch, on each side of which grew a close hedge of thorns, that could easily afford room for two or three men to walk abreast between them. Here she had not remained more than a minute or two, when, issuing from the cover of the thorns, and approaching her with something of a stage strut, our friend, Buck English, made his appearance.
“Miss Joolia,” he exclaimed, with what was intended for a polite bow, “I hope you will pardon me for this third liberty I teek in offering to spake to you. I see,” he proceeded, observing her rising indignation, “that you are not inclined to hear me, but I kim here to give you a bit of advice as a friend—listen to my proposals, if you're wise—and don't make me the enemy of yourself or your family, for so sure as you reject me, so certainly will you bring ruin upon both yourself and them. I say this as a friend, and merk me, the day may come when you will oll remember my words too late.”
There was a vehemence in his language, which could admit of no mistake as to the fixed determination of his purpose; his lips were compressed, his eyebrows severely knit, and his unfeeling, hyena eye scintillated with a fire that proceeded as much from an inclination to revenge as affection. Julia Purcel, however, though a women, possessed no whit of her sex's cowardice; on the contrary, her bosom heaved with indignant scorn, and her eye gave him back glance for glance, in a spirit that disdained to quail before his violence.
“Do you dare to threaten me or my family, sir?” she replied; “I think you should know us better than to imagine that the threats of a ruffian, for such I now perceive you to be, could for a moment intimidate either them or me. Begone, sir, I despise and detest you—until this moment, I looked upon and treated you as a fool, but I now find you are a villain—begone, I say; I scorn and defy you.”
“You defy me, do you?”
“Yes, I have said it, I defy you.”
“Well, then, so be it,” he replied, “you must take the consequences, that's all, and let your favorite, M'Carthy, look to himself too.”
Having uttered these significant words, ha reentered the double ditch, along which a common pathway went, and in a minute or two was out of sight.
Mary, on her return, at once perceived, by the flushed cheek and kindled eye of her sister, that something had discomposed her. “Why, goodness me, dear Julia, you look disturbed or frightened; what is the matter?”
“Disturbed I am,” she replied, “but not at all frightened. This worthy lover of mine, whom nothing can abash, has honored me with another interview.”
“Is it after the scene between him and my brother to-day?”
“Certainly,” she replied, with a smile, for she now began once more to look upon the matter in a ludicrous point of view, “and has threatened not only myself, but the whole family with destruction, unless I favor his addresses—ha! ha! ha! He has one good quality in a lover, at all events—perseverance.”
“Say rather effrontery and impudence,” replied Mary.
“Yes, I admit that,” said her sister; “but at any rate, they very often go together, I believe.”
She then related the dialogue that took place, at which her sister, who was equally remarkable for courage, only laughed.
“The fellow after all is only a fool,” she observed. “If he were anything else, or if he had any serious intention of carrying such threats into effect, he most assuredly would not give expression to them, or put you on your guard against them. No, he is only a fool and not worth thinking about: let him go.”
They then proceeded to the cabin of poor Widow Cleary, to whom they administered the medicine with their own hands, and to whose children they brought their mother's orders to attend the house, that they might be relieved with that comfortable food which their destitute circumstances so much required.
On their return home, the relation of the incident which we have just narrated very much amused the family, with the exception of M'Carthy, who expressed himself not quite at ease after having heard English's threats. “There is an extraordinary mystery about that man,” he observed; “no one knows or can tell who he is; you can call him a fool, too, but take my word that there never hung mystery about a fool yet; I fear he will be found to be something much worse than a fool.”
“Nonsense,” replied the proctor. “The fellow is only ridiculous and contemptible; he and his clipped English are not worth thinking of—let him go to the deuce.”
M'Carthy still shook his head, as if of opinion that they underrated the Buck's power of injuring them, but the truth was that neither Purcel nor his sons were at all capable of apprehending either fear or danger; they, therefore, very naturally looked upon the denunciations of English with a recklessness that was little less than foolhardy.
During the last few years they had been accustomed to receive threats and written notices of vengeance, which had all ended in nothing, and, in consequence of this impunity, they had become so completely inured to them as to treat them only with laughter and scorn.
It has been already intimated to the reader that M'Carthy was residing, during a short visit to the country, at the house of O'Driscol, the newly-made magistrate. It was pretty late that evening when he took leave of the Purcels, but as the distance was not far he felt no anxiety at all upon the subject of his journey. The night, however, was so pitchy dark, that even although well acquainted as he was with the road, he found some difficulty in avoiding the drains and ditches that enclosed it. At length he had arrived within a couple of hundred yards of O'Driscol's house, when as he was proceeding along suddenly found himself come unexpectedly against some individual, who was coming from an opposite direction.
“Hillo! who is here?” said the voice, in a kind of whisper.
“A friend,” replied M'Carthy; “who are you?”
“What's your name?” inquired the strange voice, “and be quick.”
“My name is M'Carthy,” replied our friend; “why do you ask?”
“Come this way,” said the stranger; “you are Francis M'Carthy, I think?”
“Yes, that is my name—what is yours?”
“That doesn't matther,” replied the voice, “stand aside here, and be quiet as you value your life.”
M'Carthy thought at the moment that he heard the noise of many feet, as it were in the distance.
“You will not be safe,” said the voice, “if you refuse to take my advice;” and as he spoke he partly forced M'Carthy over to the side of the road where they both stood invisible from the darkness of the night, as well as from the shelter of a large whitethorn branch, which would, even in daylight, almost have concealed them from view. In a few minutes, a large body of people passed them with that tread which always characterizes the motions of undisciplined men. There was scarcely a word among them, but M'Carthy felt that, knowing them as he did to be peasants, there was something dreadful in the silence which they maintained so strictly. He could not avoid associating their movements and designs with some act of violence and bloodshed, that was about to add horror to the impenetrable gloom of night, whose darkness, perhaps, they were about to light up with the roof-tree of some unsuspecting household, ignorant of the fiery fate that was then so near them.
Several hundreds must have passed, and when the last sounds of their tread had died away, M'Carthy and his companion left their hiding-place, when the latter addressed him as follows:—
“Now, Mr. M'Carthy, I wish you to understand that you are wid a friend—mark my words—avoid the man they call Buck English, for of all men livin' he hates you the most; and listen, whenever you come to this country don't stop in procthor Purcel's, otherwise you may draw down ruin and destruction upon him and his; and, if I'm not mistaken, you're the last man livin' who would wish to do that.”
“By the way,” asked M'Carthy, “who is Buck English?”
“I don't know,” replied the stranger, “nor do I know any one that does.”
“And may I not ask who you are yourself?”
“No—for I've good raisons for not telling you. Good-night, and mark my words—avoid that man, for I know he would give a good deal to sit over your coffin—and you in it.”
We shall now allow M'Carthy to proceed to his friend's house, which he reached without any further adventure, and ask the reader to accompany the stranger, who in a few minutes overtook the body we have described, to which he belonged. They proceeded in the same way, still maintaining a silence that was fearful and ominous, for about a mile and a half. Whilst proceeding, they met several persons on the road, every one of whom they stopped and interrogated as to his name and residence, after which they allowed them to pass on.
“Why do they! stop and examine the people they meet?” whispered one of them a young lad about nineteen—to him who had just warned McCarthy.
“Why,” said the other, “is it possible you don't know that? It's aisy seen you're but young in the business yet.”
“This is my first night to be out,” replied the youth.
“Well, then,” rejoined our friend, “it's in the expectation of meetin' an enemy, especially some one that's marked.”
“An' what would they do if they did?”
“Do? said the other; “do for him!. If they met sich a one, they'd take care his supper wouldn't cost him much.”
“Blood alive!” exclaimed the young fellow. “I'm afeard this is a bad business.”
“Faith, an' if it is, it's only beginnin',” said the other, “but whether good or bad the counthry requires it, an' the Millstone must be got rid of.”
“What's the Millstone?”
“The Protestant church. The man that won't join us to put it down, must be looked upon and treated as an enemy to his country—that is, if he is a Catholic.”
“I have no objection to that,” replied the youth, “but I don't like to see lives taken or blood shed; murdher's awful.”
“You must set it down, then,” replied the other, “that both will happen, ay, an' that you must yourself shed blood and take life when it come your turn. Howanever, that will soon come aisy to you; a little practice, and two or three opportunities of seeing the thing done, an' you'll begin to take delight in it.”
“And do you now?” asked the unsophisticated boy, with a quivering of the voice which proceeded from a shudder.
“Why, no,” replied the other, still in a whisper, for in this tone the dialogue was necessarily continued; “not yet, at any rate; but if it came my turn to take a life I should either do it, or lose my own some fine night.”
“Upon my conscience,” whispered the lad, “I can't help thinkin' that it's a bad business, and won't end well.”
“Ay, but the general opinion is, that if we get the Millstone from about our necks, a few lives taken on their side, and a few boys hanged on ours, won't make much difference one way or other, and then everything will end well. That's the way of it.”
This muffled dialogue, if we may use the expression, was now interrupted by a change in their route. At a Rath, which here capped an eminence of the road, a narrow bridle-way diverged to the right, and after a gradual ascent for about a mile and a half, was lost upon a rough upland, that might be almost termed a moor. Here they halted for a few minutes, in deliberation as to whether they should then proceed across the moor, or wait until the moon should rise and enable them to see their way.
It was shortly resolved upon to advance, in order that they might lose as little time as possible, in consequence of having, as it appeared, two or three little affairs to execute in the course of the night. They immediately struck across the rough ground which lay before them, and as they did so, the conversation began to be indulged in more freely, in consequence of their remoteness from any human dwelling or the chances of being overheard. The whole body now fell into groups, each headed by a certain individual who acted as leader, but so varied were the topics of discourse, some using Irish, others the English language, that it was rather difficult to catch the general purport of what they said.
At length when a distance of about two miles had been traversed, they came out upon one of those small green campaigns, or sloping meadows, that are occasionally to be found embosomed in the mountains, and upon which the eye rests with an agreeable sense of relief, on turning to them from the dark and monotonous hue of the gloomy wastes around them.
They had not been many minutes here when the moon rose, and after a little time her light would have enabled a casual or accidental spectator to witness a fearful and startling scene. About six hundred men were there assembled; every man having his face blackened, and all with shirts over their outward and usual garments. As soon as the moon, after having gained a greater elevation in the sky, began to diffuse a clearer lustre on the earth, we may justly say that it would be difficult to witness so strange and appalling a spectacle. The white appearance of their persons, caused by the shirts which they wore in the manner we have stated, for this peculiar occasion, when contrasted with their blackened visages, gave them more the character of demons than of men, with whom indeed their strange costume and disfigured faces seemed to imitate the possession of very little in common, with the exception of shape alone. The light was not sufficiently strong to give them distinctness, and as a natural consequence, there was upon them a dim gleamy look—a spectral character that was frightful, and filled the mind with an impression that the meeting must have been one of supernatural beings, if not an assemblage of actual devils, in visible shape, coming to perpetrate on earth some deed of darkness and of horror.
Among the whole six hundred there might have been about one hundred muskets. Pistols, blunderbusses, and other arms there were in considerable numbers, but these were not available for a portion, at least, of the purposes which had brought them together.
After some preliminary preparation a light was struck, a candle lit, around which a certain number stood, so as to expose it to as little chance of observation as possible. A man then above the middle size, compact and big-boned, took the candle in one hand, and brought it towards a long roll which he held in the other. He wore a white hat with a low crown, had large black whiskers which came to his chin, and ran besides round his neck underneath. The appearance of this man, and of those who surrounded the dim light which he held was, when taking their black unnatural faces into consideration, certainly calculated to excite no other sensations than those of terror mingled with disgust.
“Now,” said he, in a strong rich brogue, “let every man fall into rank according as his name is called out; and along with his name he must also repate his number whatever it may be, up until we come to a hundred, for I believe we have no more muskets. Where is Sargin Lynch?”
“Here I am,” replied that individual, who enjoyed a sergeant's pension, having fought through the peninsular campaign.
“Take the lists then and proceed,” said the leader; “we have little time to lose.”
Lynch then called over a list until he had reached a hundred; every man, as he answered to his name, also repeated his number; as for instance,
“Tom Halloran.”
“Here—one!”
“Peter Rafferty!”
“Here—two!” and so on, until the requisite number was completed, and every man as he responded fell also into rank.
Having thus got them into line, he gave them a rather hasty drill; and this being over, hundred after hundred went through the same process of roll-call and manoeuvre, until the task of the night was completed, so-far, at least, as that particular duty was concerned. Other duties, however, in more complete keeping with their wild and demon-like appearance, were still to be performed. Short rolls were called, by which selections for the assemblage of such as had been previously marked down for the robbery of arms, were made with considerable promptitude. And, indeed, most of those to whom, such outrageous and criminal attacks wera assigned, seemed to feel flattered by being appointed to the performance of them.
At length, when these matters were, arranged, and completed, the whole body was ordered to fall into rank, and the large-man, who acted as leader, walked for a times up and down in front of them, after which, as nearly opposite their centre as possible, he deliberately knelt down, and held his two open palms across each other for some seconds, or perhaps for half a minute.
A low fearful murmur, which no language could describe, and no imagination conceive—without having heard it, ran along the whole line. Whether it proceeded from compassion or exultation, or a blending of both mingled with horror and aversion, or a diabolical, satisfaction, it is difficult or rather absolutely impossible to say. The probability is, however, that it was made up of all these feelings, and that it was their unnatural union, expressed under such wild and peculiar circumstances, that gave it the impressive and dreadful effect wo have described.
“What does he mane?” said some of the youthful and inexperienced portion of them, in the accustomed whisper.
“There's a death to take place to-night,” replied an older member; “there's either a man or family doomed, God knows which!” He then arose, and going along the front: rank, selected by name twenty-four individuals, who were made to stand in order; to one of these he whispered the name and residence of the victim; this one immediately whispered the secret to the person next him, who communicated it in his turn, and thus it went round until the last had received it. This being accomplished, he stood apart from the appointed murderers, and made them all, one after another, whisper to him the name and residence as before.
“Now,” said the leader, “it's my duty to tell you that there's a man to be done for tonight; and you must all know his crime. He was warned by us no less than four times not to pay tithe, and not only that, but he refused to be sworn out to do so, and wounded one of the boys that wor sent by me one night to swear him. He has set us at defiance by publicly payin' his tithes to a man that we'll take care of some o' these nights. He's now doomed, an' was tried on the last night of our meetin'. This night he dies. Them that has his life in their hands knows who he is an' where they'll find him. Once and for all then this night he dies. Now, boys, such of you as have nothing to do go home, and such of you as have your work before you do it like men, and don't draw down destruction on yourselves by neglectin' it. You know your fate if you flinch.—I have done.”
Those who were not on duty, to use a military phrase, returned across the moors by the way they came, and consequently reached the bridle road we have spoken of, together. Such, however, as were set apart for the outrages and crimes of the night, remained behind, in order that the peculiar destination of their atrocities might be known only to the individuals who were appointed to perpetrate them.
On their return, our unknown friend, who had rendered such an essential service to M'Carthy, thus addressed his companion—that is to say, the man who happened to be next him,—
“Well, neighbor, what do you think of this night's work?”
“Why, that everything's right, of coorse,” replied the other; “any man that strives to keep the Millstone about our necks desarves his fate; at the same time,” he added, dropping his voice still lower, “I'd as soon not be the man to do the deed, neighbor.”
“Well, I can't say,” returned our friend, “but I'm a trifle of your way of thinkin'.”
“There's one thing troubles me,” added his companion, an' it's this—there was a young lad wid us to-night from my neighborhood, he was near the last of us as we went along the road on our way to the mountains; I seen him whisperin' to some one a good deal as we came out—now, I know there's not on airth a kinder-hearted or more affectionate boy than he is; he hasn't a heart to hurt a fly, and is loved and respected by every one in the neighborhood. Very well! God of glory! isn't it too bad, that this one, handsome, lovin', and affectionate boy, the only child of his father and mother,—fareer gair (* Bitter misfortune.)—my friend, whoever you are, isn't it too bad, that that boy, innocent and harmless as a child, will go home to his lovin' parents a murdherer this night?”
“What makes you say so?” asked our unknown friend.
“Why,” replied the man, “he stood beside me in the ranks, and has been sent to murdher the man that was doomed.”
To this our friend judiciously avoided making any reply, the fact being that several individuals in high trust among these Whiteboys were occasionally employed to sound suspected persons, in order to test their sincerity. For about half a minute he spoke not; but at length he said, with something like sternness—
“There's no use in sich talk as this, my friend; every man that joins us must make up his mind to do his duty to God and his country.”
“It's a quare way of sarvin' God to commit midnight murdher on his creatures,” responded the man with energy.
“I don't know who you are,” replied our friend, “but if you take my advice, you'll not hould such conversation wid every man you spake to in this body. Wid me you're safe, but at the same time, I say, don't draw suspicion on yourself, and it'll be betther for you.”
“Who is this man?” asked the other, who appeared to have been borne away a good deal by his feelings, “that commands us?”
“Don't you know Captain Midnight?” replied the other, somewhat evasively.
“Why, of coorse I know the man by that name; but, at the same time, I know nothin' else about him.”
“Did you never hear?” asked his companion.
“Why, to tell you the truth,” said the other, “I heerd it said that he's the Cannie Soogah, or the Jolly Pedlar that goes about the country.”
“Well,” said the other, lowering his voice a good deal in reply, “if I could trust you, I'd tell you what I think.”
“I'll give you my name, then,” replied the other, “if you doubt me;” he accordingly whispered it to him, and the conversation proceeded.
“I know your family well,” returned our friend; “but, as I said before, be more on your guard, unless you know well the man you spake to. As for myself, I sometimes think it is the Cannie Soogah and sometimes that it is not. Others say it's Buck English; but the Buck, for raisons that some people suspect, could never be got to join us. He wishes us well, he says, but won't do anything till there comes an open 'ruction, and then he'll join us, but not before. It's hard to say, at any rate, who commands us when we meet this way.”
“Why so?”
“Why the dickens need you ax? Sure it's not the same man two nights runnin'.”
“But I have been only three or four times out yet,” replied his companion; “and, sure enough, you're very—right—they hadn't the same man twiste.”
They had now reached the road under the Fort or Rath we have alluded to, and as there was no further necessity for any combined motion among them, and as every man now was anxious to reach home as soon as possible, their numbers diminished rapidly, until they ultimately dispersed themselves in all directions throughout the country.
CHAPTER IV.—Mirth and Murder—A Tithe-Proctor's Office.
The next morning, when our proctor and his family assembled at breakfast, their usual buoyancy of spirits was considerably checked by a report which had already spread over a great portion of the country, that a very industrious and honest farmer, who lived within about four miles of them, had been murdered in his own house the night before, by a party of fellows disguised with blackened faces, and who wore shirts over their clothes. The barbarous and brutal deed, in consequence of the amiable and excellent character of the man—who had been also remarkable for resolution and courage—had already excited an extraordinary commotion throughout the country.
“Boys,” said Purcel, “I have been in C———m this morning, and, I'm sorry to say, there's bad news abroad.”
“How is that, sir?” asked Alick,—“no violence, I hope; although I wouldn't feel surprised if there were; the country is getting into a bad state: I think myself the people are mad, absolutely mad.”
“You both knew Matthew Murray,” he proceeded, “that lived down at Rathkeerin?”
“Certainly, father,” said John; “what about him?—no harm, I hope?”
“He was murdered in his own house last night,” replied his father; “but it's some consolation that one of the murdering villains is in custody.”
“That is bad business, certainly,” replied John; “in fact, it's dreadful.”
“It is dreadful,” said the father; “but the truth is, we must have the country, at least this part of it, proclaimed, and martial law established;—damn the murdering scoundrels, nothing else is fit for them. We must carry arms, boys, in future; and by d—n, the first man I see looking at me suspiciously, especially from behind a hedge, I'll shoot him. As a tithe-proctor I could do so without much risk.”
“Not, father,” said Alick, “until he should first offer, or make an attempt at violence.”
“I would not, in the present state of the country, wait for it,” replied the determined and now indignant proctor; “if I saw him watch me with arms in his hands, or any dangerous weapon about his person, by d—n I'd put a bullet through him, with no more remorse than I would through a dog, and, if the animal were a good one, I think he would be the greater public loss of the two.”
Just at this moment, the females of the family, who had been giving breakfast to a number of poor destitute creatures, made their appearance.
“Where have you all been?” asked Mrs. Purcel, addressing her husband and sons; “here have we been waiting breakfast for you during the last half-hour, and finding you were none of you within, we went and gave these poor creatures without something to eat.”
“Ay,” responded the angry proctor, “and it's not unlikely that the son, or husband, or brother of some of them may take a slap at me or at one of our sons, from behind a hedge, before these long nights pass off. D—n me, but it's throwing pearls before swine, to show them either kindness or charity.”
“Something has angered you, papa,” said Mary; “I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant; I am not very timid, but when a whole country is in such a state of disturbance, one may entertain a reasonable apprehension, certainly.”
“Why, I am angry, Mary,” replied her father; “there's as decent and quiet, but, at the same time, as spirited a man as there ever was in the barony, murdered this morning—Mat Murray of Rathkeerin; however, as I said, it's a great consolation that one of the murderers is in custody.”
“And who is the wretch, papa?” asked Julia.
“One that nobody ever could have suspected for such an act,” replied Purcel—“a son of one of our own tenants—honest Michael Devlin's son—James.”
“Utterly impossible, father,” exclaimed Julia, “there must be a mistake; that quiet and dutiful boy—their only son—never could have been concerned in the crime of murder.”
“Well, perhaps not, Judy; but, you silly girl, you talk as if you were in love with him. Why, child, there is such a system abroad, now that a man can scarcely trust his own brother—no, nor does a father know, when he sits down to his breakfast in the morning with his own son, whether, as Scripture says, he is not dipping his hand in the dish with a murderer.”
“Mat,” said his wife, “you ought not to be out late at night, nor the boys either. You know there is a strong feeling against you; and indeed I think you ought not, any of you, ever to go out without, arms about you—at all events, until the country gets quiet.”
“So I was just saying, Nancy,” replied her husband;—“hallo! who's this coming up to the hall-door?—begad, our old pleasant friend, the Cannie Soogah. Upon my troth, I'm glad to see him. Hallo! Cannie!—Cannie Soogah, my hearty,—Jolly Pedlar, I say—this way! How are you, man?—have you breakfasted? Of course not. Well, go to the kitchen and, if you don't show good eating, it won't be for want of materials.”
“God save you, Misther Purcel,” replied the pedlar, in a rich, round brogue; “God save you, young gintlemen. Oh, thin, Misther Purcel, by my sowl it's your four quarthers that has a right to be proud of your; family! And the ladies—not forgettin' the misthress herself—devil the likes of the same two young ladies I see on my whole bait, an' that's the country at large, barrin' the barony of Bedhehusth, where these cruel murdhers is committed; an' devil a foot I'll ever set into it till it's changed for the betther.”
“Well, be off,” said the proctor, “to the kitchen; get your breakfast first, and then we'll chat to you.”
“I will; but oh, Misther Purcel darlin', did you hear what happened last night?”
“Is it Murray's business?”
“What do you call Murray's business, Misther Purcel? 'Tis Murray's murdher, you mane?”
“Certainly, I have heard it all this morning in C———m.”
The pedlar only shook his head, looked upwards, and raising his two hands so as to express amazement, exclaimed—“Well, well, what is the world goin' to! troth, I'll not ate half my breakwist in regard of it!” So saying he slung his huge pack upon his shoulder as if it had been a mere bag of feathers, and took his way round to the kitchen as he had been desired.
The Connie Soogah, for so the people universally termed him, was in person and figure a fine burly specimen of manhood. His hair was black, as were a pair of large whiskers, that covered the greater portion of his face, and nearly met at his chin. His arms and limbs were powerfully made, and what is not always the case in muscular men, they betokened great activity as well as unusual strength. Nobody, for instance, would look without astonishment at the ease with which he swung a pack, that was weighty enough to load an ass, over his shoulder, or the lightness and agility with which he trotted on under it from morning till night, and this during the very severest heat of summer.
M'Carthy, on reaching O'Driscol's the night before, had come to the conclusion of not making any allusion whatsoever to the incident which had just occurred to him. O'Driscol, who was only a newly-fledged magistrate, would, he knew, have made it the ground-work of a fresh communication to government, or to his friend the Castle, as he called it, especially as he had many other circumstances of less importance since his elevation to the magistracy. One indeed would imagine that the peace and welfare of that portion of the country had been altogether left to his sole and individual management, and that nothing at all of any consequence could get on properly in it without his co-operation or interference in some way. For this reason, as well as for others, M'Carthy prudently hesitated either to arouse his loyalty or disturb the tranquility of his family, and after joining him in a tumbler of punch, or what O'Driscol termed his nightcap, he retired to bed, where, however, he could not for a considerable time prevent himself from ruminating, with a good deal of seriousness, upon the extraordinary interview he had had with the friendly stranger.
After breakfast the next morning he resolved, however, to communicate to his friends, the Purcels, who were at all events no alarmists, and would not be apt to make him, whether he would or not, the instrument of a selfish communication with the government, a kind of honor for which the quiet and unassuming student had no relish whatsoever. He sauntered towards the proctor's, at whose house he arrived a few minutes before the return from the kitchen of our friend the Connie Soogah, who had been treated there with an excellent and abundant breakfast, to which, in spite of the murder of Murray, he did ample justice.
“Now, Mr. Purcel,” he exclaimed, tossing down his pack as if it had been a schoolboy's satchel, “by the lomenty-tarry you have made a new man of me! Whoo!” he proceeded, cutting a caper more than a yard high, “show me the man now, that would dar to say bow to your—beg pardon, ladies, I must be jinteel for your sakes—that would dar, I say, to look crucked at you or one a' your family, and maybe the Cannie Soogah wouldn't rise the lap of his liver. Come, young ladies, shall I make my display? I know you'll buy lot o' things and plenty besides; I can praise my goods, thank God, for you see, Miss Mary, when the world comes to an end it'll be found that the man who couldn't say three words for himself, and one for his friend, must be sent down stairs to keep the fire in. Miss Julia, I have a shawl here that 'ud make you look worse than you do.”
“Worse, Cannie!” replied Julia, “do you call that a recommendation?”
“Certainly, Miss Julia, you look so well that nothing on airth could make you look batther, and by way of variety, I've gone to the Well o' the world's end to get something to make you look worse. God knows whether I've succeeded or not, but at all events, we'll thry.”
So saying, he produced a very handsome shawl, together with a rather large assortment of jewelry and other matters connected with the female toilet, of considerable taste and expense.
“Here,” he added, “are some cotton and silk stockins'—but upon my profits, it's not to every foot an' leg I'd produce them. I'm a great coortier, ladies, you must know, and am in love wid every purty girl I meet—but sure that's only natural; however, as I was sayin', it's not to a clype or a pair of smooth-in' irons I'll produce such stockins' as these! No, no, but a purty foot an' leg is always sure to get the worth o' their money from the Cannie Soogah!”
“Well done, Cannie!” said the proctor, “dix me, but you're a pleasant fellow—come girls, you must buy something—handsel him. You got no handsel to-day, Cannie?” he added, winking at the pedlar to say no.
“Barrin' the first foundation in the kitchen within,” he replied; “for you must know that's what I call my breakfast, handsel of any kind didn't cross my palm this day.”
“In that case, the girls must certainly buy something,” added Purcel.
“But we've no money, papa.”
“But,” replied the pedlar, “you have what's betther—good credit with the Cannie Soogah—och, upon my profits I'd rather have one sweet coaxin' smile from that purty little mouth of yours, Miss Julia, than money in hand any day! Ah! Misther Purcel, darlin', isn't it a poor thing not to have an estate of ten thousand a year?” and here he looked wistfully at the smiling Julia, and shrugged his shoulders like a man who knew he was never likely to gain his wishes.
“I would buy something,” said Mary, “but, like Julia, I am penniless.”
“Never say so, Miss Mary, to me; only name what you'd like—lave the price to my honesty, and the payment to my patience, and upon my profits you won't complain, I'll go bail.”
“Yes,” observed Julia, “or what if papa would treat us to something? Come, papa, for the sake of old times; let us see whether you have forgotten any of your former, craft.”
“Good, Judy! ha! ha! ha!—well done! but Cannie, have you nothing for the gentlemen?”
Now, we must pause for a little to state, that the moment M'Carthy, who was now present, heard the jolly pedlar's voice, he started, and felt considerably surprise. The tones of it were neither familiar to him nor yet were they strange. That he had heard them somewhere, and on some occasion, he could almost have sworn. Occasionally a turn of the man's voice would strike him as not being new to him, but again, for the next minute or two, it was such as he could not remember to have ever heard. This we say by way of parenthesis.
“For the gentlemen! Lord help you, Mr. Purcel, I never think of them when the ladies is before me—who would! However, I'm well prepared even for them. Here is a case o' razors that 'ud cut half an inch before the edge; now, if you find me another pair that'll do the seem—hem! the same—I'll buy the Bank of Ireland and give it to you for a new-year's-gift.”
“Don't you know this gentleman?” asked the proctor, pointing to M'Carthy.
“Let me see,” said he—“we'll now—eh, no—I think not, he is neither so well made, nor by any manes so well lookin' as the other;” and the pedlar, as he spoke, fixed his eyes, but without seeming to gaze, upon Julia, who, on hearing a comparison evidently so disadvantageous to M'Carthy, blushed deeply, and passed to another part of the room, in order to conceal what she felt must have been visible, and might have excited observation.
“No,” proceeded the pedlar; “I thought at first he was one of the left-legge'd M'Squiggins's, as they call them, from Fumblestown—but he is not, I know, for the raisons I said. They're a very good plain family, the M'Squiggins's, only that nobody's likely to fall in love wid them—upon my profits, I'm half inclined to think he's one of them still—eh, let me see again—would you turn round a little, if you plaise, sir, till I thry if the cast's in your eye. Upon my faith, there it is sure enough! How are you, Misther M'Squiggins? I'm happy to see you well, sir. How is your sisther, Miss Pugshey, an' all the family, sir?—all well, I hope, sir?”
“All well,” replied M'Carthy, laughing as loud as any of the rest, every one of whom actually in convulsions—for they knew, with the exception of Julia, who was deceived at first by the pedlar's apparent gravity, that he was only bantering her lover.
The proctor, who, although a man that loved money as his God—with his whole heart, soul, and strength—was yet exceedingly anxious to stand well with the world, and on this account never suffered a mere trifle to stand between him and the means of acquiring a good name, and having himself been considered a man of even of a benevolent spirit. He consequently made some purchase from the pedlar, with whom he held a very amusing and comic discussion, as touching the prices of many articles in that worthy's; pack. Nay, he went so far as to give them a good-humored exhibition of the secrets and peculiarities known only to the initiated, and bought some small matters in the slang terms with which none but the trade are acquainted.
“Come, boys,” said he, “I have set you a good example; won't you buy something from the jolly pedlar?”
John and Alick bought some trifling things, and M'Carthy purchased a pair of bracelets for the girls, which closed the sales for that morning.
“Well, now,” said the pedlar, whilst folding up again the goods which he had displayed for sale, “upon my profits, Misther Purcel, it's a perfect delight to me to call here, an' that whether I dale or not—although I'm sure to do so always when I come. Well, you have all dealt wid me now for payment, and here goes to give you something for nothing—an, in truth, it's a commodity that, although always chape, is seldom taken. 'Tis called good advice. The ladies—God bless them, don't stand in need of it, for sure the darlins' never did anything from Eve downwards, that 'ud require it. Here it is then, Misther Purcel, let you and your sons do what the ould song says—'be good boys and take care of yourselves. Thighin thu? (*Do you understand.) An' this gintleman, if I knew his name, maybe I'd say something to him too.”
“This is Mr. M'Carthy, Cannie.”
“Ay, M'Carthy—troth 'tis a good ould name. Well, Mr. M'Carthy, all I have to say to you! is, that if you happen to meet a man that gives you good advice, TAKE IT. An' now God be Wid you all, an' spare you to one another!”
So saying, he slung his huge pack over his shoulders almost without an effort, and commencing a merry old Irish song he proceeded lightly and cheerfully on his journey.
“Well, boys,” said the proctor, “now that we've had a good hearty laugh with the Cannie Soogah, let us proceed to business. I see by your red coats and top-boots, that you're for the hounds to-day, but as I'm in a hurry, I wish before you go, that you'd see those sneaking devils that are hanging about the place. Hourigan is there again with fresh falsehoods—don't be misled by him—the ill-looking scoundrel is right well able to pay—and dix me if I'll spare him. Tell him he needn't expect any further forbearance—a rascal that's putting money in the saving's bank to be pleadin' poverty! It's too bad. But the truth is, boys, there's no one behind in their tithes now entitled to forbearance, and for the same reason they must pay or take the consequences; we'll see whether they or the law will prove the strongest, and that very soon. Good-bye, boys; good-bye, M'Carthy—and I say, Jack and Alick, be on your sharps and don't let them lads do you—d'ye mind now?—keen's the word.”
He then got on his comfortable jaunting-car, and drove off to wait, according to appointment, upon the Rev. Jeremiah Turbot, D.D.
“Mogue Moylan,” said John, “will you go out and tell them fellows that I and Alick will be in the office presently—and do you hear? tell them to look like men, and not so much like murderers that came to take our lives. Say we'll be in the office presently, and that we hope it's not excuses they're fetching us.”
“I will, Misther John; but, troth, it's the worst word in their cheek they'd give me, if I deliver the last part of your message. 'Tis my head in my fist I'd get, maybe; however, Misther John, between you an' me, they're an ill-looking set, one an' all o' them, an' could pay their tides, every tail o' them, if they wished.”
“I know that very well,” replied the young fellow, “but my father's not the man to be trifled with. We'll soon see whether they or the law's the strongest; that's all.”
Moylan went over to where the defaulters were standing, and putting up his hand, he stroked down his cheek with great gravity. “Are yez in a hurry, good people?” said he.
“Some of us is,” replied a voice.
“Ay, all of us,” replied others; “and we're here now for an hour and a half, and no sign of seein' us.”
“Yez are in a hurry, then?”
“To be sure we are.”
“Well, to them that's in a hurry I've a word to say.”
“What is it, Mogue?”
“Why, it is this, take your time—ever an' always, when you happen to be in a hurry—take your time.”
“Maybe, Mogue,” they replied, “if you were widout your breakfast, as we are, you wouldn't say so.”
“Why, did'nt yez get your breakfasts yet?”
“Devil a morsel.”
“Well, to them that didn't get their breakfasts I have another word to say.”
“What is it, Mogue?”
“Why, have patience—ever and always when you're hungry, have patience, and you'll find it a great relief; it'll fill you and keep you in good condition—that I mayn't sin but it will! But, sure, I've got news for yez, boys,” he added; “Masther John bid me tell you that, after about a month or so it'll be contrary to law to get hungry: there's an act o' parliament goin' to be made against it, you see; so that any villain disloyal enough to get hungry, if it's proved against him, will be liable to transportation. That I mayn't sin but it'll be a great comfort for the country—I mane, to have hunger made contrary to act o' parliament.”
Mogue Moylan was, indeed, a fellow of a very original and peculiar character. Grave, sly, and hypocritical, yet apparently quiet and not susceptible of strong or vehement emotions, he was, nevertheless, more suggestive of evil designs and their fulfilment than any man, perhaps, in his position of life that ever existed. Though utterly without spirit, or the slightest conception of what personal courage meant, the reader not be surprised that he was also vindictive, and consequently treacherous and implacable. He could project crime and outrage with a felecity of diabolical invention that was almost incredible. He was, besides, close and cautious, unless when he thought that he could risk a falsehood with safety; and, in the opinion of some few who knew him, not merely dishonest, but an actual thief. His manner, too, was full of plausible assumption of great conscientiousness and simplicity. He seemed always calm and cool, was considered rather of a religious turn, and always expressed a strong horror against cursing or swearing in any shape. Indeed he had a pat anecdote, which he occasionally told, of a swoon or faint into which he usually fell, when a youth of about nineteen, in consequence of having been forced to take a book oath, for the first time, another act against which he entertained a peculiar antipathy. Now, all this was indeed very singular and peculiar; but he accounted for it by the scrupulous love of truth with which not only he himself, but his whole family, many of whom he said had given their lives for their country, were affected. The only foible that could be brought to the charge of honest Mogue, was a singular admiration for his own visage, which he never omitted to survey with remarkable complacency several times a day in a broken piece of looking, glass, which he kept for that especial purpose. This, and its not unnatural consequences a belief that almost ever female who spoke to him with civility was smitten by his face and figure, constituted the only two weaknesses in a character otherwise so spotless and perfect as that of Mogue Moylan. Mogue was also a good deal subject to the influence of the pathetic, especially when he alluded to the misfortune, glory be to God, which had befallen the family, in the person of a lone line of ancestors, and especially in that of big poor, simple father, whose word, as every one knew, was as good as his oath; and, indeed, very few doubted that remarkable fact, but who, notwithstanding had been transported during the space of seven years for suspicion of perjury; “for didn't the judge tell him, when he passed sentence upon him, that if he had been found guilty all out, or of anything beyant suspicion of it, he would be transported for life; 'an' instead of that,' said the judge, 'bekaise I persave,' says he, 'that you're an honest man, an' has been sworn against wrongfully in this business, and bekaise I see clearly that you love the truth, the sentence of the coort is,' says he, sheddin' tears, 'that you're to be transported only for seven years, an' you lave the coort an' the counthry,' says he, 'widout at stain upon your character—it's only the law that's against you—so, God be wid you,' the judge went on, wipin' his eyes, 'and grant you a safe and pleasant voyage acrass,' says he, an' he cried for some minutes like a child. That an' the unjust hangin' of my poor, simple ould grandfather for horse-stearin'—that is, for suspicion of horse-stealin'—is the only two misfortunes, thank God, that has been in our family of late days.”
So much for the character of worthy Mogue, whom we must now permit to resume the delivery of his message.
The last words were uttered with so peculiar and significant a gravity, not without a good deal of dry sarcastic humor, that the men could not avoid laughing heartily.
“But,” he proceeded, “I have better news still for yez. Sure Masther John desired me to let you all know that his father won't ax a penny o' tithe from one o' yez: all you have to do is to call at the office there in a few minutes, and you'll get aich o' you a receipt in full; (* By this he means a horse-whipping.) that is, if you don't keep civil tongues in your heads.”
One of Mogue's qualities was the power of gravely narrating a fact with such peculiar significance, that the very reverse of it was conveyed to the hearer; for the fellow was a perfect master of irony.
“Ah! well done Mogue; many a day o' reckoning he has had wid us, but maybe our day o' reckonin' wid him will come sooner than he expects, or wishes.”
“Don't be thinkin' ill,” said Mogue, “but keep yourselves always free from evil. What does Scripthur say? 'One good turn desarves another,' says Scripthur. Boys, always keep Scripthur before you, and you'll do right. 'One good turn deserves another,' says Scripthur! and you know yourselves, I hope, that many a good turn you received at his hands. That I may be happy, but it's good advice I'm givin' you!”
“Divil a betther, Mogue,” replied Hourigan, with a significant scowl, and “it's we ourselves that'll be sure to take it some fine night.”
“Night or day,” replied Mogue, “it's always right to be doin' good, whether we sarve our country or religion. God prosper yez, at all events, and grant you success in your endeavors, an' that's the worst I wish you! There now, Masther John's in the office, ready an' willin' to give sich o' yez a resate in full as will—desarve it.”
The situation in which the parties stood, during this dialogue, was at the rear of the premises into which the proctor's office opened, and where the country people were always desired to wait. They stood at the end of the stable, adjoining a wall almost eight feet high, on the other side of which was the pig-sty. Here, whilst the conversation just detailed went forward, stood a pretty, plump-looking, country-girl, one of the female servants of the proctor's establishment, named Letty Lenehan. She had come to feed the pigs, just in time to catch the greater portion of their conversation; and, as she possessed a tolerably clear insight into Mogue's character, she was by no means ignorant of certain illusions made in it, although she unquestionably did not comprehend its full drift. We have said that this girl understood his character very well, and scarcely any one had a better right or greater opportunities of doing so. Mogue, in fact, was in love with her, or at least, pretended to be so; but, whether he was or not, one thing we write as certain, that he most implicitly believed her to be so with himself. Letty was a well-tempered, faithful girl, honest and conscientious, but not without a considerable relish for humor, and with more than ordinary talents for carrying on either a practical joke or any other piece of harmless humbug, a faculty in which she was ably supported by a fellow-servant of a very different description from Mogue, named Jerry Joyce. Joyce, in fact, was not merely a strong contrast to Mogue, but his very reverse in almost every point of his character. He was open and artless in the opinion of many, almost to folly; but, under this apparent thoughtlessness, there existed a fund of good sense, excellent feeling, and quickness of penetration, for which the world gave him no credit, or at least but very little.
Jerry and Letty, therefore, between whom a real affection subsisted, were in the habit of amusing themselves, whenever they could do so without discovery, at Mogue's expense. Such, then, was the relative position of these parties at the present stage of our narrative.
When John Purcel was seen in the office, the tithe defaulters, for such they were, went to the outside of the window, where they all stood until it became the turn of each to go in. Although they went there to plead their inability to pay, yet, in fact, there were a great proportion of them who exhibited, neither by their manner nor appearance, any symptom whatever of poverty. On the countenances of most of them might be read, not only a stern, gloomy, and resolute expression, but one of dissatisfaction and bitter resentment. As they turned their eyes upon young Purcel, and looked around at the unequivocal marks of great wealth, if not luxury itself, that were conspicuous in every direction, there was a significance in the smiles and glances which passed between them, that gave very appropriate foretaste of the convulsions which ere long took place in the country. John Purcel himself had remarked these appearances on almost every recent occasion, and it was the striking, or rather startling, aspect of these men, that caused him to allude to it just before sending Moylan to them.
It is not our intention to detail, at full length, the angry altercations which took place between them, as each went in, from time to time, to apologize for not paying up his tithes. Every possible excuse was offered; but so well and thoroughly were Purcel and his sons acquainted with the circumstances, of, we may say, almost every family, not merely in the parish, but in the barony itself, that it proved a matter of the greatest difficulty to mislead or impose on any of them. Nay, so anxious did the shrewd tithe-proctor feel upon this subject, that he actually got himself proposed and elected a governor of the Savings' Bank, which had been for some time past established in C———m. By this means, he was enabled to know that many of those who came to him with poverty on their lips, were actually lodging money in these economical institutions.
“Well, Carey,” said he, to a comfortable-looking man that entered, “I hope you have no further apology to offer for your dishonesty?”
“Sorra thing, Mr. John, but that I'm not able to pay. I expect the landlord to come down upon me some o' these days—and what to do, or on what hand to turn, I'm sure I don't know on airth.”
“You don't say so now, Carey?”
“Troth I do, Misther John; and I hope you'll spare me for a little—I mane till the hard times that's in it mends somehow.”
“Well, Carey, all I can say is, that, if you don't know on what hand to turn, I can tell you.”
“Thank you, Misther John; troth an' I do want to know that.”
“Listen, then; before you come here to me with a barefaced and dishonest lie in your mouth, you ought to have gone to the C———m Savings' Bank, and drawn from the sum of two hundred and seventy-three pounds, which you have lying there, the slight sum of seven pounds twelve and nine-pence which you owe us. Now, Carey, I tell you that you are nothing but an impudent, scheming, dishonest scoundrel; and I say, once for all, that we will see whether you, and every knavish rascal like you, or the law of the land, is the stronger. Mark me now, you impudent knave, we shall never ask you again. The next time you see us will be at the head of a body of police, or a party of the king's troops; for I swear that, as sure as, the sun shines, so certainly will we take the tithe due out of your marrow, if we can get it nowhere else.”
“Maybe, then,” said Carey, “you will find that we'll laugh at the law, the polis, the king's troops, and Misther John Purcel into the bargain; and I now tell you to your teeth, that if one sixpence of tithe would save the sowls of every one belongin' to you, I won't pay it—so do your worst, and I defy you.”
“Begone, you scoundrel. You are, I perceive, as rank a rebel as ever missed the rope; but you won't miss it. Go home now; for, as I said this moment, we will take the tithe out of your marrow, if you had thousands of your cut-throat and cowardly White-boys at your back. Don't think this villainy will pass with us; we know how to handle you, and will too; begone, you dishonest ruffian, I have no more time to lose with you.”
In this manner almost every interview terminated. Purcel was a warm and impetuous young fellow, who certainly detested everything in the shape of dishonesty or deceit and here he had too many instances of both to be able to keep his temper, especially when he felt that he and his family were the sufferers. Other cases, however, were certainly very dissimilar to this; we allude especially to those of real distress, where the means of meeting the demand were not to be had. With such individuals the proctor's sons were disposed to be lenient, which is certainly more than could be said if he himself had to deal with them.
“Jemmy Mulligan,” he said, to a poor-looking man, “go home to your family. We don't intend to take harsh measures with you, Jemmy; and you needn't come here again till we send for you.”
“God bless you, sir; troth I don't know why the people say that you're all hard and unfeelin'—I can say for myself that I never found you so. Good morning, sir, and thank you, Misther John; and God forgive them that blackens you as they do!”
“Yes, Jemmy, I know they hate us, because we compel them to act honestly; but they will soon find that honesty, after all, is the cheapest course,—for we shall take d—d good care to make them pay through the nose for their knavery. We know they have a gang of firebrand agitators and hungry lawyers at their back; but we shall make them feel that the law is stronger than any treasonable combination that can be got up against it.”
A third man came in. “Well, Tom, you're not coming to plead poverty, I hope?”
The man looked around him with peculiar intelligence. “Are we safe?” he asked; “and may I spake widout danger?”
“You may, Duggan.”
“Well, then, I came to say that I'll call over to-morrow evenin' and pay it, but I daren't now.”
“Why so, Tom?”
“Bekaise the most of us all have the tithe in our pockets, but as a proof that we did not pay it, we will, every man of us, be obliged to show it before we go home. I might pay it now, Mr. Purcel; but then, if I did, it' very likely I'd be a corpse before this day week. Sich is the state that things ha' come to; and how it'll end, God only knows. At any rate, I'll slip over afther dusk to-morrow evenin' and pay; but as you hope for mercy, and don't wish to see me taken from my wife and childre', don't breathe a syllable of it to man or mortual.”
“I shall not, indeed, Tom,” replied Purcel, “but I really did not think that matters were altogether so bad as you describe them. The people are infatuated, and will only draw the vengeance of the law upon their heads. They will suffer, as they always do by their own misconduct and madness.”
Duggan had scarcely withdrawn, when our old friend, Darby Hourigan, thrust in his hateful and murderous-looking countenance. “God save you, Misther John.”
“God save you kindly, Misther Hourigan.”
“Isn't it glorious weather for the saison, sir?”
“I have seen better and I have seen worse, Mr. Hourigan; but Darby, passing the weather by, which neither you nor I can mend, allow me to say that I hope you are not coming here for the twentieth time to palm us off about the tithe.”
“Troth, then, and, Mr. John; I can't afford to pay tide—I'm a poor man, sir; and, as it happens that I never trouble the parson in religious matthers, I don't see what right the parson has to trouble me for my money.”
“Ah! you have got the cant, I see. You have been tutored.”
“I have got the truth, sir.”
“Ay, but have you got the tithe, sir? for I do assure you, Mr. Hourigan, that it is not your logic, but your money I want.”
“Begad, sir, and I'm afeard you'll be forced to put up wid my logic this time, too. You can't take more from the cat than her skin, you know.”
There was an atrocious and sneering spirit, not only in this ruffian's manner, but in the tones of his voice, that was calculated to overcome human patience.
“Darby, we have let you run a long time, but I now tell you, there's an end of our forbearance so far as you are concerned. If you were not able to pay I could feel for you, put we know, and all the world knows, that you are one of the most comfortable and independent men in the parish. Darby, you in short are a d—d rogue, and what is worse, a treacherous and mischief-makin scoundrel. I am aware of the language you use against our whole family, whom you blacken whenever you have an opportunity of doing so. You are not only dishonest but ungrateful, sirrah.”
“No man has a betther right to be a judge, and a good judge of dishonesty, than your father's son,” replied Hourigan. “Why didn't you call me an oppressor of the poor, and a blood-sucker?—why didn't you say I was a hard-hearted beggarly upstart, that rose from maneness and cheatery, and am now tyrannizin' over hundreds that's a thousand times betther than myself? Why don't you say that I'd sell my church and my religion to their worst enemies, and that for the sake of filthy lucre and blackguard upstart pride? I now come to tell you what we all think of you in this country, and what I believe some of us has tould you already—that you may go to hell for your tithe, and make the divil your paymaster, what he'll be yet. We will pay you none, and we set you and your upstart ould rogue of a father, with the law, the polis, and the army, all at defiance. I don't choose to say more, but I could if I liked.”
Purcell's hunting-whip accidentally lay on the table at which he sat, but he did not take it up immediately after Hourigan had concluded. He quickly rose, however, and having closed the door and locked it, he let down the windows, and deliberately drew the blinds.
“Now, you scoundrel,” he replied, taking up the whip, and commencing to flog Hourigan with all his strength, which was very great, “I will give you, by way of foretaste, a specimen of what a ruffian like you deserves when he is insolent.”
With such singular energy, good will, and admirable effect did he lace Mr. Hourigan, that the latter worthy, after cutting some very antic capers, and exhibiting in a good many other respects several proofs of his agility that could scarcely be expected from his heavy and ungainly figure, was at last fairly obliged to sing out,—“Oh, Misther John, Misther John! you will—Misther John, darlin', what do you mane, you murdh—oh, oh, d—n your soul—dear, what do you mane, Mr. John, dear? I say, what are you at? What do you baste me this way for—oh, may the divil—the Lord bless you, an' don't—here I am—here, Misther John, I ax your pardon—hell pursue—Misther John, darlin', I go down on my knees to you, an' axes your pardon—here now you see, I'm down.—Och murdher, am I to have the very sowl welted out o' me this way?”
Mr. John, having now satisfied himself, and left very visible marks of his attachment and good will to Hourigan, upon that individual's face and person, desired him to get up.
“Now, my good fellow,” he exclaimed, “I trust I have taught you a lesson that you won't forget.”
“No, Misther John,” he replied, rising and rubbing himself in different parts of the body, as if to mitigate the pain which he felt; “no, I won't forget it—I won't by it's a lesson I'll remember, and so will you.”
“What do you mean, you cowardly villain?” asked Purcel, once more raising his whip. “You are threatening, are you.”
“No, Misther John, not a bit o' that—divil a threat—me! I wouldn't threaten you if there wasn't niver another man in Europe. Let me out, if you plaise—let me out, and may the div—the Lord lov you!”
“Now,” said the other, raising the blinds and afterwards opening the door, “you may go about your business, and mark me, Mr Hourigan—”
“I do, sir,” replied the other, bolting out “oh, God knows I do—you have marked me, Misther Purcel, and I will mark you, sir—for—” he added muttering in a low voice to those who stood about him—“one good turn desarves another, anyhow.”
We shall not now dwell upon the comments which young Purcel's violence drew from the defaulters on their way home. Our reader, however, may easily imagine them, and form for themselves a presentiment of the length to which “the tithe insurrection,” as they termed it, was likely to proceed throughout the country at large, with the exception only of the northern provinces.
CHAPTER V.—A Hang-Choice Shot—The “Garrison” on Short Commons.
When our merry friend the pedlar left the proctor's parlor, he proceeded at a brisk pace in the direction of the highway, which, however, was not less than three-quarters of a mile from Longshot Lodge, which was the name Purcel had given to his residence. He had only got clear of the offices, however, and was passing the garden wall, which ran between him and the proctor's whole premises, when he was arrested by Mogue Moylan.
“Ah! merry Mogue,” exclaimed the pedlar, ironically, “I was missin' you. Where were you, my cherub?”
“I was in the barn 'ithin,” replied Mogue, “just offerin' up a little pathernavy for the protection o' this house and place, and of the daicent, kind-hearted peeople that's in it.”
“An', as a joint prayer, they say, is worth ten single ones, I suppose,” returned the pedlar,—laying his fingers on his lips and winking—“you had—ahem—you understand?”
“No, thin,” replied Mogue, brightening up with excessive vanity, “may I be happy if I do!”
“Why, our fair friend, Letty Lenehan—begad, Mogue, she's a purty girl that—says she to herself,” proceeded the pedlar; “for I don't think she knew or thought I heard her—'If I thought he would like these rib-bons, I'd buy them for myself.' 'Who do you mane, acushla?' says I, whisperin' to her. 'Who,' says she, 'but—but Mogue himself—only honor bright, Mr. Magrath' says she, 'sure you wouldn't betray me?' 'Honor bright again,' says I, 'I'm not the stuff a traitor's made of;' and so you see we both laughed heartily, bekaise we understood one another. Mogue,” proceeded the other, “will you answer me the truth in one thing?”
“If I can I will, Misther Magrath.
“I know ye will, bekaise you can,” replied, the pedlar; “how do you come round the girls at all? how do you make them fond o' you? I want you to tell me that, if it's not a family saicret.”
Mogue gravely drew his fingers and thumb down his thin yellow jaws, until they met under his chin, and replied—
“It can't be tould, Misther Magrath; some men the women's naturally fond of, and some men they can't bear—throth it's like a freemason's saicret, if you wor a man that the women wor naturally fond of you'd know it yoarself, but not bein' that, Mr. Magrath, you could not understand it. It's born wid one, an' troth, a troublesome gift it is—for it is a gift—at least, I find it so. There's no keep in' the crathurs oft o' you.”
“Begad, you must be a happy man, Mogue. I wish I was like you—but whisper, man alive, why don't you look higher.
“How is that?” asked the other, now apparently awakened to a new interest.
“Mogue,” said the pedlar, with something like solemnity of manner, “you and I are both embarked in the same ship, you know—we know how things are to go. I'm now provin' to you that I'm your friend. Listen, you passed through the back-yard to-day while I was in the parlor wid the family sellin' my goods as well as I could. Well, Miss Julia had a beautiful shawl about her purty shoulders, and as she seen you passin, she started, kept her eyes fixed upon you till you disappeared, and then, afther thinkin 'or some time, she sighed deeply. Whisper, the thing flashed upon me—that's that, thought I, at any rate—and devil a doubt of it, you're safe there, or my name's not Andy Magrath, better known as the Cannie Soogah-Hurra, Mogue, more power!”
A richer comic study than Mogue's face ould not possibly be depicted. His thin craggy jaws—for cheeks he had none—were winkled and puckered into such a multiplicity of villanous folds and crevices, as could scarcely be paralleled on a human countenance; and what added to the ludicrous impression made, was the fact that he endeavored to look—and, in fact, did so successfully—more like a man who felt that a secret long known to himself had been discovered, than a person to whom the intelligence had come for the first time.
“An' Misther Magrath,” he replied, once more repeating the survey of his puckered laws; “is it by way of information that you tould me that? That I mayn't sin, but you should be ever and always employed in carryin' coals to, Newcastle. Troth, since you have broached\the thing, I've known it this good while, and no one could tell you more about it, if I liked. Honor bright, however, as poor Letty said, troth, I pity that girl—but what can I do? no—no—honor bright, for ever!”
“Well, anyhow, now that we've thrown light upon what I noticed a while ago, let us talk about other matters. The house is still well armed and guarded, you say?”
“That I may die in grace, but it 'ud take me half an hour to reckon all the guns, pistols, and blunderbushes they have freshly loaded in the house every night.”
“Well, couldn't you assist us, you in the house?”
“No—for I'm not in the house; they wouldn't allow any servant to sleep in the house for fear o' traichery, and they say so. If they'd let me sleep in the house, it 'ud be another thing; I might wet the powdher, and make their fire-arms useless; but sure they have lots of swords and bagnets, and daggers, and other instruments o' that kind that 'ud skiver one like a rabbit.”
“Well, but you know all the outs and ins of the house, the rooms and passages, and everything that way so thoroughly, that one could depend upon your account of them.”
“Depend upon them—ay, as well as you might upon the Gospel itself;—she was fond of M'Carthy, they say, and they think she is still; but, be dhu husth, (* Hold your tongue.) there's one that knows betther. You don't like M'Carthy?”
“To be sure I do, as the devil does holy wather.”
“Well,” proceeded Mogue, “I've a thing in my head about him—but sure he's in the black list as it is.”
“Well, what is it you have in your head about him?”
Mogue shook it, but added, “Never mind, I'll think it over again, and when I'm made up on it, maybe I'll tell you. Don't we meet on this day week?”
“Sartainly, will you come?”
“I intend it, for the truth is, Misther Magrath, that the Millstone must be broke; that I may die in pace, but it must, an' any one that stands in the way of it must suffer. May I be happy, but they must.”
The pedlar looked cautiously about him, and seeing that the coast was clear and no person visible, he thrust a letter into his hand, adding, “you may lave it in some place where the ould chap, or either of the sons, will be sure to find it. Maybe it'll tache them a little more civility to their neighbors.”
Mogue looked at the document, and placing it securely in his pocket, asked, “Is it a notice?”
The other nodded in the affirmative, and added, with a knowing wink, “There's a coffin and a cross-bones in it, and the name is signed wid real blood, Mogue; and that's the way to go about breakin' the Millstone, my man.”
“That I may never do an ill turn, but it is. Well, God bless you, Misther Magrath, an' whisper now, don't forget an odd patther-anavy goin' to bed, in hopes that God will prosper our honest endayvours. That was a hard thing upon young Devlin in Murray's murdher. I'm not sure whether you do, but I know that that act was put upon him through ill-will; and now he'll hang for it. But sure it's one comfort that he'll die a martyr, glory be to God!”
The pedlar, having assented to this, got on his pack, and leaving Mogue to meditate on the new discovery which he had made respecting Julia Purcel, he proceeded on towards the highway to which we have alluded.
Purcel himself, in the course of a few miles' drive, reached the parsonage, in which the Rev. Jeremiah Turbot ought to have lived, but in which, for several years past, he had not resided; if we except about a fortnight twice a year, when he came to sweep off as weighty a load of tithes as he could contrive to squeeze out of the people through worthy Mat Purcel, his proctor.
For a year or two previous to this visit, there is no doubt but the aspect of ecclesiastical affairs was gradually getting worse. Turbot began to feel that there was something wrong, although he could not exactly say what it was. Purcel, however, was by no means reluctant to disclose to him the exceedingly desperate state to which not only had matters been driving, but at which they had actually arrived. This, in truth, was our worthy proctor's version of ecclesiastical affairs, for at least two years before the present period of our narrative. But, like every man who tampers with, simple truth, he began to perceive, almost when it was too late, that his policy in antedating the tithe difficulties was likely very soon to embarrass himself; and to deprive the outrages resulting from the frightful opposition that was organized against tithes of all claim to novelty. He had, in fact, so strongly exaggerated the state of the country, and surcharged his pictures of anti-tithe violence so much beyond all truth and reality, that when the very worst and most daring organization did occur, he could do nothing more than go over the same ground again. The consequence was, that worthy Turbot, so long habituated to these overdrawn narratives, began to look upon them as the friends of the boy who shouted out “wolf!” did upon the veracity of his alarms. He set down his intrepid and courageous proctor as nothing else than a cowardly poltroon, whose terrors exaggerated everything, and whose exaggerated accounts of fraud, threats, and violence had existed principally in his own imagination. Such were the circumstances under which Purcel and Dr. Turbot now met.
The worthy rector of Ballysoho was a middle-sized man, with coal-black hair, brilliant, twinkling eyes of the same color, and as pretty a double chin as ever graced the successor of an apostle. Turbot was by no means an offensive person; on the contrary, he must of necessity have been very free from evil or iniquity of any kind, inasmuch as he never had time to commit sin. He was most enthusiastically addicted to hunting and shooting, and felt such a keen and indomitable relish for the good things of this world, especially for the luxuries of the table, that what between looking after his cuisine, attending his dogs, and enjoying his field sports, he scarcely ever might be said to have a single day that he could call his own. And yet, unreasonable people expected that a man, whose daily occupations were of such importance to—himself, should very coolly forego his own beloved enjoyments in order to attend to the comforts of the poor, with whom he had scarcely anything in common. Many other matters of a similar stamp were expected from him, but only by those who had no opportunity of knowing the multiplicity of his engagements. Such persons were unreasonable enough to think that he ought to have occasionally appropriated some portion of his income to the relief of poverty and destitution, but as he said himself, he could not afford it. How could any man afford it who in general lived up to, and sometimes beyond, his income, and who was driven to such pinches as not unfrequently to incur the imputation of severity and oppression itself, by the steps he was forced to take or sanction for the recovery of his tithes.
In person he was, as we have said, about or somewhat under the middle size. In his gait he was very ungainly. When walking, he drove forward as if his head was butting or boring its way through a palpable atmosphere, keeping his person, from the waist up, so far in advance that the a posteriori portion seemed as if it had been detached from the other, and was engaged in a ceaseless but ineffectual struggle to regain its position; or, in shorter and more intelligible words, the latter end of him seemed to be perpetually in pursuit of his head and shoulders, without ever being able to overtake them. Whilst engaged in maintaining this compound motion, his elbows and arms swung from right to left, and vice versa, very like the movements of a weaver throwing the shuttle from side to side. Turbot had one acknowledged virtue in a pre-eminent degree, we mean hospitality. It is true he gave admirable dinners, but it would be a fact worth boasting of, to find any man at his table who was not able to give, and who did give, better dinners than himself. The doctor's face, however, in spite of his slinging and ungainly person, was upon the whole rather good. His double chin, and the full, rosy expression of his lips and mouth, betokened, at the very least, the force of luxurious habits, and, as a hedge school-master of our acquaintance used to say, the smallest taste in life of voluptuousity; whilst from his black, twinkling eyes, that seemed always as if they were about to herald a jest, broke forth, especially when he conversed with the softer sex, something which might be considered as holding a position between a laugh and a leer. Such was the Rev. Jeremiah Turbot, to whom we shall presently take the liberty of introducing the reader.
The parsonage, to which our friend Purcel is now making his approach, was an excellent and comfortable building. It stood on a very pretty eminence, and consequently commanded a beautiful prospect both in front and rear; for the fact was, that in consequence of the beauty of the scenery for miles about it, some incumbent of good taste had given it a second hall door, thus enabling the inhabitants to partake of a double enjoyment, by an equal facility of contemplating the exquisite scenery of the country both in front and rear. A beautiful garden lay facing the south, and a little below, in the same direction, stood a venerable old rookery, whilst through the rich, undulating fields flowed, in graceful windings, a beautiful river, on whose green and fertile banks sheep and black cattle were always to be seen, sometimes feeding or chewing the cud in that indolent repose which gives to the landscape, in the golden light of a summer's evening, such a poetical and pastoral effect.
Purcel, on coming in sight of the parsonage, instead of keeping his horse to the rapid pace at which he had driven him along until then, now drew him up, and advanced at a rate which seemed to indicate anything but that of a man whose spirits were cheerful or free from care. On reaching the front entrance he discounted very slowly, and with a solemn and melancholy air, walked deliberately, step by step, till he stood at the hall door, where he gave a knock so spiritless, depressed and disconsolate, that it immediately communicated itself, as was intended, to the usually joyful and rosy countenance of the rector, who surveyed, his agent as if he expected to hear that he either had lost, or was about to lose, half his family or the whole of his wealth.
“How do you do, Purcel?—eh, what's this? Is there anything wrong? You look very much dejected—what's the matter? Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir; but I really do not think I am well—at least my spirits are a great deal depressed; but indeed, Dr. Turbot, a man must be more or less than a man to be able to keep up his spirits in such times.”
“Oh! ho, my worthy proctor, is that all? Thank you for nothing, Purcel. I understand you; but you ought to know I am not to be caught now by your 'calamities'.”
“My calamities! I declare to goodness, Dr. Turbot, I could rest contented if they were nobody's calamities but my own; unfortunately, however, you are as deep in them as I am, and in a short time, God knows, we will be a miserable pair, I fear.”
“Not at all, Purcel—this is only the old story. Raw-heads and bloody-bones coming to destroy the tithes, and eat up the parsons. Let me see—it is now three years since you commenced these 'lamentations.'”
“Three years ago; why we had peace and quietness then compared to what we have at present,” replied Purcel.
“And what have we now, pray?”
“Why, sir, the combinations against tithes is quite general over the whole country.”
“Well; so was it then upon your own showing. Go on.”
“As I said, sir, it was nothing at that time. There is little now but threatening notices that breathe of blood and murder.”
“Very good; so was it then upon your own showing. Go on.”
“But of late, sir, lives have been taken. Clergymen have been threatened and fired at.”
“Very good; so was it then upon you! own showing. Go on, I say.”
“Fired at I say, and shot, sir. The whole White boy system has turned itself into a great tithe conspiracy. The farmers, the landholders of all descriptions, the cottiers, the daily laborers, and the very domestic servants, have all joined this conspiracy, and sworn neither to pay tithes themselves nor to allow others to pay them. They compare the established church to a garrison; and although the law prevents them from openly destroying it by force, they swear that they'll starve it out.”
“Eh!” said Turbot, starting, “what's that you say? Starve us out! What an infamous and unconstitutional project! What a diabolical procedure! But I forgot—bravo, Purcel! This was all the case before upon your own showing.”
“Well, sir,” returned Purcel, “there was at least this difference, that I was able to get something out of them then, but devil a copper can I get out o' them now. I think you'll admit, sir, that this fact gives some weight to my argument.”
“You don't mean to say, Purcel,” replied the other, from whose chin the rosy tint gradually paled away until it assumed that peculiar hue which is found inside of a marine shell, that is to say, white with a dream of red barely and questionably visible; “you don't mean to say, my good friend Purcel, that you have no money for me on this occasion?”
“By no means, sir,” replied the proctor. “Money I have got for you, no doubt—money I have got certainly.”
The double chin once more assumed its natural hue of celestial rosy red.”
“Upon my honor, Purcel,” he replied, “I have not temper for this; it seems to me that you take particular delight in wantonly tampering with my feelings. I am really quite tired of it. Why harass and annoy me with your alarms? Conspiracy, blood, and massacre are the feeblest terms in your vocabulary. It is absolutely ridiculous, sir, and I beg you will put an end to it.”
“I would be very glad to do so, sir,” replied Purcel; “and still more satisfied if I had never had anything to do with the temporalities of your church.”
“I don't see why, above all men living, you should say so, Purcel; you have feathered your nest tolerably well by the temporalities of our church.”
“If I have, sir,” replied the proctor, “it has been at the expense of my popularity and good name. I and my family are looked upon as a part and parcel of your system, and, I may add, as the worst and most odious part of it. I and they are looked upon as the bitterest enemies of the people; and because we endeavor to get out of them the means of enabling you to maintain your rank in the world, we are obliged to hear ourselves branded every day in the week as villains, oppressors, and blood-suckers. This, however, we could bear; but to know that we are marked down for violence, brutality, and, if possible, assassination, is a penalty for which nothing in your establishment could compensate us. I and my sons have received several notices of violence in every shape, and we are obliged to sleep with our house half filled with arms and ammunition, in dread of an attack every night in the year.”
“Well, well,” replied Turbot, “this, after all, is but the old story; the matter is only an ebullition, and will pass away. I know you are constitutionally timid. I know you are; and have in fact a great deal of the natural coward in your disposition; and I say natural, because a man is no more to be blamed for being born a coward than he is for being born with a bad complexion or an objectionable set of features. You magnify the dangers about you, and, in fact, become a self-tormentor. As for my part, I am glad you have got money, for I do assure you, I never stood so much in need of it in my life.”
“The very papers, sir,” continued Purcel, who could not prevent himself from proceeding, “might enable you to see the state of the country.”
“Oh, d—n the papers,” said the parson, “I am sick of them. Our side is perpetually exaggerating matters—just as you are; and as for the other side, your papist rags I never, of course, see or wish to see. I want six hundred now, or indeed eight if you can, and I had some notion of taking a day or two's shooting. How is the game on the glebe? Has it been well preserved, do you know?”
“I am not aware,” said the proctor, “that any one has shot over the glebe lands this season; but if you take my advice, sir, you will expose yourself as little as you can in the neighborhood. There are not two individuals in the parish so unpopular as Dr. Turbot and your humble servant.”
“In that case, then,” replied the other, “the less delay I make here the better—you can let me have six hundred, I hope?”
“I certainly told you, sir,” replied Purcel, with something of a determined and desperate coolness about him, “that I had money for you, and so I have.”
“Thank you, Purcel; I must say you certainly have, on all occasions, exerted yourself faithfully and honestly in support of my interests.”
“Money, sir,” pursued the other, without appearing to look to the right or to the left, “I have for you. Would you venture to guess to what amount?”
“Well, under the circumstances you speak of, less, I dare say, than I expect.”
“I have been able to get, within the last six months, exactly fifty-nine pounds thirteen and sevenpence!”
If the ebb which we have described before of the blood from the doctor's double chin was a gradual one, we can assure the reader that, in this case, it was rapid in proportion to the terror and dismay conveyed by this authentic, but astounding piece of intelligence. The whole face became pale, his eyes at once lost their lustre, and were, as he fixed them in astonishment upon the proctor, completely without speculation; his voice became tremulous, and, as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the unexpected perspiration which the proctor's words had brought out upon his forehead, his hands trembled as if he had been suddenly seized with palsy. In truth, Purcel, who had a kind of good-natured regard for the little man, felt a sensation of compassion for him, on witnessing the extraordinary distress under which he labored.
“I am sorry for this,” said he, “for I really know not what is to be done, and, what is equally distressing, our prospects are not at all likely to improve.”
“You don't mean to say, Purcel, that circumstances are as bad as you report them—as bad—as desperate, I should say—and as ruinous?”
“I fear,” said Purcel, “they go beyond the gloomiest and most desponding views you could take of them. The conspiracy, for such we must term it, is, in point of fact, deepening down to the very foundations, if I may use the expression, of society. Every day it is becoming more dangerous and alarming; but how it is to be checked or mitigated, or how we are to stand out of its way and avoid its consequences, heaven only knows, for I don't.”
“But, Purcel, my dear friend, what am I and my domestic establishment to do? Good God! there is nothing but ruin before us! You know I always lived up to my income—indeed, at best, it was too limited for the demands of my family, and our habits of life. And now, to have the very prop—the only one on which I leant—suddenly snapt from under me—it is frightful. But you are to blame, Purcel; you are much to blame. Why did you not apprise me of this ruinous state of things before it came thus on me unawares? It was unfeeling and heartless in you not to have prepared me for it.”
The proctor actually imagined, and not without reason, that the worthy doctor was beginning to get beside himself, as it is termed, on hearing such a charge as this brought against him; and he was about to express his astonishment at it, when Mr. Temple, his curate, who resided in the parsonage, made his appearance, and joined them at Dr. Turbot's request. “Temple,” said he, as the latter portion of his body began to pursue the other through the room, “are you aware of the frightful condition to which the country has come?”
“Who can be ignorant of it?” replied Temple; “how can any man live in the country, and not know it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Turbot, tartly, “I have lived in the country, and, until a few minutes ago, I was ignorant of the extent to which it has come.”
“Well, sir,” said Temple, “that is odd enough; for, to my own knowledge, your information has been both regular and authentic upon this subject at all events. Our friend Purcel, here, has not left you in ignorance of it.”
“Yes,” said Turbot, “but he had the country as bad three years ago as it is now. Was this fair? Why, I took it for granted that all his alarms and terrors were the mere play and subterfuge of the proctor upon the parson, and, consequently, thought little of it; but here I am stranded at once, wrecked, and left on my bottom. How will I meet my tradesmen? how will I continue my establishment? and, what is worse, how can I break it up? You know, Temple, I cannot, unfortunately, live without luxuries. They are essential to my health, and if suddenly deprived of them, as I am likely to be, I cannot answer to society for the consequences.”
“Sir,” said Temple, “it is quite obvious that a period of severe trial and chastening is at hand, or I should rather say, has already arrived. Many of our calling, I am grieved I to know, are even now severely suffering, and suffering, I must add, with unexampled patience and fortitude under great and trying privations. Yet I trust that the health of the general body will be improved by it, and purged of the grossness and worldly feeling which have hitherto, I fear, too much characterized it. Many, I know, may think we are merely in the hands of man, but for my part, I think, and earnestly hope, that we are in those of God himself, and that He chasteneth no only because He loveth.”
“This is most distressing to hear, my dear Temple,” replied his rector; “but I trust I am as willing and as well prepared, from religious feeling, to suffer as another—that is, provided always I am not deprived of those comforts and little luxuries to which I have all my life been accustomed.”
“I am very much afraid,” observed Purcel, “that the clergy of the established church will have a very fine opportunity to show the world how well and patiently they can suffer.”
“I have already said, Purcel,” said the doctor, “that I am as willing to suffer as another. I know I am naturally of a patient and rather an humble disposition; let these trials come then, and I am prepared for them, provided only that I am not deprived of my little luxuries, for these are essential to my health itself, otherwise I could bear even this loss. I intended, Temple, to have had a day or two's shooting on the glebe lands, but Purcel, here, tells me that I am very unpopular, and would not, he says, recommend me to expose myself much, or if possible at all, in the neighborhood.
“And upon my word and credit I spoke nothing,” replied the other, “but what I know to be truth. There is not a feather of game on the glebe lands that would be shot down with half the pleasure that the parson himself would. I beg, then, Dr. Turbot, that you won't think of it. I'll get my sons to go over the property, and if there's any game on it we shall have it sent to you.”
“How does it stand for game, Temple, do you know?”
“I really cannot say,” replied the good man. “The killing of game is a pursuit I have never relished, and with which I am utterly unacquainted. I fear, however, that the principal game in the country will soon be the parson and the proctor.”
“It's a delightful pursuit,” replied the Rev. Doctor, who did not at all relish the last piece of information, and only replied to the first, “and equally conducive to health and morals. What, for instance, can be more delicious than a plump partridge or grouse, stewed in cinnamon and claret? and yet, to think that a man must be deprived of—well,” said he, interrupting himself, “it is a heavy, and awful dispensation—and one that I ought to have been made acquainted with—that is, to its full and fearful extent—before it came on me thus unawares. Purcel here scarcely did his duty by me in this.”
“I fear, sir,” replied Temple, “that it was not Purcel who neglected his duty, but you who have been incredulous. I think he has certainly not omitted to sound the alarm sufficiently loud during the approach of this great ordeal to which we are exposed.”
“And in addition to everything else, I am in arrears to you, Temple,” he added; “and now I have no means of paying you.”
Temple was silent, for at that moment the necessities of his family pressed with peculiar severity upon himself—and he was not exactly prepared for such an intimation. The portion of salary then coming to him was, in truth, his sole dependence at that peculiar crisis, and this failing him, he knew not on what hand or in what direction to turn.
After musing for some time, he at length replied, “If you have it not, Dr. Turbot, or cannot procure it, of course it is idle for me to expect it—although I will not deny, that in the present circumstances of my family, it would have come to us with very peculiar and seasonable relief.”
“But I have not a pound,” replied the doctor; “so far from that, I am pretty deeply in debt—for I need hardly say, that for years I have been balancing my affairs—paying off debts to-day, and contracting other to-morrow—always dipped, but and rather deeply, too, as I said.”
He again got to his legs, when the pursuit of the latter part of his person after the rest once more took place, and in this odd way he traversed the room in a state of extreme tribulation.
“What is to be done?” he asked—“surely the government cannot abandon us?—cannot allow us to perish utterly, which we must do, if left to the mercy of our enemies? No, certainly it cannot desert us in such a strait as this, unless it wishes to surrender the established church to the dark plots and designing ambition of popery. No, no—it cannot—it must not—it dares not. Some vigorous measure for our relief must be taken, and that speedily;—let us not be too much dejected, then—our sufferings will be short—and as for myself, I am willing to make any reasonable sacrifice, provided I am not called upon—at these years—fifty-eight—to give up my usual little luxuries. Purcel, I want you to take a turn in the garden. Temple, excuse me—will you?—and say to Mrs. Temple to make no preparations, as I don't intend to stop—I shall return to Dublin in an hour at farthest; and don't be cast down, Temple; matters will soon brighten.”
“It is not at all necessary, sir,” replied Temple, “that you should adjorn to the garden to speak with Mr. Purcel. I was on my way to the library when I met you, and I am going there now.”
“It is not so much,” he replied, “that I have anything very particular to say to Purcel, as that I feel a walk in the fresh air will relieve me. Good-bye, then, for a little; I shall see you before I go.”
“Now, Purcel,” said he, when they had reached the garden, “this, after all, is only a false alarm, or even if it be not, we know that the government could by no means afford to abandon the established church in Ireland, because that would be, in other words, to reject the aid of, and sever themselves from all connection with, the whole Protestant party; and you, as a man of sense, Purcel, need not be told that it is only by the existence of a Protestant party in this country that they are enabled to hold it in union with England at all.”
“But what has that to do with our present distresses?” said the proctor, who, as he probably began to anticipate the doctor's ultimate object in this conversation, very shrewdly associated himself rather in an official spirit with the embarrassments of his friend, and the church in general.
“It has considerably,” replied Dr. Turbot; “for instance, there will be no risk whatsoever, in lending to many of the embarrassed clergy sums of money upon their! personal security, until this pressure passes away, and their prosperity once more returns.”
“Oh, ho, doctor,” thought his sharp and wily companion, “I believe I have you now, Well, Dr. Turbot,” he replied, “I think, the case, even as you put it, will be attended with difficulties. What, for instance, is personal security from a poor or a ruined man? very little, or rather nothing. Still it is possible that many, relying upon the proverbial honor and integrity of the Irish Protestant clergy, may actually lend money upon this security. But then,” he added, with a smile, “those who will, must belong to a peculiar and privileged class.”
“Why,” asked Turbot, “to what class do you allude?”
“To one with which,” said the proctor, “I unfortunately have no connection—I mean the class that can afford to lend it.”
“Purcel,” said Dr. Turbot, “I am sorry to hear this ungenerous observation from you; I did not expect it.”
“Why do you call it ungenerous, sir?” asked Purcel.
“Because,” replied Turbot, “it is obvious that it was made in anticipation of a favor which I was about to ask of you.”
“If I can grant you any favor,” replied the proctor, “I shall be most happy to do so;—if you will only let me know what it is.”
“You must be particularly dull not to perceive it,” replied the parson, “aware, as you are, of the unexpected state of my circumstances. In short, I want you to assist me with a few hundreds.”
The proctor, after a pause, replied, “You place me in circumstances of great difficulty, sir; I am indeed anxious to oblige you, but I know not whether I can do so with honor, without violating my good faith to another party.”
“I don't understand you,” said Turbot.
“Then I shall explain it,” replied Purcel; “the sum I can command is one of four hundred, which is at this moment virtually lent upon excellent security, at an interest of eight per cent. The loan is certainly not legally completed, but morally and in point of honor it is. Now, if I lend this money to you, sir, I must break my word and verbal agreement to the party in question.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the rector, who, notwithstanding the love he bore his “little luxuries,” was scrupulously honorable in all money transactions, “don't attempt to break word, or to violate good faith with any man; and least of all, on my account. I presume I shall be able to raise the money somewhere else.”
Purcel, who had uniformly found the doctor a sharp, but correct man in matters,of business, and who knew besides the severe pressure under which he labored at the moment, was not exactly prepared to hear from him the expression of a principle so high-minded. He paused again for some time, during which he reasoned with himself somewhat to the following effect:—“I did not expect this from the worthy doctor, but I did, that he would at once have advised me to break the agreement I mentioned and lend himself the money. I cannot think there will be much risk in lending such a man a few hundreds, especially as no such agreement as I allude to exists.” He then replied as follows:—
“Doctor,” he proceeded, “I have been thinking over this matter; I know you want the money, and I am sorry for it. That I have myself been a gainer by my connection with you, I will not attempt to deny, and I do not think that I should be grateful or a sincere friend to you, if I saw you now in such grievous and unexpected embarrassments without making an effort to assist you. You shall have the four hundred, if you consent to the same rate of interest I was about to receive for it from the other party.”
“Then you will break faith with him,” replied the doctor. “I thank you, Purcel, but I will not have it.”
“I break no faith with him,” replied the proctor; “he was bound to have let me know, on yesterday, whether he would require the money or not, for the matter was conditional; but as I have not yet heard from him, I hold myself at liberty to act as I wish. The fault is his own.”
“And on these conditions, so you are; I well, thank you again, Purcel, I accept this money on your terms, eight per cent. Nay, you oblige me very much; indeed you do.”
“Well, then, that matter is settled,” said the proctor, “do not speak of it,” he proceeded, in reply to the doctor's last observation; “I should indeed be unworthy either of your good opinion or my own, if I held aloof from you just now. I will have a bond prepared in a day or two, but in the meantime, if you will call at my house, you may have the money home with you.”
The doctor once more thanked Mm, and they were in the act of returning to the house, when the noise of a pistol was heard, and at the same moment a bullet whistled light between them, and so close to each that it was utterly impossible to say at which of the two individuals the murderous aim had been taken. The garden, a large one and highly walled in, was entered by two gates, one of which led into the back yard, the other into a corner of the lawn that was concealed from the house by a clump of trees. The latter gate, which was not so large as the other, had in it a small iron grating a little above the centre, through which any one could command a view of the greater portion of the garden. It was through this gate they had entered, and as no apprehension of any attempt of assassination had existed in the mind of either, they left the key in the outside, not having deemed it at all necessary to secure the door, by locking it within.
The proctor, to whose cowardice the worthy clergyman had not long before paid so sincere, but by no means so flattering a tribute, did not wait to make even a single observation, but ran with all his speed towards the gate, which, to his surprise and mortification, he found locked on the outside. Apprehensive, however, of a second attack, he beckoned to his companion to hasten towards the other gate, which was not visible from that through which the shot had been fired, and in the meantime, he himself ran also towards it, in order to try whether it might not be possible to get some view or trace of the assassin. He had a case of pistols in his hand, for we ought to have told the reader that neither he nor his sons ever traveled unarmed, and on reaching the back-yard, he was obliged to make a considerable circuit ere he arrived at the spot from which the shot had been fired. Here, however, he found no mark or vestige of a human being, but saw at a glance that the assassin, in order, to secure time for escape, had locked the door, and either taken the key with him or thrown it where it could not be found. It was in vain that he ran in all directions, searched every place likely to conceal the villain; not a clump of trees or ornamental shrubs remained unexamined. The search, however, was fruitless. No individual was seen, nor any clue gained on which even a conjecture could be founded. The only individual visible was our friend the Cannie Soogah, whose loud and mellow song was the first thing that drew their attention to him, as he came up a back avenue that led by a private and winding walk round to the kitchen-door. Purcel, on seeing him, signed hastily with his hand that he should approach, which the other, observing the unusual agitation betrayed by his gesture, immediately did at a pace considerably quickened.
“Here, Cannie,” he shouted out to him, ere he had time to approach, “here has been an attempt at murder by some cold-blooded and cowardly assassin, who has, I fear, escaped us!”
“Murdher!” exclaimed the pedlar, “the Lord save and guard us!—for there's nothin' but murdher in my ears! go where I will of late, it's nothin' but bloodshed;—sure I cannot sing my harmless bit of a song along the road, but I'm stopped wid an account of some piece o' murdher or batthery, or God knows what. An' who was near gettin' it now, Misther Purcel? Not yourself, I pray Jasus this day!”
“I really cannot say, Cannie; Dr. Turbot and I were walking in the garden, when some damnable villain discharged a pistol from the gate here, and the bullet of it whistled right between us both.”
“Whistled, did it!—hell resave it for one bullet, it was fond of mirth it was; and you can't say which o' you it was whistling for?”
“No, how could I?—it was equally near us both.”
“Bad cess for ever saize him for a murdherin' villain, whoever he was. You have no notion, Masther Purcel, darlin', where he went to?”
“Not the slightest, Cannie; the villain wouldn't have got off so easily, only that he had the diabolical cunning to lock the gate outside and conceal the key: so that whilst I was coming round to the place, he escaped. Did you meet or see nobody yourself?”
The peddler shut his right hand, slapped it quickly into the palm of his left. “By the Lomenty tarry,” he exclaimed, “I seen the villain! By the high horicks, I seen the very man, if I have an eye in my head! A big, able-bodied villain, wid a pair of thumpin' black whiskers that you might steal my own out of—and I don't think I can complain myself. He was comin' up the road from the Carr, and he was turnin' over towards the bridge there below, so that I only got a short glimpse of him; and faix, sure enough, as he passed the bridge, I seen him throw something over the wall of it into the river, which I'd lay my head against the three kingdoms was the kay o' the gate.”
The proctor paused a little, and then observed, “Ay, faith! I'm sure you're right, Cannie; I've heard of that villain, and know him from your description. He is the cowardly ruffian who's said to be at the head or bottom of these secret combinations that are disgracing and destroying the country. Yes, I've heard of him.”
“And what did you hear, Misther Purcel?” asked the pedlar, with undisguised curiosity—.
“No matter now, Cannie; I haven't time to bestow upon the murdering ruffian: I have my eye on him, however, and so have others. Indeed, I'm rather inclined to think the hemp has already grown that will hang him. What dress had he on?”
“Why, sir, he had on a whitish frieze coat, wid big brown buttons; but there could be no mistakin' the size of his murderin' red whiskers.”
“Red whiskers!—why, you said a moment ago that they were black.”
“Black! hut tut, no, Misther Purcel, I couldn't say that; devil such a pair of red thumpers ever I seen, barin' upon Rousin' Redhead that was sent across—for—for—buildin' churches—ha! ha! ha!”
“Why, I'd take my oath you said black,” rejoined the proctor—“that is, if I have ears to my head.”
“Troth, an' you have Misther Purcel, as brave a pair as a man could boast of; but the truth is, you wor so much feflustered wid alarm, and got altogether so much through other, that you didn't know what I said.”
“I did perfectly: you said distinctly that he had black whiskers.”
“Red, by the hokey, over the world; however, to avoid an argument, even if I did, in mistake, say black, the whiskers were red in the mane time; an', as I sed, barrin' Rousin' Redhead's, that was thransported, a never laid my eyes on so red, nor so big I pair.”
“He can't be the fellow I suspect, then—for his, by all accounts, are unusually large and black.”
“As to that, I can't say, sir: but you wouldn't have me give a wrong description of any villain that 'ud make an attempt upon your life. Are you sure, though, it wasn't his reverend honor that the pistol was aimed at?”
“I am not; as I told you, it is impossible to settle that point. There is neither of us very popular, certainly.”
“Bekaise, afther all, there is a difference; and it doesn't folly that, although I'd purshue the villain for life and death, that 'ud attempt to murdher you, that I'd distress myself to secure an honest man that might free us an' the country from the like o' him;” and he pointed over his left shoulder with his inverted thumb.
“Cannie,” said the proctor, somewhat sternly, “I've never heard you give expression to such sentiments before, and I hope I shall never again. No honest man would excuse or tamper with murder or murderers. No more of this, Cannie, or you will lose my good opinion, although perhaps you would think that no great loss.”
“Throth, I know I was wrong to spake as I did, sir, bad cess to me, but I was, an' as for your good opinion, Misther Purcel, and the good of all your family too, devil a man livin' 'ud go further to gain it, and to keep it when he had it than I would; now, bad cess to the one.”
Whilst this dialogue was proceeding between the pedlar and the proctor. Dr. Turbot, in a state of indescribable alarm, was relating the attempted assassination to his curate inside. The amazement of the latter gentleman, who was perfectly aware of the turbulent state of the country, by no means kept pace with the alarm of his rector. He requested of the latter, that should he see Mrs. Temple, he would make no allusions to the circumstance, especially as she was at the period in question not far from her confinement, and it was impossible to say what unpleasant or dangerous effects an abrupt mention of so dreadful a circumstance might have upon her.
In a few minutes Purcel and his patron were on their way to Longshot Lodge, the residence of the proctor. At the solicitation of the parson, however, they avoided the direct line of road, and reached home by one that was much more circuitous, and as the latter thought also more safe. Here, after Waiting for the arrival of the mail coach, which he resolved to meet on its way to the metropolis, he partook of a lunch, which, even to his voluptuous palate, was one that he could not but admit to be excellent. He received four hundred pounds from the proctor, for which he merely gave him a note of hand, and in a short time was on his way to the metropolis.
CHAPTER VI.—Unexpected Generosity—A False Alarm.
At this period, notwithstanding the circumstances which we have just related—and they were severe enough—the distress of the Protestant clergy of Ireland was just only beginning to set in. It had not, as yet, however, assumed anything like that formidable shape in which it subsequently appeared. To any scourge so dreadful, no class in the educated and higher ranks of society had been, within the records of historical recollection, ever before subjected. Still, like a malignant malady, even its first symptoms were severe, and indicative of the sufferings by which, with such dreadful certainty, they were followed.
On that day, and at the very moment when the mysterious attempt at assassination,which we have recorded, was made, Dr. Turbot's worthy curate, on returning home from the neighboring village of Lisnagola, was, notwithstanding great reluctance on his part, forced into the following conversation with his lovely but dejected wife:
“Charles,” said she, fixing her large, tearful eyes upon him, with a look in which love, anxiety, and sorrow were all blended, “I fear you have not been successful in the village. Has Moloney refused us?”
“Only conditionally, my dear Maria—that is, until our account is paid up—but for the present, and perhaps for a little longer, we must deny ourselves these 'little luxuries,'” and he accompanied the words with a melancholy smile. “Tea and sugar and white bread are now beyond our reach, and we must be content with a simpler fare.”
Mrs. Temple, on looking at their children, could scarcely refrain from tears; but she knew her husband's patience and resignation, and felt that it was her duty to submit with humility to the dispensation of God.
“You and I, my dear Charles, could bear up under anything—but these poor things, how will they do?”
“That reflection is only natural, my dear Maria; but it is spoken, dearest, only like a parent, who probably loves too much and with an excess of tenderness. Just reflect, darling, upon the hundreds of thousands of children in our native land, who live healthily and happily without ever having tasted either tea or loaf-bread at all; and think, besides, dearest, that there are, in the higher circles, a great number of persons whose children are absolutely denied these comforts, by advice of their physicians. Our natural wants, my dear Maria, are but simple, and easily satisfied; it is wealth and luxury only that corrupt and vitiate them. In this case, then, dearest, the Christian must speak, and act, and feel as well as the parent. You understand me now, love, and that is sufficient. I have not succeeded in procuring anything for you or them, but you may rest assured that God will not desert us.”
“Yes, dear Charles,” replied his wife, whose black mellow eyes beamed with joy; “all that is true, but you forgot that Dr. Turbot has arrived to receive his tithes, and you will now receive your stipend. That will carry us out of our present difficulty at least.”
“My dear Maria, it is enough to say that Dr. Turbot is in a position immeasurably more distressed and dreadful than ours. Purcel, his proctor, has been able to receive only about fifty pounds out of his usual half-yearly income of eight hundred. From him we are to expect nothing at present. I know not, in fact, how he and his family will bear this dreadful privation; for dreadful it must be to those who have lived in the enjoyment of such luxuries.”
“That is indeed dreadful to such a family, and I pity them from my heart,” replied his wife; “but, dearest,Charles, what are we to do?—except a small crust of bread, there is no food in the house for either them or you.” As she uttered the words their eyes met, and his gentle and soothing Maria, who had been sitting beside him, threw herself upon his bosom—he clasped his arms around her—pressed her with melancholy affection to his heart, and they both wept together.
At length he added, “But you think not of yourself, my Maria.”
“I!” she replied; “ah! what am I? Anything, you know, will suffice for me—but you and they, my dearest Charles—and then poor Lilly, the servant; but, dearest,” she exclaimed, with a fresh, and if possible, a more tender embrace, “I am not at all repining—I am happy with you—happy, happy—and never, never, did I regret the loss of my great and powerful friends less than I do at this moment, which enables me to see and appreciate the virtues and affection to which my heart is wedded, and which I long since appreciated.”
Her husband forced a smile, and kissed her with an air of cheerfulness.
“Pardon me,” he said, “dearest Maria, for two or three minutes I wish to go to the library to make a memorandum. I will soon return.”
He then left her, after a tender embrace, and retired, as he said, to the library, where, smote to the heart by his admiration of her affection and greatness of mind, he sat down, and whilst he reflected on the destitution to which he had brought the granddaughter of an earl, he wept bitterly for several minutes. It was from this peculiar state of feeling that he was called upon to hear an account of the attempted assassination, with which the reader is already acquainted.
Our friend, the Cannie Soogah, having taken the town of Lisnagola on his way, in order to effect some sales with one of those general country merchants on a somewhat small scale, that are to be found in almost every country town, happened to be sitting in a small back-parlor, when a certain conversation took place between Mr. Temple and Molony, the proprietor of the establishment to which we have just alluded. He heard the dialogue, we say, and saw that the mild and care-worn curate had been, not rudely certainly, but respectfully, yet firmly, refused further credit. By whatever spirit prompted it is not for us to say; at all events he directed his footsteps to the glebe, and—but it is unnecessary to continue the description, or rather to repeat it. The reader is already aware of what occurred until the departure of Dr. Turbot and the proctor.
Temple, having seen them depart, walked out for a little, in order to compose his mind, and frame, if possible, some project for the relief of his wife and children. In the meantime, our jolly pedlar, having caught a glimpse of Mrs. Temple at the parlor window, presented himself, and begged to know if she were inclined to make any purchases. She nodded him a gentle and ladylike refusal, upon which he changed his ground, and said, “Maybe, ma'am, if you're not disposed to buy, that you'd have something you'd like to part wid. If you have, ma'am, bad cess to the purtier purchaser you'd meet wid—shawls or trinkets, or anything that way—I mane, ma'am,” he added, “things that arn't of any use to you—an' I'm the boy that will shell out the ready money, and over the value.”
Mrs Temple had known little—indeed nothing—of the habits of such a class as that to which our gay friend belonged; but be this as it may, his last words struck her quickly and forcibly.
“Do you make purchases, then?” she said.
“I do, ma'am, plaise your honor,” replied the pedlar.
“Stop a moment, then,” she replied. “I have some superfluous articles of dress that I may dispose of.”
The whole mother rushed into her heart at the thought; the tender and loving wife forgot everything but the means of obtaining food for her husband and children. She went to her dressing-room, and in a few minutes returned, accompanied by Lilly Stewart, her own servant-maid previous to ker marriage, to whom their recent distresses had been no secret, and who was deeply and deservedly in the confidence of the family.
Whilst she was, absent in her dressing-room the pedlar resumed his song, as was his custom when alone—a circumstance which caused Mrs. Temple to remark, as she and Lilly went down to, the parlor—“Alas! dear Lilly, what a mistaken estimate does one portion of mankind form of another. This poor pedlar now envies us the happiness of rank and wealth which we do not feel, and I—yes, even I—what would I not give to be able to carol so light-hearted a song as that which he is singing! Who is this man, Lilly, do you know him?”
“Why, ma'am, if all they say is true, every one knows him, and nobody knows him. He's known as the Cannie Soogah, or jolly pedlar. They say, that although he prefers this kind of life, he's very wealthy. One person will tell you that he's a great rogue, and would cheat Satan himself, and others say he's generous and charitable. In other respects,” continued. Lilly, blushing, “he's not very well spoken of, but it may be false. I have always found him myself very civil; and them that spoke harshly of him were people that he kept at a distance.”
The pedlar ceased his song as soon as they made their appearance in the parlor, into which Lilly admitted him for the sake of mutual convenience.
“Here's a shawl—a beautiful shawl, Mr. —— what's this your name is?”
“The name that I have for set days and bonfire nights,” he replied, “is one I seldom tell,” and at the same time there was a dry air of surprise about him on hearing her ask the question; “but the name I am generally known by is the Cannie Soogah, which manes, ma'am,” he added, addressing himself in a respectful manner to Mrs. Temple, “the jolly merchant or pedlar.”
“Well, Cannie,” said Lilly, pronouncing the word with more familiarity than could have been expected from their apparent unaquaintance with each other, “here's a beautiful shawl that my mistress made me a present of.”
“No, Lilly,” said her mistress, with severity—for she neither could nor would sanction the falsehood, however delicately and well intended—“no, do not mislead the man, nor state anything but the truth. The shawl is mine, my good man, and I wish to dispose of it.”
The pedlar looked at it, and replied, in a tone of disappointment, “Yes, ma'am, but I'm afeard it's beyant my manes; I know the value of it right well, and it's seldom ever the likes of it was in my pack. What are you axin', ma'am? it's as good as new.”
“I think it cost twelve or thirteen guineas, as well as I can remember,” she replied; “but it is not what it cost, but what you are now disposed to give for it, that I am anxious to know.”
“Well, ma'am, you know I must look upon it as—hem—as a second—ha—at all events,” he proceeded, checking himself with more delicacy than could be expected from him—“you must admit that it isn't new.”
“Certainly,” said she, “it has been more than eight years in my possession, although, at the same time, I believe I have not worn it more than half a dozen times.”
“Well, ma'am,” replied the pedlar, “I know the value of the shawl something betther even than yourself. If you will take six guineas for it, we will deal; more I cannot afford, for I must at once tell, you the truth, that I may carry it about these twelve months before I find any one that knows its value.”
Mrs. Temple was by no means prepared, any more than her servant, for such a liberal offer; and without any further hesitation she accepted it, and desired Lilly to place the shawl in his hands, and in the meantime, with equal consideration and good feeling, he handed Lilly six guineas, adding, “Give that to your mistress, but in troth, ma'am,” he proceeded, respectfully addressing her; “it is just robbing you I am, but I can only say, that if I dispose of it at its proper-value you'll hear from me again. Troth, if I wasn't a great rogue, ma'am, I'd give you more for it; but bad cess to the one o' me—ever could be honest, even if I wasped for it.”
“I do not think you dishonest, my good, man,” replied Mrs. Temple; “on the contrary, I am not displeased with your, plain blunt manner. Lilly give him some——”
She checked herself at once, and passed, a significant but sorrowful glance at Lilly; as she went up to the drawing-room.
She had no sooner gone, than the peddler, with a shrug of satisfaction, exclaimed, in a subdued but triumphant voice: “Oh! by the hokey I've done her, and for that you must suffer, Lilly darlin'. Come now, you jumpin' jewel you, that was born wid a honey-comb somewhere between, that purty chin and beautiful nose of yours—throth it must have a taste, for who the dickens could, refuse the Cannie Soogah, and before Lilly, who, by the way, was nothing, loath, could put herself in an attitude of defense, he had inflicted several smacks upon as pretty a pair of lips as ever were pressed.
“Upon my word; now, Mr. Magrath, you're very impudent,” she replied, “I wonder you're not ashamed, you great strong man you, to be kissing girls in this manner, whether they will or not. Look at the state you have my hair in; you're very rude, Mr. Magrath, and I'm really angry with you; you've broken one of my side-combs, too; you're a great rude man, so you are.”
“Broke your side-comb, did I? Well, then, you couldn't be in better hands, darlin', here's a pair I make you a present of, and maybe they won't set you all off to pieces; here, darlin', wear these for my sake.”
“But are you making me a present of these beauties, Cannie?”
“Troth an' I am, Lilly darlin', and wish they were betther for your sake—what's that I said? a present! oh the sorrow bit, I must have my payment—aisy now, darlin', my own sweet Lilly; there now, we're clear.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Magrath, I don't know what to say to you, but you're such a great strong fellow, that a poor weak girl like me is but a child in your arms; are these real tortoise-shell though?”
“You may swear it; do you think I'd offer you anything else? But now listen, my darlin' girl, take this shawl, it's 'worth five-and-twenty guineas at least, troth, poor thing! it wasn't since their marriage it was bought; take it, I say, and go up widout sayin' a word, and lay it just where it was before, and if she seems surprised on findin' it there, tell her you suppose I forgot it, or if she won't believe you, and that all fails you, say that the Cannie Soogah, although she knows nothing about him, is a man that's undher great obligations to her family, and that he only tuck that method of payin' back a debt to her that he honestly owed to them, for, afther all, isn't she one of them?”
Lilly shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, at the manly and modest generosity of the pedlar.
“Little you know then, Mr. Magrath, the load you have taken off my dear mistress's heart, and the delight you have brought upon the whole family.”
“Well, Lilly dear, sure if I did, amn't I well paid, for it? thanks to your two sweet lips for that. Sure, bad cess to me, but it was on your account I did it.”
A vile grin, or rather an awkward blank smile, forced by an affectation of gallantry, accompanied the lie which he uttered.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” replied Lilly, “on my 'account, don't think to pass that upon me; however, I can forgive you a great many things in consequence of your behavior—just now.”
“And yet you abused me for it,” he replied, laughing, “but sure I knew that a purty girl always likes to be kissed; bad cess to me, but the same behavior comes naturally to me.”
“Go now,” said Lilly, with a comic and peremptory manner; “go your rounds, I say; you know very well that I mane your behavior about the shawl, and not your great strong impudence.”
The pedlar, after winking and nodding meanings into her words that she had never thought of, slung his pack over his shoulder as usual, and proceeded on his rounds.
We have always been of opinion that there is scarcely anything more mysterious than the speed with which popular report travels apparently with very inadequate machinery throughout a large district of country. Before the day was more than half-advanced, fame had succeeded in circulating a report that Matthew Purcel and Dr. Turbot had been both shot dead in the garden of the rectory. This report spread rapidly, and it is with equal pain and shame we are obliged to confess that in general it was received with evident and undisguised satisfaction. John and Alick Purcel, on their way home, were accosted at a place called “Murderer's Corner,” by two of the men who had attended at their father's office that morning, and informed that he and Dr. Turbot had been murdered in the course of the day, a piece of information which was conveyed by them with a sneer of cowardly triumph that was perfectly diabolical.
“God save ye, gintlemen!” said one of them, with a peculiar emphasis on the last word; “did ye here the news?”
“No, Jemmy, what is it?” asked John.
“Why, that Darby Hourigan is very ill,” he replied, with mock gravity.
“No thanks for your information, Jemmy,” replied the other; “if you told us something of more interest we might thank you.”
“Never mind him, gintlemen,” replied his companion, “there's nothing wrong wid Darby Horaigan, barrin' that he occasionally rubs himself where he's not itching, but there's worse news than that before you.”
“What is it, then?” asked Alick; “if you know it, let us hear it, and don't stand humming and hawing as if you were afraid to speak.”
“Faith, an' it's no wondher I would, sir, when it's to tell you that you'll find your father a murdhered corpse at home before you.”
“Great God! what do you mean, sir? asked John.
“Why, gintlemen, it seems that himself an' Parson Turbot wor both shot in the parsonage garden to-day. The parson's takin' his rest in his own house, but your father's body was brought home upon the car. The bullet entered your worthy father's breeches' pocket, cut through a sheaf of notes that he had to pay the parson his tides wid, and from that it went on——”
Human patience could not endure the ill-suppressed and heartless satisfaction with which the fellow was about to enter into the details, and accordingly, ere he had time to proceed further, John Purcel turning a hunting-whip, loaded for self-defense, left him sprawling on the earth.
“Now, you ill-conditioned scoundrel,” he exclaimed, “whether he is murdered or not, take that for your information. Alick, lay on Hacket there, you are the nearest to him,” he added, addressing his brother.
Hacket at once took to his heels, but the other, touching his horse with the spurs, cantered up to him, and brought the double thong of his whip into severe contact with his neck and shoulders. When this was over, the two fiery young men exclaimed:—
“There, now, are our thanks, not merely for your information, but for the good will with which it was given, and that to the very sons of the man whom, by your own account, you have murdered among you. If his blood however, has been shed, there is not a drop of it for which we will not exact a tenfold retribution.”
They then dashed home, at the highest speed of which their horses were capable, and throwing themselves out of the saddle, rushed to the hall-door, where they knocked eagerly.
“Is my father at home, Letty?”
“Yes, sir, he's in the parlor.”
“In the parlor,” exclaimed Alick, looking keenly into her face; “what is he doing in the parlor, eh?”
“Why, he's readin' a letther, sir.”
“Reading a letter, is he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed both the young men, breathing freely; “that will do, Letty—here, Letty, is half-a-crown for you to buy a ribbon.”
“And another from me, Letty, to buy anything you fancy.”
The girl looked at them with surprise, and for a moment or two seemed at a loss how to account for such evident excitement. At length she exclaimed: “By dad, I have it; you won the hunt, gintlemen.”
“Better than that, Letty,” they replied, nodding, and immediately entering the parlor.
“Well, boys,” said the father, “a good day's sport?”
“Capital, father! are you long home!”
“Since about two o'clock.”
“How did you come?”
“Why, boys, ye must know that either Dr. Turbot or I was fired at to-day. A bullet—a pistol bullet—whistled right between us in the parsonage garden, and the poor frightened doctor refused to come by the usual way, and, in consequence, I was obliged to take the lower road.”
He then entered into a more detailed account of the attempted assassination, and heard from them, in reply, a history of their intelligence and adventure at Murderer's Corner with Hacket and Bryan, for so the fellows were named.
“Well,” said the proctor, “thank God, things are not so bad as they report, after all; but, in the meantime, the plot appears to be thickening—here's more comfort,” he added, handing him the notice which Mogue told him he had found upon the steps of the hall-doer, where, certainly, he had himself left it. John took the document and read as follows:—
“TO PROCTOR PURCEL AND HIS HORSE-WHIPPIN' SONS.
“This is to give you notice, that nothing can save yez. Look back upon your work an' see what yez desarve from the counthry. You began with a farm of sixty acres, and you took farm afther farm over the heads of the poor an' them that wor strugglin', until you now have six hundre' acres in your clutches. You made use of the strong purse against the wake man; an' if any one ventured to complain, he was sure to come in for a dose of the horsewhip from your tyrannical sons, or a dose of law from yourself. Now all that I've mentioned might be overlooked an' forgiven, for the sake of your wife and daughters, but it is for your conduct as a Tithe Proctor that you and your sons must die. Don't think to escape me, for it can't be done. There is not a day in the week, nor an hour in the day, but I have you at my command. Be prepared, then, for your fate is sealed; and no earthly power can save you. There is the sign [three coffins] and the blood that marks my name is from my own veins. You and your sons must die.
“Captain Terror,
“The Millstone-breaker.”
“Tut,” said Alick, “we have received far worse than this; it has been written by some hedge schoolmaster; as for my part, I despise it.”
“Well, boys, at all events,” proceeded the proctor, “be a little more sparing with the horse-whip. The scoundrels deserve it to be sure; but at the same time it is not a thing that can be defended.”
“Why, it's impossible to keep it from them, father,” replied John; “their insolence is actually more than flesh and blood can bear. But had we not better make some inquiries into this precious production?”
“Where is the use of that?” said his father, to whom such communications had lost all their novelty and much of their interest; “however, you may do so; perhaps some accidental clue may be found that would lead us to discover the villain who wrote it.”
Mogue was accordingly called in.
“How did this letter come into your hands, Mogue?” asked the proctor.
“It didn't come into them, sir,” replied Mogue, with a smile which he intended to pass, for one of simplicity; “it was lyin' I got it, upon the hall-door steps.”
“Did you see any strange person about the place, or near the hall-door to-day?” he asked.
“None, sir, sorra a creature—well now, wait—that I may never sup sorrow, but I did—there was a poor woman, sir, wid a whack of a son along wid her.”
“Did you see her near the steps?”
“That I may be happy, sir, if I could take it upon me to say—not wishin' to tell a lie—but she might a' been there, the crathur.”
“What kind of a looking woman was she?” asked John.
“A poor woman, sir, as I said.”
“I do not mean that; of course, I know she was; but what dress had she on, and what kind of features or complexion had she? Was she big or little?”
“I'm just thinkin',” replied Mogue, seemingly attempting to recollect something, “was it to-day or yesterday I seen her.”
“Well, but answer directly,” said Alick, “what was she like?”
“The son of her was a bullet-headed ownsha,” replied Mogue, “and herself—well now, that I may never die in sin, if I could say rightly. I was fetehin' some oats to Gimlet Eye, an' didn't take any particular notice. The ownsha had black sooty hair, cut short, an' walked as if his feet were sore—and indeed it strikes me that he had kibes—for these poor people isn't overly clane, an' don't wash their feet goin' to bed at night, barrin' at Christmas or Easther, the crathurs. But, sure the Lord look down on them, they have enough to do to live at all!”
“You couldn't say what direction she came from?”
“Well, then, no.”
“Nor the direction she went by?”
“Well, no sir, I could not.”
“But are you certain it was to-day, and not yesterday, you saw her?”
“Then that's what's puzzlin' me—eh! let me see—ay—it was to-day—an' I'll tell you how I know it. Bekaise it was to-day I brought the oats to Gimlet Eye—you know he was harrowing the black park yestherday and was in care of Paudeen Sthuccaun. But sure, sir, maybe somebody else about the place seen them.”
An investigation was consequently held upon this reasonable suggestion, but we need scarcely assure our readers, without effect; the aforesaid “poor woman” having had existence only in the fertile imagination of stainless and uncorrupted saint Mogue.
The latter had scarcely retired, when a gentle knock came to the door, and Alick, on opening it himself, found their friend and neighbor, Darby Hourigan, standing outside.
“Well, Hourigan, what do you want now? have you repented, and come to the resolution of paying your tithes?”
Darby gave no direct answer, nor indeed any answer at all to these questions, but simply said, “There's a bit o' paper, sir, for Misther John.”
“What is this? Oh, oh, a summons!—very well, Mr. Hourigan, my brother will attend to it.”
“This is where John Purcel lives, sir?” proceeded the man, according to some form which he supposed necessary to give effect and reality to the service; “you acknowledge that, sir, do you?”
“Live here!—why, you scoundrel, don't you know he does? Where else did he ever live?”
“Ay, but you are only answerin' one question by another,” replied Hourigan; “and I'll sarve you wid another to-morrow if you don't speak the truth.”
“John,” shouted his brother, “you're wanted. Here is your old friend Hourigan, anxious to get another—ha! ha! ha!—he is off like a shot!” he proceeded, addressing his brother, as the latter entered the hall; “but in the meantime,” he added, handing him the summons, “this document is intended for you.”
“Well,” observed John, laughing, “unless our friend O'Driscol is somewhat change”! I need not much fear Mr. Hourigan.”
“He is changed,” observed the proctor; “the fellow is beginning to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. If you wish to secure his favor, however, you ought to try and put him on the trail of a Conspiracy, or anything that will give him a tolerable justification for writing to his Friend the Castle, as he calls it! He is a regular conspiracy hunter, and were it not that he is now awfully afraid of these Whiteboys, and naturally cowardly and easily frightened, I think he would be the plague of government as well as the country.”
It would indeed, be extremely difficult to find a family so resolute and full of natural courage, and consequently so incapable of intimidation, as that of our friend the proctor. And what was equally striking, the female portion of them were as free from the weakness and timidity of their sex, in this respect, as the males.
CHAPTER VII.—A Shoneen Magistrate Distributing Justice.
On the morning but one afterwards, John Purcel proceeded to the house of his friend and neighbor, Fitzy O'Driscol, as he was usually termed for brevity. O'Driscol was rather a small man—that is to say, he was short but thick, and of full habit. He was naturally well made, and had been considered well-looking, until his complexion became a good deal inflamed from the effects of social indulgence, to which he was rather strongly addicted. His natural manner would have been plausible if he had allowed it to remain natural; but so far from this, he affected an air of pomp and dignity, that savored very strongly of the mock heroic. On the other side, his clothes fitted him very well, and as he had a good leg and a neat small foot, he availed himself of every possible opportunity to show them. He was, like most men of weak minds, exceedingly fond of ornaments, on which account he had his fingers loaded with costly rings, and at least two or three folds of a large gold chain hung about his breast. His morning gown was quite a tasteful, and even an expensive article, and his slippers, heavily embroidered, harmonized admirably with the whole fashionable deshabille in which he often distributed justice. He carried a gold snuff-box of very massive size, which, when dining out, he always produced after dinner for the benefit of the company, although he never took snuff himself. This, in addition to a tolerably stiff and unreclaimable brogue, and a style of pronunciation wofully out of keeping with his elegant undress, constituted him the very beau-ideal of what is usually known as a shoneen magistrate.
John, on arriving, found him reading a paper in the breakfast-parlor, and saw Hourigan waiting outside, who, by the way, gave him such a look as a cat might be supposed to bestow upon a mastiff from whom she dreaded an attack—a look which, in Hourigan's case, combined as much ferocious vengeance and sullen hang-dog cowardice as could well be brought together on the same features.
“Well, Jack,” said the pompous distributor of justice, addressing young Purcel, “how do you do? Take a seat—by the way, is it true that your father and my excellent friend, Dr. Turbot, were shot at yesterday?”
“True enough,” replied John; “the bullet whistled right between them, and so close that each felt the wind of it.”
“The country is getting into a frightful state, friend Purcel, eh? Upon my honor now, yes! it is so—it is so.”
“Why there is no question of it,” replied John; “it is already in a frightful state.”
“It is, Mr. Purcel, and in my opinion, the crame of the matter will be blood—blood—my dear John—that is what it will come to.”
“Certainly you speak, Mr. O'Driscol, like a man that knows the country, and can feel the pulse of the public officially—I mean, of course, as a magistrate—for it is now, and in times of such turbulence, that men—I mean magistrates—of your stamp—will prove themselves serviceable to the government of the country, and to the country itself; intelligent and determined men—I mean magistrates—who know not what fear is, and who will do their duty at the risk of their lives.”
“True, John, it is such men, or rather magistrates, who can render the most important services to government. The duties of a loyal and attached magistrate are not a mere raycrayation during these times. And yet, John,” he added, sinking his voice into a confidential whisper, “I protest to my honor that the life of a man—I mane, as you say, a magistrate—who resolves firmly to perform his duty, is not extramely safe; why then should a man—I mane a magistrate—unnecessarily expose himself to the fate of Going,* when he might much more safely remain snug and quiet, without putting either himself or his neighbors to inconvanience by an over-strict discharge of his duty?”
[* The name of a magistrate and clergyman, I think, who was
assassinated.]
“If everything be true that I have heard,” said John, “the government would scarcely expect to hear such sentiments from the intelligent and determined Mr. O'Driscol.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—well done, John,—I drew you out. Upon my honor, I am glad to find that you are loyal, at all events, and that is a rare virtue among most persons of your creed;—excuse me, but, except in name, I can scarcely consider you as belonging to it.
“Why, sir,” replied John, “I trust I am a firm, but not a bigoted Catholic.”
“Roman Catholic, John, always say, if you plaise; we claim to be the true Catholics you know; and for that raison it is better always to avoid confusion.”
“As to that, we shall not quarrel about it, I trust,” replied Purcel; “but with respect to another point, there is only one opinion, Mr. O'Driscol, and that is, that you are a most resolute and determined man.”
“Magistrate you mane, I think, John; so magistrate, if you plaise—ha! ha!' ha! By the way will you touch the bell? Thank you.”
“I beg your pardon,” proceeded Purcel, having touched the bell, “I should have said magistrate: because it very often happens that whilst the man is a coward, the magistrate is as brave as the Duke of Wellington.”
“Upon my honor and conscience, there may be some truth in that,” said O'Driscol, nodding, but at the same time not exactly appropriating the category to himself; “but how do you make that appear, John?”
“Why,” replied Purcel, who, between ourselves, was a bit of a wag in his way, “it proceeds from the spirit of his office. Take a magistrate, for instance, as a man—a mere man; place him in the ordinary situations of society; let him ride home at night, for instance, through a disturbed district like this, which, if he is wise, he will avoid doing, or let him be seen in an isolated position even in daylight without protection, and you will find him a coward of the first shaking. On the contrary, place him, as a magistrate, at the head of a body of police or military, and where will you witness such courage? That, then, is the individual, I say, who being naturally a coward as a man, goes through his duty with courage as a magistrate; I say this is the individual whom the government should reward with especial favor.”
“By the way, will you touch that bell again?—oh, here he comes. Sam,” he said, addressing a servant, “get me up a bottle of soda-wather. Will you have a glass of soda, John? I dipped a little too deep last night.”
“No, sir, thank you,” replied Purcel, “I was moderate last night; and at all events soda is rather cold for such a day as this is.”
“Well, then can't you stiffen it with a little brandy?”
“No, thank you, I won't touch anything at present. I almost wish, as I was saying,” he proceeded, “that there was the slightest touch of cowardice in you, naturally; because if it could be proved in connection with your official intrepidity, you would deserve everything that a government could bestow upon you.”
“Faith and honor, that is certainly putting the argument in an extremely new point of view, and I agree with you, John; that is—that—let me see—the more cowardly the man the braver the magistrate. Well, I don't know that aither.”
“No, no!” replied John, “I don't mean that.”
“Well, what do you mane? for I thought I undherstood you a while ago, although find that I don't now.”
“I mean,” proceeded the other, “that when a man who is naturally cowardly—I don't mean, of course, a poltroon, but timid—proves himself to be firm, resolute, and intrepid in the discharge of his duties as a magistrate, such a man deserves a civic crown.”
“A what?”
“A civic crown. Of course you know what that is.”
“Of coorse I do, John; and upon my honor and conscience there is great truth in what you say. I could name you a magistrate who, I believe, as a magistrate, could not very aisily be bate, and yet who, without being a downright coward, is for all that no hairo to his valley de sham, as they say.”
“My father was talking about you last night, sir, and I think before long he will be able to put you on the scent of as pretty a conspiracy as was ever detected. He had some notion of opening a communication with government himself upon the subject; but I suggested—that is, I took the liberty, sir, if you will excuse me, but if I erred I assure you Mr. O'Driscol, my intentions were good—I say I took the liberty, sir, of suggesting that it would be better to place the matter in your hands, as a person possessing more influence with your friend, the Castle, and more conversant with the management of a matter that is too important to be in any but official hands. I have time at the preset only to allude to it, for I see Mr. Darby Hourigan there waiting to prosecute, or as he says to take the law of, your humble servant.”
“Hang the scoundrel, what a hurry he is in! How did you quarrel with him?”
“Faith, sir, in the first place, he was insolent and offensive beyond all patience.”
“Yes, my dear John,” observed O'Driscol, with a good deal of solemn pomp, especially as the magistrate was beginning to supersede the man, “all that is very provoking, but at the same time you know the horsewhip is an illaygal instrument.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Purcel, with a smile, “I believe not.”
“I mane, John,” said the other, “an improper use of it is. You should be more cautious, John, in using it, for the punishment of any animal barring a horse. I have heard, by the way, many complaints against you on that head.”
“Yes, sir, but you are not aware that it is from a principle of humanity I horsewhip the scoundrels.”
“How is that now, John? for upon my honor and conscience I can't for the life of me persave any great humanity in it.”
“Why, sir,” replied Purcel, who, as the reader must be aware, was humbugging the worthy magistrate all the time, “I appeal to yourself whether it is not better for any one of these rascals to get a horsewhipping from me than a citation to the Bishop's Court from my father.”
“Ay, but do they never happen to get both, John?” returned the magistrate. “But what has a horsewhipping and a citaytion to the Bishop's Court to do with aich other?”
“Simply this,” replied the other, “that when my father hears I horsewhip any of them, he takes no further proceedings against them; and whenever I wish, consequently, to keep a fellow out of that troublesome situation, I horsewhip him from pure kindness.”
“So that you look upon that as a good turn to them?”
“Precisely, sir. As I said, I horsewhip them from motives of humanity.”
“Faith and don't be surprised, John, if they should happen to put a bullet through you from motives of humanity some of these days. However, do you think it is of importance?”
“Is what, sir?”
“The conspiracy. I beg your pardon—come into the office till I see what I can do for you at all events.”
He accordingly preceded Purcel to his office, accompanied by Sam Finigan, a kind of thorough male domestic who acted as his clerk. Here he took his seat with a good deal of ceremony, hemmed several times, and desired Hourigan to be admitted. Just at that moment, and while Hourigan was coming in, a young lad, or tiger, a son of Finigan's, by the way, who had been in the habit of carrying letters to and from the neighboring post-office, now entered and presented him with one, to the following effect:—
“TO O'DRISKAL, THE SHONEEN MAGISTRIDGE.
“Sur this is to let you no that if you go an givin wan la for the poor and anud'her for the rich you will soon get a bullet through you as Tandrem af Tavnibeg got. If you wish to bay safe thin bay the poor man's friend—oderways it'll be worse for you.
“Kaptn Jostige.”
O'Driscol having read this communication, became desperately disturbed for about a couple of minutes, after which, as if struck by some sudden thought, he appeared to recover himself considerably, but by no means fully, as was evident from the agitation of his voice and the involuntary tremor of his hands.
“I hope, sir,” said Purcel, who could not help observing the commotion into which the notice had put him, “that you have received no ill tidings. You seem agitated and alarmed, or rather distressed, if one can judge; I hope there's nothing wrong.”
“Why, no,” replied the magistrate, “not exactly wrong; but it is certainly an infamous country to live in. I am an impartial man, Mr. Purcel—I mane, sir, an impartial magistrate; but the fact is, sir, that every man is marked whose life is valuable to the government of his country. I know no man, Mr. Purcel—mark me you, too, Hourigan—I know no man, sir, in my capacity of a magistrate—hem—hem!—only according to the merits—I am as much the poor man's friend as I am the rich man's, and of the two more: if I lane at all, which I don't, it is to the poor man; but as an impartial man—magistrate I mane—I know naither rich or poor. On the bench, I say, I know naither poverty nor riches, barring, as I said, upon the merits.”
“Beggin' your pardon, your worship—an' before you begin—as I was comin' down here a while agone,” said Hourigan, “I seen a strange and suspicious-lookin' man inside the hedge at the shrubbery below; he was an ill-faced villain, plaise your reverence, an' I thought I seen his pockets stickin' out as if he had pistols in them. I thought it better to tell your worship.”
The worthy magistrate had scarcely recovered from the first fit of agitation when this intelligence threw him into an immediate relapse. Indeed so ludicrous was his distress that he actually wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Sam,” said he, after a fit of tremulous coughing, into which he forced himself, in order to conceal the quaver which terror had given to his voice, “Sa—am—hugh! ugh!—go-o—an-n-d—ugh! ugh! ugh!—get a ca-a-se of doub-uble pis-pistols—ugh! ugh!—da—amn this cough—ough—and place—them-em on the table here—we—we—will at least pep-pepper the villain—if—if—he—he should dare to show his face—-ace. I trust I—I—know my duties as—a mag-istrate—my cour—urage and in-trep—id—ity as such—ugh! ijg'h! ugh!—are no saycret now, I think.”
“I don't believe,” observed Purcel, “that there is one syllable of truth in what he says. I can read the falsehood in his eye. However,” he added, “if you will postpone this matter of Hourigan's for a few minutes, I shall soon see whether there is any one there or not.”
“Here, then,” said the magistrate, “take these pistols” (pointing to those which Finigan had just laid on the table). Purcel declined them with a nod, taking a good case at the same time out of his own pocket. “No, sir, thank you, I never travel without my two friends here, with either of which I can break a bottle at the distance of thirty yards. You will be good enough to tell that to your friends, Mr. Hourigan, and also to reflect upon it yourself.”
Having examined his friends, as he called them, he started out and proceeded directly towards the shrubbery, where, however, there was no trace whatever of any one. On his way home he met Fergus O'Driscol, who had been out that morning cock-shooting through the grounds, and to whom he mentioned the story told by Hourigan. “Why, the lying scoundrel,” exclaimed Fergus, “I saw him myself speaking to a new laboring lad whom Mr. Arthur, the steward, sent in there this morning to gather and remove the rotten underwood. He has only vamped up this story to frighten my heroic father, and between you and me it is not difficult to do.”
“I dare say you are right, Fergus, but between you and me again, who is this new-comer you mention? for you may rest assured that if he be very intimate with Darby Hourigan, you had as good keep an eye upon him. Darby is one of the good ones.”
“I don't even know his name yet,” replied Fergus, “but if we are to judge by appearances, he is somewhat of Darby's kidney, for a worse-looking young vagabond I have seldom laid my eyes upon. At all events I know Hourigan's story to be a lie, for as he came up the avenue I was in the shrubbery, looking for a cock I shot, which dropped among the hollies, and there was certainly nobody there but this strange fellow and Hourigan, both of whom chatted to each other for some minutes across the hedge; and, by the way, I now remember that they kept watching about them suspiciously, as if they did not wish to be seen speaking together. The fact, now that you have mentioned the case, is evident; I could not be deceived in this matter.”
“Well then,” said Purcel, “I will tell you how we shall bring that circumstance to a test: get the strange fellow to walk my horse up and down the avenue, so as that he must necessarily come in Hourigan's way, and if they refuse to speak in my presence you may accompany me down the avenue if you wish—we may take it for granted that there is an understanding between them and on this account we will say nothing on our return, but that we failed to see or trace any one, which will be the truth, you know.”
Whilst this conversation took place between the two young men, our worthy magistrate, now that he had an opportunity of recruiting his courage, withdrew for a moment, accompanied by his servant and clerk, Sam Finigan. “Sam,” said he, in undisguised trepidation, “my life's not worth a week's purchase.”
“That was a threatening letter you received, sir?” said Sam, inquiringly.
“The same, Sam. Upon my honor and conscience, they have threatened me with the fate of Tandrem of Tavnibeg, who got five bullets into him, not fifty yards from his own door. Get me the brandy then quick, and another bottle of soda-wather. Good Lord! Sam, see what it is to be an active and determined magistrate.”
“Well,” said Sam, after he had placed the brandy and soda-water before him, “it's one comfort, plaise your honor, that if they shoot your worship, government will take a glorious revenge upon them. The three kingdoms will hear of it.”
“Ay, but, Sam—good Lord!—here's God grant us a long life in the manetime! but upon my honor and conscience it's not revenge upon my own murdherers I want, but to be made a Stipendiary. Revenge! Good Lord! what is revenge to a murdhered man, Sam, maybe with five bullets in him! Now, Sam, this is not want of courage in me—but—but—mere distress of mind on looking at the state of the country. A suspicious-looking villain to be lurking in my own shrubbery, with the very pistols sticking out of his pocket! Good Lord! I believe I'll take another half-glass, Sam; I think I feel somewhat more intrepid—more relieved. Yes, pour me out another half-glass, or a whole one, as your hand is in, Sam, and take another for yourself.”
“Thank your worship,” said Sam, who never called him anything else when exercising, or about to exercise his functions as a magistrate, “here's the same, your worship—God grant us both—your worship at any rate—a long life!”
“And a happy death, Sam; there is no harm to add that to it.”
“And a happy death, your worship!”
“Well, Sam, here's the same! And now I think in a few minutes my natural courage will return; for indeed I'm too kind-hearted, Sam, and too aisily made feel, as you persave, for the traisonable state of the country, and of the misguided people. However, I only feel these things as a man, Sam, as a kind-hearted man, but not as a fearless and resolute magistrate, Sam: as a magistrate I don't know what fear is.”
“That's well known, your worship; when you're at the head of a body of polis or military, every one knows what you are; isn't dare-devil Driscol, your worship, the best name they have for you?”
“True enough, Sam; d—n them; a man, especially a magistrate, couldn't be courageous unknown to them—they'll be sure to find it out. I'm a good deal relieved, Sam, and—hem—hem—let us proceed to investigate this important matter of Hourigan's. These Purcels are—hem—ahem—too much in the habit of violating the law, Sam, and that's not right—it's illaygal—it's illay-gal, Sam, to violate the law; I say so, and I think I can't allow such breaches of the”—here, however, the thought of the conspiracy occurred, and swayed him in a moment against Hourigan. “To be sure Hourigan's a scoundrel, and deserves a horsewhipping every day he rises.”
“True enough, sir; and sure if the Purcels break the law, it is only upon the people, and arn't the people, your worship, as ready to break the law as the Purcels! Sorra warrant, then, I'd grant against Misther John this bout.”
“And what would you do, Sam?”
“I'd bind Hourigan over to keep the pace.”
“I believe you're right, Sam; he's a bad bird, Hourigan; so I think the best thing to do is to tie his hands up for him.”
“And if we could tie his tongue up too, your worship, it ought to be done.”
Here, on the other hand, the notice he had just received stuck in his throat, and reduced him to a new perplexity.
“But then, Sam,” he added, “think of the revengeful spirit that is abroad. Good Lord! it is awful! Haven't I this moment a threatening notice on my table? Well,” he added, “if ever a man suffered in the cause of government as a public man and an active resolute magistrate, I do; indeed, Sam, if I had known the cares, and troubles, and responsibilities of my official situation, I am not certain whether I would not have preferred a private station; but you see government will find out men of talent and public spirit. If I had less of either, it isn't threatening letters I'd be resaving this day. Come, then, let us go to the discharge of our duty, Sam, fearlessly and impartially, as a man entrusted with great public authority.”
He accordingly proceeded to the office, a good deal recruited in courage by the brandy, but by no means altogether relieved from the apprehensions consequent upon the receipt of the notice and Hourigan's narrative.
Fergus and Purcel, on their way from the shrubbery to the house, fell upon a simpler plan by which to detect Hourigan's falsehood, and ascertain whether there existed any personal acquaintance or understanding of any sort between him and the new-comer.
“Well, John,” said O'Driscol, after once more placing himself with his usual pomp in his magisterial chair, “have you been able to find any account or trace of the assassin?”
“None whatever, sir,” replied Purcel; “neither tale nor tidings of him could I find.”
“When did you see him, Hourigan?” asked Fergus; “was it on your way here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the avenue?”
“In the avenue, sir, about fifty yards inside the hedge, jist opposite the hollies.”
“Why did you not speak to him?”
“Troth, sir, he had too suspicious a look; for how did I know but it's a bullet I'd get into, me, if I was only seen obsarvin' or watchin' him?”
“Then you did not speak to him?” asked Fergus.
“Faith, you may swear that, sir; that is not the time to pick up strange acquaintances.”
The two young friends were now satisfied of Hourigan's falsehood, and perhaps of his treachery; and a very slight but significant glance to that effect passed between them.
“Well, well,” said the magistrate, “we—I mane myself, at any rate—are well able to protect ourselves. I shall not in future travel unarmed, and he that—hem—ahem—he that will mistake me for a timid man will find out his error maybe when it's too late. Come, Hourigan, what charge is this you have against Mr. Purcel?”
“Plaise your honor, he abused, and assaulted, and bate me until I didn't know for a time whether I was alive or dead.”
“How was that, Hourigan, sir?”
“Bekaise, your honor, I had not my tides for him.”
“Now that I look at you, you certainly have the marks of violence about you. Well, but did you give no provocation, sir? It's not likely Mr. Purcel would raise his hand to you if he had not resaved strong provocation at yours.”
“Sorra word, then, your honor, ever I said to him,—barrin' to tell him that I hoped he'd have compassion on me and my little family, and not drive us to ruin for what I wasn't able to pay. He then asked me, was that the answer I had for him, and not his money, and he does no more but ups wid his whip and laves me as you see me.”
“Why, now, you d—d scoundrel!” exclaimed John, “how can you—”
“Pardon me, Mr. Purcel,” said the magistrate, interrupting him with what he intended to be dignity, “you forget what is due to the court, sir. There must be no swearing nor abuse here. The court must be respected, Mr. Purcel.”
These words brought a sneer of secret triumph upon Hourigan's features, that was unquestionably very provoking.
“I beg to apologize to the court,” replied Purcel, “if for a moment I have forgotten what is due to it; but, in fact, your worship, there is not one word of truth in what he says. His language was insolent and provoking beyond the limits of human patience. He told me that both my father and myself were dishonest—that we were oppressors of the poor, and blood-suckers; called us hardhearted and beggarly upstarts, and that we would sell our Church and our country for filthy lucre and upstart pride. Instead, your worship, of promising to pay his tithes, he said we might go to hell for them, and make the devil our paymaster, what he'll be yet. And further, he said he'd never pay a farthing of them, and set law, lawyers, police, military, and magistrates all at open defiance. Now I beg to know, your worship, what loyal and peaceably-disposed man, that wishes to see the laws of his country, and those respectable magistrates that administer them, respected—what man, I say, fond of peace and quietness, could bear such language as that? It is not what he said of either myself or my family that I contain of, but of the abuse he heaped upon the law at large, and the independent magistrates of the country. I certainly, in the heat of the moment, so far resented the affront offered to the most respectable magistracy of this fine country as to give him a few slight touches of the whip, more like one in jest, I assure your worship, than like an angry man.”
“Hourigan,” said O'Driscol, swelling up to a state of the most pompous indignation, “this is infamous conduct which he relates of you, sir. How dare you, sir, or any impudent fellow like you, take the undaicent and unjustifiable liberty of abusing the independent and loyal magistracy of Ireland? It is by fellows like you, sir, that traison and sedition are hatched. Your conduct was gross and monstrous, and if Mr. Purcel had come to me and made affidavit of the language stated, I would have consithered it my duty to commit you. Such language, sirra, was seditious!”
“Yes,” replied Hourigan, “and you would be right; but there is not one word of truth in what Mr. Purcel says, your worship; for instead of that, plaise your reverence, when I threatened to come to you to get the law against him—'I'll go to Squire Driscol,' says I, 'and that's the gintleman that will give me justice at any rate.' 'You and Squire Driscol may go be hanged,' says he; 'I don't regard him a traneen; he thinks, since he has been made into a justice of pace, that the ground's not worthy to carry him,' says he. Can you deny that, Mr. John?”
Purcel's limbs began to move, and his very flesh to creep with indignation at the impudent but artful falsehoods of Hourigan, who was likely to succeed in touching the magistrate's weak points with such effect as to gain him over to his side.
The worthy official shook his head with a kind of very high-minded pride, as much as to say, I am far above the level of such observations.
“Mr. Purcel,” said he—“he—hem—hem—I am sorry to hear that you could give way to such extramely indiscreet and disrespectful language as this.”
“Swear him, sir,” said Purcel, “and let him be put to his oath, for I protest to heaven, Mr. O'Driscol, and as I am, I trust, an honest man, I never once mentioned your name, nor was there the slightest allusion made to it—none, sir, whatever.”
“The truth is, I should think it very, strange, Mr. Purcel, and very odd, and very unfriendly and disenganious in you to spake of any magistrate in such a style as that. However, Sam, take the book and swear Hourigan.”
Sam accordingly took the book, and putting it into Hourigan's hand, said, “You shall make true answers to such questions as shall be put to you, and swear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God, and one-and-sixpence to me!”
“Never mind the one-and-sixpence at present, Sam,” said his master, “he owes you nothing now. Proceed.”
Hourigan's thumb had the genuine angle on the back of the book, but it did not escape Sam, who said, “You intend to kiss your thumb, Hourigan, but it's no go; here, sir, stand there, so that the book won't be a screen for you; turn round—there now—proceed.”
Hourigan, finding that the evasion in this instance was impracticable, gave it a strong, derisive smack that might be heard outside the room. “I hope,” he added, “you are satisfied now, Mr. Finigan.”
“I see,” replied Sam, “that you've kissed the book when you were made to do it; but I see jist as clearly that the sorra much truth are we goin' to get out of yoU.”
The case then proceeded; but as it would prove, probably, rather tiresome to the generality of our readers, we shall not give it at length. It was quite evident, however, that the plaintiff and defendant both were well acquainted with the vacillating and timid character of the magistrate, who in the case before us was uniformly swayed by the words of the last speaker; and it was equally evident that each speaker so shaped his arguments as that they might the more effectually bear upon O'Driscol's weak points.
“Hem—hem—this, I persave, turns out to be a very important and difficult case, Mr. Purcel—a very difficult case, Hourigan—a—a—a case indeed that requires great deliberation and coolness. Here is strong provocation on one hand, and prompt punishment on the other. Can you swear, Mr. Purcel, to the accuracy and substance of the language you say Hourigan uttered?”
“Certainly, sir, without hesitation.”
“Because if he does, Hourigan, I shall be obliged, according to Act of Parliament, sir—”
Hourigan interrupted him by a groan, and a rather significant shrug.
“What do you shrug and groan for, sir?” asked the man of law, who felt both acts incompatible with the respect due to the court.
“Mavrone!” exclaimed Hourigan, “acts of Parliament! oh! thin many a bitther piece of cruelty and injustice has been practised upon us by Act o' Parliament!”
“Ho, you traisonable villain!” exclaimed the other—“what sedition is this?”
“It is sich Acts o' Parliament,” said the adroit knave, “that gets good men and good magistrates shot like dogs, an' that has brought the counthry to the fearful pass it's in, I wisht myself I was out of it, for the people is beginnin' to single out sich magistrates as they'll shoot, as if their lives worn't worth a rat's.”
“Ah!—hem—hem—Hourigan, you are a d—d ras—hem simple-hearted fellow, I think, or you wouldn't spake as you do.
“But an I to get not justice sir, against the man that left me as you see me. Is the poor man, sir, to be horse-whipped and cut up at the will an' pleasure of the rich, an'not to get either law or justice?”
O'Driscol's face was now a picture of most ludicrous embarrassment and distress.
“Certainly, Hourigan, I shall—hem—I shall always administer justice impartially—impartially—no one can question that. Your case,” he added—(for we must say here that Hourigan's language brought back to his mind all the horrors of Tandrem's death, as well as that threatened to himself in the recent notice)—“your case, Hourigan is a difficult and peculiar one, poor man!”
“Hourigan, my good fellow,” said Purcel, “take care of what you are about. Don't be too certain that some of your neighbors won't find you, before you are much older, in the centre of a deep-laid conspiracy; and perhaps the government of the country may have an opportunity before long to thank and reward those who will have it exposed and broken up. Do you understand me?”
Purcel, while he spoke, kept his eyes fixed very significantly upon the magistrate, to whose imagination a long and interesting correspondence with his friend, the Castle, started immediately forth, appended to which were votes of thanks, flattering testimonies, together with a stipendiary magistracy, with a full retiring pension, and an appointment for his son, in the background.
“He has made use of that language to intimidate your worship,” proceeded Purcel, but I think he ought to know you better.”
“Sir,” said O'Driscol, addressing Hourigan, “what did you mane by talking about shooting magistrates? Do you think, sirrah, to frighten me—Fitzgerald O'Driscol—from discharging my duty?”
“Frighten, you, sir! oh! bedad, your honor, you aren't the gintleman for that.”
“No, sir, I believe not—I believe not, Hourigan; no, my poor man, I am not indeed. Hourigan, you are not an uncivil person, but why refuse to pay your tithes? You are well able to do it.”
“Why, bekaise I daren't, sir; if I did—talkin' about shootin'—it's a round lump of lead I would find in my stomach instead o' my poor breakfast, some o' these days.”
“I don't doubt but he is right enough there, your worship,” observed Purcel, “there's a conspiracy—”
“Yes,” exclaimed the magistrate, “oh! ay!—yes!—hem—a conspiracy! Well—no matter—let it rest for a little. Well—as this case is one of great difficulty, involving several profound points of law, I would recommend you to make it up, and be friends. Hourigan, you will forgive Mr. Purcel, who is hasty but generous. You will forgive him, I say, and he will give you something in the shape of a—salve for your wounds. Come, forgive him, Hourigan, and I will overlook, on my part, the seditious language you used against the Irish magistracy; and, besides, you will make me your friend.”
“Forgive him, sir!” said Hourigan, shrugging himself, and putting up his hand to feel the welts of black and blue which intersected each other upon his countenance and shoulders. “An' maybe it's half-a-crown he'll threwn me.”
“No, no, Hourigan, I'll guarantee for him that he'll treat you liberally: one good turn deserves another, you know.”
“Well, then, let him say what he'll give me.”
“There's a pound-note for you,” said Purcel, flinging it across the table. “If you take that, you may, but if not, I'll give no more. Your worship, this, you perceive, is cross-case, and if you receive examination on the one side, you will, of course, upon the other?”
“True,” replied O'Driscol, who had not thought of this, and who seized upon it as a perfect relief to him; “true, Mr. Purcel, it is a cross-case, and so I understand it. Let me recommend you to take the money, Hourigan.”
“Well, then, your honor, I will, on your account, and bekaise, as your worship says, bekaise one good tarn desarues another, an' ought to get it. I'm satisfied for the present.” And as he spoke, he turned, in a skulking, furtive manner, such a look upon Purcel as we will not attempt to describe.
“Now, Hourigan,” said O'Driscol, “I am glad I have settled this matter in your favor. If I had taken Mr. Purcel's informations, you would have certainly been transported; but the truth is, and I trust you have seen it this day, and will allow it, that in my magisterial capacity, although just and impartial I hope, yet, still, whenever I can with raison, I am always disposed to lane towards the poor man, and be the poor man's magistrate—hem—ahem!”
“Yes, plaise your honor,” said Hourigan, rather drily, “but it's so hard to make the people at large believe the truth, sir. Good-mornin', your worship, an' many thanks for the illigant justice you gave me. Good-mornin' you, too, Misther Purcel; I hope we'll be betther friends, sir.”
“And I hope you will pay your tithes, and keep a civiler tongue in your head,” replied the latter, as Hourigan left the office.
Before this weighty matter was determined, Fergus O'Driscol, although satisfied that Hourigan and their new laborer were acquainted, resolved to corroborate his evidence of the fact, if possible, and for this purpose he sent the fellow, as had been agreed on, to walk Purcel's horse up and down the lower part of the avenue, near the entrance gate, which was somewhat secluded and not within view of the house, for the avenue was a winding one. In the meantime he stationed himself in a clump of trees, to which he went by a back walk in the shrubbery that was concealed from that part of the avenue. Here, we say, he stationed himself to watch these worthies, but, unfortunately, at too great a distance to hear their conversation, should they speak and recognize each other. On this subject he was not permitted to remain long in suspense. Hourigan soon made his appearance, and, on approaching the stringer, looked cautiously about him in every direction, whilst the latter, who had been walking Purcel's horse towards the house, suddenly turned back, and kept conversing with Hourigan until they reached the entrance gate, where they stood for about ten minutes in close and evidently confidential dialogue, as was clear from their watching in all directions, to make certain that they were not observed. They then shook hands, cordially, and Hourigan bent his steps towards the town of Lisnagola. Fergus, who had seen all their motions most distinctly, took occasion to pass up the avenue a few minutes afterwards, where he met the stranger still leading Purcel's horse.
“What's your name, my good fellow?” he asked.
“Phil Hart, sir.”
“Do you know if the man who summoned Mr. Purcel before my father has gone out?”
“I don't know, plaise your honor.”
“Did any person go out within the last few minutes?”
“Yes, sir, there went a man out; maybe it was him.”
“You don't know Hourigan's appearance, then?”
“No, sir. Hourigan, was that his name?”
“Yes. Are you a native of this county?”
“Not exactly, sir; but I have friends in it.”
“Who are they?”
“The Ahernes, sir, up in the mountains behind Lisnagola beyant.”
“And who recommended you to Mr. Arthur?”
“His brother-in-law, sir, one Frank Finnerty, in the mountains above; that is, they're both marrid upon the two shisthers, plaise your honor.”
“And what caused you to leave your native place?”
“Why, sir, my father houlds a bit o' land; he owed some tithe, sir, and—”
“Would not pay it; they consequently took proceedings—you resisted the execution of the law, and then you had to run for it.”
“Well, not exactly, sir.”
“How was it, then?”
“Why, sir, we paid the tithes; an' whin this was discovered, I, at any rate, had to run for it. The people, your honor, found out that it was I that ped them, an' I was glad, of coorse, to fly for my life. I'd thank you, sir, to keep what I tould you to yourself, for even if it was known in this neighborhood that I ped them, I wouldn't be safe.”
“You don't know Hourigan, then?”
“How could I, sir, and me a sthranger?”
“Faith, and whether you do or not, it seems to me there's a strong family likeness between you and him.”
“Maybe so,” the fellow replied, with a grin. “I hear my father say that he sartinly was down in this counthry when he was sowin' his wild oats:” and with this observation he passed on with the horse he was leading.
CHAPTER VIII.—An Unreformed Church
—The Value of Public Opinion—Be not Familiar with the Great
Recent circumstances have, unfortunately, shown us the danger of tampering with, and stimulating, the blind impulses of ignorant prejudice and popular passion beyond that limit where the powers of restraint cease to operate with effect. At the period which our narrative has now reached, and for a considerable time before it, those low rumblings which stunned and frightened the ear of civilized society, like the ominous sounds that precede an earthquake, were now followed by those tremblings and undulations which accompany the shock itself. But before we describe that social condition to which we refer, it is necessary that we should previously raise the vail a little, which time has drawn between us and the condition of the Established Church, not merely at that crisis, but for a long period before it. This we shall do as briefly as possible, because we feel that it is an exceedingly unpleasant task to contemplate a picture which presents to us points of observation that are, from their very nature, painful to look upon—and features so secular and carnal, that scarcely any language could exaggerate, much less distort them.
The Established Church in Ireland, then, in its unpurged and unreformed state, was very little else than a mere political engine for supporting and fostering British interests and English principles in this country; and no one, here had any great chance of preferment in it who did not signalize himself some way in favor of British policy. The Establishment was indeed the only bond that bound the political interests of the two nations together. But if any person will now venture to form an opinion of the Irish Church from her gorgeousness and immense wealth at that period, he will unquestionably find that what ought to have been a spiritual, pure, holy, self-denying, and zealous Church, was neither more nor less than an overgrown, proud, idle, and indolent Establishment, bloated by ease and indulgence, and corrupted almost to the very core by secular and political prostitution. The state of the Establishment was indeed equally anomalous and disgraceful. So jealous was England, and at the same time so rapacious of its wealth, that it was parcelled out to Englishmen without either shame or scruple, whilst Irish piety and learning, when they did happen to be found, were uniformly overlooked and disregarded. All the ecclesiastical offices of dignity and emolument were bestowed upon Englishmen; upon men who lived here with reluctance, and but seldom—who had no sympathy with the country or its inhabitants—nay, who looked upon us, in general, with feeling of hostility and contempt; and who, by example or precept, rendered no earthly equivalent for the enormous sums that were drawn from a poor and struggling people. It is idle to say that these prodigious ecclesiastical revenues were not paid by the people, but by the landlord, who, if the people had not paid them, would have added them to the rent. But even so—the straggling peasant reasoned naturally, for he felt it to be one thing to pay even a high rent to the landlord, whose rights, as such, he acknowledged, but a very different thing to pay forth out of his own pocket a tenth of his produce to the pastor of a hostile creed, which had little sympathy with him, for which he received no spiritual equivalent, and on which, besides, he was taught to look as a gross and ungodly heresy.
But this was not the worst of it. In the discussion of this subject, it is rather hazardous for the champion of our former Establishment to make any allusion to the landlord at all; the fact unfortunately being, that in the management and disposal of land, the landlords, in general, were gifted with a very convenient forgetfulness that such a demand as tithe was to come upon the tenant at all. The land in general was let as if it had been tithe-free, whilst, at the same time, and in precisely the same grasping spirit, it so happened, that wherever it was tithe-free the rents exacted were also enormous, and seen as—supposing tithe had not an existence—no country ever could suffer to become the basis of valuation, or to settle down into a system. In fact, such was the spirit, and so profligate the condition of the Established Church for a long lapse of time, both before and after the Union, that we may lay it down as a general principle, that everything was rewarded in it but piety and learning.
If there were anything wanting to prove the truth and accuracy of our statements, it would be found in the bitter and relentless spirit with which the Established Church and her pastors were assailed, at the period of which we write. And let it be observed here, that even then, the Church in this country, in spirit, in learning, in zeal, and piety, was an angel of purity compared to what she had been twenty or thirty years before. The course of clerical education had been defined, established, and extended; young profligates could not enter the Church, as in the good old times, without any earthly preparation, either in learning or morals. They were obliged to read, and thoroughly to understand, an extensive and enlightened course of divinity—to attend lectures and entitle themselves, both by attendance and answering, to a certain number of certificates, without which they had no chance for orders. In point of fact, they were forced to become serious; and the consequences soon began to appear in the general character of the Church. Much piety, activity, learning, and earnest labor were to be found in it; and indeed, we may venture to say, that, with the exception of her carnal and debasing wealth, she had been purified and reformed to a very considerable extent, even then. Still, however, the bloated mass of mammon hung about her, prostrating her energies, secularizing her spirit, and, we must add, oppressing the people, out of whose pockets it was forced to come. When the calamity, therefore, which the reader may perceive is partly upon and impending over, the Protestant clergy, actually occurred, it did not find them unprepared, nor without the sympathy of many of the very people who were forced by the tyrannical influence of party feeling to oppose them publicly. To their sufferings and unexampled patience, however, we shall be obliged to refer, at a subsequent period of our narrative; and for that reason, we dismiss it for the present.
Such, then, was the state of the Protestant Established Church for a considerable length of time before the tithe agitation, and also immediately preceding it; and we deemed it necessary to make the reader acquainted with both, in order that he may the better understand the nature and spirit of the almost universal assault which was, by at least one party—the Roman Catholic—so furiously made upon it. At the present period of our narrative, then, the population of the country, especially of the South and West, had arrived at that state of agitation, which, whether its object be legitimate or not, is certain, in a short time, to brutalize the public mind and debauch the public morals, by removing all the conscientious impediments which religion places against crime, and consequently all scruple in committing it. Heretofore, those vile societies of a secret nature, that disgrace the country and debase the character of her people, existed frequently under separate denominations, and for distinct objects. Now, however, they all consented to abandon these peculiar purposes, and to coalesce into one great conspiracy against the destruction of the Establishment. We do not mean to assert, however, that this general outcry against the Church, and its accompanying onslaught on her property, originated directly with the people. No such thing; the people, as they always are, and, we fear, ever will be, were mere instruments in the hands of a host of lay and clerical agitators; and no argument was left unattempted or unurged to hound them on to the destruction of the Establishment. From the Corn Exchange down to the meanest and most obscure tribunal of agitation throughout the kingdom, the virtues of passive resistance were inculcated and preached, and the great champion of popular rights told the people publicly and repeatedly that they might not be afraid to follow his advice, for that it mattered little how oppressive or stringent any act of parliament in defence of the Established Church might be, he would undertake to drive a coach and six through the very severest of its penalties. Nor were the Catholic priesthood idle during these times of storm and commotion. At the head of them, and foremost in both ability and hatred of tithes, stood the late Dr. Doyle, the celebrated J.K.L. of that day, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin; a man to whose great intellectual powers the country at large chiefly owes the settlement of that most difficult and important question. This able prelate assailed the system with a fiery vehemence that absolutely set the country in a blaze, and reduced the wealthy Establishment to a case of the most unprecedented distress. Who can forget that memorable apothegm to the Irish people on the subject? “Let your hatred of tithes,” he said, “be as lasting as your sense of justice.”
Unfortunately it is an easy task to instruct or tempt the Irish peasant to violate the law, especially when sanctioned, in that violation, by those whose opinion and advice he takes as the standard of his conduct. Be this as it may, the state of the country was now becoming frightful and portentous; and although there had not, as yet, been much blood shed, still there was no person acquainted with the extraordinary pains which were taken to excite the people against the payment of tithe, who was not able to anticipate the terrible outburst and sanguinary slaughters which soon followed.
We have already detailed a midnight meeting of the anti-tithe confederacy; but so confident had the people soon become in the principle of general unanimity against the payment of this impost, that they did not hesitate to traverse the country in open day by thousands; thus setting not only law, but all the powers of the country by which it is usually carried out and supported, at complete defiance.
Threatening letters, and notices of violent death, signed with blood, and containing the form of a coffin, were sent to all such as were in any way obnoxious, or, what was the same thing, who were in any way disposed either to pay tithes or exact them.
In this state matters were, when, one morning about a week after the scene we have just described in O'Driscol's office, a dialogue to the following effect took place in the proctor's immense farm-yard, between our friend Mogue Moylan and his quondam sweetheart, Letty Lenehan. Letty, of late, that is since the morning of the peddler's conversation with Mogue, had observed that some unaccountable change had taken place in his whole manner, not only towards herself, but in his intercourse with the rest of his fellow-servants. He was for instance, much more silent that he had ever been: but although he spoke less, he appeared to think more; yet it might be observed, that whatever the subject of his thoughts was, it evidently had diffused a singular degree of serenity, and a peculiarly striking complacency through his whole manner. With respect to herself he had ascended from the lover into the patron; and although she had been amusing herself at his expense throughout their previous courtship, if it could be termed such, yet she felt no less puzzled as to the cause of such a change, and quite as anxious to ascertain it.
On the morning in question, Mogue and Jerry Joyce had been engaged in winnowing a large quantity of wheat in the barn. Jerry, whose manner was ostensibly that of a soft, simple young fellow, and whom but few looked upon as possessed of the ordinary run of common sense, was treated by Mogue, and indeed by most, but not all of his fellow servants, as one would treat a young lad who had not yet arrived at years of discretion, or maturity of judgment.
“Jerry,” said Mogue, “why but you do be cortin' the girls, man alive? That I may never sin but it's a great thing to have them fond o' one.”
“Ay,” replied Jerry, who was perfectly well aware of his foible, “if I had the art of sootherin' and puttin' my comedher an thim like some o' my acquaintances; but, me! is it foolish Jerry Joyce they'd care about? Oh, no! begor that cock wouldn't fight.”
“Your acquaintances!” exclaimed Mogue, seizing upon the term, in Jerry's reply, which he knew referred to himself, “and which of your acquaintances, now, does be sootherin' an' puttin' his comedher an' them, eh, Jerry?”
“Oh! dear me, Mogue,” replied the other, “how droll you are! As if you thought I didn't mane one Mogue Moylan that they're tearin' their caps about every day in the week.”
“Tearin' their caps! arrah, who is, Jerry?”
“Why, the girls.”
“The girls! Och! man, sure that's an ould story; but I declare it to you, Jerry, it isn't my fault; it's a nateral gift wid me, for I take no pains to make them fond o' me; that I may never do harm if I do.”
“An' how does it, happen that they are? Sure there's Letty, now—poor Letty Lenehan—an' God help her! sure, for the last week, she appears to me to be breakin' her heart. She doesn't say af coorse, that you're the occasion of it; but doesn't every one of us know that you are? Have you been could to her, or what?
“Why thin, now, Jerry, I declare it to you that I'm heart sorry for poor Letty; but what can I do? I amn't my own man, now, do you hear that?”
“Sure you don't mane to say that you're married?”
“Not exactly married; but listen hither, Jerry—you don't know the man you're spakin' to—it's a gift that God gave me—but, you don't know the man you're spakin' to; however as for poor Letty, I'll provide for her some way—the poor affectionate crature; an' she's good-lookin' too; however, as I said, I'll do something for her some way,” and here he nodded and winked with most villainous significance.
If Jerry had not fully comprehended the scoundrel's character, it is very probable that this language would have caused him to give the hypocritical villain a sound drubbing; for it must be known to our readers, that Jerry and Letty were faithfully attached to each other—a circumstance which was also known to the whole family, and which nothing could have prevented Mogue from observing but his own blind and egregious vanity.
“But what do you mane, Mogue, when you say you aren't your own man!”
“I can't tell you; but the thruth is, Jerry—poor, good-natured Jerry—that every man ought to look high, especially when he sees the regard that's for him, and especially, too, when God—blessed be his name—has gifted him as some people is gifted. There's a man hereabouts that thinks he could put my nose out o' joint. Oh! it's a great thing, Jerry, to have nice, ginteel, thin features, that won't spoil by the weather. Throth, red cheeks or a white skin in a man isn't becomin'; an' as for larnin', Jerry, it may require a long time to take it in, but a very little hole would soon let it all out. May I never do harm but I'm glad that job's over,” alluding to the employment at which they were engaged. “Oh! then, but that's a fine cast o' whate!”
“It is,” replied Jerry; “but in regard to the larnin' I don't undherstand you.”
“No matther for that, Jerry, I may be a good friend to you yet; ay, indeed may I—poor good-natured Jerry; an' when that time comes, if you have any scruple in axin' Misther Moylan to countenance you and befriend you, why it'll be your own fault my poor, good-natured Jerry.”
“Many thanks, Misther Moylan,” replied Jerry, assuming a gravity which he could scarcely maintain, “remember that you don't forget your promise. I'm goin' over to get the sacks from Misther John; an' by the way, aren't you goin' out to-day to shoot wid Misther M'Carthy?”
“Well, I declare, I believe I am; I know the mountains well, an' I'm fond of seein' fun, or of hearin' of it, any way.”
Jerry then departed, and Mogue, now left to himself, exclaimed in a soliloquy, “Ay, an' if I don't see it this night, I'll hear of it to-morrow, I hope. Mr. M'Carthy, you're in my way; but as I said to that poor omadhawn, although it took many a year to get the larnin' into that head of yours, one little hole will soon let it out again.” As Mogue uttered the last words, the ear of Letty Lenehan was somewhat nearer him than he imagined. She had come to call them to breakfast, and seeing that the back-door of the barn was open, she approached it, as being nearest to her, and on peeping in, half disposed for a piece of frolic, she heard Mogue utter the soliloquy we have just repeated; but as he stood with his back towards her, he was not at all aware that she was present, or had heard him.
Immediately after breakfast, Mogue and M'Carthy set out for the mountains, the latter furnished with all the necessary equipments for the sport, and the former carrying a game-bag and refreshments; for as M'Carthy knew that it must be the last day he could devote to such amusements, he resolved to have a good day's sport, if possible.
“Now, Mogue,” said his companion, “you are much better acquainted with these mountains than I am, and with those places where we may be likely to find most game. I, therefore, place myself in your hands for the day.”
“Well, indeed I ought, sir, to know them,” replied Mogue, “and I believe I do; and talkin' of that, you have often heard of the great robber and rapparee, Shaun Bernha?”
“I have heard of him, and of his Stables, which lie up somewhere in these mountains.”
“Exactly, sir; an' it is what I was thinkin'; that we might take a look at them in the coorse of our sport to-day; in regard, especially, that there's more game about them than in any other part of the mountains.”
“Very well, then, Mogue,” replied his companion, “so be it; you are, as I said, my guide for the day.”
“But do you know, sir, why he was called Shaun Bernha?”
“No, I can't say I do.”
“It was odd enough, to be sure. Howandever, may I be happy but they say it's true! You see, sir, he was called Shaun Bernha bekaise he never had a tooth in his head; an' no more had any of his family; and yet, sir, it's said, that he could bite a piece out of a plate of sheet iron as aisily as you or I could out a cake of gingerbread.”
“Well, Morgue, all that I can say to that is, that he had devilish hard gums, and stood in no fear of the toothache.”
“Well, then, we'll sweep around the slebeen hills here, keepin' Altnaveenan to our right, and Lough Mocall to our left; then, by going right ahead we'll come to his stables; and indeed they're well worth seein'.”
“With all my heart, Mague, never say it again.” And they accordingly proceeded at a vigorous pace to the mountains, which were now distant not more than a mile and a half from them.
In the meantime we shall leave them to pursue their game, and beg our readers to accompany us once more to the house of our friend, Fitzy O'Driscol, who, what between the dread of assassination on the one hand, and the delight of having a proper subject to justify him in communicating with the government on the other, passed his time in alterations, now of fear, and again of his peculiar ambition to be recognized as an active and fearless magistrate by the then existing powers, that were, to such as knew the man and understood his character, perfectly ludicrous. On the morning in question, he was, as usual, seated, in his morning-gown and slippers, at the breakfast-table, reading a country paper, in which, by the way, appeared the following paragraph:—
“TURBULENT STATE OR THE COUNTRY.—We regret to say, that the state of the country is every day becoming more and more unsettled. A few days ago, whilst one of our excellent and most resolute magistrates, Fitzgerald O'Driscol, Esq., was engaged in his office, determining an important case of assault that came before him, and which he did, as he usually does, to the perfect satisfaction of the parties, he received, a threatening notice, couched in most violent language, in fact, breathing of blood and assassination! Why a gentleman of such high magisterial character as Mr. O'Driscol should have been selected as an object of popular vengeance, we do not understand. Mr. O'Driscol combines in himself all those qualities that are peculiarly suited to the discharge of his duties in such distracted times as the present. Whilst firm and intrepid, almost to a miracle, he is at the same time easy of access, impartial, and kind to his humble countrymen, to whom he has uniformly proved himself mild and indulgent, so far as justice—which by the way, he always tempers with mercy—will allow him; and in consequence of this, he is uniformly known, and deserves to be known, as the poor man's magistrate. It is true, he is known also to be a man of highly loyal and constitutional principles; a warm friend to order, peace, and a resolute supporter of the laws of the land—qualities which are looked upon as crimes by the resolute and disloyal among our kind-hearted but misguided people. Of one thing, however, he would beg to apprise the mistaken individuals who have ventured to threaten him, and that is, to take care how they attempt to put their foolish threats into execution against so daring and desperate a man as Mr. O'Driscol is when provoked. He goes well armed, is a dead shot, and would feel deeply grieved at having the blood of any of his mistaken countrymen on his hands. This we say from what we know of Mr. O'Driscol, both as a man and as a magistrate. In further connection with the state of the country, we cannot think but that government, if made properly acquainted with it, would place some mild, firm, but fearless and resolute stipendiary magistrate in our neighborhood; we mean, of course, a man who is capable, by the peculiar qualities of his character, to make himself an instrument of great public good, both to the people and the government. Such a man we know; but as we are writing without either his knowledge or consent, we do not feel ourselves called upon to pursue this important subject further. All we can say is, that the violent opposition which is now organized against tithes, and which is already beginning to convulse the country, will, and even now does require, the active courage and decided abilities of such a man.”
“Well, now, Catherine,” said he, addressing his daughter, who sat near him, “upon my honor and conscience that was a friendly paragraph of my friend Swiggerly—extremely so, indeed. The fact is, a dinner and a good jorum is never thrown away upon honest Swiggerly; for which raison I'll ask him to dine here on Thursday next.”
He then handed her the paper, pointing out the paragraph in question, which she read with something of an arch smile, and which, on her brother Fergus (who had been to Lisnagola) joining them, she handed to him.
“Fergus,” said she, looking at him with an expression of character still more comic, but yet sufficiently subdued to prevent O'Driscol from observing it, “is not that paragraph very complimentary to papa?”
Fergus, who at once reciprocated the comic glance alluded to, replied rather significantly, “It is certainly very gratifying to him, Catherine.”
“And very creditable to Swiggerly,” added O'Driscol.
“Yes, father,” replied Fergus, “but I think he ought to preserve, if possible, a little more originality. The substance of that paragraph has been regularly in his paper, in one shape or other, three or four times a year during the last couple of years. I ought to except the introduction of the threatening notice, which certainly is a new feature, and the only new one in it.”
“Fergus,” said the father, whilst his round, red, convivial features became more inflamed, “you are super-critical this morning.”
“Not at all, sir; but you will excuse me for saying, that I think a man who is seeking to ingratiate himself with the government, what is more, to receive substantial favors from it, ought not, from principles of self-respect, to suffer these stereotyped paragraphs to appear from time to time. Government is not so blind, sir, but they will at once see through the object of such paragraphs.”
“Staryrayotyped! What the devil, sir, do you mane by staryrayotype? Do you mane to make a staryrayotype of me? That's dutiful, Mr. Fergus—filial duty, clane and clear—and no doubt about it. But I tell you, sir, that in spite of your staryrayotypes, it is such articles as the able one of my friend Swiggerly that constitutes the force of public opinion. Government! Why, sir, the government is undher more obligations to me than I am to them. It was my activity and loyalty that was the manes, principally, of returnin' the son of the gustus ratalorum of the county for the borough of Addleborough. He was their own candidate; and if that wasn't layin' them undher an obligation to me, I don't know what was. You may say what you like, but I repate, it's a right good, thing to have the force of public opinion in your favor.”
“Yes, of public opinion, I grant you; but surely you cannot pretend, father, that such gross and barefaced flattery as that can be termed public opinion?”
“And why not, sir? Upon my honor and conscience, things is come to a pretty pass when a man—a magistrate—like me, must be lectured by his own son! Isn't it too bad, Catherine?”
“I am no politician, you know, but I think he doesn't mean to lecture you, papa; perhaps you ought to say to reason or remonstrate with—”
“Raison! remonstrate! And what right has he aither to raison or remonstrate with a man—or rather a magistrate—such as I am known by the government to be. He calls that paragraph gross and barefaced flattery, and myself a staryrayotype! but I tell him now that it is no flattery, nor anything at all but the downright naked thruth, and no man ought to know that better than I do, for this good raison, that it was myself wrote every line of it, and got Swiggerly only to correct it.”
A deep and crimson blush overspread his daughter's face on hearing this mean and degrading admission; and Fergus, who was in the act of bringing a bit of ham to his mouth, suddenly laid it down again, then looked first at Catherine, then at his father, several times in succession. The good-humored girl, however, whose merry heart and light spirits always disposed her to look at the pleasant side of everything, suddenly glancing at the red, indignant face with which her father, in the heat of argument, and in order to illustrate the truth of public opinion in this instance, had made the acknowledgment—all at once, and before the rosy blush had departed from her beautiful face, burst out into a ringing and merry laugh, which Fergus felt to be contagious and irresistible. On glancing again at his father, he joined her in the mirth, and both laughed long and heartily.
“And so, father,” proceeded Fergus, “you bring us a paragraph written by yourself, to illustrate the value of public opinion; but believe me, my dear father, and I mean it with all respect, these puffs, whether written by one's self or others—these political puffs I say, like literary ones, always do more harm than good to the object they are intended to serve.”
“Never you mind that, Fergus, my boy, I know how to play my game, I think; and besides, don't you know, I expect a snug-morsel from government for yourself, my boy; yet you never consider that—not you.”
“But, my dear father, I never wish to hear a respectable man like you acknowledge that he is playing a game at all; it reminds me of the cringing, sycophantic, and prostitute crew of political gamblers and manoeuvrers, by whom, not only this government, but every other, is perpetually assailed and infested, and amongst which crew it would grieve me to think that you should be included. As to myself, if I ever get anything from government, it must not come to me through any of those arrangements by which trick and management, not to say dishonesty and conniption, are, to the shame of all parties, so frequently rewarded. With a slight change upon Pope, I say—
“'Grant me honest place, or grant me none.'”
“Pope! What the devil do I care about his opinions? let him preach and stick to his controversy with Father Tom—from whom he hadn't so much to brag of—but as for you, Fergus, you are, to spake plainly, a thorough ass. What d—d stuff you have been letting out of you! Go and find, if you can, some purer world for yourself to live in, for, let me tell you, you are not fit for this. There is no perfection here, Catherine, is there?”
“Oh, yes, Papa! certainly.”
“There is—is there? Well, upon my honor and conscience, now, this is the first time I've heard that argument used. Come, then, how do you prove it—eh?”
“There is perfection, papa, occasionally at least, to be found among women, and—you certainly, sir, cannot deny the truth of this—occasionally, too, among magistrates—ha ha! ha!”
“Ah! Kate, I know you of old! Very good that—extremely good, upon my word However, as I was saying, if you don't act and think as the world about you acts and thinks, you had as good, as I said, get a betther one if you can. Here, now, I see Mat Purcel coming up the avenue; and as I want to have some private conversation with him, I must be off to my office, where I desire you to send him to me. There's a time for everything, they say, and a place for everything—I hope, Fergy, you and I will have occasion, before long, to say, a place for some—ha! ha! ha! Well, as I said, there's a place for everything! and I don't think it would become me to spake upon official business anywhere but in my own office. We must not only do our business properly, but look like it.”
Purcel found our pompous little man enveloped, as we have already said, in a most fashionable morning-gown and embroidered slippers, and at the same time busily engaged in writing.
“How do you do, Mr. Purcel?” said he; “will you excuse me for about three minutes, till I finish this paragraph, after which I am at your service?”
“Certainly,” said Purcel, “I'm in no hurry, Fitzy, my boy.”
“Here,” continued the other, “amuse yourself with that paper. By the way, there's a flattering notice there of your humble servant, by our friend Swiggerly, who certainly is a man of sound judgment and ability.”
“I won't interrupt you now,” replied the proctor; “but I will tell you my opinion of him by and by.”
The magistrate then proceeded to finish his paragraph, as he said, by his important manner of doing which, Purcel, who thoroughly understood him, was much amused. He frequently paused for instance, placed his chin in the end of his half-closed hand, somewhat like an egg in an egg-cup, looked in a meditative mood into Purcel's face, without appearing to see him at all; then went over to the library, which ought rather to have been pronounced his son's than his; and after having consulted a book—a Latin Horace, which by the way he opened at the art of poetry, of which volume it is, we presume, unnecessary to say, he did not understand a syllable, he returned to his desk seemingly satisfied, and wrote on until he had concluded the passage he was composing. He read it once in silence, then nodded his head complacently, as if satisfied with what he had Written, after which he rubbed his hands and closing the desk exclaimed, “D—n all governments, Mr. Purcel, and I wish to heaven there never had been a magistrate in Ireland.”
“Why, what kind of doctrine is this, Fitzy,” exclaimed his friend, “especially from such a loyal man and active magistrate as you are.”
“D—n loyalty too, Mr. Purcel, it's breakin' my heart and will break it—I think I'll emigrate to America before they kill me here.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Fitzy, I was a good deal alarmed when I heard of that ugly notice you got; but it's not every man would have borne the thing with such courage as you did.”
“Thank you, Mister Purcel, I feel that as a compliment coming from you; and by the way, I haven't forgotten to mention you with praise in my correspondence with the Castle. However—ha! ha! ha! you rather misunderstood me—I mane to say that the life is worn out of me, by our present government—Good God! my friend, surely they ought to know that there's plenty of magistrates in the country besides myself, that could give them the information they want upon the state of the country, and the steps they ought to take to tranquillize it, as well as I could; I can't, however, get them to think so, and the consequence is that that d—n Castle can't rub its elbow without consulting, me.”
“Well,” replied Purcel, “you are to blame yourself for it; if you were not so loyal, and zealous, and courageous too, as you are, they would let you alone and leave you to peace and quietness, as they do other people.”
“Upon my honor and conscience, it's little pace or quietness they leave me, then; but I agree with you, that the whole cause of it is my well-known loyal principle and surprising activity in keeping down disturbance and sedition. Widow Cleary's affair was an unlucky one for me, and indeed, Mat, it was the activity and resolution that I displayed in making herself and her spawn of ragged brats prisoners at the head of the Possy Comeatus, aided by the military, that first brought me into notice with the Castle.”
The proctor, who feared now that he had mounted his hobby, and that he would inflict on him, as he was in the habit of doing after dinner, a long-winded series of his magisterial exploits, reminded him that he had expressed a wish to see him on very important business.
“I wouldn't care,” he added, “but the truth is, Fitzy, I am pressed for want of time, as I should have been at the bishop's court, where I have cited several of these tithe rebels long before this. What is the business, then?”
“It is a matter, my dear Mr. Purcel—”
“Why the devil do you Mr. Purcel me?” asked the proctor, warmly. “It was formerly Mat and Fitzy between us, and I don't see why it should not be so still.”
“Hem—ahem—why it was, I grant, but then—not that I am at all a proud man, Mr. Purcel—far from it, I trust—but you see—hem—the truth is, that to a man as I am, a magistrate—trusted and—consulted by government, and having, besides, to meet certain low prejudices against me in the country, here, I don't think—I'm spaking of the magistrate now, Purcel—not of the man—observe that, but the truth is—d—m the word, for I don't think there's in the whole catalogue of names, so vulgar a one as Fitzy—and be d—d to it.”
The proctor laughed till the tears came from his eyes, at the dignified distress with which the great little man resented this degrading grievance.
“Ha! ha! ha! and so,” said he, “I'm not to call you Fitzy; well, well, so be it—but I have been so long in the habit of using it in our conversation, that I shall, find it a difficult matter to change the practice. But upon my conscience, Fitzy—I beg pardon, Mr. O'Driscol, I must say—I think it great weakness in your worship, to let such a trifle as that annoy you.”
“It may be a weakness,” said the other, “but before we go further, I make it a personal request, that you won't use Fitzy to me, and above all things, in the presence of strangers. I entrate and implore that you won't.”
“Very well, then—a bargain be it—but I must insist that you never call me Mat, or anything but Mr. Purcel, again.”
“Why, but you know you are not a magistrate, Mat.”
“Never mind, Fitzy—hem—never mind, your worship, call me whatever you like—unless a rogue—ha! ha! ha! well, but to business—what is this you want with me?”
“A business that, if well managed, may be a beneficial one to you and me both.”
“Out with it, though—you know I'm in a hurry.”
“Why now,” proceeded the little man, relapsing unconsciously into a sense of his violated dignity,—“curse me, if I'd for fifty—no, not for a hundred, that the Castle should come to know that I was addressed as Fitzy.”
The proctor's mirth was again renewed, but after a moment or two, the serious part of the conversation was resumed by the magistrate.
“Your son John, the other morning,” he proceeded, in a low and confidential tone, “hinted to me that you had partly discovered—hem—ahem—a very important circumstance—in short, that you had partly, if not altogether, discovered a—a conspiracy.”
The proctor stared at him with unaffected surprise, which, by the way, did not escape the magistrate's notice. “A conspiracy!” he added, “and did John tell you this?”
“Why, not exactly,” replied O'Driscol, fearing that the young man, as we have already hinted, had been indiscreet, and consequently wished to keep him as much out of blame as possible; “not exactly, my dear Mat—hem—my dear Mr. Purcel, but you know that I am rather sharp—a penetratin' fellow in my way, or I would not be of the commission to-day—he seemed merely to drop the expression accidentally only.”
“I pledge my honor to you,” replied the proctor, who at once saw through the hoax that his son had played off upon him, “that the young rascal had no authority from me for mentioning a single syllable about it.”
“Well, but, I trust, my dear Ma—Mr; Purcel, that you are not angry with him, especially for having mentioned it to me at any rate.”
“Why, my dear friend,” said the other, “if the time were come, you are the first man to whom I would disclose the circumstance, but the fact simply is, that it is not ripe yet.”
“Even so; you will have no objection, I trust, to let me know something of the nature of it—even now.”
“It is impossible!” replied the proctor, “quite out of my power; if I breathe a syllable about it, the whole matter must be blown before the proper time, and then—”
“Well, and what then?—proceed.”
“Why, neither you nor I would be one moment safe; and in that case, it is much more prudent that you should not know it—God forbid that I, above all men, should be the person to involve you in risk and danger. Your own ardor and excessive loyalty expose you—to dangers enough, and too many.”
“You promise, however, when the proper time comes, to make me acquainted with it?”
“Certainly, when the proper time comes; and if the thing ripen at all, you shall hear of it.”