When the coffin was about to be lowered down, all the family, one after another, clasped their arms about it, and kissed it with a passionate fervor of grief that it was impossible to witness with firmness. At length her husband, who had been looking on, approached it, and clasping it in his arms like the rest, he said—“for ever and for ever, and for ever, Bridget—but, no, gracious God, no; the day will come, Bridget, when I will be with you here—I don't care now how soon. My happiness is gone, asthore machree—life is nothing to me now—all's empty; and there's neither joy, nor ease of mind, nor comfort for me any more. An' this is our last parting—this is our last farewell, Bridget dear; but from this out my hope is to be with you here; and if nothing else on my bed of death was to console me, it would be, and it will be, that you and I will then sleep together, never to be parted more. That will be my consolation.”
“Now, father dear,” said Bryan, “we didn't attempt to stop or prevent you, and I hope you'll be something calm and come away for a little.”
“Best of sons! but aren't you all good, for how could you be otherwise with her blood in your veins?—bring me away; come you, Dora darlin'—ay, that's it—support the: blessed child between you and Hanna, Kathleen darlin'. Oh, wait, wait till we get out of hearin, or the noise of the clay fallin' on the coffin will kill me.”
They then walked to some distance, where they remained until the “narrow house” was nearly filled, after which they once more surrounded it until the last sod was beaten in. This being over, the sorrowing group sought their way home with breaking hearts, leaving behind them her whom they had loved so well reposing in the cold and unbroken solitude of the grave.
CHAPTER XIV.—Mysterious Letter
—Hycy Disclaims Sobriety—Ahadarra's in for it.
One day about a month after Mrs. M'Mahon's funeral, Harry Clinton was on his way to Jemmy Burke's, when he met Nanny Peety going towards Ballymacan.
“Well, Nanny,” he inquired, “where are you bound for, now?”
“To the post-office with a letter from Masther Hycy, sir. I wanted him to tell me who it was for, but he would not. Will you, Mr. Clinton?” and she held out the letter to him as she spoke.
Clinton felt a good deal surprised to see that it was addressed to his uncle, and also written in a hand which he did not recognize to be that of Hycy Burke.
“Are you sure, Nanny,” he asked, “that this letter was written by Mr. Hycy?”
“Didn't I see him, sir?” she replied; “he wrote it before my eyes a minute before he handed it to me. Who is it for, Mr. Clinton?”
“Why are you so very anxious to know, Nanny?” he inquired.
“Sorra thing,” she replied, “but curiosity—a woman's curiosity, you know.”
“Well, Nanny, you know, or ought to know, that it would not be right in me to tell you who the letter is for, when Mr. Hycy did not think proper to do so.”
“True enough, sir,” she replied; “an I beg your pardon, Mr. Clinton, for asking you; indeed it was wrong in me to tell you who it came from even, bekaise Mr. Hycy told me not to let any one see it, only jist to slip it into the post-office unknownst, as I passed it; an' that was what made me wish to know who it was goin' to, since the thruth must be tould.”
Clinton in turn now felt his curiosity stimulated as to the contents of this mysterious epistle, and he resolved to watch, if possible, what effect the perusal of it might have on his uncle, otherwise he was never likely to hear a syllable that was contained in it, that worthy relative being, from official necessity, a most uncommunicative person in all his proceedings.
“I wonder,” observed Clinton, “that Mr. Hycy would send to any one a letter so slurred and blotted with ink as that is.”
“Ay, but he blotted it purposely himself,” replied Nanny, “and that too surprised me, and made me wish to know what he could mane by it.”
“Perhaps it's a love-letter, Nanny,” said Clinton, laughing.
“I would like to know who it is to, at any rate,” said the girl; “but since you won't, tell me, sir, I must try and not lose my rest about it. Good-bye, Mr. Clinton.”
“Good-bye, Nanny;” and so they started.
Young Clinton, who, though thoughtless and fond of pleasure, was not without many excellent points of character, began now to perceive, by every day's successive intimacy, the full extent of Hycy Burke's profligacy of morals, and utter want of all honorable principle. Notwithstanding this knowledge, however, he felt it extremely difficult, nay, almost impossible, to separate himself from Hycy, who was an extremely pleasant young fellow, and a very agreeable companion when he pleased. He had in fact gained that personal ascendancy over him, or that licentious influence which too many of his stamp are notorious for exercising over better men than themselves; and he found that he could not readily throw Hyoy off, without being considerably a loser by the act.
“I shall have nothing to do with his profligacy,” said he, “or his want of principle, and I shall let him know, at all events, that I will not abide by the agreement or compromise entered into between us some time since at his father's. He shall not injure an honest man for me, nor shall I promise him even neutrality with respect to his proposal for my sister, whom I would rather see dead a hundred times than the wife of such a fellow.”
The next morning, about half an hour before breakfast, he told his uncle that he was stepping into town and would bring him any letters that might be for him in the post-office. He accordingly did so, and received two letters, one Hycy's and the other with the crest and frank of the sitting member for the county, who was no other than young Chevydale. His uncle was at breakfast when he handed them to him, and we need hardly say that the M.P. was honored by instant attention. The Still-hound read it over very complacently. “Very well,” he exclaimed; “very well, indeed, so far. Harry, we must be on the alert, now the elections are approaching, and Chevydale will be stoutly opposed, it seems. We must work for him, and secure as many votes as we can. It is our interest to do so, Harry,—and he will make it our interest besides.”
“Has principle nothing to do with it, sir?”
“Principle! begad, sir,” retorted the uncle, “there's no such thing as principle—lay that down as a fact—there's no such thing in this world as principle.”
“Well, but consistency, uncle. For instance, you know you always vote on the Tory side, and Chevydale is a Liberal and an Emancipator.”
“Consistency is all d—d stuff, Harry, as principle. What does it mean? why that if a man's once wrong he's always to be wrong—that is just the amount of it. There's Chevydale, for instance, he has a brother who is a rank Tory and a Commissioner of Excise, mark that; Chevydale and he play into each other's hands, and Chevydale some of these days will sell the Liberals, that is, if he can get good value for them. If I now vote on the Tory side against Chevydale, his brother, the Tory Commissioner, will be my enemy in spite of all his Toryism; but if I vote and exert myself for Chevydale, the Liberal, I make his Tory of a brother my friend for life. And now, talk to me about principle, or consistency either.”
His nephew could not but admit, that the instances adduced by his uncle were admirably calculated to illustrate his argument, and he accordingly pursued the subject no further.
“Ay!” exclaimed the Still-hound, “what d—d scrawl have we got here? Ay, ay, why this is better than I expected.”
“What is better, uncle?” said the nephew, venturing an experiment.
“Why,” replied the sagacious old rascal, “for you to mind your business, if you have any, and to let me mind mine, without making impertinent inquiries, Master Harry.” With these words he went and. locked up both letters in his desk. As we, however, possess the power of unlocking his desk, and reading the letter to boot, we now take the liberty of laying it in all its graphic beauty and elegance before our readers—
“To MISTHER KLINTON, SIR:
“Af you go this nite bout seven clocks or thereaway, you'd find a Still-Hed an' Worm At full work, in they tipper End iv The brown Glen in Ahadarra. Sir, thrum wan iv Die amstrung's Orringemen an' a fren to the axshize.”
The gauger after breakfast again resumed the conversation as follows:—
“Have you changed your mind, Harry, regarding the Excise? because if you have I think I may soon have an opportunity of getting you a berth.”
“No, sir, I feel an insurmountable repugnance to the life of a Still—hem.”
“Go on, man, to the life of a Still-hunter. Very well. Your father's death last year left you and your sister there dependent upon me, for the present at least; for what could a medical man only rising into practice, with a, family to support and educate, leave behind him?”
“Unfortunately, sir, it is too true.”
“In the mean time you may leave 'unfortunate' out, and thank God that you had the shelter of my roof to come to; and be on your knees, too, that I was a bachelor. Well, I am glad myself that I had and have a home for you; but still, Harry, you ought to think of doing something for yourself; for I may not live always, you know, and beside I am not rich. You don't relish surgery, you say?”
“I can't endure it, uncle.”
“But you like farming?”
“Above every other mode of life.”
“Very well, I think it's likely I shall have a good farm to put you into before long.”
“Thank you, uncle. You may rest assured that both Maria and myself are fully sensible of the kindness we have experienced at your hands.”
“Small thanks to me for that. Who the devil would I assist, if not my brother's orphans? It is true, I despise the world, but still we must make our use of it. I know it consists of only knaves and fools. Now, I respect the knaves; for if it were'nt for their roguery, the world would never work; it would stand still and be useless. The fools I despise, not so much because they are fools, as because they would be knaves if they could; so that, you see I return again to my favorite principle of honesty. I am going to Ballymacan on business, so good-bye to you both.”
“Uncle,” said his nephew, “one word with you before you go.”
“What is it?”
“Would you suffer me to offer you a word of advice, and will you excuse me for taking such a liberty with a man of your experience?”
“Certainly, Harry, and shall always feel thankful to any one that gives me good advice.”
“If this is not good advice, it is at least well intended.”
“Let us hear it first, and then we shall judge better.”
“You say you will procure me a farm. Now, uncle, there is one thing I should wish in connection with that transaction, which is, that you would have no underhand—hem!—no private understanding of any kind with Mr. Hycy Burke.”
“Me a private understanding with Hycy Burke! What in the devil's name has put such a crotchet as that into your head?”
“I only speak as I do, because I believe you have received a private communication from him.”
“Have I, faith! If so I am obliged to you—but I am simply ignorant of the fact you mention; for, with my own knowledge', I never received a line from him in my life.”
“Then I must be wrong,” replied Harry; “that is all.”
“Wrong! Certainly you are wrong. Hycy Burke, I am told, is a compound of great knave and gross fool, the knavery rather prevailing. But how is this? Are not you and he inseparable?”
“He is a companion, uncle, but not a friend in the true sense—nor, indeed, in any sense of that word. I spoke now, however, with reference to a particular transaction, and not to his general character.”
“Well, then, I have no underhand dealings with him, as you are pleased to call them, nor ever had. I never to my knowledge received a line from him in my life; but I tell you that if he comes in my way, and that I can make use of him, I will. Perhaps he may serve us in the Elections. Have you anything else to ask?”
“No sir,” replied Harry, laughing. “Only I hope you will excuse me for the liberty I took.”
“Certainly, with all my heart, and you shall be always welcome to take the same liberty. Good-bye, again.”
Clinton now felt satisfied that Hycy's letter to his uncle was an anonymous one, and although he could not divine its contents, he still felt assured that it was in some way connected with the farm transaction, or at all events detrimental to Bryan M'Mahon. He consequently resolved to see Hycy, against whom, or rather against whose principles he was beginning to entertain a strong repugnance, and without any hesitation to repudiate the engagement he had entered into with him.
He found Hycy at home, or rather he found him in conversation with Bat Hogan behind his father's garden.
“What was that ruffian wanting with you, Hycy, if it's a fair question?”
“Perfectly,” said Hycy, “from you; but not in sooth from your worthy uncle.”
“How is that?”
“Simply, he wants to know if I'd buy a keg of Poteen which, it seems, he has to sell. I declined because I have a sufficiently ample stock of it on hands.”
“My uncle,” said Clinton, prefers it to any other spirits; indeed, at home he never drinks any other, and whenever he dines, thanks those who give it the preference.”
“Come in, and let us have a glass of poteen grog, in the mean time,” said Hycy, “for it's better still in grog than in punch. It's a famous relish for a slice of ham; but, as the Scotch say, baith's best.”
Having discussed the grog and ham, the conversation went on.
“Hycy,” proceeded his companion, “with respect to that foolish arrangement or bargain we made the other night, I won't have anything to say or do in it. You shall impoverish or ruin no honest man on my account. I was half drunk or whole drunk, otherwise I wouldn't have listened to such a proposal.”
“What do you mean?” said Hycy, with a look of very natural surprise, and a pause of some time, “I don't understand you.”
“Don't you remember the foolish kind of stipulation we entered into with reference to M'Mahon's farm, of Ahadarra, on the one hand, and my most amiable (d—n me but I ought to be horsewhipped for it) sister on the other?”
“No,” replied Hycy, “devil a syllable. My word and honor, Harry.”
“Well, if you don't, then, it's all right. You didn't appear to be tipsy, though.”
“I never do, Harry. In that respect I'm the d—dest, hypocritical rascal in Europe. I'm a perfect phenomenon; for, in proportion as I get drunk in intellect, I get sober both in my carriage and appearance. However, in Heaven's name let me know the bargain if there was one?”
“No, no,” replied his friend, “it was a disgraceful affair on both sides, and the less that's said of it the better.”
By some good deal of persuasion, however, and an additional glass of grog, he prevailed on Clinton to repeat the substance of the stipulation; on hearing which, as if for the first time, he laughed very heartily.
“This liquor,” he proceeded, “is a strange compound, and puts queer notions into our head. Why if there's an honest decent fellow in Europe, whom I would feel anxious to serve beyond another, next to yourself, Harry, it is Bryan M'Mahon. But why I should have spoken so, I can't understand at all. In the first place, what means have of injuring the man? And what is stronger still, what inclination have I, or could have—and what is still better—should have?”
“I do assure you it did not raise you in my opinion.”
“Faith, no wonder, Harry, and I am only surprised you didn't speak to me sooner about it. Still,” he proceeded, smiling, 'there is one portion of it I should not wish to see cancelled—I mean your advocacy with Miss Clinton.”
“To be plain with you, Hycy, I wash my hands out of that affair too; I won't promise advocacy.”
“Well neutrality?”
“The truth is, neither neutrality nor advocacy would avail a rush. I have reason to think that my sister's objections against you are insuperable.”
“On what do they rest?” asked the other.
“They are founded upon your want of morals,” replied Clinton.
“Well, suppose I reform my morals?”
“That is, substitute hypocrisy for profligacy; I fear, Hycy, the elements of reformation are rather slight within you.”
“Seriously, you do me injustice; and, besides, a man ought not to be judged of his morals before marriage, but after.”
“Faith, both before and after, in my opinion, Hycy. No well-educated, right-minded girl would marry a man of depraved morals, knowing him to be such.”
“But I really am not worse than others, nor so bad as many. Neither have I the reputation of being an immoral man. A little wild and over-impulsive from animal spirits I may be, but all that will pass off with the new state. No, no, d—n it, don't allow Miss Clinton to imbibe such prejudices. I do not say that I am a saint; but I shall settle down and bring her to church very regularly, and hear the sermon with most edifying attention. Another glass of grog?”
“No, no.”
“But I hope and trust, my dear Harry, that you have not been making impressions against me.”
“Unquestionably not. I only say you have no chance whatever in that quarter.”
“Will you allow me to try?” asked Hycy.
“I have not the slightest objection,” replied the other, “because I know how it will result.”
“Very well,—thank you even for that same, my dear Harry; but, seriously speaking, I fear that neither you nor I are leading the kind of lives we ought, and so far I cannot quarrel with your sister's principles. On the contrary, they enable me to appreciate her if possible still more highly; for a clear and pure standard of morals in a wife is not only the best fortune but the best security for happiness besides. You might stop and dine?”
“No, thank you, it is impossible. By the way, I have already spoiled my dinner with that splendid ham of yours. Give me a call when in town.”
Hycy, after Clinton's departure, began to review his own position. Of ultimately succeeding with Miss Clinton he entertained little doubt. So high and confident was his vanity, that he believed himself capable of performing mighty feats, and achieving great successes, with the fair sex,—all upon the strength of having destroyed the reputation of two innocent country girls. Somehow, notwithstanding his avowed attachment for Miss Clinton, he could not help now and then reverting to the rich beauty and magnificent form of Kathleen Cavanagh; nor was this contemplation of his lessened by considering that, with all his gentlemanly manners, and accomplishments, and wealth to boot, she preferred the clod-hopper, as he called Bryan M'Mahon, to himself.
He felt considerably mortified at this reflection, and the more especially, as he had been frequently taunted with it and laughed at for it by the country girls, whenever he entered into any bantering conversation. A thought now struck him by which he could, as he imagined, execute a very signal revenge upon M'Mahon through Kathleen, and perhaps, ultimately upon Kathleen herself, if he should succeed with Miss Clinton; for he did not at all forgive Kathleen the two public instances of contempt with which she had treated him. There was still, however, another consideration. His father had threatened to bring home his brother Edward, then destined for the church, and altogether to change his intentions in that respect. Indeed, from the dry and caustic manner of the old man towards him of late, he began to entertain apprehensions upon the subject. Taking therefore all these circumstances into consideration, he resolved in any event to temporize a little, and allow the father to suppose that he might be prevailed upon to marry Kathleen Cavanagh.
In the course of that evening, after dinner, while his father and he were together and his mother not present, he introduced the subject himself.
“I think, Mr. Burke, if I remember correctly, you proposed something like a matrimonial union between the unrivalled Katsey Cavanagh and the accomplished Hycy.”
“I did, God forgive me.”
“I have been thinking over that subject since.”
“Have you, indeed,” said his father; “an' am I to make Ned a priest or a farmer?” he asked, dryly.
“The church, I think, Mr. Burke, is, or ought to be, his destination.”
“So, after all, you prefer to have my money and my property, along wid a good wife, to your brother Ned—Neddy I ought to call him, out of compliment to you—ha! ha! ha!”
“Proceed, Mr. Burke, you are pleased to be facetious.”
“To your brother Ned—Neddy—having them, and maybe along wid them the same, wife too?”
“No, not exactly; but out of respect to your wishes.
“What's that?” said the old man, staring at him with a kind of comic gravity—“out of respect to my wishes!”
“That's what I've said,” replied the son. “Proceed.”
His father looked at' him again, and replied, “Proceed yourself—-it was you introduced the subject. I'm now jack-indifferent about it.”
“All I have to say,” continued Hycy, “is that I withdraw my ultimate refusal, Mr. Burke. I shall entertain the question, as they say; and it is not improbable but that I may dignify the fair Katsey with the honorable title of Mrs. Burke.”
“I wish you had spoken a little sooner, then,” replied his father, “bekaise it so happens that Gerald Cavanagh an' I have the match between her and your brother Ned as good as made.”
“My brother Ned! Why, in the name of; all that's incredible, how could that be encompassed?”
“Very aisily,” said his father, “by the girl's waitin' for him. Ned is rather young! yet, I grant you; he's nineteen, however, and two years more, you know, will make him one-and-twenty—take him out o' chancery, as they say.”
“Very good, Mr. Burke, very good; in that case I have no more to say.”
“Well,” pursued the father, in the same dry, half-comic, half-sarcastic voice, “but what do you intend to do with yourself?”
“As to that,” replied Hycy, who felt that the drift of the conversation was setting in against him, “I shall take due time to consider.”
“What height are you?” asked the father, rather abruptly.
“I can't see, Mr. Burke, I really can't see what my height has to do with the question.”
“Bekaise,” proceeded the other, “I have some notion of putting you into the army. You spoke of it wanst yourself, remimber; but then there's an objection even to that.”
“Pray, what is the objection, Mr. Burke?”
“Why, it's most likely you'd have to fight—if you took to the milintary trade.”
“Why, upon my word, Mr. Burke, you shine in the sarcastic this evening.”
“But, at any rate, you must take your chance for that. You're a fine, active young fellow, and I suppose if they take to runnin' you won't be the last of them.”
“Good, Mr. Burke—proceed, though.”
“An accordingly I have strong notions of buying you a corplar's or a sargent's commission. A good deal of that, however, depends upon yourself; but, as you say, I'll think of it.”
Hycy, who could never bear ridicule, especially from the very man whom he attempted to ridicule most, bounced up, and after muttering something in the shape of an oath that was unintelligible, said, assuming all his polite irony:—
“Do so, Mr. Burke; in the mean time I have the pleasure of wishing you a very good evening, sir.”
“Oh, a good-evening, sir,” replied the old fellow, “and when you come home from the wars a full non-commissioned officer, you'll be scowerin' up your halbert every Christmas an' Aisther, I hope; an' telling us long stories—of all you killed an' ate while you were away from us.”
Harry Clinton, now aware that the anonymous letter which his uncle had received that morning was the production of Hycy, resolved to watch the gauger's motions very closely. After a great deal of reflection upon Hycy's want of memory concerning their bargain, and upon a close comparison between his conduct and whole manner on the night in question, and his own account of the matter in the course of their last interview, he could not help feeling that his friend had stated a gross falsehood, and that the pretended want of recollection was an ingenious after-thought, adopted for the purpose of screening himself from the consequences of whatever injury he might inflict upon Bryan M'Mahon.
“Harry,” said his uncle, as nine o'clock approached, “I am going upon duty tonight.”
“In what direction, sir? may I ask.”
“Yes, you may, but I'm not bound to tell you. In this instance, however, there is no necessity for secrecy; it is now too late to give our gentleman the hard word, so I don't care much if I do tell you. I am bound for Ahadarra.”
“For Ahadarra—you say for Ahadarra, uncle?”
“I do, nephew.”
“By heavens, he is the deepest and most consummate scoundrel alive,” exclaimed Harry; “I now see it all. Uncle, I wish to God you would—would—-I don't know what to say.”
“That's quite evident, nor what to think either. In the mean time the soldiers are waiting for me in Ballymacan, and so I must attend to my duty, Harry.”
“Is it upon the strength of the blotted letter you got this morning, sir, that you are now acting”?”
“No, sir; but upon the strength of a sure spy dispatched this day to the premises. I am a little too shrewd now, Master Harry, to act solely upon anonymous information. I have been led too many devil's dances by it in my time, to be gulled in my old age on the strength of it.”
He immediately prepared himself for the excursion, mounted his horse, that was caparisoned in a military saddle, the holsters furnished with a case of pistols, which, with a double case that he had on his person and two daggers, constituted his weapons of offence and defence.
Their path lay directly to the south for about two miles. Having traversed this distance they reached cross-roads, one of which branched towards the left and was soon lost in a rough brown upland, into which it branched by several little pathways that terminated in little villages or solitary farmer's houses. For about two miles more they were obliged to cross a dark reach of waste moor, where the soil was strong and well capable of cultivation. Having avoided the villages and more public thoroughfares, they pushed upward until they came into the black heath itself, where it was impossible that horses could travel in such darkness as then prevailed; for it was past ten o'clock, near the close of December. Clinton consequently left his horse in the care of two soldiers on a bit of green meadow by the side of Ahadarra Lough—a small tarn or mountain lake about two hundred yards in diameter. They then pushed up a long round swelling hill, on the other side of which was a considerable stretch of cultivated land with Bryan M'Mahon's new and improved houses at the head of it. This they kept to their right until they came in sight of the wild but beautiful and picturesque Glen of Althadhawan, which however was somewhat beyond the distance they had to go. At length, after breasting another hill which was lost in the base of Cullimore, they dropped down rapidly into a deep glen through which ran a little streamlet that took its rise not a quarter of a mile above them, and which supplied the apparatus for distillation with soft clear water. This they followed until near the head of the glen, where, in a position which might almost escape even a gauger's eye, they found the object of their search.
Tumbled around them in all directions were a quantity of gigantic rocks thrown as it were at random during some Titanic war-fare or diversion—between two of which the still-house was built in such a way, that, were it not for the smoke in daylight, it would be impossible to discover it, or at all events, to suppose that it could be the receptacle of a human being.
On entering, Clinton and his men were by no means surprised to find the place deserted, for this in fact was frequently the case on such occasions. On looking through the premises, which they did by the light of a large fire, they found precisely that which had been mentioned in Hycy's letter—to wit, the Still, the Head, and the Worm; but with the exception of an old broken rundlet or two, and a crazy vessel of wash that was not worth removing, there was nothing whatsoever besides.
The Still was on the fire half filled with water, the Head was on the Still, and the Worm was attached to the Head precisely as if they were in the process of distillation.
“Ay,” said Clinton, on seeing how matters stood, “I think I understand this affair. It's a disappointment in one sense—but a sure enough card in another. The fine is certain, and Ahadarra is most undoubtedly in for it.”
CHAPTER XV.—State of the Country
—Hycy's Friendship for Bryan M'Mahon—Bryan's Interview with his Landlord.
M'Mahon's last interview with Fethertonge was of so cheering a nature, and indicated on the part of that gentleman so much true and sterling kindness towards the young man and his family, that he felt perfectly satisfied on leaving him, and after having turned their conversation over in his mind, that he might place every confidence in the assurance he had given him. His father, too, who had never for a moment doubted Feathertonge, felt equally gratified at Bryan's report of their interview, as indeed did the whole family; they consequently spared neither labor nor expense in the improvements which they were making on their farms.
The situation of the country and neighborhood at this period was indeed peculiar, and such as we in this unhappy country have experienced both before and since. I have already stated, that there was a partial failure of the potato crop that season, a circumstance which uniformly is the forerunner of famine and sickness. The failure, however, on that occasion was not caused by a blight in the haulm, or to use plainer words, by a sudden withering of the stalks, but by large portions of the seed failing to grow. The partial scarcity, however, occasioned by this, although it did not constitute what can with propriety be termed famine, cause the great mass of pauperism which such a season always extends and increases, to press so heavily upon the struggling farmers, that their patience and benevolence became alike tired out and exhausted. This perpetually recurring calamity acts with a most depressing effect upon those persons in the country who have any claim to be considered independent. It deprives them of hope, and consequently of energy, and by relaxing the spirit of industry which has animated them, tends in the course of time to unite them to the great body of pauperism which oppresses and eats up the country. But let us not be misunderstood. This evil alone is sufficiently disastrous to the industrial energies of the class we mention; but when, in addition to this, the hitherto independent farmer has to contend with high rents, want of sympathy in his landlord, who probably is ignorant of his very existence, and has never seen him perhaps in his life; and when it is considered that he is left to the sharp practice and pettifogging, but plausible rapacity of a dishonest agent, who feels that he is irresponsible, and may act the petty tryant and vindictive oppressor if he wishes, having no restraint over his principles but his interest, which, so far from restraining, only guides and stimulates them;—when we reflect upon all this, and feel, besides, that the political principles upon which the country is governed are those that are calculated to promote British at the expense of Irish interests—we say, when we reflect upon and ponder over all this, we need not feel surprised that the prudent, the industrious, and the respectable, who see nothing but gradual decline and ultimate pauperism before them—who feel themselves neglected and overlooked, and know that every sixth or seventh year they are liable to those oppressive onsets of distress, sickness, and famine—we need not, we repeat, feel at all surprised that those who constitute this industrious and respectable class should fly from the evils which surround them, and abandon, whilst they possess the power of doing so, the country in which such evils are permitted to exist.
It is upon this principle, or rather upon these principles, and for these reasons, that the industry, the moral feeling, the independence, and the strength of the country have been passing out of it for years—leaving it, season after season, weaker, more impoverished, and less capable of meeting those periodical disasters which, we may almost say, are generated by the social disorder and political misrule of the country.
The fact is, and no reasonable or honest man capable of disencumbering himself of political prejudices can deny it, that up until a recent period the great body of the Irish people—the whole people—were mainly looked upon and used as political instruments in the hands of the higher classes, but not at all entitled to the possession of separate or independent interests in their own right. It is true they were allowed the possession of the forty-shilling franchise; but will any man say that the existence of that civil right was a benefit to the country? So far from that, it was a mere engine of corruption, and became, in the hands of the Irish landlords, one of the most oppressive and demoralizing curses that ever degraded a people. Perjury, fraud, falsehood, and dishonesty, were its fruits, and the only legacy it left to the country was an enormous mass of pauperism, and a national morality comparatively vitiated and depraved, in spite of all religious influence and of domestic affections that are both strong and tender. Indeed it is exceedingly difficult to determine whether it has been more injurious to the country in a political than in a moral sense. Be that as it may, it had a powerful effect in producing the evils that we now suffer, and our strong tendencies to social disorganization. By it the landlords were induced, for the sake of multiplying, votes, to encourage the subdivision of small holdings into those that were actually only nominal or fictitious, and the consequences were, that in multiplying votes they were multiplying families that had no fixed means of subsistence—multiplying in fact a pauper population—multiplying not only perjury, fraud, falsehood, and dishonesty, but destitution, misery, disease and death. By the forty-shilling franchise, the landlords encumbered the soil with a loose and unsettled population that possessed within itself, as poverty always does, a fearful facility of reproduction—a population which pressed heavily upon the independent class of farmers and yeomen, but which had no legal claim upon the territory of the country. The moment, however, when the system which produced and ended this wretched class, ceased to exist, they became not only valueless in a political sense, but a dead weight upon the energies of the country, and an almost insuperable impediment to its prosperity. This great evil the landlords could conjure up, but they have not been able to lay it since. Like Frankenstein in the novel, it pursues them to the present moment, and must be satisfied or appeased in some way, or it will unquestionably destroy them. From the abolition of the franchise until now, an incessant struggle of opposing interests has been going on in the country. The “forties” and their attendants must be fed; but the soul on which they live in its present state is not capable of at the same time supporting them and affording his claims to the landlord; for the food must go to England to pay the rents and the poor “forties” must starve. They are now in the way of the landlord—they are now in the way of the farmer—they are in fact in way of each other, and unless some wholesome and human principle, either of domestic employment or colonial emigration, or perhaps both, shall be adopted, they will continue to embarrass the country, and to drive out of it, always in connection with other causes, the very class of persons that constitute its remaining strength.
At the present period of our narrative the neighborhood of Ballymacan was in an unsettled and distressful state. The small farmers, and such as held from six to sixteen acres, at a rent which they could at any period with difficulty pay, were barely able to support themselves and their families upon the produce of their holdings, so that the claims of the landlord were out of the question. Such a position as this to the unhappy class we speak of, is only another name for ruin. The bailiff, who always lives upon the property, seeing their condition, and knowing that they are not able to meet the coming gale, reports accordingly to the agent, who, now cognizant that there is only one look-up for the rent, seizes the poor man's corn and cattle, leaving himself and his family within cold walls, and at an extinguished hearth. In this condition were a vast number in the neighborhood of the locality laid in our narrative. The extraordinary, but natural anxiety for holding land, and the equally ardent spirit of competition which prevails in the country, are always ready arguments in the mouth of the landlord and agent, when they wish to raise the rent or eject the tenant. “If you won't pay me such a rent, there are plenty that will. I have been offered more than you pay, and more than I ask, and you know I must look to my own interests!” In this case it is very likely that the landlord speaks nothing but the truth; and as he is pressed on by his necessities on the one hand, and the tenant on the other, the state of a country so circumstanced with respect to landed property and its condition may be easily conceived.
In addition, however, to all we have already detailed, as affecting the neighborhood of Ahadarra, we have to inform our readers that the tenantry upon the surrounding property were soon about to enjoy the luxury of a contested election. Chevydale had been the sitting member during two sessions of Parliament. He was, as we have already stated, an Emancipator and Liberal; but we need scarcely say that he did not get his seat upon these principles. He had been a convert to Liberalism since his election, and at the approaching crisis stood, it was thought, but an indifferent chance of being re-elected. The gentleman who had sat before was a sturdy Conservative, a good deal bigoted in politics, but possessing that rare and inestimable quality, or rather combination of qualities which constitute an honest man. He was a Major Vanston, a man of good property, and although somewhat deficient in the suaviter in modo, yet in consequence of his worth and sincerity, he was rather a favorite with the people, who in general relish sincerity and honesty wherever they find them in public men.
Having thus far digressed, we now beg leave to resume our narrative and once more return, from the contemplation of a state of things so painful to the progress of those circumstances which involve the fate of our humble individuals who constitute our dramatis personae.
The seizure of the distillery apparatus on M'Mahon's farm of Ahadarra, was in a few days followed by knowledge of the ruin in which it must necessarily involve that excellent and industrious young man. At this time there was an act of parliament in existence against illicit distillation, but of so recent a date that it was only when a seizure similar to the foregoing had been made, that the people in any particular district became acquainted with it. By this enactment the offending individual was looked upon as having no farther violated the laws in that case made and provided, than those who had never been engaged in such pursuits at all. In other words, the innocent, were equally punished with the guilty. A heavy fine was imposed—not on the offender, but on the whole townland in which he lived; so that the guilt of one individual was not visited as it ought to have been on the culprit himself, but equally distributed in all its penalties upon the other inhabitants of the district in question, who may have had neither act nor part in any violation of the laws whatsoever.
Bryan M'Mahon, on discovering the fearful position in which it placed him, scarcely knew on what hand to turn. His family were equally alarmed, and with just reason. Illicit distillation had been carried to incredible lengths for the last two or three years, and the statute in question was enacted with, a hope that it might unite the people in a kind of legal confederacy against a system so destructive of industry and morals. The act, however ill-judged, and impolitic at best, was not merely imperative,—but fraught with ruin and bloodshed. It immediately became the engine of malice and revenge between individual enemies—often between rival factions, and not unfrequently between parties instigated against each other by political rancor and hatred. Indeed, so destructive of the lives and morals of the people was it found, that in the course of a very few years it was repealed, but not until it had led to repeated murders and brought ruin and destruction upon many an unoffending and industrious family.
Bryan now bethought him of the warnings he had received from the gauger and Fethertonge, and resolved to see both, that he; might be enabled, if possible, to trace to its source the plot that had been laid, for his destruction. He accordingly went down to his father's at Carriglass, where he had not been long when Hycy Burke made his appearance, “Having come that far on his way,” he said, “to see him, and to ascertain the truth of the report that had gone abroad respecting the heavy responsibility under which the illicit distillation had placed him.” Bryan was naturally generous and without suspicion; but notwithstanding this, it was impossible that he should not entertain some slight surmises touching the sincerity of Burke.
“What is this, Bryan?” said the latter. “Can it be possible that you're in for the Fine, as report goes?”
“It's quite possible,” replied Bryan; “on yesterday I got a notice of proceedings from the Board of Excise.”
“But,” pursued his friend, “what devil could have tempted you to have anything to do with illicit distillation? Didn't you know the danger of it?”
“I had no more to do with it,” replied Bryan, “than you had—nor I don't even rightly know yet who had; though, indeed, I believe I may say it was these vagabonds, the Hogans, that has their hands in everything that's wicked and disgraceful. They would ruin me if they could,” said Bryan, “and I suppose it was with the hope of doing so that they set up the still where they did.”
“Well, now,” replied Hycy, with an air of easy and natural generosity, “I should be sorry to think so: they are d—d scoundrels, or rather common ruffians, I grant you; but still, Bryan, I don't like to suspect even such vagabonds without good grounds. Bad as we know them to be, I have my doubts whether they are capable of setting about such an act for the diabolical purpose of bringing you to ruin. Perhaps they merely deemed the place on your farm a convenient one to build a still-house in, and that they never thought further about it.”
“Or what,” replied Bryan, “if there was some one behind their backs who is worse than themselves? Mightn't sich a thing as that be possible?”
“True,” replied Hycy, “true, indeed—that's not improbable. Stay—no—well it may be—but—no—I can't think it.”
“What is it you can't think?”
“Why, such a thing might be,” proceeded Hycy, “if you have an enemy; but I think, Bryan, you are too well liked—and justly so too—if you will excuse me for saying so to your face—to have any enemy capable of going such nefarious lengths as that.”
Bryan paused and seemed a good deal struck with the truth of Hycy's observation—“There's raison, sure enough in what you say, Hycy,” he observed. “I don't know that I have a single enemy—unless the Hogans themselves—that would feel any satisfaction in drivin' me to destruction.”
“And besides,” continued Hycy, “between you and me now, Bryan, who the devil with an ounce of sense in his head would trust such scoundrels, or put himself in their power?”
Bryan considered this argument a still more forcible one than the other.
“That's stronger still,” Re replied, “and indeed I am inclined to think that after all, Hycy, it happened as you say. Teddy Phats I think nothing at all about, for the poor, misshapen vagabone will distil poteen for any one that employs him.”
“True,” replied the other, “I agree with you; but what's to be done, Bryan? for that's the main point now.”
“I scarcely know,” replied Bryan, who now began to feel nothing but kindness towards Hycy, in consequence of the interest which that young fellow evidently took in his misfortune, for such, in serious truth, it must be called. “I am the only proprietor of Ahadarra,” he proceeded, “and, as a matter of course, the whole fine falls on my shoulders.”
“Ay, that's the devil of it; but at all events, Bryan, there is nothing got in this world without exertion and energy. Mr. Chevydale, the Member, is now at home: he has come down to canvass for the coming-election. I would recommend you to see him at once. You know—but perhaps you don't though—that his brother is one of the Commissioners of Excise; so that I don't know any man who can serve you more effectually than Chevydale, if he wishes.”
“But what could he do?” asked Bryan.
“Why, by backing a memorial from you, stating the particulars, and making out a strong case, he might get the fine reduced. I shall draw up such a memorial if you wish.”
“Thank you, Hycy—I'm obliged to you—these, I dare say, will be the proper steps to take—thank you.”
“Nonsense! but perhaps I may serve you a little in another way. I'm very intimate with Harry Clinton, and who knows but I may be able to influence the uncle a little through the nephew.”
“It's whispered that you might do more through the niece,” replied Bryan, laughing; “is that true?”
“Nonsense, I tell you,” replied Hycy, affecting confusion; “for Heaven's sake, Bryan, say nothing about that; how did it come to your ears?”
“Faith, and that's more than I can tell you,” replied the other; “but I know I heard it somewhere of late.”
“It's not a subject, of course,” continued Hycy, “that I should wish to become the topic of vulgar comment or conversation, and I'd much rather you would endeavor to discountenance it whenever you hear it spoken of. At all events, whether with niece or nephew,” proceeded Hycy, “you may rest assured, that whatever service I can render you, I shall not fail to do it. You and I have had a slight misunderstanding, but on an occasion like this, Bryan, it should be a bitter one indeed that a man—a generous man at least,—would or ought to remember.”
This conversation took place whilst Bryan was proceeding to Fethertonge's, Hycy being also on his way home. On arriving at the turn of the road which led to Jemmy Burke's, Hycy caught the hand of his companion, which he squeezed with an affectionate warmth, so cordial and sincere in its character that Bryan cast every shadow of suspicion to the winds,
“Cheer up, Bryan, all will end better than you think, I hope. I shall draw up a memorial for you this evening, as strongly and forcibly as possible, and any other assistance that I can render you in this unhappy difficulty I will do it. I know I am about ninety pounds in your debt, and instead of talking to you in this way, or giving you fair words, I ought rather to pay you your money. The 'gentleman,' however, is impracticable for the present, but I trust—”
“Not a word about it,” said Bryan, “you'll oblige me if you'll drop that part of the subject; but listen, Hycy,—I think you're generous and a little extravagant, and both is a good man's case—but that's not what I'm going to spake about, truth's best at all times; I heard that you were my enemy, and I was desired to be on my guard against you.”
Hycy looked at him with that kind of surprise which is natural to an innocent man, and simply said, “May I ask by whom, Bryan?”
“I may tell you some other time,” replied Bryan, “but I won't now; all I can say is, that I don't believe it, and I'm sure that ought to satisfy you.”
“I shall expect you to tell me, Bryan,” said the other, and then after returning a few steps, he caught M'Mahon's hand again, and shaking it warmly, once more added, “God bless you, Bryan; you are a generous high-minded young fellow, and I only wish I was like you.”
Bryan, after they had separated, felt that Hycy's advice was the very best possible under the circumstances, and as he had heard for the first time that Chevydale was in the country, he resolved to go at once and state to him the peculiar grievance under which he labored.
Chevydale's house was somewhat nearer Ahadarra than Fethertonge's, but on the same line of road, and he accordingly proceeded to the residence of his landlord. The mansion indeed was a fine one. It stood on the brow of a gentle eminence, which commanded a glorious prospect of rich and highly cultivated country. Behind, the landscape rose gradually until it terminated in a range of mountains that protected the house from the north. The present structure was modern, having been built by old Chevydale, previous to his marriage. It was large and simple, but so majestic in appearance, that nothing could surpass the harmony that subsisted between its proportions and the magnificent old trees which studded the glorious lawn that surrounded, it, and rose in thick extensive masses that stretched far away behind the house. It stood in a park, which for the beauties of wood and. water was indeed worthy of its fine simplicity and grandeur—a park in which it was difficult to say whether the beautiful, the picturesque, or the wild, predominated most. And yet in this princely residence Mr. Chevydale did not reside more than a month, or at most two, during the whole year.
On reaching the hall-door, M'Mahon inquired from the servant who appeared, if he could see Mr. Chevydale.
“I'm afraid not,” said the servant, “but I will see; what's your name?”
“Bryan M'Mahon, of Ahadarra, one of his tenants.”
The servant returned to him in a few moments, and said, “Yes, he will see you; follow me.”
Bryan entered a library, where he found his landlord and Fethertonge apparently engaged in business, and as he was in the act of doing so, he overheard Chevydale saying—“No, no, I shall always see my tenants.”
Bryan made his obeisance in his own plain way, and Chevydale said—“Are you M'Mahon of Ahadarra?”
“I am, sir,” replied Bryan.
“I thought you were a much older man,” said Chevydale, “there certainly must be, some mistake here,” he added, looking at Fethertonge.
“M'Mahon of Ahadarra was a middle-aged man several years ago, but this person is young enough to be his man.”
“You speak of his uncle,” replied Fethertonge, “who is dead. This young man, who now owns his uncle's farm, is son to Thomas M'Mahon of Carriglass. How is your father, M'Mahon? I hope he bears up well under his recent loss.”
“Indeed but poorly, sir,” replied Bryan, “I fear he'll never be the same man.”
Chevydale here took to reading a newspaper, and in a minute or two appeared to be altogether unconscious of Bryan's presence.
“I'm afeard, sir,” said Bryan, addressing himself to the agent, who was the only person likely to hear him, “I'm afeard, sir, that I've got into trouble.”
“Into trouble? how is that?”
“Why, sir, there was a Still, Head, and Worm found upon Ahadarra, and I'm going to be fined for it.”
“M'Mahon,” replied the agent, “I am sorry to hear this, both on your own account and that of your family. If I don't mistake, you were cautioned and warned against this; but it was useless; yes, I am sorry for it; and for you, too.”
“I don't properly understand you, sir,” said Bryan.
“Did I not myself forewarn you against having anything to do in matters contrary to the law? You must remember I did, and on the very last occasion, too, when you were in my office.”
“I remember it right well, sir,” replied Bryan, “and I say now as I did then, that I am not the man to break the law, or have act or part in anything that's contrary to it. I know nothing about this business, except that three ruffianly looking fellows named Hogan, common tinkers, and common vagabonds to boot—men that are my enemies—are the persons by all accounts who set up the still on my property. As for myself, I had no more to do in it or with it than yourself or Mr. Chevydale here.”
“Well,” replied Fethertonge, “I hope not. I should feel much disappointed if you had, but you know, Bryan,” he added, good-humoredly, “we could scarcely expect that you should admit such a piece of folly, not to call it by a harsher name.”
“If I had embarked in it,” replied M'Mahon, “I sartinly would not deny it to you or Mr. Chevydale, at least; but, as I said before, I know nothing more about it, than simply it was these ruffians and a fellow named Phats, a Distiller, that set it a-working,—however, the question is, what am I to do? If I must pay the fine for the whole townland, it will beggar me—ruin me. It was that brought me to my landlord here,” he added; “I believe, sir, you have a brother a Commissioner of Excise?”
“Eh? what is that?” asked Chevydaie, looking up suddenly as Bryan asked the question.
M'Mahon was obliged to repeat all the circumstances once more, as did Feathertonge the warning he had given him against having any connection with illegal proceedings.
“I am to get a memorial drawn up tomorrow, sir,” proceeded Bryan, “and I was thinking that by giving the Board of Excise a true statement of the case, they might reduce the fine; if they don't, I am ruined—that's all.”
“Certainly,” said his landlord, “that is a very good course to take; indeed, your only course.”
“I hope, sir,” proceeded Bryan, “that as you now know the true circumstances of the case, you'll be kind, enough to support my petition; I believe your brother, sir, is one of the Commissioners; you would sartinly be able to do something with him.”
“No,” replied Chevydaie, “I would not ask anything from him; but I shall support your Petition, and try what I can do with the other Commissioners. On principle, however, I make it a point never to ask anything from my brother.”
“Will I bring you the Petition, sir?” asked Bryan.
“Fetch me the Petition.”
“And Bryan,” said Fethertonge, raising his finger at him as if by way of warning—and laughing—“hark ye, let this be the last.”
“Fethertonge,” said the landlord, “I see 'Pratt has been found guilty, and the sentence confirmed by the Commander-in-Chief.”
“You will insist on it,” said Bryan, in reply to the agent, “but—”
“There now, M'Mahon,” said the latter, “that will do; good day to you.”
“I think it is a very harsh sentence, Fethertonge; will you touch the bell?”
“I don't know, sir,” replied the other, ringing as he spoke; “Neville's testimony was very strong against him, and the breaking of the glass did not certainly look like sobriety.”
“I had one other word to say, gentlemen,” added M'Mahon, “if you'll allow me, now that I'm here.”
Fethertonge looked at him with a face in which might be read a painful but friendly rebuke for persisting to speak, after the other had changed the subject. “I rather think Mr. Chevydale would prefer hearing it some other time, Bryan.”
“But you know the proverb, sir,” said Bryan, smiling, “that there's no time like the present; besides it's only a word.”
“What is it?” asked the landlord.
“About the leases, sir,” replied M'Mahon, “to know when it would be convanient for you to sign them.”
Chevydale looked, from Bryan to the agent, and again from the agent to Bryan, as if anxious to understand what the allusion to leases meant. At this moment a servant entered, saying, “The horses are at the door, gentlemen.”
“Come some other day, M'Mahon,” said Fethertonge; “do you not see that we are going out to ride now—going on our canvass? Come to my office some other day; Mr. Chevydale will remain for a considerable time in the country now, and you need not feel so eager in the matter.”
“Yes, come some other day, Mr.—Mr.—ay—M'Mahon; if there are leases to sign, of course I shall sign them; I am always anxious to do my duty as a landlord. Come, or rather Fethertonge here will manage it. You know I transact no business here; everything is done at his office, unless when he brings me papers to sign. Of course I shall sign any necessary paper.”
Bryan then withdrew, after having received another friendly nod of remonstrance, which seemed to say, “Why will you thus persist, when you see that he is not disposed to enter into these matters now? Am I not your friend?” Still, however, he did not feel perfectly at ease with the result of his visit. A slight sense of uncertainty and doubt crept over him, and in spite of every effort at confidence, he found that that which he had placed in Fethertonge, if it did not diminish, was most assuredly not becoming stronger.