We did not write this story for effect. Our object was to relate facts

that occurred. In Ireland, there is much blame justly attached to

landlords, for their neglect and severity, in such depressed times,

towards their tenants: there is also much that is not only indefensible

but atrocious on the part of the tenants. But can the landed proprietors

of Ireland plead ignorance or want of education for their neglect and

rapacity, whilst the crimes of the tenants, on the contrary, may in

general be ascribed to both? He who lives--as, perhaps, his forefathers

have done--upon any man's property, and fails from unavoidable calamity,

has as just and clear a light to assistance from the landlord as if the

amount of that aid were a bonded debt. Common policy, common sense, and

common justice, should induce the Irish landlords to lower their rents

according to the market for agricultural produce, otherwise poverty,

famine, crime, and vague political speculations, founded upon idle hopes

of a general transfer of property, will spread over and convulse the

kingdom. Any man who looks into our poverty may see that our landlords

ought to reduce their rents to a standard suitable to the times and to

the ability of the tenant.

But to return. Owen, for another year, struggled on for his family,

without success; his firm spirit was broken; employment he could not

get, and even had it been regular, he would have found it impracticable

to support his helpless wife and children by his labor. The next year

unhappily was also one of sickness and of want; the country was not only

a wide waste of poverty, but overspread with typhus fever. One Saturday

night he and the family found themselves without food; they had not

tasted a morsel for twenty-four hours. There were murmuring and

tears and, finally, a low conversation among them, as if they held

a conference upon some subject which filled them with both grief and

satisfaction. In this alternation of feeling did they pass the time

until the sharp gnawing of hunger was relieved by sleep. A keen December

wind blew with a bitter blast on the following morning; the rain was

borne along upon it with violence, and the cold was chill and piercing.

Owen, his wife, and their six children, issued at day-break out of the

barn in which, ever since their removal from Tubber Derg, they had lived

until then; their miserable fragments of bed-clothes were tied in a

bundle to keep them dry; their pace was slow, need we say sorrowful; all

were in tears. Owen and Kathleen went first, with a child upon the

back, and another in the hand, of each. Their route lay by their former

dwelling, the door of which was open, for it had not been inhabited. On

passing it they stood a moment; then with a simultaneous impulse both

approached--entered--and took one last look of a spot to which their

hearts clung with enduring attachment. They then returned; and as they

passed, Owen put forth his hand, picked a few small pebbles out of the

wall, and put them in his pocket.

“Farewell!” said he, “and may the blessing of God rest upon you! We

now lave you for ever! We're goin' at last to beg our bread through the

world wide, where none will know the happy days we passed widin your

walls! We must lave you; but glory be to the Almighty, we are goin'

wid a clear conscience; we took no revenge into our own hands, but left

everything to God above us. We are poor, but there is neither blood, nor

murder, nor dishonesty upon our heads. Don't cry, Kathleen--don't cry,

childher; there is still a good god above who can and may do something

for us yet, glory be to his holy name!”

He then passed on with his family, which, including himself, made in

all, eight paupers, being an additional burden upon the country, which

might easily have been avoided. His land was about two years waste,

and when it was ultimately taken, the house was a ruin, and the money

allowed by the landlord for building a new one, together with the

loss of two years' rent, would if humanely directed, have enabled Owen

M'Carthy to remain a solvent tenant.

When an Irish peasant is reduced to pauperism, he seldom commences the

melancholy task of soliciting alms in his native place. The trial is

always a severe one, and he is anxious to hide his shame and misery from

the eyes of those who know him. This is one reason why some system

of poor laws should be introduced into the country. Paupers of this

description become a burden upon strangers, whilst those who are capable

of entering with friendly sympathy into their misfortunes have no

opportunity of assisting them. Indeed this shame of seeking alms from

those who have known the mendicant in better days, is a proof that

the absence of poor laws takes away from the poorer classes one of the

strongest incitements to industry; for instance, if every Pauper in

Ireland were confined to his own parish, and compelled to beg from his

acquaintances, the sense of shame alone would, by stirring them up to

greater industry, reduce the number of mendicants one-half. There is a

strong spirit of family pride in Ireland, which would be sufficient to

make many poor, of both sexes, exert themselves to the uttermost rather

than cast a stain upon their name, or bring a blush to the face of their

relations. But now it is not so: the mendicant sets out to beg, and in

most instances commences his new mode of life in some distant part of

the country, where his name and family are not known.

Indeed, it is astonishing how any man can, for a moment, hesitate to

form his opinion upon the subject of poor laws. The English and Scotch

gentry know something about the middle and lower classes of their

respective countries, and of course they have a fixed system of

provision for the poor in each. The ignorance of the Irish gentry, upon

almost every subject connected with the real good of the people, is only

in keeping with their ignorance of the people themselves. It is to be

feared, however, that their disinclination to introduce poor laws arises

less from actual ignorance, than from an illiberal selfishness. The

facts of the case are these: In Ireland the whole support of the

inconceivable multitude of paupers, who swarm like locusts over the

surface of the country, rests upon the middle and lower classes, or

rather upon the latter, for there is scarcely such a thing in this

unhappy country as a middle class. In not one out of a thousand

instances do the gentry contribute to the mendicant poor. In the first

place, a vast proportion of our landlords are absentees, who squander

upon their own pleasures or vices, in the theatres, saloons, or

gaming-houses of France, or in the softer profligacies of Italy, that

which ought to return in some shape to stand in the place of duties

so shamefully neglected. These persons contribute nothing to the poor,

except the various evils which their absence entails upon them.

On the other hand, the resident gentry never in any case assist a

beggar, even in the remote parts of the country, where there are no

Mendicity Institutions. Nor do the beggars ever think of applying to

them. They know that his honor's dogs would be slipped at them; or that

the whip might be laid, perhaps, to the shoulders of a broken-hearted

father, with his brood of helpless children wanting food; perhaps, upon

the emaciated person of a miserable widow, who begs for her orphans,

only because the hands that supported, and would have defended both her

and them, are mouldered into dust.

Upon the middle and lower classes, therefore, comes directly the heavy

burden of supporting the great mass of pauperism that presses upon

Ireland. It is certain that the Irish landlords know this, and that they

are reluctant to see any law enacted which might make the performance of

their duties to the poor compulsory. This, indeed, is natural in men who

have so inhumanly neglected them.

But what must the state of a country be where those who are on the way

to pauperism themselves are exclusively burdened with the support of

the vagrant poor? It is like putting additional weight on a man already

sinking under the burden he bears. The landlords suppose, that because

the maintenance of the idle who are able, and of the aged and infirm who

are not able to work, comes upon the renters of land, they themselves

are exempted from their support. This, if true, is as bitter a stigma

upon their humanity as upon their sense of justice: but it is not true.

Though the cost of supporting such an incredible number of the idle

and helpless does, in the first place, fall upon the tenant, yet, by

diminishing his means, and by often compelling him to purchase, towards

the end of the season, a portion of food equal to that which he has

given away in charity, it certainly becomes ultimately a clear deduction

from the landlord's rent. In either case it is a deduction, but in

the latter it is often doubly so; inasmuch as the poor tenants must

frequently pay, at the close of a season, double, perhaps treble, the

price which provision brought at the beginning of it.

Any person conversant with the Irish people must frequently have heard

such dialogues as the following, during the application of a beggar for

alms:--

Mendicant.--“We're axin your charity for God's sake!”

Poor Tenant.--“Why thin for His sake you would get it, poor crathur, if

we had it; but it's not for you widin the four corners of the house. It

'ud be well for us if we had now all we gave away in charity durin' the

Whole year; we wouldn't have to be buyin' for ourselves at three prices.

Why don't you go up to the Big House? They're rich and can afford it.”

Mendicant, with a shrug, which sets all his coats and bags in

motion--“Och! och! The Big House, inagh! Musha, do you want me an' the

childhre here, to be torn to pieces wid the dogs? or lashed wid a whip

by one o' the sarvints? No, no, avourneen!” (with a hopeless shake of

the head.) “That 'ud be a blue look-up, like a clear evenin'.”

Poor Tenant.--“Then, indeed, we haven't it to help you, now, poor man.

We're buyin' ourselves.”

Mendicant.--“Thin, throth, that's lucky, so it is! I've as purty a grain

o' male here, as you'd wish to thicken wather wid, that I sthruv to get

together, in hopes to be able to buy a quarther o' tobaccy, along wid a

pair o' new bades an' scapular for myself. I'm suspicious that there's

about a stone ov it, altogether. You can have it anunder the market

price, for I'm frettin' at not havin' the scapular an me. Sure the Lord

will sind me an' the childhre a bit an' sup some way else--glory to his

name!--beside a lock of praties in the corner o' the bag here, that'll

do us for this day, any way.”

The bargain is immediately struck, and the poor tenant is glad to

purchase, even from a beggar, his stone of meal, in consequence of

getting it a few pence under market price. Such scenes as this, which

are of frequent occurrence in the country parts of Ireland, need no

comment.

This, certainly, is not a state of things which should be permitted to

exist. Every man ought to be compelled to support the poor of his

native parish according to his means. It is an indelible disgrace to the

legislature so long to have neglected the paupers of Ireland. Is it to

bo thought of with common patience that a person rolling in wealth shall

feed upon his turtle, his venison, and his costly luxuries of

every description, for which he will not scruple to pay the highest

price--that this heartless and selfish man, whether he reside at home or

abroad, shall thus unconscionably pamper himself with viands purchased

by the toil of the people, and yet not contribute to assist them, when

poverty, sickness, or age, throws them upon the scanty support of casual

charity?

Shall this man be permitted to batten in luxury in a foreign land, or at

home; to whip our paupers from his carriage; or hunt them, like beasts

of prey, from his grounds, whilst the lower classes--the gradually

decaying poor--are compelled to groan under the burden of their support,

in addition to their other burdens? Surely it is not a question which

admits of argument. This subject has been darkened and made difficult by

fine-spun and unintelligible theories, when the only knowledge necessary

to understand it may be gained by spending a few weeks in some poor

village in the interior of the country. As for Parliamentary Committees

upon this or any other subject, they are, with reverence be it spoken,

thoroughly contemptible. They will summon and examine witnesses who, for

the most part, know little about the habits or distresses of the poor;

public money will be wasted in defraying their expenses and in printing

reports; resolutions will be passed; something will be said about it

in the House of Commons; and, in a few weeks, after resolving and

re-resolving, it is as little thought of, as if it had never been the

subject of investigation. In the meantime the evil proceeds--becomes

more inveterate--eats into the already declining prosperity of the

country--whilst those who suffer under it have the consolation of

knowing that a Parliamentary Committee sat longer upon it than so many

geese upon their eggs, but hatched nothing. Two circumstances, connected

with pauperism in Ireland, are worthy of notice. The first is this--the

Roman Catholics, who certainly constitute the bulk of the population,

feel themselves called upon, from the peculiar tenets of their religion,

to exercise indiscriminate charity largely to the begging poor. They act

under the impression that eleemosynary good works possess the power of

cancelling sin to an extent almost incredible. Many of their religious

legends are founded upon this view of the case; and the reader will find

an appropriate one in the Priest's sermon, as given in our tale of the

“Poor Scholar.” That legend is one which the author has many a time

heard from the lips of the people, by whom it was implicitly believed.

A man who may have committed a murder overnight, will the next day

endeavor to wipe away his guilt by alms given for the purpose of getting

the benefit of “the poor man's prayer.” The principle of assisting our

distressed fellow-creatures, when rationally exercised, is one of the

best in society; but here it becomes entangled with error, superstition,

and even with crime--acts as a bounty upon imposture, and in some degree

predisposes to guilt, from an erroneous belief that sin may be cancelled

by alms and the prayers of mendicant impostors. The second point, in

connection with pauperism, is the immoral influence that I proceeds

from the relation in which the begging poor in Ireland stand towards the

class by whom they are supported. These, as we have already said,

are the poorest, least educated, and consequently the most ignorant

description of the people. They are also the most numerous. There have

been for centuries, probably since the Reformation itself, certain

opinions floating among the lower classes in Ireland, all tending to

prepare them for some great change in their favor, arising from

the discomfiture of heresy, the overthrow of their enemies, and the

exaltation of themselves and their religion.

Scarcely had the public mind subsided after the Rebellion of

Ninety-eight, when the success of Buonaparte directed the eyes and the

hopes of the Irish people towards him, as the person designed to be

their deliverer. Many a fine fiction has the author of this work heard

about that great man's escapes, concerning the bullets that conveniently

turned aside from his person, and the sabres that civilly declined to

cut him down. Many prophecies too were related, in which the glory of

this country under his reign was touched off in the happiest colors.

Pastorini also gave such notions an impulse. Eighteen twenty-five was

to be the year of their deliverance: George the Fourth was never to fill

the British throne; and the mill of Lowth was to be turned three times

with human blood. “The miller with the two thumbs was then living,”

said the mendicants, for they were the principal propagators of these

opinions, and the great expounders of their own prophecies; so that of

course there could be no further doubt upon the subject. Several of them

had seen him, a red-haired man with broad shoulders, stout legs, exactly

such as a miller ought to have, and two thumbs on his right hand; all

precisely as the prophecy had stated. Then there was _Beal-derg_, and

several others of the fierce old Milesian chiefs, who along with their

armies lay in an enchanted sleep, all ready to awake and take a part in

the delivery of the country. “Sure such a man,” and they would name one

in the time of the mendicant's grandfather, “was once going to a fair to

sell a horse--well and good; the time was the dawn of morning, a little

before daylight: he met a man who undertook to purchase his horse; they

agreed upon the price, and the seller of him followed the buyer into

a Bath, where he found a range of horses, each with an armed soldier

asleep by his side, ready to spring upon him if awoke. The purchaser

cautioned the owner of the horse as they were about to enter the

subterraneous dwelling, against touching either horse or man; but the

countryman happening to stumble, inadvertently laid his hand, upon a

sleeping soldier, who immediately leaped up, drew his sword, and asked,

'Wuil anam inh?' 'Is the time in it? Is the time arrived?' To which the

horse-dealer of the Bath replied, '_Ha niel. Gho dhee collhow areesht_.'

'No: go to sleep again.' Upon this the soldier immediately sank down in

his former position, and unbroken sleep reigned throughout the cave.”

The influence on the warm imaginations of an ignorant people, of such

fictions concocted by vagrant mendicants, is very pernicious. They fill

their minds with the most palpable absurdities, and, what is worse, with

opinions, which, besides being injurious to those who receive them, in

every instance insure for those who propagate them a cordial and kind

reception.

These mendicants consequently pander, for their own selfish ends, to the

prejudices of the ignorant, which they nourish and draw out in a

manner that has in no slight degree been subversive of the peace of the

country. Scarcely any political circumstance occurs which they do not

immediately seize upon and twist to their own purposes, or, in other

words, to the opinions of those from whom they derive their support.

When our present police first appeared in their uniforms and black

belts, another prophecy, forsooth, was fulfilled. Immediately before the

downfall of heresy, a body of “Black Militia” was to appear; the police,

then, are the black militia, and the people consider themselves another

step nearer the consummation of their vague speculations.

In the year Ninety-eight, the Irish mendicants were active agents,

clever spies, and expert messengers on the part of the people; and to

this day they carry falsehood, and the materials of outrage in its worst

shape, into the bosom of peaceable families, who would, otherwise, never

become connected with a system which is calculated to bring ruin and

destruction upon those who permit themselves to join it.

This evil, and it is no trifling one, would, by the introduction of

poor-laws, be utterly abolished, the people would not only be more

easily improved, but education, when received, would not be corrupted

by the infusion into it of such ingredients as the above. In many other

points of view, the confirmed and hackneyed mendicants of Ireland are a

great evil to the morals of the people. We could easily detail them, but

such not being our object at present, we will now dismiss the subject of

poor-laws, and resume our narrative.

Far--far different from this description of impostors, were Owen

M'Carthy and his family. Their misfortunes were not the consequences

of negligence or misconduct on their own part. They struggled long but

unavailingly against high rents and low markets; against neglect on the

part of the landlord and his agent; against sickness, famine, and death.

They had no alternative but to beg or starve. Owen was willing to

work, but he could not procure employment: and provided he could, the

miserable sum of sixpence a day, when food was scarce and dear, would

not support him, his wife, and six little ones. He became a pauper,

therefore, only to avoid starvation.

Heavy and black was his heart, to use the strong expression of the

people, on the bitter morning when he set out to encounter the dismal

task of seeking alms, in order to keep life in himself and his family.

The plan was devised on the preceding night, but to no mortal, except

his wife, was it communicated. The honest pride of a man whose mind was

above committing a mean action, would not permit him to reveal what he

considered the first stain that ever was known to rest upon the name of

M'Carthy; he therefore sallied out under the beating of the storm,

and proceeded, without caring much whither he went, until he got

considerably beyond the bounds of his own parish.

In the meantime hunger pressed deeply upon him and them. The day had

no appearance of clearing up; the heavy rain and sleet beat into their

thin, worn garments, and the clamor of his children for food began to

grow more and more importunate. They came to the shelter of a hedge

which inclosed on one side a remote and broken road, along which,

in order to avoid the risk of being recognized, they had preferred

travelling. Owen stood here for a few minutes to consult with his wife,

as to where and when they should “make a beginning;” but on looking

round, he found her in tears.

“Kathleen, asthore,” said he, “I can't bid you not to cry; bear up,

acushla machree; bear up: sure, as I said when we came out this mornin',

there's a good God above us, that can still turn over the good lafe for

us, if we put our hopes in him.”

“Owen,” said his sinking wife, “it's not altogether bekase we're brought

to this that I'm cryin'; no, indeed.”

“Thin what ails you, Kathleen darlin'?”

The wife hesitated, and evaded the question for some time; but at

length, upon his pressing her for an answer, with a fresh gush of

sorrow, she replied,

“Owen, since you must know--och, may God pity us!--since you must know,

it's wid hunger--wid hunger! I kept, unknownst, a little bit of bread

to give the childhre this mornin', and that was part of it I gave you

yesterday early--I'm near two days fastin'.”

“Kathleen! Kathleen! Och! sure I know your worth, avillish. You were too

good a wife, an' too good a mother, a'most! God forgive me, Kathleen! I

fretted about beginnin', dear; but as my Heavenly Father's above me, I'm

now happier to beg wid you by my side, nor if I war in the best house

of the province widout you! Hould up, avour-neen, for a while. Come on,

childhre, darlins, an' the first house we meet we'll ax their char--,

their assistance. Come on, darlins, and all of yees. Why my heart's

asier, so it is. Sure we have your mother, childhre, safe wid us, an'

what signifies anything so long as she's left to us?”

He then raised his wife tenderly, for she had been compelled to sit from

weakness, and they bent their steps to a decent farmhouse that stood a

few perches off the road, about a quarter of a mile before them.

As they approached the door, the husband hesitated a moment; his face

got paler than usual, and his lip quivered, as he said--“Kathleen--”

“I know what you're goin' to say, Owen. No, acushla, you won't; I'll ax

it myself.”

“Do,” said Owen, with difficulty; “I can't do it; but I'll overcome my

pride afore long, I hope. It's thryin' to me, Kathleen, an' you know it

is--for you know how little I ever expected to be brought to this.”

“Husht, avillish! We'll thry, then, in the name o' God.”

As she spoke, the children, herself, and her husband entered, to beg,

for the first time in their lives, a morsel of food. Yes! timidly--with

a blush, of shame, red even to crimson, upon the pallid features

of Kathleen--with grief acute and piercing--they entered the house

together.

For some minutes they stood and spoke not. The unhappy woman,

unaccustomed to the language of supplication, scarcely knew in what

terms to crave assistance. Owen himself stood back, uncovered, his

fine, but much changed features overcast with an expression of

deep affliction. Kathleen cast a single glance, at him, as if for

encouragement. Their eyes met; she saw the upright man--the last remnant

of the M'Carthy--himself once the friend of the poor, of the unhappy, of

the afflicted--standing crushed and broken down by misfortunes which he

had not deserved, waiting with patience for a morsel of charity. Owen,

too, had his remembrances. He recollected the days when he sought and

gained the pure and fond affections of his Kathleen: when beauty, and

youth, and innocence encircled her with their light and their grace, as

she spoke or moved; he saw her a happy wife and mother in her own

home, kind and benevolent to all who required her good word or her good

office, and remembered the sweetness of her light-hearted song; but now

she was homeless. He remembered, too, how she used to plead with himself

for the afflicted. It was but a moment; yet when their eyes met, that

moment was crowded by recollections that flashed across their minds with

a keen, sense of a lot so bitter and wretched as theirs. Kathleen could

not speak, although she tried; her sobs denied her utterance; and Owen

involuntarily sat upon a chair, and covered his face with his hand.

To an observing eye it is never difficult to detect the cant of

imposture, or to perceive distress when it is real. The good woman of

the house, as is usual in Ireland, was in the act of approaching them,

unsolicited, with a double handful of meal--that is what the Scotch and

northern Irish call a goivpen, or as much as both hands locked together

can contain--when, noticing their distress, she paused a moment, eyed

them more closely, and exclaimed--

“What's this? Why there's something wrong wid you, good people! But

first an' foremost take this, in the name an' honor of God.”

“May the blessin' of the same _Man_* rest upon yees!” replied Kathleen.

“This is a sorrowful thrial to us; for it's our first day to be upon the

world; an' this is the first help of the kind we ever axed for, or ever

got; an' indeed now I find we haven't even a place to carry it in. I've

no--b--b--cloth, or anything to hould it.”

* God is sometimes thus termed in Ireland. By “Man”

here is meant person or being. He is also called the

“Man above;” although this must have been intended for,

and often is applied to, Christ only.

“Your first, is it?” said the good woman. “Your first! May the marciful

queen o' heaven look down upon yees, but it's a bitther day yees war

driven out in! Sit down, there, you poor crathur. God pity you, I pray

this day, for you have a heart-broken look! Sit down awhile, near the

fire, you an' the childre! Come over, darlins, an' warm yourselves. Och,

oh! but it's a thousand pities to see sich fine childre--handsome an'

good lookin' even as they are, brought to this! Come over, good man; get

near the fire, for you're wet an' could all of ye. Brian, ludher them

two lazy thieves o' dogs out o' that. _Eiree suas, a wadhee bradagh,

agus go mah a shin!_--be off wid yez, ye lazy divils, that's not worth

your feedin'! Come over, honest man.” Owen and his family were placed

near the fire; the poor man's heart was full, and he sighed heavily.

“May He that is plased to thry us,” he exclaimed, “reward you for this!

We are,” he continued, “a poor an' a sufferin' family; but it's the

will of God that we should be so; an' sure we can't complain widout

committin' sin. All we ax now, is, that it may be plasin' to him that

brought us low, to enable us to bear up undher our thrials. We would

take it to our choice to beg an' be honest, sooner, nor to be wealthy,

an' wicked! We have our failings, an' our sins, God help us; but still

there's nothin' dark or heavy on our consciences. Glory be to the name

o' God for it!”

“Throth, I believe you,” replied the farmer's wife; “there's thruth an'

honesty in your face; one may easily see the remains of dacency about

you all. Musha, throw your little things aside, an' stay where ye are

today: you can't bring out the childre under the teem of rain an' sleet

that's in it. Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all out! Faix,

Paddy will get a dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair wid the

stirks, poor bouchal--a son of ours that's gone to Bally-boulteen to

sell some cattle, an' he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comes

back. I hope he'll have sinse to go into some house, when he's done,

an' dhry himself well, anyhow, besides takin' somethin' to keep out the

could. Put by your things, an' don't, think of goin' out sich a day.”

“We thank you,” replied Owen. “Indeed we're glad to stay undher your

roof; for poor things, they're badly able to thravel sich a day--these

childre.”

“Musha, ye ate no breakfast, maybe?” Owen and his family were silent.

The children looked wistfully at their parents, anxious that they should

confirm what the good woman surmised; the father looked again at his

famished brood and his sinking wife, and nature overcame him.

“Food did not crass our lips this day,” replied Owen; “an' I may say

hardly anything yestherday.”

“Oh, blessed mother! Here, Katty Murray, drop scrubbin' that dresser,

an' put down, the midlin' pot for stirabout. Be livin' _manim an

diouol_, woman alive, handle yourself; you might a had it boilin' by

this. God presarve us!--to be two days widout atin! Be the crass, Katty,

if you're not alive, I'll give you a douse o' the churnstaff that'll

bring the fire to your eyes! Do you hear me?”

“I do hear you, an' did often feel you, too, for fraid hearin' wouldn't

do. You think there's no places in the world but your own, I b'lieve.

Faix, indeed! it's well come up wid us, to be randied about wid no less

a switch than a churnstaff!”

“Is it givin' back talk, you are? Bad end to me, if you look crucked but

I'll lave you a mark to remimber me by. What woman 'ud put up wid you

but myself, you shkamin flipe? It wasn't to give me your bad tongue I

hired you, but to do your business; and be the crass above us, if you

turn your tongue on me agin, I'll give you the weight o' the churnstaff.

Is it bekase they're poor people that it plased God to bring to this,

that you turn up your nose at doin' anything to sarve them? There's not

wather enough there, I say--put in more what signifies all the stirabout

that 'ud make? Put plinty in: it's betther always to have too much than

too little. Faix, I tell you, you'll want a male's meat an' a night's

lodgin' afore you die, if you don't mend your manners.”

“Och, musha, the poor girl is doin' her best,” observed Kathleen; “an'

I'm sure she wouldn't be guilty of usin' pride to the likes of us, or to

any one that the Lord has laid his hand upon.”

“She had betther not, while I'm to the fore,” said her mistress. “What

is she herself? Sure if it was a sin to be poor, God help the world. No;

it's neither a sin nor a shame.”

“Thanks be to God, no,” said Owen: “it's neither the one nor the other.

So long as we keep a fair name, an' a clear conscience, we can't ever

say that our case is hard.”

After some further conversation, a comfortable breakfast was prepared

for them, of which they partook with an appetite sharpened by their long

abstinence from food. Their stay here was particularly fortunate, for as

they were certain of a cordial welcome, and an abundance of that which

they much wanted--wholesome food--the pressure of immediate distress

was removed. They had time to think more accurately upon the little

preparations for misery which were necessary, and, as the day's leisure

was at their disposal, Kathleen's needle and scissors were industriously

plied in mending the tattered clothes of her husband and her children,

in order to meet the inclemency of the weather.

On the following morning, after another abundant breakfast, and

substantial marks of kindness from their entertainers, they prepared

to resume their new and melancholy mode of life. As they were about to

depart, the farmer's wife addressed them in the following terms--the

farmer himself, by the way, being but the shadow of his worthy partner

in life--

Wife--“Now, good people, you're takin' the world on your heads--”

Farmer--“Ay, good people, you're takin' the world on your heads--”

Wife--“Hould your tongue, Brian, an' suck your dhudeen. It's me that's

spakin' to them, so none of your palaver, if you plase, till I'm done,

an' then you may prache till Tib's Eve, an' that's neither before

Christmas nor afther it.”

Farmer--“Sure I'm sayin' nothin', Elveen, barrin' houldin' my tongue, a

shuchar” (* my sugar).

Wife--“Your takin' the world on yez, an' God knows 'tis a heavy load to

carry, poor crathurs.”

Farmer--“A heavy load, poor crathurs! God he knows it's that.”

Wife--“Brian! _Gluntho ma?_--did you hear me? You'll be puttin' in your

gab, an' me spakin'? How-an-iver, as I was sayin', our house was the

first ye came to, an' they say there's a great blessin' to thim that

gives, the first charity to a poor man or woman settin' out to look for

their bit.”

Farmer--“Throgs, ay! Whin they set out; to look for their bit.”

Wife--“By the crass, Brian, you'd vex a saint. What have you to say in

it, you _pittiogue_?* Hould your whisht now, an' suck your dhudeen, I

say; sure I allow you a quarther o' tobaccy a week, an' what right have

you to be puttin' in your gosther when other people's spakin'?”

* Untranslatable--but means a womanly man a poor,

effeminate creature.

Farmer--“Go an.”

Wife--“So, you see, the long an' the short of it is that whenever you

happen to be in this side of the counthry, always come to us. You know

the ould sayin'--when the poor man comes he brings a blessin', an' when

he goes he carries away a curse. You have as much, meal as will last yez

a day or two; an' God he sees you're heartily welcome to all ye got?”

Farmer--“God he sees you're heartily welcome--”

Wife--“_Chorp an diouol_, Brian, hould your tongue, Or I'll turn you out

o' the kitchen. One can't hear their own ears for you, you poor squakin'

dhrone. By the crass, I'll--eh? Will you whisht, now?”

Farmer--“Go an. Amn't I dhrawin' my pipe?”

Wife--“Well dhraw it; but don't dhraw me down upon you, barrin--. Do you

hear me? an' the sthrange people to the fore, too! Well, the Lord be wid

yez, an' bless yez! But afore yez go, jist lave your blessin' wid us;

for it's a good thing to have the blessin' of the poor?”

“The Lord bless you, an yours!” said Owen, fervently. “May you and them

never--oh, may you never--never suffer what we've suffered; nor know

what it is to want a male's mate, or a night's lodgin'!”

“Amin!” exclaimed Kathleen; “may the world flow upon you! for your good,

kind heart desarves it.”

Farmer--“An' whisper; I wish you'd offer up a prayer for the rulin' o'

the tongue. The Lord might hear you, but there's no great hopes that

ever he'll hear me; though I've prayed for it almost ever since I was

married, night an' day, winther and summer; but no use, she's as bad as

ever.”

This was said in a kind of friendly insinuating undertone to Owen; who,

on hearing it, simply nodded his head, but made no other reply.

They then recommenced their journey, after having once more blessed,

and been invited by their charitable entertainers, who made them promise

never to pass their house without stopping a night with them.

It is not our intention to trace Owen M'Carthy and his wife through

all the variety which a wandering pauper's life affords. He never could

reconcile himself to the habits of a mendicant. His honest pride and

integrity of heart raised him above it: neither did he sink into the

whine and cant of imposture, nor the slang of knavery. No; there was

a touch of manly sorrow about him, which neither time, nor familiarity

with his degraded mode of life, could take away from him. His usual

observation to his wife, and he never made it without a pang of intense

bitterness, was--“Kathleen, dar-lin', it's thrue we have enough to ate

an' to dhrink; but we have no home--no home!” to a man like him it was a

thought of surpassing bitterness, indeed.

“Ah! Kathleen,” he would observe, “if we had but the poorest shed that

could be built, provided it was our own, wouldn't we be happy? The bread

we ate, avourneen, doesn't do us good. We don't work for it; it's the

bread of shame and idleness: and yet it's Owen M'Carthy that ates it!

But, avourneen, that's past; an' we'll never see our own home, or

our own hearth agin. That's what's cuttin' into my heart, Kathleen.

Never!--never!”

Many a trial, too, of another kind, was his patience called upon to

sustain; particularly from the wealthy and the more elevated in

life, when his inexperiences as a mendicant led him to solicit their

assistance.

“Begone, sirrah, off my grounds!” one would say. “Why don't you work,

you sturdy impostor,” another would exclaim, “rather than stroll about

so lazily, training your brats to the gallows?”

“You should be taken up, fellow, as a vagrant,” a third would observe;

“and if I ever catch you coming up my avenue again, depend upon it, I

will slip my dogs at you and your idle spawn.”

Owen, on these occasions, turned away in silence; he did not curse them;

but the pangs of his honest heart went before Him who will, sooner or

later, visit upon the heads of such men their cruel spurning and neglect

of the poor.

“Kathleen,” he observed to his wife, one day, about a, year or more

after they had begun to beg; “Kathleen, I have been turnin' it in my

mind, that some of these childhre might sthrive to earn their bit an'

sup, an' their little coverin' of clo'es, poor things. We might put them

to herd cows in the summer, an' the girshas to somethin' else in the

farmers' house. What do you think, asthore?”

“For God's sake do, Owen; sure my heart's crushed to see them--my own

childhre, that I could lay down my life for--beggin' from door to door.

Och, do something for them that way, Owen, an' you'll relieve the heart

that loves them. It's a sore sight to a mother's eye, Owen, to see her

childhre beggin' their morsel.”

“It is darlin'--it is; we'll hire out the three eldest--Brian, an' Owen,

an' Pether, to herd cows; an' we may get Peggy into some farmer's

house to do loose jobs an' run of messages. Then we'd have only little

Kathleen an' poor Ned along wid us. I'll try any way, an' if I can get

them places, who knows what may happen? I have a plan in my head that

I'll tell you, thin.”

“Arrah, what is it, Owen, jewel. Sure if I know it, maybe when I'm

sorrowful, that thinkin' of it, an' lookin' forrid to it will make me

happier. An' I'm sure, acushla, you would like that.”

“But maybe, Kathleen, if it wouldn't come to pass, that the

disappointment 'ud be heavy on you?”

“How could it, Owen? Sure we can't be worse nor we are, whatever

happens?”

“Thrue enough, indeed, I forgot that; an' yet we might, Kathleen. Sure

we'd be worse, if we or the childhre had bad health.”

“God forgive me thin, for what I said! We might be worse. Well, but what

is the plan, Owen?”

“Why, when we got the childhre places, I'll sthrive to take a little

house, an' work as a cottar. Then, Kathleen, we'd have a home of our

own. I'd work from light to light; I'd work before hours an' afther

hours; ay, nine days in the week, or we'd be comfortable in our own

little home. We might be poor, Kathleen, I know that, an' hard pressed

too; but then, as I said, we'd have our own home, an' our own hearth;

our morsel, if it 'ud be homely, would be sweet, for it would be the

fruits of our own labor.”

“Now, Owen, do you think you could manage to get that?”

“Wait, acushla, till we get the childhre settled. Then I'll thry the

other plan, for it's good to thry anything that could take us out of

this disgraceful life.”

This humble speculation was a source of great comfort to them. Many

a time have they forgotten their sorrows in contemplating the simple

picture of their happy little cottage. Kathleen, in particular, drew

with all the vivid coloring of a tender mother, and an affectionate

wife, the various sources of comfort and contentment to be found even

in a cabin, whose inmates are blessed with a love of independence,

industry, and mutual affection.

Owen, in pursuance of his intention, did not neglect, when the proper

season arrived, to place out his eldest children among the farmers.

The reader need not be told that there was that about him which gained

respect. He had, therefore, little trouble in obtaining his wishes on

this point, and to his great satisfaction, he saw three of them hired

out to earn their own support.

It was now a matter of some difficulty for him to take a cabin and get

employment. They had not a single article of furniture, and neither bed

nor bedding, with the exception of blankets almost worn past use. He was

resolved, however, to give up, at all risks, the life of a mendicant.

For this purpose, he and the wife agreed to adopt a plan quite usual in

Ireland, under circumstances somewhat different from his: this was,

that Kathleen should continue to beg for their support, until the

first half-year of their children's service should expire; and in the

meantime, that he, if possible, should secure employment for himself.

By this means, his earnings and that of his children might remain

untouched, so that in half a year he calculated upon being able to

furnish a cabin, and proceed, as a cotter, to work for, and support his

young children and his wife, who determined, on her part, not to be idle

any more than her husband. As the plan was a likely one, and as Owen

was bent on earning his bread, rather than be a burthen to others, it

is unnecessary to say that it succeeded. In less than a year he found

himself once more in a home, and the force of what he felt on sitting,

for the first time since his pauperism, at his own hearth, may easily be

conceived by the reader. For some years after this, Owen got on slowly

enough; his wages as a daily laborer being so miserable, that it

required him to exert every nerve to keep the house over their head.

What, however, will not carefulness and a virtuous determination, joined

to indefatigable industry, do?

After some time, backed as he was by his wife, and even by his youngest

children, he, found himself beginning to improve. In the mornings and

evenings he cultivated his garden and his rood of potato-ground. He also

collected with a wheelbarrow, which he borrowed, from an acquaintance,

compost from the neighboring road; scoured an old drain before his door;

dug rich earth, and tossed, it into the pool of rotten water beside the

house, and in fact adopted several other modes of collecting manure. By

this means he had, each spring, a large portion of rich stuff on which

to plant his potatoes. His landlord permitted him to spread this for

planting upon his land; and Owen, ere long, instead of a rood, was able

to plant half an acre, and ultimately, an acre of potatoes. The produce

of this, being more than sufficient for the consumption of his family,

he sold the surplus, and with the money gained by the sale was enabled

to sow half an acre of oats, of which, when made into meal, he disposed

of the greater share.

Industry is capital; for even when unaided by capital it creates it;

whereas, idleness with capital produces only poverty and ruin. Owen,

after selling his meal and as much potatoes as he could spare, found

himself able to purchase a cow. Here was the means of making more

manure; he had his cow, and he had also straw enough for her provender

during the winter. The cow by affording milk to his family, enabled them

to live more cheaply; her butter they sold, and this, in addition to his

surplus meal and potatoes every year, soon made him feel that he had a

few guineas to spare. He now bethought him of another mode of helping

himself forward in the world: after buying the best “slip” of a pig he

could find, a sty was built for her, and ere long he saw a fine litter

of young pigs within a snug shed. These he reared until they were about

two months old, when he sold them, and found that he had considerably

gained by the transaction. This, department, however, was under the

management of Kathleen, whose life was one of incessant activity and

employment. Owen's children, during the period of his struggles and

improvements, were, by his advice, multiplying their little capital as

fast as himself. The two boys, who had now shot up into the stature of

young men, were at work as laboring servants in the neighborhood. The

daughters were also engaged as servants with the adjoining farmers. The

boys bought each a pair of two-year old heifers, and the daughter one.

These they sent to graze up in the mountains at a trifling charge, for

the first year or two: when they became springers, they put them to rich

infield grass for a few months, until they got a marketable appearance,

after which their father brought them to the neighboring fairs, where

they usually sold to great advantage, in consequence of the small outlay

required in rearing them.

In fact, the principle of industry ran through the family. There was

none of them idle; none of them a burthen or a check upon the profits

made by the laborer. On the contrary, “they laid their shoulders

together,” as the phrase is, and proved to the world, that when the

proper disposition is followed up by suitable energy and perseverance,

it must generally reward him who possesses it.

It is certainly true that Owen's situation in life now was essentially

different from that which it had been during the latter years of his

struggles an a farmer. It was much more favorable, and far better

calculated to develop successful exertion. If there be a class of men

deserving public sympathy, it is that of the small farmers of Ireland.

Their circumstances are fraught with all that is calculated to depress

and ruin them; rents far above their ability, increasing poverty, and

bad markets. The land which, during the last war, might have enabled the

renter to pay three pounds per acre, and yet still maintain himself with

tolerable comfort, could not now pay more than one pound, or, at the

most, one pound ten; and yet, such is the infatuation of landlords,

that, in most instances, the terms of leases taken out then are

rigorously exacted. Neither can the remission of yearly arrears be said

to strike at the root of the evils under which they suffer. The fact

of the disproportionate rent hanging over them is a disheartening

circumstance, that paralyzes their exertion, and sinks their spirits. If

a landlord remit the rent for one term, he deals more harshly with the

tenant at the next; whatever surplus, if any, his former indulgence

leaves in the tenant's hands, instead of being expended upon his

property as capital, and being permitted to lay the foundation of

hope and prosperity, is drawn from him, at next term, and the poor,

struggling tenant is thrown back into as much distress, embarrassment,

and despondency as ever. There are, I believe, few tenants in Ireland

of the class I allude to, who are not from one gale to three in arrear.

Now, how can it be expected that such men will labor with spirit and

earnestness to raise crops which they may never reap? crops which the

landlord may seize upon to secure as much of his rent as he can.

I have known a case in which the arrears were not only remitted, but the

rent lowered to a reasonable standard, such as, considering the markets,

could be paid. And what was the consequence? The tenant who was looked

upon as a negligent man, from whom scarcely any rent could be got, took

courage, worked his farm with a spirit and success which he had not

evinced before; and ere long was in a capacity to pay his gales to the

very day; so that the judicious and humane landlord was finally a gainer

by his own excellent economy. This was an experiment, and it succeeded

beyond expectation.

Owen M'Carthy did not work with more zeal and ability as an humble

cotter than he did when a farmer; but the tide was against him as a

landholder, and instead of having advanced, he actually lost ground

until he became a pauper. No doubt the peculiarly unfavorable run of two

hard seasons, darkened by sickness and famine, were formidable obstacles

to him; but he must eventually have failed, even had they not occurred.

They accelerated his downfall, but did not cause it.

The Irish people, though poor, are exceedingly anxious to be

independent. Their highest ambition is to hold a farm. So strong is this

principle in them, that they will, without a single penny of capital, or

any visible means to rely on, without consideration or forethought, come

forward and offer a rent which, if they reflected only for a moment,

they must feel to be unreasonably high. This, indeed, is a great evil

in Ireland. But what, in the meantime, must we think of those imprudent

landlords, and their more imprudent agents, who let their land to

such persons, without proper inquiry into their means, knowledge of

agriculture, and general character as moral and industrious men? A farm

of land is to be let; it is advertised through the parish; application

is to be made before such a day, to so and so. The day arrives, the

agent or the land-steward looks over the proposals, and after singling

out the highest, bidder, declares him tenant, as a matter of course.

Now, perhaps, this said tenant does not possess a shilling in the

world, nor a shilling's worth. Most likely he is a new-married man,

with nothing but his wife's bed and bedding, his wedding-suit, and his

blackthorn cudgel, which we may suppose him to keep in reserve for the

bailiff. However, he commences his farm; and then follow the shiftings,

the scramblings, and the fruitless struggles to succeed, where success

is impossible. His farm is not half tilled; his crops are miserable; the

gale-day has already passed; yet, he can pay nothing until he takes it

out of the land. Perhaps he runs away--makes a moonlight flitting--and,

by the aid of his friends, succeeds in bringing the crop with him. The

landlord, or agent, declares he is a knave; forgetting that the man

had no other alternative, and that they were the greater knaves and

fools too, for encouraging him to undertake a task that was beyond his

strength.

In calamity we are anxious to derive support from the sympathy of our

friends; in our success, we are eager to communicate to them the power

of participating in our happiness. When Owen once more found himself

independent and safe, he longed to realize two plans on which he had

for some time before been seriously thinking. The first was to visit his

former neighbors, that they might at length know that Owen McCarthy's

station in the world was such as became his character. The second was,

if possible, to take a farm in his native parish, that he might close

his days among the companions of his youth, and the friends of his

maturer years. He had, also, another motive; there lay the burying-place

of the M'Carthys, in which slept the mouldering dust of his own

“golden-haired” Alley. With them--in his daughter's grave--he intended

to sleep his long sleep. Affection for the dead is the memory of the

heart. In no other graveyard could he reconcile it to himself to be

buried; to it had all his forefathers been gathered; and though

calamity had separated him from the scenes where they had passed through

existence, yet he was resolved that death should not deprive him of its

last melancholy consolation;--that of reposing with all that remained of

the “departed,” who had loved him, and whom he had loved. He believed,

that to neglect this, would be to abandon a sacred duty, and felt sorrow

at the thought of being like an absent guest from the assembly of his

own dead; for there is a principle of undying hope in the heart, that

carries, with bold and beautiful imagery, the realities of life into the

silent recesses of death itself.

Having formed the resolution of visiting his old friends at Tubber Derg,

he communicated it to Kathleen and his family; Ids wife received the

intelligence with undisguised delight.

“Owen,” she replied, “indeed I'm glad you mintioned it. Many a time the

thoughts of our place, an' the people about it, comes over me. I know,

Owen, it'll go to your heart to see it; but still, avourneen, you'd

like, too, to see the ould faces an' the warm hearts of them that pitied

us, an' helped us, as well as they could, whin we war broken down.”

“I would, Kathleen; but I'm not going merely to see thim an' the place.

I intind, if I can, to take a bit of land somewhere near Tubber Derg.

I'm unasy in my mind, for 'fraid I'd not sleep in the grave-yard where

all belongin' to me lie.”

A chord of the mother's heart was touched; and in a moment the memory of

their beloved child brought the tears to her eyes.

“Owen, avourneen, I have one requist to ax of you, an' I'm sure you

won't refuse it to me; if I die afore you, let me be buried wid Alley.

Who has a right to sleep so near her as her own mother?”

“The child's in my heart still,” said Owen, suppressing his emotion;

“thinkin' of the unfortunate mornin' I wint to Dublin, brings her

back to me. I see her standin', wid her fair pale face--pale--oh, my

God!--wid hunger an' sickness--her little thin clo'es, an' her goolden

hair, tossed about by the dark blast--the tears in her eyes, an' the

smile, that she once had, on her face--houldin' up her mouth, an' sayin'

'Kiss me agin, father;' as if she knew, somehow, that I'd never see

her, nor her me, any more. An' whin I looked back, as I was turnin' the

corner, there she stood, strainin' her eyes after her father, that she

was then takin' the last sight of until the judgment-day.”

His voice here became broken, and he sat in silence for a few minutes.

“It's sthrange,” he added, with more firmness, “how she's so often in my

mind!”

“But, Owen, dear,” replied Kathleen, “sure it was the will of God that

she should lave us. She's now a bright angel in heaven, an' I dunna if

it's right--indeed, I doubt it's sinful for us to think so much about

her. Who knows but her innocent spirit is makin' inthercession for us

all, before the blessed Mother o' God! Who knows but it was her that got

us the good fortune that flowed in upon us, an' that made our strugglin'

an' our laborin' turn out so lucky.”

The idea of being lucky or unlucky is, in Ireland, an enemy to industry.

It is certainly better that the people should believe success in life

to be, as it is, the result of virtuous exertion, than of contingent

circumstances, over which they themselves have no control. Still there

was something beautiful in the superstition of Kathleen's affections;

something that touched the heart and its! dearest associations.

“It's very true, Kathleen,” replied her husband; “but God is ever ready

to help them that keeps an honest heart, an' do everything in their

power to live creditably. They may fail for a time, or he may thry them

for awhile, but sooner or later good, intintions and honest labor will

be rewarded. Look at ourselves--blessed be his name!”

“But whin do you mane to go to Tubber Derg, Owen!”

“In the beginnin' of the next week. An', Kathleen, ahagur, if you

remimber the bitther mornin' we came upon the world--but we'll not

be spakin' of that now. I don't like to think of it. Some other time,

maybe, when we're settled among our ould friends, I'll mintion it.”

“Well, the Lord bliss your endayvors, anyhow! Och, Owen, do thry an'

get us a snug farm somewhere near them. But you didn't answer me about

Alley, Owen?”

“Why, you must have your wish, Kathleen, although I intended to keep

that place for myself. Still we can sleep one on aich side of her; an'

that may be aisily done, for our buryin'-ground is large: so set your

mind at rest on that head. I hope God won't call us till we see our

childhre settled dacently in the world. But sure, at all evints, let his

blessed will be done!”

“Amin! amin! It's not right of any one to keep their hearts fixed too

much upon the world; nor even, they say, upon one's own childhre.”

“People may love their childhre as much as they plase, Kathleen, if they

don't let their _grah_ for them spoil the crathurs, by givin' them their

own will, till they become headstrong an' overbearin'. Now, let my linen

be as white as a bone before Monday, plase goodness; I hope, by that

time, that Jack Dogherty will have my new clo'es made; for I intind to

go as dacent as ever they seen me in my best days.”

“An' so you will, too, avillish. Throth, Owen, it's you that'll be the

proud man, steppin' in to them in all your grandeur! Ha, ha, ha! The

spirit o' the M'Carthys is in you still, Owen.”

“Ha, ha, ha! It is, darlin'; it is, indeed; an' I'd be sarry it wasn't.

I long to see poor Widow Murray. I dunna is her son, Jemmy, married.

Who knows, afther all we suffered, but I might be able to help

her yet?--that is, if she stands in need of it. But, I suppose, her

childhre's grown up now, an' able to assist her. Now, Kathleen, mind

Monday next; an' have everything ready. I'll stay away a week or so, at

the most, an' afther that I'll have news for you about all o' them.”

When Monday morning arrived, Owen found himself ready to set out for

Tubber Derg. The tailor had not disappointed him; and Kathleen, to do

her justice, took care that the proofs of her good housewifery should

be apparent in the whiteness of his linen. After breakfast, he dressed

himself in all his finery; and it would be difficult to say whether

the harmless vanity that peeped out occasionally from his simplicity

of character, or the open and undisguised triumph of his faithful wife,

whose eye rested on him with pride and affection, was most calculated to

produce a smile.

“Now, Kathleen,” said he, when preparing for his immediate departure,

“I'm, thinkin' of what they'll say, when they see, me so smooth an'

warm-lookin'. I'll engage they'll be axin' one another, 'Musha, how, did

Owen M'Carthy get an, at all, to be so well to do in the world, as he

appears to be, afther failin' on his ould farm?'”

“Well, but Owen, you know how to manage them.”

“Throth, I do that. But there is one thing they'll never get out o' me,

any way.”

“You won't tell that to any o' them, Owen?”

“Kathleen, if I thought they only suspected it, I'd never show my face

in Tubber Derg agin. I think I could bear to be--an' yet it 'ud be a

hard struggle with me too--but I think I could bear to be buried among

black strangers, rather than it should be said, over my grave, among

my own, 'there's where Owen M'Carthy lies--who was the only man, of his

name, that ever begged his morsel on the king's highway. There he lies,

the descendant of the great M'Carthy Mores, an' yet he was a beggar.'

I know, Kathleen achora, it's neither a sin nor a shame to ax one's bit

from our fellow-creatures, whin, fairly brought to it, widout any fault

of our own; but still I feel something in me, that can't bear to think

of it widout shame an' heaviness of heart.”

“Well, it's one comfort, that nobody knows it but ourselves. The poor

childhre, for their own sakes, won't ever breathe it; so that it's

likely the sacret 'll be berrid wid us.”

“I hope so, acushla. Does this coat sit asy atween the shouldhers? I

feel it catch me a little.”

“The sorra nicer. There; it was only your waistcoat that was turned down

in the collar. Here--hould your arm. There now--it wanted to be pulled

down a little at the cuffs. Owen, it's a beauty; an' I think I have good

right to be proud of it, for it's every thread my own spinnin'.”

“How do I look in it, Kathleen? Tell me thruth, now.”

“Throth, you're twenty years younger; the never a day less.”

“I think I needn't be ashamed to go afore my ould friends in it, any

way. Now bring me my staff, from undher the bed above; an', in the name

o' God, I'll set out.”

“Which o' them, Owen? Is it the oak or the blackthorn?”

“The oak, acushla. Oh, no; not the blackthorn. It's it that I brought

to Dublin wid me, the unlucky thief, an' that I had while we wor a

shaughran. Divil a one o' me but 'ud blush in the face, if I brought

it even in my hand afore them. The oak, ahagur; the oak. You'll get it

atween the foot o' the bed an' the wall.”

When Kathleen placed the staff in his hand, he took off his hat and

blessed himself, then put it on, looked at his wife, and said--“Now

darlin', in the name o' God, I'll go. Husht, avillish machree, don't be

cryin'; sure I'll be back to you in a week.”

“Och! I can't help it, Owen. Sure this is the second time you wor ever

away from me more nor a day; an' I'm thinkin' of what happened both

to you an' me, the first time you wint. Owen, acushla, I feel that if

anything happened you, I'd break my heart.”

“Arrah, what 'ud happen me, darlin', wid God to protect me? Now, God

be wid you, Kathleen dheelish, till I come back to you wid good news,

I hope. I'm not goin' in sickness an' misery, as I wint afore, to see a

man that wouldn't hear my appale to him; an' I'm lavin' you comfortable,

agrah, an' wantin' for nothin'. Sure it's only about five-an'-twenty

miles from this--a mere step. The good God bless an' take care of you,

my darlin' wife, till I come home to you!”

He kissed the tears that streamed from her eyes; and, hemming several

times, pressed her hand, his face rather averted, then grasped his

staff, and commenced his journey.

Scenes like this were important events to our humble couple. Life, when

untainted by the crimes and artificial manners which destroy its purity,

is a beautiful thing to contemplate among the virtuous poor; and, where

the current of affection runs deep and smooth, the slightest incident

will agitate it. So it was with Owen M'Carthy and his wife. Simplicity,

truth, and affection, constituted their character. In them there was no

complication of incongruous elements. The order of their virtues was not

broken, nor the purity of their affections violated, by the anomalous

blending together of opposing principles, such as are to be found in

those who are involuntarily contaminated by the corruption of human

society.

Owen had not gone far, when Kathleen called to him: “Owen,

ahagur--stand, darlin'; but don't come back a step, for fraid o' bad

luck.” *

* When an Irish peasant sets out on a journey, or to

transact business in fair or market, he will not, if

possible, turn back. It is considered unlucky: as it is

also to be crossed by a hare, or met by a red-haired

woman.

“Did I forget anything, Kathleen?” he inquired. “Let me see; no; sure

I have my beads an' my tobaccy box, an' my two clane shirts an'

handkerchers in the bundle. What is it, acushla?”

“I needn't be axin' you, for I know you wouldn't forget it; but for

'fraid you might--Owen, whin you're at Tubber Derg, go to little Alley's

grave, an' look at it; an' bring me back word how it appears. You might

get it cleaned up, if there's weeds or anything growin' upon it; an'

Owen, would you bring me a bit o' the clay, tied up in your pocket. Whin

you're there, spake to her; tell her it was the lovin' mother that bid

you, an' say anything that you think might keep her asy, an' give her

pleasure. Tell her we're not now as we wor whin she was wid us; that we

don't feel hunger, nor cowld, nor want; an' that nothin' is a throuble

to us, barrin' that we miss her--ay, even yet--_a suillish machree_ (*

light of my heart), that she was--that we miss her fair face an' goolden

hair from among us. Tell her this; an' tell her it was the lovin' mother

that said it, an' that sint the message to her.”

“I'll do it all, Kathleen; I'll do it all--all, An' now go in, darlin',

an' don't be frettin'. Maybe we'll soon be near her, plase God, where we

can see the place she sleeps in, often.”

They then separated again; and Owen, considerably affected by the

maternal tenderness of his wife, proceeded on his journey. He had not,

actually, even at the period of his leaving home, been able to determine

on what particular friend he should first call. That his welcome would

be hospitable, nay, enthusiastically so, he was certain. In the meantime

he vigorously pursued his journey; and partook neither of refreshment

nor rest, until he arrived, a little after dusk, at a turn of the

well-known road, which, had it been daylight, would have opened to him a

view of Tubber Derg. He looked towards the beeches, however, under which

it stood; but to gain a sight of it was impossible. His road now lying

a little to the right, he turned to the house of his sterling friend,

Frank Farrell, who had given him and his family shelter and support,

when he was driven, without remorse, from his own holding. In a

short time he reached Frank's residence, and felt a glow of sincere

satisfaction at finding the same air of comfort and warmth about it

as formerly. Through the kitchen window he saw the strong light of the

blazing fire and heard, ere he presented himself, the loud hearty laugh

of his friend's wife, precisely as light and animated as it had been

fifteen years before.

Owen lifted the latch and entered, with that fluttering of the pulse

which every man feels on meeting with a friend, after an interval of

many years.

“Musha, good people, can ye tell me is Frank Farrell at home?”

“Why, thin, he's not jist widin now, but he'll be here in no time

entirely,” replied one of his daughters. “Won't you sit down, honest

man, an' we'll sind for him.”

“I'm thankful to you,” said Owen. “I'll sit, sure enough, till he comes

in.”

“Why thin!--eh! it must--it can be no other!” exclaimed Farrell's wife,

bringing! over a candle and looking Owen earnestly in the face; “sure

I'd know that voice all the world over! Why, thin, marciful

Father--Owen M'Carthy,--Owen M'Carthy, is it your four quarthers that's

livin' an' well? Queen o' heaven, Owen M'Carthy darlin', you're

welcome!” the word was here interrupted by a hearty kiss from the kind

housewife;--welcome a thousand an' a thousand times! _Vick ne hoiah!_

Owen dear, an' are you livin' at all? An' Kathleen, Owen, an' the

childhre, an' all of yez--an' how are they?”

“Throth, we're livin' an' well, Bridget; never was betther, thanks be to

God an' you, in our lives.”

Owen was now surrounded by such of Farrell's children as were old enough

to remember him; every one of whom he shook hands with, and kissed.

“Why, thin, the Lord save my sowl, Bridget,” said he, “are these the

little bouchaleens an' colleens that were runnin' about my feet whin

I was here afore? Well, to be sure! How they do shoot up! An' is this

Atty?”

“No: but this is Atty, Owen; faix, Brian outgrew him; an' here's Mary,

an' this is Bridget Oge.”

“Well!--well! But where did these two; young shoots come from? this boy

an' the colleen here? They worn't to the fore, in my time, Bridget.”

“This is Owen, called afther yourself,--an' this is Kathleen. I needn't

tell you who she was called afther.”

“_Gutsho, alanna? thurm pogue?_--come here, child, and kiss me,” said

Owen to his little namesake; “an' sure I can't forget the little woman

here; _gutsho, a colleen_, and kiss: me too.”

Owen took her on his knee, and kissed her twice.

“Och, but poor Kathleen,” said he, “will be the proud woman of this,

when she hears it; in throth she will be that.”

“Arrah! what's comin' over me!” said Mrs. Farrell. “Brian, run up to

Micky Lowrie's for your father, An' see, Brian, don't say who's wantin'

him, till we give him a start. Mary, come here, acushla,” she added to

her eldest daughter in a whisper--“take these two bottles an' fly up

to Peggy Finigan's for the full o' them o' whiskey. Now be back before

you're there, or if you don't, that I mightn't, but you'll see what

you'll get. Fly, aroon, an' don't let the grass grow undher your feet.

An' Owen, darlin'--but first sit over to the fire:--here get over to

this side, it's the snuggest;--arrah, Owen--an' sure I dunna what to ax

you first. You're all well? all to the fore?”

“All well, Bridget, an' thanks be to heaven, all to the fore.”

“Glory be to God! Throth it warms my heart to hear it. An' the childre's

all up finely, boys an' girls?”

“Throth, they are, Bridget, as good-lookin' a family o' childre as

you'd wish to see. An' what is betther, they're as good as they're

good-lookin'.”

“Throth, they couldn't but be that, if they tuck at all afther their

father an' mother. Bridget, aroon, rub the pan betther--an' lay the

knife down, I'll cut the bacon myself, but go an' get a dozen o' the

freshest eggs;--an' Kathleen, Owen, how does poor Kathleen look? Does

she stand it as well as yourself?”

“As young as ever you seen her. God help her!--a thousand degrees

betther nor whin you seen her last.”

“An' well to do, Owen?--now tell the truth? Och, musha, I forget who I'm

spakin' to, or I wouldn't disremimber the ould sayin' that's abroad this

many a year:--'who ever knew a M'Carthy of Tubber Derg to tell a lie,

break his word, or refuse to help a friend in distress.' But, Owen,

you're well to do in' the world?”

“We're as well, Bridget, or may be betther, nor you ever knew us,

except, indeed, afore the ould lase was run out wid us.”

“God be praised again? Musha, turn round a little, Owen, for 'fraid

Frank 'ud get too clear a sight of your face at first. Arrah, do you

think he'll know you? Och, to be sure he will; I needn't ax. Your voice

would tell upon you, any day.”

“Know me! Indeed Frank 'ud know my shadow. He'll know me wid half a

look.”

And Owen was right, for quickly did the eye of his old friend recognize

him, despite of the little plot that was laid to try his penetration.

To describe their interview would be to repeat the scene we have already

attempted to depict between Owen and Mrs. Farrell. No sooner were the

rites of hospitality performed, than the tide of conversation began to

flow with greater freedom. Owen ascertained one important fact, which we

will here mention, because it produces, in a great degree, the want

of anything like an independent class of yeomanry in the country. On

inquiring after his old acquaintances, he discovered that a great many

of them, owing to high rents, had emigrated to America. They belonged

to that class of independent farmers, who, after the expiration of

their old leases, finding the little capital they had saved beginning

to diminish, in consequence of rents which they could not pay, deemed it

more prudent, while anything remained in their hands, to seek a country

where capital and industry might be made available. Thus did the

landlords, by their mismanagement and neglect, absolutely drive off

their estates, the only men, who, if properly encouraged, were capable

of becoming the strength and pride of the country. It is this system,

joined to the curse of middlemen and sub-letting, which has left the

country without any third grade of decent, substantial yoemen, who might

stand as a bond of peace between the highest and the lowest classes. It

is this which has split the kingdom into two divisions, constituting

the extreme ends of society--the wealthy and the wretched, If this third

class existed, Ireland would neither be so political nor discontented as

she is; but, on the contrary, more remarkable for peace and industry. At

present, the lower classes, being too poor, are easily excited by those

who promise them a better order of things than that which exists. These

theorists step into the exercise of that legitimate influence which the

landed proprietors have lost by their neglect. There is no middle class

in the country, who can turn round to them and say, “Our circumstances

are easy, we want nothing; carry your promises to the poor, for that

which you hold forth to their hopes, we enjoy in reality.” The poor

soldier, who, because he was wretched, volunteered to go on the

forlorn hope, made a fortune; but when asked if he would go on a second

enterprise of a similar kind, shrewdly replied, “General, I am now an

independent man; send some poor devil on your forlorn hope who wants to

make a fortune.”

Owen now heard anecdotes and narratives of all occurrences, whether

interesting or strange, that had taken place during his abscence. Among

others, was the death of his former landlord, and the removal of the

agent who had driven him to beggary. Tubber Derg, he found, was then the

property of a humane and considerate man, who employed a judicious and

benevolent gentleman to manage it.

“One thing, I can tell you,” said Frank; “it was but a short time in the

new agent's hands, when the dacent farmers stopped goin' to America.”

“But Frank,” said Owen, and he sighed on putting the question, “who is

in Tubber Derg, now?”

“Why, thin, a son of ould Rousin' Redhead's of Tullyvernon--young Con

Roe, or the Ace o' Hearts--for he was called both by the youngsters--if

you remimber him. His head's as red an' double as big, even, as his

father's was, an' you know that no hat would fit ould Con, until he sent

his measure to Jemmy Lamb, the hatter. Dick Nugent put it out on

him, that Jemmy always made Rousin' Red-head's hat, either upon the

half-bushel pot or a five-gallon keg of whiskey. 'Talkin' of the keg,'

says Dick, 'for the matther o' that,' says he, 'divil a much differ the

hat will persave; for the one'--meanin' ould Con's head, who was a hard

dhrinker--' the one,' says Con, 'is as much a keg as the other--ha! ha!

ha!' Dick met Rousin' Redhead another day: 'Arrah, Con,' says he, 'why

do you get your hats made upon a pot, man alive? Sure that's the rason

that you're so fond o' poteen.' A quare mad crathur was Dick, an' would

go forty miles for a fight. Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in a

scrimmage betwixt the Redmonds and the O'Hanlons; an' his last words

were, 'Bad luck to you, Redmond--O'Hanlon, I never thought you, above

all men dead and gone, would be the death o' me.' Poor fellow! he was

for pacifyin' them, for a wondher, but instead o' that he got pacified

himself.”

“An' how is young Con doin', Frank?”

“Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither well or ill, yit. There was

four tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an' he's the fifth. It's

hard to say how he'll do; but I believe he's the best o' thim, for so

far. That may be owin' to the landlord. The rent's let down to him; an'

I think he'll be able to take bread, an' good bread too, out of it.”

“God send, poor man!”

“Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it?”

“I can't say that. I love the place, but I suffered too much in it. No;

but I'll tell you, Frank, if there was e'er a snug farm near it that I

could get rasonable, I'd take it.”

Frank slapped his knee exultingly. “Ma chuirp!--do you say so, Owen?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Thin upon my song, thats the luckiest thing I ever knew. There's, this

blessed minute, a farm o' sixteen acres, that the Lacys is lavin'--goin'

to America--an' it's to be set. They'll go the week afther next, an'

the house needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the very day afther

they Live it.”

“Well,” said Owen, “I'm glad of that. Will you come wid me to-morrow,

an' we'll see about it?”

“To be sure I will; an' what's betther, too; the Agint is a son of ould

Misther Rogerson's, a man that knows you, an' the history o' them you

came from, well. An', another thing, Owen! I tell you, whin it's abroad

that you want to take the farm, there's not a man in the parish will bid

agin you. You may know that yourself.”

“I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me than otherwise,” replied

Owen; “an', in the name o' God, we'll see what can be done. Misther

Rogerson, himself, 'ud spake to his son for me; so that I'll be sure of

his intherest. Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o' mine, that I have

a great regard for--poor Widow Murray?”

“Widow Murray. Poor woman, she's happy.”

“You don't mane she's dead?”

“She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour. She died last

spring was a two years.”

“God be good to her sowl! An' are the childhre in her place still? It's

she that was the dacent woman.”

“Throth, they are; an' sorrow a betther doin' family in the parish than

they are. It's they that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a time I seen

their poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin' down the tears, whin

she used to be spakin' of you, or mintion how often you sarved her;

espeshially, about some way or other that you privinted her cows from

bein' canted for the rint. She's dead now, an' God he knows, an honest

hard-workin' woman she ever was.”

“Dear me, Frank, isn't it a wondher to think how the people dhrop off!

There's Widow Murray, one o' my ouldest frinds, an' Pether M'Mahon, an'

Barny Lorinan--not to forget pleasant Rousin' Red-head--all taken away!

Well!--Well! Sure it's the will o' God! We can't be here always.”

After much conversation; enlivened by the bottle, though but sparingly

used on the part of Owen, the hour of rest arrived, when the family

separated for the night.

The gray dawn of a calm, beautiful summer's morning found Owen up and

abroad, long before the family of honest Frank had risen. When dressing

himself, with an intention of taking an early walk, he was asked by his

friend why he stirred so soon, or if he--his host--should accompany him.

“No,” replied Owen; “lie still; jist let me look over the counthry while

it's asleep. When I'm musin' this a-way I don't like anybody to be along

wid me. I have a place to go an' see, too--an' a message--a tendher

message, from poor Kathleen, to deliver, that I wouldn't wish a second

person to hear. Sleep, Frank. I'll jist crush the head o' my pipe agin'

one o' the half-burned turf that the fire was raked wid, an' walk out

for an hour or two. Afther our breakfast we'll go-an' look about this

new farm.”

He sallied out as he spoke, and closed the door after him in that

quiet, thoughtful way for which he was ever remarkable. The season was

midsummer, and the morning wanted at least an hour of sunrise. Owen

ascended a little knoll, above Frank's house, on which he stood

and surveyed the surrounding country with a pleasing but melancholy

interest. As his eye rested on Tubber Derg, he felt the difference

strongly between the imperishable glories of nature's works, and those

which are executed by man. His house he would not have known, except

by its site. It was not, in fact, the same house, but another which had

been built in its stead. This disappointed and vexed him. An object on

which his affections had been placed was removed. A rude stone house

stood before him, rough and unplastered; against each end of which was

built a stable-and a cow-house, sloping down from the gables to low

doors at booh sides; adjoining these rose two mounds of filth, large

enough to be easily distinguished from the knoll on which he stood. He

sighed as he contrasted it with the neat and beautiful farm-house, which

shone there in his happy days, white as a lily, beneath the covering

of the lofty beeches. There was no air of comfort, neatness, or

independence, about it; on the contrary, everything betrayed the

evidence of struggle and difficulty, joined, probably, to want both of

skill and of capital. He was disappointed, and turned his gaze upon the

general aspect of the country, and the houses in which either his old

acquaintances or their children lived. The features of the landscape

were, certainly, the same; but even here was a change for the worse. The

warmth of coloring which wealth and independence give to the appearance

of a cultivated country, was gone. Decay and coldness seemed to brood

upon everything, he saw. The houses, the farm-yards, the ditches, and

enclosures, were all marked by the blasting proofs of national decline.

Some exceptions there were to this disheartening prospect, but they were

only sufficient to render the torn and ragged evidences of poverty,

and its attendant--carelessness--more conspicuous. He left the knoll,

knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into his waistcoat

pocket, ascended a larger hill, which led to the grave-yard, where his

child lay buried. On his way to this hill, which stood about half a mile

distant, he passed a few houses of an humble description, with whose

inhabitants he had been well acquainted. Some of these stood nearly as

he remembered them; but others were roofless, with their dark mud

gables either fallen in or partially broken down. He surveyed their

smoke-colored walls with sorrow; and looked, with a sense of the

transient character of all man's works upon the chickweed, docks, and

nettles, which had shot up so rankly on the spot where many a chequered

scene of joy and sorrow had flitted over the circumscribed circle of

humble life, ere the annihilating wing of ruin swept away them and their

habitations.

When he had ascended the hill, his eye took a wider range. The more

distant and picturesque part of the country lay before him. “Ay!” said

he in a soliloquy, “Lord bless us, how sthrange is this world!--an'

what poor crathurs are men! There's the dark mountains, the hills, the

rivers, an' the green glens, all the same; an' nothin' else a'most but's

changed! The very song of that blackbird, in the thorn-bushes an' hazels

below me, is like the voice of an ould friend to my ears. Och, indeed,

hardly that, for even the voice of man changes; but that song is the

same as I heard it for the best part o' my life. That mornin' star,

too, is the same bright crathur up there that it ever was! God help

us! Hardly any thing changes but man, an' he seems to think that he

can never change; if one is to judge by his thoughtlessness, folly, an'

wickedness!”

A smaller hill, around the base of which went the same imperfect road

that crossed the glen of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing the

grave-yard to which he was about to extend his walk. To this road he

directed his steps. On reaching it he looked, still with a strong memory

of former times, to the glen in which his children, himself, and his

ancestors had all, during their day, played in the happy thoughtlessness

of childhood and youth. But the dark and ragged house jarred upon his

feelings. He turned from it with pain, and his eye rested upon the

still green valley with evident relief. He thought of his “buried

flower”--“his-golden-haired darlin',” as he used to call her--and

almost fancied that he saw her once more wandering waywardly through its

tangled mazes, gathering berries, or strolling along the green meadow,

with a garland of gowans about her neck. Imagination, indeed, cannot

heighten the image of the dead whom we love; but even if it could, there

was no standard of ideal beauty in her father's mind beyond that of

her own. She had been beautiful; but her beauty was pensive: a fair yet

melancholy child; for the charm that ever encompassed her was one of

sorrow and tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful, as children

usually are, he would not have carried so far into his future life the

love of her which he cherished. Another reason why he still loved her

strongly, was a consciousness that her death had been occasioned by

distress and misery; for, as he said, when looking upon the scenes of

her brief but melancholy existence--“Avour-neen machree, I remimber to

see you pickin' the berries; but asthore--asthore--it wasn't for play

you did it. It was to keep away the cuttin' of hunger from your heart!

Of all our childhre every one said that you wor the M'Carthy--never

sayin' much, but the heart in you ever full of goodness and affection.

God help me, I'm glad--an', now, that I'm comin' near it--loth to see

her grave.”

He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin stood

there as usual, but not altogether without the symptoms of change. Some

persons had, for the purposes of building, thrown down one of its

most picturesque walls. Still its ruins clothed with ivy, its mullions

moss-covered, its gothic arches and tracery, gray with age, were the

same in appearance as he had ever seen them.

On entering this silent palace of Death, he reverently uncovered his

head, blessed himself, and, with feelings deeply agitated, sought the

grave of his beloved child. He approached it; but a sudden transition

from sorrow to indignation took place in his mind, even before he

reached the spot on which she lay. “Sacred Mother!” he exclaimed, “who

has dared to bury in our ground? Who has--what villain has attimpted to

come in upon the M'Carthys--upon the M'Carthy Mores, of Tubber Derg? Who

could--had I no friend to prev--eh? Sacred Mother, what's this? Father

of heaven forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Saviour, for this bad feelin'

I got into! Who--who--could raise a head-stone over the darlin' o' my

heart, widout one of us knowin' it! Who--who could do it? But let me see

if I can make it out. Oh, who could do this blessed thing, for the poor

an' the sorrowful?” He began, and with difficulty read as follows:--

“Here lies the body of Alice M'Carthy, the beloved daughter of Owen and

Kathleen M'Carthy, aged nine years. She was descended from the M'Carthy

Mores.

“Requiescat in pace.

“This head-stone was raised over her by widow Murray, and her son, James

Murray, out of grateful respect for Owen and Kathleen M'Carthy, who

never suffered the widow and orphan, or a distressed neighbor, to crave

assistance from them in vain, until it pleased God to visit them with

affliction.”

“Thanks to you, my Saviour!” said Owen, dropping on his knees over the

grave,--“thanks an' praise be to your holy name, that in the middle of

my poverty--of all my poverty--I was not forgotten! nor my darlin' child

let to lie widout honor in the grave of her family! Make me worthy,

blessed Heaven, of what is written down upon me here! An' if the

departed spirit of her that honored the dust of my buried daughter is

unhappy, oh, let her be relieved, an' let this act be remimbered to her!

Bless her son, too, gracious Father, an' all belonging to her on this

earth! an', if it be your holy will, let them never know distress, or

poverty, or wickedness?”

He then offered up a Pater Noster for the repose of his child's soul,

and another for the kind-hearted and grateful widow Murray, after which

he stood to examine the grave with greater accuracy.

There was, in fact, no grave visible. The little mound, under which lay

what was once such a touching image of innocence, beauty, and feeling,

had sunk down to the level of the earth about it. He regretted this,

inasmuch as it took away, he thought, part of her individuality. Still

he knew it was the spot wherein she had been buried, and with much of

that vivid feeling, and strong figurative language, inseparable from the

habits of thought and language of the old Irish families, he delivered

the mother's message to the inanimate dust of her once beautiful and

heart-loved child. He spoke in a broken voice, for even the mention of

her name aloud, over the clay that contained her, struck with a fresh

burst of sorrow upon his heart.

“Alley,” he exclaimed in Irish, “Alley, _nhien machree_, your father

that loved you more nor he loved any other human crathur, brings a

message to you from the mother of your heart, avourneen! She bid me call

to see the spot where you're lyin', my buried flower, an' to tell you

that we're not now, thanks be to God, as we wor whin you lived wid us.

We are well to do now, _acushla oge machree_, an' not in hunger, an'

sickness, an' misery, as we wor whin you suffered them all! You will

love to hear this, pulse of our hearts, an' to know that, through all we

suffered--an' bittherly we did suffer since you departed--we never let

you out of our memory. No, _asthore villish_, we thought of you, an'

cried afther our poor dead flower, many an' many's the time. An' she bid

me tell you, darlin' of my heart, that we feel: nothin' now so much as

that you are not wid us to share our comfort an' our happiness. Oh, what

wouldn't the mother give to have you back wid her; but it can't be--an'

what wouldn't I give to have you before my eyes agin, in health an'

in life--but it can't be. The lovin' mother sent this message to you,

Alley. Take it from her; she bid me tell you that we are well an' happy;

our name is pure, and, like yourself, widout spot or stain. Won't you

pray for us before God, an' get him an' his blessed Mother to look on

us wid favor an' compassion? Farewell, Alley asthore! May you slelp in

peace, an' rest on the breast of your great Father in Heaven, until we

all meet in happiness together. It's your father that's spakin' to you,

our lost flower; an' the hand that often smoothed your goolden head is

now upon your grave.”

He wiped his eyes as he concluded, and after lifting a little of the

clay from her grave, he tied it carefully up, and put it into his

pocket.

Having left the grave-yard, he retraced his steps towards Frank

Farrell's house. The sun had now risen, and as Owen ascended the larger

of the two hills which we have mentioned, he stood again to view the

scene that stretched beneath him. About an hour before all was still,

the whole country lay motionless, as if the land had been a land of the

dead. The mountains, in the distance, were covered with the thin mists

of morning; the milder and richer parts of the landscape had appeared in

that dim gray distinctness which gives to distant objects such a clear

outline. With the exception of the blackbird's song, every thing seemed

as if stricken into silence; there was not a breeze stirring; both

animate and inanimate nature reposed as if in a trance; the very trees

appeared asleep, and their leaves motionless, as if they had been of

marble. But now the scene was changed. The sun had flung his splendor

upon the mountain-tops, from which the mists were tumbling in broken

fragments to the valleys between them. A thousand birds poured their

songs upon the ear; the breeze was up, and the columns of smoke from the

farm-houses and cottages played, as if in frolic, in the air. A white

haze was beginning to rise from the meadows; early teams were afoot;

and laborers going abroad to their employment. The lakes in the

distance shone like mirrors; and the clear springs on the mountain-sides

glittered in the sun, like gems on which the eye could scarcely rest.

Life, and light, and motion, appear to be inseparable. The dew of

morning lay upon nature like a brilliant veil, realizing the beautiful

image of Horace, as applied to woman:

Vultus nimium lubricus aspici.

By-and-by the songs of the early workmen were heard; nature had awoke,

and Owen, whose heart was strongly, though unconsciously, alive to the

influence of natural religion, participated in the general elevation

of the hour, and sought with freshened spirits the house of his

entertainer.

As he entered this hospitable roof, the early industry of his friend's

wife presented him with a well-swept hearth and a pleasant fire, before

which had been placed the identical chair that they had appropriated

to his own use. Frank was enjoying “a blast o' the pipe,” after having

risen; to which luxury the return of Owen gave additional zest and

placidity. In fact, Owen's presence communicated a holiday spirit to the

family; a spirit, too, which declined not for a moment during the period

of his visit.

“Frank,” said Owen, “to tell you the thruth, I'm not half plased wid you

this mornin'. I think you didn't thrate me as I ought to expect to be

thrated.”

“Musha, Owen M'Carthy, how is that?”

“Why, you said nothin' about widow Murray raisin' a head-stone over our

child. You kept me in the dark there, Frank, an' sich a start I never

got as I did this mornin', in the grave-yard beyant.”

“Upon my sowl, Owen, it wasn't my fau't, nor any of our fau'ts; for,

to tell you the thruth, we had so much to think and discoorse of last

night, that it never sthruck me, good or bad. Indeed it was Bridget that

put it first in my head, afther you wint out, an' thin it was too late.

Ay, poor woman, the dacent strain was ever in her, the heaven's be her

bed.”

“Frank, if any one of her family was to abuse me till the dogs wouldn't

lick my blood, I'd only give them back good for evil afther that.

Oh, Frank, that goes to my heart! To put a head-stone over my weeny

goolden-haired darlin', for the sake of the little thrifles I sarved

thim in! Well! may none belongin' to her ever know poverty or hardship!

but if they do, an' that I have it----How-an'-iver, no matther. God

bless thim! God bless thim! Wait till Kathleen hears it!”

“An' the best of it was, Owen, that she never expected to see one of

your faces. But, Owen, you think too much about that child. Let us talk

about something else. You've seen Tubber Derg wanst more?”

“I did; an' I love it still, in spite of the state it's in.”

“Ah! it's different from what it was in your happy days. I was spakin'

to Bridget about the farm, an' she advises us to go, widout losin' a

minute, an' take it if we can.”

“It's near this place I'll die, Frank. I'd not rest in my grave if I

wasn't berrid among my own; so we'll take the farm if possible.”

“Well, then, Bridget, hurry the breakfast, avourneen; an' in the name o'

goodness, we'll set out, an' clinch the business this very day.”

Owen, as we said, was prompt in following up his determinations. After

breakfast they saw the agent and his father, for both lived together.

Old Rogerson had been intimately acquainted with the M'Carthys, and, as

Frank had anticipated, used his influence with the agent in procuring

for the son of his old friend and acquaintance the farm which he sought.

“Jack,” said the old gentleman, “you don't probably know the history

and character of the Tubber Derg M'Carthys so well as I do. No man ever

required the written bond of a M'Carthy; and it was said of them, and

is said still, that the widow and orphan, the poor man or the stranger,

never sought their assistance in vain. I, myself, will go security, if

necessary, for Owen M'Carthy.”

“Sir,” replied Owen, “I'm thankful to you; I'm grateful to you. But

I wouldn't take the farm, or bid for it at all, unless I could bring

forrid enough to stock it as I wish, an' to lay in all that's wantin' to

work it well. It 'ud be useless for me to take it--to struggle a year

or two--impoverish the land--an' thin run away out of it. No, no; I have

what'll put me upon it wid dacency an' comfort.”

“Then, since my father has taken such an interest in you, M'Carthy,

you must have the farm. We shall get leases prepared, and the business

completed in a few days; for I go to Dublin on this day week. Father,

I now remember the character of this family; and I remember, too, the

sympathy which was felt for one of them, who was harshly ejected

about seventeen or eighteen years ago, out of the lands on which his

forefathers had lived, I understand, for centuries.”

“I am that man, sir,” returned Owen. “It's too long a story to tell now;

but it was only out o' part of the lands, sir, that I was put. What

I held was but a poor patch compared to what the family held in my

grandfather's time. A great part of it went out of our hands at his

death.”

“It was very kind of you, Misther Rogerson, to offer to go security for

him,” said Frank; “but if security was wantin, sir, Id not be willin' to

let anybody but myself back him. I'd go all I'm worth in the world--an'

by my sowl, double as much--for the same man.”

“I know that, Frank, an' I thank you; but I could put security in Mr.

Rogerson's hands, here, if it was wanted. Good-mornin' an' thank you

both, gintleman. To tell yez the thruth,” he added, with a smile, “I

long to be among my ould friends--manin' the people, an' the hills, an'

the green fields of Tubber Derg--agin; an' thanks be to goodness, sure I

will soon.”

In fact, wherever Owen went, within the bounds of his native parish,

his name, to use a significant phrase of the people, was before him.

His arrival at Frank Farrel's was now generally known by all his

acquaintances, and the numbers who came to see him were almost beyond

belief. During the two or three successive days, he went among his

old “cronies;” and no sooner was his arrival at any particular house

intimated, than the neighbors all flocked to him. Scythes were left

idle, spades were stuck in the earth, and work neglected for the time

being; all crowded about him with a warm and friendly interest, not

proceeding from idle curiosity, but from affection and respect for the

man.

The interview between him and widow Murray's children was affecting.

Owen felt deeply the delicate and touching manner in which they had

evinced their gratitude for the services he had rendered them; and young

Murray remembered with a strong gush of feeling, the distresses under

which they lay when Owen had assisted them. Their circumstances, owing

to the strenuous exertions of the widow's eldest son, soon afterwards

improved; and, in accordance with the sentiments of hearts naturally

grateful, they had taken that method of testifying what they felt.

Indeed, so well had Owen's unparalleled affection for his favorite child

been known, that it was the general opinion about Tubber Derg that her

death had broken his heart.

“Poor Owen, he's dead,” they used to say; “the death of his weeny one,

while he was away in Dublin, gave him the finishin' blow. It broke his

heart.”

Before the week was expired, Owen had the satisfaction of depositing the

lease of his new farm, held at a moderate rent, in the hands of Frank

Farrel; who, tying it up along with his own, secured it in the

“black chest.” Nothing remained now but to return home forthwith, and

communicate the intelligence to Kathleen. Frank had promised, as soon as

the Lacy's should vacate the house, to come with a long train of cars,

and a number of his neighbors, in order to transfer Owen's family and

furniture to his new dwelling. Everything therefore, had been arranged;

and Owen had nothing to do but hold himself in readiness for the welcome

arrival of Frank and his friends.

Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment when not participated in by his

beloved Kathleen. If he felt sorrow, it was less as a personal feeling

than as a calamity to her.

If he experienced happiness, it was doubly sweet to him as reflected

from his' Kathleen. All this was mutual between them. Kathleen loved

Owen precisely as he loved Kathleen. Nor let our readers suppose that

such characters are not in humble life. It is in humble life, where

the Springs of feeling are not corrupted by dissimulation and evil

knowledge, that the purest, and tenderest, and strongest virtues are to

be found.

As Owen approached his home, he could not avoid contrasting the

circumstances of his return now with those under which, almost

broken-hearted after his journey to Dublin, he presented himself to his

sorrowing and bereaved wife about eighteen years before. He raised

his hat, and thanked God for the success which had, since that period,

attended him, and, immediately after his silent thanksgiving, entered

the house.

His welcome, our readers may be assured, was tender and affectionate.

The whole family gathered about him, and, on his informing them that

they were once more about to reside on a farm adjoining to their beloved

Tubber Derg, Kathleen's countenance brightened, and the tear of delight

gushed to her eyes.

“God be praised, Owen,” she exclaimed; “we will have the ould place

afore our eyes, an' what is betther, we will be near where Alley is

lyin'. But that's true, Owen,” she added, “did you give the light of our

hearts the mother's message?”

Owen paused, and his features were slightly overshadowed, but only by

the solemnity of the feeling.

“Kathleen,” said he, “I gave her your message; but, avourneen, have

sthrange news for you about Alley.”

“What, Owen? What is it, acushla? Tell me quick?”

“The blessed child was not neglected--no, but she was honored in our

absence. A head-stone was put over her, an' stands there purtily this

minute.”

“Mother of Glory, Owen!”

“It's thruth. Widow Murray an' her son Jemmy put it up, wid words upon

it that brought the tears to my eyes. Widow Murray is dead, but her

childher's doin' well. May God bless an' prosper them, an' make her

happy!”

The delighted mother's heart was not proof against the widow's

gratitude, expressed, as it had been, in a manner so affecting. She

rocked herself to and fro in silence, whilst the tears fell in showers

down her cheeks. The grief, however, which this affectionate couple felt

for their child, was not always such as the reader has perceived it to

be. It was rather a revival of emotions that had long slumbered, but

never died; and the associations arising from the journey to Tubber

Derg, had thrown them back, by the force of memory, almost to the period

of her death. At times, indeed, their imagination had conjured her up

strongly, but the present was an epoch in the history of their sorrow.

There is little more to be said. Sorrow was soon succeeded by

cheerfulness and the glow of expected pleasure, which is ever the

more delightful, as the pleasure is pure. In about a week their old

neighbors, with their carts and cars, arrived; and before the day was

closed on which Owen removed to his new residence, he found himself once

more sitting at his own hearth, among the friends of his youth, and the

companions of his maturer years. Ere the twelvemonth elapsed, he had his

house perfectly white, and as nearly resembling that of Tubber Derg in

its better days as possible. About two years ago we saw him one evening

in the month of June, as he sat on a bench beside the door, singing with

a happy heart his favorite song of “_Colleen dhas crootha na mo_.” It

was about an hour before sunset. The house stood on a gentle eminence,

beneath which a sweep of green meadow stretched away to the skirts of

Tubber Derg. Around him was a country naturally fertile, and, in spite

of the national depression, still beautiful to contemplate. Kathleen

and two servant maids were milking, and the whole family were assembled

about the door.

“Well, childher,” said the father, “didn't I tell yez the bitther

mornin' we left Tubber Derg, not to cry or be disheartened--that there

was a 'good God above who might do somethin' for us yet?' I never did

give up may trust in Him, an' I never will. You see, afther all our

little troubles, He has wanst more brought us together, an' made us

happy. Praise an' glory to His name!”

I looked at him as he spoke. He had raised his eyes to heaven, and a

gleam of elevated devotion, perhaps worthy of being-called sublime,

irradiated his features. The sun, too, in setting, fell upon his broad

temples and iron-gray locks, with a light solemn and religious.

The effect to me, who knew his noble character, and all that he had

suffered, was as if the eye of God then rested upon the decline of a

virtuous man's life with approbation;--as if he had lifted up the

glory of his countenance upon him. Would that many of his thoughtless

countrymen had been present! They might have blushed for their crimes,

and been content to sit and learn wisdom at the feet of Owen M'Carthy.