The town itself contained about six thousand inhabitants, had a church,
a chapel, a meeting-house, and also a place of worship for those who
belonged to the Methodist connection, It was nearly half a mile long,
lay nearly due north and south, and ran up an elevation or slight hill,
and down again on the other side, where it tapered away into a string of
cabins. It is scarcely necessary to say that it contained a main street,
three or four with less pretensions, together with a tribe of those vile
alleys which consist of a double row of beggarly cabins, or huts, facing
each other, and lying so closely, that a tall man might almost stand
with a foot on the threshold of each, or if in the middle, that is
half-way between them, he might, were he so inclined, and without moving
to either side, shake hands with the inhabitants on his right and left.
To the left, as you went up from the north, and nearly adjoining the
cathedral church, which faced you, stood a bishop's palace, behind which
lay a magnificent demesne. At that time, it is but just to say that
the chimneys of this princely residence were never smokeless, nor its
saloons silent and deserted as they are now, and have been for years.
No, the din of industry was then incessant in and about the offices of
that palace, and the song of many a light heart and happy spirit rang
sweetly in the valleys, on the plains and hills, and over the meadows
of that beautiful demesne, with its noble deer-park stretching up to the
heathy hills behind it. Many a time, when a school-boy, have we mounted
the demesne wall in question, and contemplated its meadows, waving under
the sunny breeze, together with the long strings of happy mowers, the
harmonious swing of whose scythes, associated with the cheerful noise
of their whetting, caused the very heart within us to kindle with such a
sense of pure and early enjoyment as does yet, and ever will, constitute
a portion of our best and happiest recollections.
At the period of which we write it mattered little whether the prelate
who possessed it resided at home or not. If he did not, his family
generally did; but, at all events, during their absence, or during their
residence, constant employment was given, every working-day in the year,
to at least one hundred happy and contented poor from a neighboring and
dependent village, every one of whom was of the Roman Catholic creed.
I have stood, not long ago, upon a beautiful elevation in that demesne,
and, on looking around me, I saw nothing but a deserted and gloomy
country. The happy village was gone--razed to the very foundations--the
demesne was a solitude--the songs of the reapers and mowers had
vanished, as it were, into the recesses of memory, and the magnificent
palace, dull and lonely, lay as if it were situated in some land of the
dead, where human voice or footstep had not been heard for years.
The stranger, who had gone out to view the town, found, during that
survey, little of this absence of employment, and its consequent
destitution, to disturb him. Many things, it is true, both in the town
and suburbs, were liable to objection.
Abundance there was; but, in too many instances, he could see, at a
glance, that it was accompanied by unclean and slovenly habits, and that
the processes of husbandry and tillage were disfigured by old
usages, that were not only painful to contemplate, but disgraceful to
civilization.
The stranger was proceeding down the town, when he came in contact with
a ragged, dissipated-looking young man, who had, however, about him the
evidences of having seen better days. The latter touched his hat to him,
and observed, “You seem to be examining our town, sir?”
“Pray, what is your name?” inquired the stranger, without seeming to
notice the question.
“Why, for the present, sir,” he replied, “I beg to insinuate that I am
rather under a cloud; and, if you have no objection, would prefer to
remain anonymous, or to preserve my incognito, as they say, for some
time longer.”
“Have you no alias, by which you may be known?”
“Unquestionably, an alias I have,” replied the other; “for as to passing
through life, in the broad, anonymous sense, without some token to
distinguish you by, the thing, to a man like me, is impossible. I am
consequently known as Frank Fenton, a name I borrowed from a former
friend of mine, an old school-fellow, who, while he lived, was, like
myself, a bit of an original in his way. How do you like our town, sir,”
he added, changing the subject.
“I have seen too little of it,” replied the stranger, “to judge. Is this
your native town, Mr. Fenton,” he added.
“No, sir; not my native town,” replied Fenton; “but I have resided here
from hand to mouth long enough to know almost every individual in the
barony at large.”
During this dialogue, the stranger eyed Fenton, as he called himself,
very closely; in fact, he watched every feature of his with a degree of
curiosity and doubt that was exceedingly singular.
“Have you, sir, been here before.” asked Fenton; “or is this your first
visit?”
“It is not my first visit,” replied the other; “but it is likely I shall
reside here for some months.”
“For the benefit of your health, I presume,” asked modest Frank.
“My good friend,” replied the stranger, “I wish to make an observation.
It is possible, I say, that I may remain here for some months; now,
pray, attend, and mark me--whenever you and I chance, on any future
occasion, to meet, it is to be understood between us that you are to
answer me in anything I ask, which you know, and I to answer you in
nothing, unless I wish it.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, with a low and not ungraceful bow; “that's
a compliment all to the one side, like Clogher.” *
* The proverb is pretty general throughout Tyrone. The town
of Clogher consists of only a single string of houses.
“Very well,” returned the stranger; “I have something to add, in order
to make this arrangement more palatable to you.”
“Hold, sir,” replied the other; “before you proceed further, you must
understand me. I shall pledge myself under no terms--and I care not what
they may be--to answer any question that may throw light upon my own
personal identity, or past history.”
“That will not be necessary,” replied the stranger.
“What do you mean, sir,” asked Fenton, starting; “do you mean to hint
that you know me?”
“Nonsense,” said the other; “how could I know a man whom I never saw
before? No; it is merely concerning the local history of Ballytrain and
its inhabitants that I am speaking.”
There was a slight degree of dry irony, however, on his face, as he
spoke.
“Well,” said the other, “in the mean time, I don't see why I am to
comply with a condition so dictatorially laid down by a person of whom I
know nothing.”
“Why, the truth is,” said our strange friend, “that you are evidently a
lively and intelligent fellow, not badly educated; I think--and, as it
is likely that you have no very direct connection with the inhabitants
of the town and surrounding country, I take it for granted that, in the
way of mere amusement, you may be able to--”
“Hem! I see--to give you all the scandal of the place for miles about;
that is what you would say? and so I can. But suppose a spark of the
gentleman should--should--but come, hang it, that is gone, hopelessly
gone. What is your wish?”
“In the first place, to see you better clothed. Excuse me--and, if I
offend you, say so--but it is not my wish to say anything that might
occasion you pain. Are you given to liquor?”
“Much oftener than liquor is given to me, I assure you; it is my meat,
drink, washing, and lodging--without it I must die. And, harkee, now;
when I meet a man I like, and who, after all, has a touch of humanity
and truth about him, to such a man, I say, I myself am all truth, at
whatever cost; but to every other--to your knave, your hypocrite, or
your trimmer, for instance, all falsehood--deep, downright, wanton
falsehood. In fact, I would scorn to throw away truth upon them.
“You are badly dressed.”
“Ah! after all, how little is known of the human heart and character!”
exclaimed Fenton. “The subject of dress and the associations connected
with it have all been effaced from my mind and feelings for years. So
long as we are capable of looking to our dress, there is always a sense
of honor and self-respect left. Dress I never think of, unless as a mere
animal protection against the elements.”
“Well, then,” observed the other, surveying this unfortunate wretch with
compassion, “whether all perception of honor and self-respect is lost in
you I care not. Here are five pounds for you; that is to say--and pray
understand me--I commit them absolutely to your own keeping--your own
honor, your self-respect, or by whatever name you are pleased to call
it. Purchase plain clothes, get better linen, a hat and shoes: when this
is done, if you have strength of mind and resolution of character to do
it, come to me at the head inn, where I stop, and I will only ask
you, in return, to tell me anything you know or have heard about such
subjects as may chance to occur to me at the moment.”
On receiving the money, the poor fellow fastened his eyes on it with
such an expression of amazement as defies description. His physical
strength and constitution, in consequence of the life he led, were
nearly gone--a circumstance which did not escape the keen eye of
the stranger, on whose face there was an evident expression of deep
compassion. The unfortunate Frank Fenton trembled from head to foot, his
face became deadly pale, and after surveying the notes for a time, he
held them out to the other, exclaiming, as he extended his hand--
“No, no! have it, no! You are a decent fellow, and I will not impose
upon you. Take back your money; I know myself too well to accept of it.
I never could keep money, and I wouldn't have a shilling of this in my
possession at the expiration of forty-eight hours.”
“Even so,” replied the stranger, “it comes not back to me again.
Drink it--eat it--spend it is you may; but I rely on your own honor,
notwithstanding what you say, to apply it to a better purpose.”
“Well, now, let me see,” said Fenton, musing, and as if in a kind of
soliloquy; “you are a good fellow, no doubt of it--that is, if you have
no lurking, dishonest design in all this. Let me see. Why, now, it is
a long time since I have had the enormous sum of five shillings in my
possession, much less the amount of the national debt, which I presume
must be pretty close upon five pounds; and in honest bank notes, too.
One, two, three--ha!--eh! eh!--oh yes,” he proceeded, evidently struck
with some discovery that astonished him. “Ay!” he exclaimed, looking
keenly at a certain name that happened to be written upon one of the
notes; “well, it is all right! Thank you, sir; I will keep the money.”