As the Bodagh and his son took the usual legal steps to forward the
prosecution, it was but natural that they should calculate upon the
evidence of Dandy Duffy, Ned M'Cormick, and Alick Nulty. John O'Brien
accordingly informed them, on the very night of the outrage, that his
father and himself would consider them as strong evidence against Bartle
Flanagan, and call upon them as such. This information placed these
young men in a position of incredible difficulty and danger. They knew
not exactly at that moment how to proceed consistently with the duty
which they owed to society at large, and that which was expected from
them by the dark combination to which they were united. M'Cormick,
however, begged of John O'Brien not to mention their names until the
day after the next, and told him if he could understand their reason for
this request, he would not hesitate to comply with it.
O'Brien, who suspected the true cause of their reluctance, did not on
this occasion press them further, but consented to their wishes, and
promised, not to mention their names, even as indirectly connected with
the outrage, until the time they had specified had elapsed.
In the course of the following day Nogher M'Cormick presented himself to
the Bodagh and his son, neither of whom felt much difficulty in divining
the cause of his visit.
“Well,” said Nogher, after the first usual civilities had passed,
“glory be to God, gintlemen, this is desperate fine weather for the
season--barrin' the wet”
John smiled, but the plain matter-of-fact Bodagh replied,
“Why, how the devil can you call this good weather, neighbor, when it's
raining for the last week, night and day?”
“I do call it good weather for all that,” returned Nogher, “for you
ought to know that every weather's good that God sends.”
“Well,” said the Bodagh, taken aback a little by the Nogher's piety,
“there's truth in that, too, neighbor.”
“I am right,” said Nogher, “an' it's nothin' else than a sinful world to
say that this is bad weather, or that's bad weather--bekase the Scriptur
says, 'wo be to thee----'”
“But, pray,” interrupted John, “what's your business with my father and
me?”
Nogher rubbed down his chin very gravely and significantly,
“Why,” said he, “somethin' for your own good, gentlemen.”
“Well, what is that?” said John, anxious to bring him to the point as
soon as possible.
“The truth, gentlemen, is this--I'm an ould man, an' I hope that I never
was found to be anything else than an honest one. They're far away this
day that could give me a good carrechtur--two o' them anyhow I'll never
forget--Connor an' his mother; but I'll never see them agin; an' the
ould man too, I never could hate him, in regard of the love he bore
his son. Long, long was the journey he tuck to see that son, an', as he
tould me the day he whint into the ship, to die in his boy's arms; for
he said heaven wouldn't be heaven to him, if he died anywhere else.”
Nogher's eyes filled as he spoke, and we need scarcely say that neither
the Bodagh nor his son esteemed him the less for his attachment to
Connor O'Donovan and his family.
“The sooner I end the business I come about to-day,” said he, “the
better. You want my son Ned, Dandy Duffy, an' Alick Nulty, to join in
givin' evidence against blaggard Bartle Flanagan. Now the truth is,
gintlemen, you don't know the state o' the country. If they come into a
court of justice against him, their lives won't be worth a traneen. Its
aginst their oath, I'm tould, as Ribbonmen, to prosecute one another;
an' from hints I resaved, I'm afraid they can't do it, as I said,
barrin' at the risk o' their lives.”
“Father,” said John, “as far as I have heard, he speaks nothing but
truth.”
“I believe he does not,” rejoined the Bodagh, “an', by my sowl, I'll be
bound he's an honest man--upon my credit, I think you are, M'Cormick.”
“I'm thankful to you, sir,” said Nogher.
“I'm inclined to think further,” said John, “that we have proof enough
against Flanagan without them.”
“Thin, if you think so, John, God forbid that we'd be the manes of
bringin' the young men into throuble. All I'm sorry for is, that they
allowed themselves to be hooked into sich a dark and murdherous piece of
villainy.”
“I know, sir, it's a bad business,” said Nogher, “but it can't be helped
now; no man's safe that won't join it.”
“Faith, and I won't for one,” replied the Bodagh, “not but that they
sent many a threat to me. Anything against the laws o' the counthry is
bad, and never ends but in harm to them that's consamed in it.”
“M'Cormick,” added the son, “villain as Flanagan is, we shall let him
once more loose upon society, sooner than bring the lives of your son,
and the two other young men into jeopardy. Such, unhappily, is the state
of the country, and we must submit to it.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Nogher. “The truth is, they're sworn, it seems,
not to prosecute one another, let whatever may happen; an' any one of
them that breaks that oath--God knows I wish they'd think of others as
much as they do of it--barrin' a stag that's taken up, an' kep safe by
the Government, is sure to be knocked on the head.”
“Say no more, M'Cormick,” said the Bodagh's inestimable son, “say no
more. No matter how this may terminate, we shall not call upon them as
evidences. It must be so, father,” he added, “and God help the country
in which the law is a dead letter, and the passions and bigoted
prejudices of disaffected or seditious men the active principle which
impresses its vindictive horrors upon society! Although not myself
connected with them, I know their oath, and--but I say no more.
M'Cormick, your friends are safe; we shall not, as I told you, call upon
them, be the result what it may; better that one guilty should escape,
than that three innocent persons should suffer.”
Nogher again thanked him, and having taken up his hat, was about to
retire, when he paused a moment, and, after some consideration with
himself, said--
“You're a scholar, sir, an'--but maybe I'm sayin' what I oughtn't to
say--but sure, God knows, it's all very well known long ago.”
“What is it, M'Cormick?” asked John; “speak out plainly; we will not
feel offended.”
“'Twas only this, sir,” continued Nogher, “I'm an unlarned man; but he
would write to you may be--I mane Connor--an' if he did, I'd be glad to
hear--but I hope I don't offind you, sir. You wouldn't think of me, may
be, although many and many's the time I nursed him on these knees, an'
carried him about in these arms, an he cried--ay, as God is my judge,
he cried bitterly--when, as he said, at the time--'Nogher, Nogher, my
affectionate friend, I'll never see you more.'”
John O'Brien shook him cordially by the hand, and replied--“I will make
it a point to let you know anything that our family may hear from him.”
“An' if you write to him, sir, just in a single line, to say that the
affectionate ould friend never forgot him.”
“That, too, shall be done,” replied John; “you may rest assured of it.”
The Bodagh, whose notions in matters of delicacy and feeling were rough
but honest, now rang the bell with an uncommon, nay, an angry degree of
violence.
“Get up some spirits here, an' don't be asleep. You must take a glass of
whiskey before you go,” he said, addressing Nogher.
“Sir,” replied Nogher, “I'm in a hurry home, for I'm _aff_ my day's
work.”
“By ---, but you must,” rejoined the
Bodagh; “and what's your day's wages?”
“Ten pence.”
“There's half-a-crown; an' I tell you more, you must come an' take a
_cot--tack_ undher me, and you'll find the change for the betther, never
fear.”
In point of fact in was so concluded, and Nogher left the Bodagh's house
with a heart thankful to Providence that he had ever entered it.
The day of Flanagan's trial, however, now approached, and our readers
are fully aware of the many chances of escaping justice which the
state of the country opened to him, notwithstanding his most atrocious
villainy. As some one, however, says in a play--in that of Othello,
we believe--“God is above all,” so might Flanagan have said on this
occasion. The evidence of Biddy Nulty, some of the other servants,
and the Bodagh, who identified some of the notes, was quite sufficient
against him, with respect to the robbery. Nor was any evidence adduced
of more circumstantial weight than Kitty Lowry's, who, on being
satisfied of Flanagan's designs against Una, and that she was
consequently no more than his dupe, openly acknowledged the part she
had taken in the occurrences of the night on which the outrages were
committed. This confession agreed so well with Bartle's character
for caution and skill in everything he undertook, that his object in
persuading her to leave the hall door open was not only clear, but
perfectly consistent with the other parts of his plan. It was a capital
crime; and when fame once more had proclaimed abroad that Bartle
Flanagan was condemned to be hanged for robbing Bodagh Buie, they
insisted still more strongly that the sentence was an undeniable
instance of retributive justice. Striking, indeed, was the difference
between his deportment during the trial, and the manly fortitude of
Connor O'Donovan, when standing under as heavy a charge at the same bar.
The moment he entered the dock, it was observed that his face expressed
all the pusillanimous symptoms of the most unmanly terror. His brows
fell, or rather hung over his eyes, as if all their muscular power had
been lost--giving to his countenance not only the vague sullenness of
irresolute ferocity, but also, as was legible in his dead small eye,
the cold calculations of deep and cautious treachery; nor was his white,
haggard cheek a less equivocal assurance of his consummate cowardice.
Many eyes were now turned upon him; for we need scarcely say that his
part of a case which created so much romantic interest as the conviction
of Connor O'Donovan, and the history it developed of the mutual
affection which subsisted between him and Una, was by no means
forgotten. And even if it had, his present appearance and position
would, by the force of ordinary association, have revived it in the
minds of any then present.
Deprived of all moral firmness, as he appeared to be, on entering the
dock, yet, as the trial advanced, it was evident that his heart and
spirits were sinking still more and more, until at length his face,
in consequence of its ghastliness, and the involuntary hanging of his
eyebrows, indicated scarcely any other expression than that of utter
helplessness, or the feeble agony of a mind so miserably prostrated, as
to be hardly conscious of the circumstances around him. This was clearly
obvious when the verdict of “guilty” was uttered in the dead silence
which prevailed through the court. No sooner were the words pronounced
than he looked about him wildly, and exclaimed--
“What's that? what's that? Oh, God--; sweet Jasus! sweet Jasus!”
His lips then moved for a little, and he was observed to mark his breast
prvately with the sign of the cross; but in such a manner as to prove
that the act was dictated by the unsettled incoherency of terror, and
not by the promptings of piety or religion.
The judge now put on the black cap, and! was about to pronounce the
fatal sentence, when the prisoner shrieked out, “Oh, my Lord--my Lord,
spare me! Oh, spare me, for I'm not fit to die. I daren't meet God!”
“Alas!” exclaimed the judge, “unhappy man, it is too often true, that
those who are least prepared to meet their Almighty Judge, are also the
least reckless in the perpetration of those crimes which are certain,
ere long, to hurry them into His presence. You find now, that whether as
regards this life or the next, he who observes the laws of his religion
and his country, is the only man who can be considered, in the true
sense of the word, his own friend; and there is this advantage in his
conduct, that, whilst he is the best friend to himself, it necessarily
follows that he must be a benefactor in the same degree to society at
large. To such a man the laws are a security, and not, as in your case,
and in that of those who resemble you, a punishment. It is the wicked
only who hate the laws, because they are conscious of having provoked
their justice. In asking me to spare your life, you are aware that you
ask me for that which I cannot grant. There is nothing at all in your
case to entitle you to mercy; and if, by the life you have led, you feel
that you are unfit to die, it is clear upon your own principles, and by
the use you have made of life, that you are unfit to live.”
He then proceeded to exhort him, in the usual terms, to sue for
reconciliation with an offended God, through the merits and sufferings
of Christ. After which he sentenced him to be executed on the fifth day
from the close of the assizes. On hearing the last words of the judge,
he clutched the dock at which he stood with a convulsive effort; his
hands and arms, however, became the next moment relaxed, and he sank
down in a state of helpless insensibility. On reviving he found himself
in his cell, attended by two of the turnkeys, who felt now more alarmed
at his screams and the horror which was painted on his face, than by the
fainting fit from which he had just recovered. It is not our design to
dwell at much length upon the last minutes of such a man; but we will
state briefly, that, as might be expected, he left nothing unattempted
to save his own life. On the day after his trial, he sent for the
sheriff, and told him, that, provided his life were granted by the
government, he could make many important disclosures, and give very
valuable information concerning the state and prospects of Ribbonism in
the country, together with a long list of the persons who were attached
to it in that parish. The sheriff told him that this information, which
might under other circumstances have been deemed of much value by the
government, had already been anticipated by another man during the very
short period that had elapsed since his conviction. There was nothing
which he could now disclose, the sheriff added, that he himself was
not already in possession of, even to the rank which he, Flanagan, was
invested with among them, and the very place where he and they had held
their last meeting. But, independently of that, he proceeded, it is not
usual for: government to pardon the principals in any such outrage as
that for which you have been convicted. I shall, however, transmit
your proposal to the Secretary, who may act in the matter as he thinks
proper.
In the meantime his relatives and confederates were not idle outside,
each party having already transmitted a petition to the Castle in
his behalf. That of his relations contained only the usual melancholy
sentiments, and earnest entreaties for mercy, which are to be found in
such documents. The memorial, however, of his confederates was equally
remarkable for its perverted ingenuity, and those unlucky falsehoods
which are generally certain to defeat the objects of those who have
recourse to them.
It went to say that the petitioners feared very much that the country
was in a dangerous state, in consequence of the progressive march
of Ribbonism in parts of that parish, and in many of the surrounding
districts. That the unhappy prisoner had for some time past made himself
peculiarly obnoxious to this illegal class of persons; and that he was
known in the country as what is termed “a marked man,” ever since he
had the courage to prosecute, about two years ago, one of their most
notorious leaders, by name Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona; who was, at
the period of writing that memorial, a convict during life in New South
Wales, for a capital White-boy offence.
That said Connor O'Donovan, having seduced the affections of a young
woman named Una O'Brien, daughter of a man called Michael O'Brien,
otherwise Bodagh Buie, or the Yellow Churl, demanded her in marriage
from her father and family, who unanimously rejected his pretensions.
Upon which, instigated by the example and practice of the dark
combination of which he was so distinguished a leader, he persuaded
memorialist, partly by entreaties, but principally by awful and
mysterious threats, to join him in the commission of this most atrocious
crime. That, from the moment he had been forced into the participation
of such an act, his conscience could not permit him to rest night or
day; and he consequently came forward boldly and fearlessly, and did
what he considered his duty to God and his country.
That, in consequence of this conscientious act, O'Donovan, the Ribbon
ringleader, was capitally convicted; but through the interest of some
leading gentlemen of the parish, who were ignorant of his habits and
connections, the sentence was, by the mercy of government, commuted to
transportation for life.
That, upon his banishment from the country, the girl whose affections
he had seduced, became deranged for some time; but, after her recovery,
expressed, on many occasions, the most bitter determinations to revenge
upon petitioner the banishment of her lover; and that the principal
evidence upon which petitioner was convicted, was hers * and that of a
girl named Bridget Kulty, formerly a servant in his father's house, and
known to have been his paramour.
* This was a falsehood, inasmuch as Una, having been
concealed in another room, could give, and did give, no
evidence that any way affected his life.
That this girl, Bridget Nulty, was taken into O'Brien's family at the
suggestion of his daughter Una; and that, from motives of personal
hatred, she and Bridget Nulty, aided by another female servant of
O'Brien's named Kitty Lowry, formed the conspiracy of which petitioner
is unhappily the victim.
It then proceeded to detail how the conspiracy of Una O'Brien and the
two females she had taken in as accomplices, was carried into
effect; all of which was done with singular tact and ingenuity; every
circumstance being made to bear a character and design diametrically
opposed to truth. It concluded by stating that great exultation had
been manifested by the Ribbonmen of that parish, who, on the night
of petitioner's conviction, lit bonfires in several parts of the
neighborhood, fired shots, sounded horns, and displayed other symptoms
of great rejoicing; and hoped his excellency would, therefore, interpose
his high prerogative, and prevent petitioner from falling a sacrifice to
a conspiracy on one hand, and the resentment of a traitorous confederacy
on the other; and all this only for having conscientiously and firmly
served the government of the country.
Our readers need not be surprised at the ingenuity of this plausible
petition, for the truth is that before government supported any system
of education at all in Ireland, the old hedge school-masters were,
almost to a man, office-bearers and leaders in this detestable system.
Such men, and those who were designed for the priesthood, with here and
there an occasional poor scholar, were' uniformly the petition writers,
and, indeed, the general scribes of the little world in which they
lived. In fact, we have abundance of public evidence to satisfy us, that
persons of considerable literasy attainments have been connected with
Ribbonism in all its stages.
This fine writing, however, was unfortunately counteracted, in
consequence of the information already laid before the sheriff by no
less a personage than Rouser Redhead, who, fearing alike the treachery
and enmity of his leader, resolved thus to neutralize any disclosures he
should happen to make. But lest this might not have been sufficient to
exhibit the character of that document, the proposal of Bartle himself
to make disclosures was transmitted to the Secretary of State, by the
same post; so that both reached that gentleman, _pari passu_, to his no
small astonishment.
Had Flanagan's confederates consulted him, he would of course have
dissuaded them from sending any petition at all, or at least, only such
as he could approve of, but such is the hollowness of this bond, and
so little confidence is placed in its obligation, that when any of
its victims happen to find themselves in a predicament similar to
Flanagan's, his companions without lead such a life of terror, and
suspicion, and doubt, as it would be difficult to describe. But when,
as in Bartle's case, there exists a strong distrust in his firmness
and honesty, scarcely one can be found hardy enough--to hold any
communication with him. This easily and truly accounts for the fact of
their having got this petition written and sent to government in his
name. The consequence was, that, on the day previous to that named for
his execution, his death warrant reached the sheriff, who lost no time
in apprising him of his unhappy fate.
This was a trying task to that humane and amiable gentleman, who had
already heard of the unutterable tortures which the criminal suffered
from the horror of approaching death, and the dread of eternity; for
neither by penitence nor even by remorse, was he in the slightest degree
moved.
“To die!” said he, staggering back; “to be in eternity to-morrow! to
have to face God before twelve o'clock! tarrible! tar--rible! tarrible!
Can no one save me? To die to--morrow!--tarrible!--tarrible!--tarrible!
Oh that I could sink into the earth! that the ground 'ud swlly me!”
The sheriff advised him to be a man, and told him to turn to God,--who,
if he repented, would in no wise cast him out. “Act,” said he, “as
O'Donovan did, whom you yourself prosecuted and placed in the very cell
in which you now stand.”
“Connor O'Donovan!” he exclaimed, “he might well bear to die; he was
innocent; it was I that burned Bodagh Buie's haggard; he had neither act
nor part in it no more than the child unborn. I swore away his life out
of revinge to his father an' jealousy of himself about Una O'Brien.
Oh, if I had as little to answer for now as he, I could die--die! Sweet
Jasus, an' must I die to-morrow--be in the flames o' hell afore twelve
o'clock? tarrible! terrible!”
It was absolutely, to use his own word, “terrible,” to witness the
almost superhuman energy of his weakness. On making this last disclosure
to the sheriff, the latter stepped back from a feeling of involuntary
surprise and aversion, exclaiming as he did it,--
“Oh, God forgive you, unhappy and guilty man! you have much, indeed, to
answer for; and, as I said before, I advise you to make the most of the
short time that is allotted to you, in repenting and seeking pardon from
God.”
The culprit heard him not, however, for his whole soul was fearfully
absorbed in the contemplation of eternity and punishment, and death.
“Sir,” said the turnkey, “that's the way he's runnin' about the room
almost since his thrial; not, to be sure, altogether so bad as now, but
clappin' his hands, an' scramm' an' groanin', that it's frightful to
listen to him. An' his dhrames, sir, is worse. God, sir, if you'd hear
him asleep, the hair would stand on your head; indeed, one of us is
ordered to be still with him.”
“It is right,” replied the sheriff, who, after recommending him to get
a clergyman, left him, and, with his usual promptness and decision,
immediately wrote to the Secretary of State, acquainting him with
Flanagan's confession of his own guilt, and of Connor O'Donovan's
innocence of the burning of O'Brien's haggard; hoping, at the same time,
that government would take instant steps to restore O'Donovan to his
country and his friends.
Soon after the sheriff left him, a Roman Catholic clergyman arrived, for
it appeared that against the priest who was chaplain of the jail he
had taken an insurmountable prejudice, in consequence of some fancied
resemblance he supposed him to bear to the miser's son. The former
gentleman spent that night with him, and, after a vast deal of exertion
and difficulty, got him so far composed, as that he attempted to confess
to him, which, however, he did only in a hurried and distracted manner.
But how shall we describe the scene, and we have it from more than one
or two witnesses, which presented itself, when the hour of his
execution drew nigh. His cries and shrieks were distinctly heard from a
considerable distance along the dense multitudes which were assembled
to witness his death; thus giving to that dreadful event a character of
horror so deep and gloomy, that many persons, finding themselves unable
to bear it, withdrew from the crowd, and actually fainted on hearing the
almost supernatural tones of his yells and howlings within.
In the mean time, the proceedings in the press-room were of a still
more terrific description He now resembled the stag at bay; his strength
became more than human. On attempting to tie his hands, five men were
found insufficient for the woeful task. He yelled, and flung them aside
like children, but made no attempt at escape, for, in truth, he knew not
what he did. The sheriff, one of the most powerful and athletic men to
be found in the province, was turned about and bent like an osier in his
hands. His words, when the fury of despair permitted his wild and broken
cries to become intelligible, were now for life--only life upon any
terms; and again did he howl out his horrors of death, hell, and
judgment. Never was such a scene, perhaps, witnessed.
At length his hands were tied, and they attempted to get him up to the
platform of death, but to their amazement he was once more loose, and,
flying to the priest, he clasped him with the gripe of Hercules.
“Save me, save me!” he shouted. “Let me live! I can't die! You're
puttin' me into hell's fire! How can I face God? No, it's tarrible! it's
tarrible! tarrible! Life, life, life--only life--oh, only life!”
As he spoke he pressed the reverend gentleman to his breast and kissed
him, and shouted with a wildness of entreaty, which far transcended in
terror the most outrageous paroxysms of insanity.
“I will not lave the priest,” shrieked he; “so long as I stay with him
so long I'll be out of the punishments of eternity. I will stick to you.
Don't--don't put me away, but have pity on me! No--I'll not go, I'll not
go!”
Again he kissed his lips, cheeks, and forehead, and still clung to him
with terrific violence, until at last his hands were finally secured
beyond the possibility of his again getting them loose. He then threw
himself upon the ground, and still resisted, with a degree of muscular
strength altogether unaccountable in a person, even of his compact and
rather athletic form. His appearance upon the platform will long be
remembered by those who had the questionable gratification of witnessing
it. It was the struggle of strong men dragging a strong man to the most
frightful of all precipices--Death.
[Illustration: PAGE 311-- Most frightful of all precipices--Death]
When he was seen by the people in the act of being forced with such
violence to the drop, they all moved, like a forest agitated by a sudden
breeze, and uttered that strange murmur, composed of many passions,
which can only be heard where a large number of persons are congregated
together under the power of something that is deep and thrilling in its
interest. At length, after a struggle for life, and a horror of death
possibly unprecedented in the annals of crime, he was pushed upon the
drop, the spring was touched, and the unhappy man passed shrieking into
that eternity which he dreaded so much. His death was instantaneous,
and, after hanging the usual time, his body was removed to the goal; the
crowd began to disperse, and in twenty minutes the streets and people
presented nothing more than their ordinary aspect of indifference to
everything but their own affairs.*
* We have only to say, that W--m O--k, Esq., of Jj--sb--e,
sheriff of the county of D--n. and those who officially
attended, about four years ago, the execution of a man named
M--y--, at the gaol of D--rip--k, for a most heinous murder,
will, should they happen to see this description, not
hesitate to declare that it falls far, far short of what
they themselves witnessed upon this terrible occasion.
There is nothing mentioned here which did not then occur,
but there is much omitted.
Such, and so slight, after all, is the impression which death makes upon
life, when the heart and domestic affections are not concerned.
And now, gentle and patient reader--for well, indeed, has thy patience
been tried, during the progress of this tantalizing narrative--we beg
to assure thee, that unless thou art so exquisitely tender-hearted as to
mourn over the fate of Bartle Flanagan, the shadows which darkened the
morning and noon of our story have departed, and its eye will be dewy,
and calm, and effulgent.
Flanagan's execution, like any other just and necessary vindication of
the law, was not without its usual good effect upon the great body
of the people; for, although we are not advocates for a sanguinary
statute-book, neither are we the eulogists of those who, with sufficient
power in their hands, sit calmly and serenely amidst scenes of outrage
and crime, in which the innocent suffer by the impunity of the guilty.
Fame, who is busy on such occasions, soon published to a far distance
Flanagan's confession of having committed the crime for which O'Donovan
was punished. John O'Brien had it himself! from the sheriff's lips, as
well as from a still more authentic statement written by the priest who
attended him, and signed by the unhappy culprit's mark, in the presence
of that gentleman, the governor of the gaol, and two turnkeys. The
sheriff now heard, from O'Brien, for the first time, that O'Donovan's
parents, having disposed of all their property, followed him to New
South Wales, a circumstance by which he was so much struck at the
moment, that he observed to O'Brien,--
“Do you not think it the duty of the Government, considering all the
young man and his parents have suffered by that rascal's malice, to
bring the whole family back at its own expense? For my part, aware as
I am of the excellent disposition of the Secretary, I think, if we ask
them, it will be done.”
“Our best plan, perhaps,” replied John, “is to get a memorial to that
effect signed by those who subscribed to the former one in his behalf.
I think it is certainly necessary, for, to tell you the truth, I doubt
whether they are in possession of funds sufficient for the expenses of
so long a journey.”
“I know,” said the sheriff, “that there is little time to be lost, for
S----,” naming the governor of the gaol, “tells me that the next convict
ship sails in a fortnight. We must, therefore, push forward the business
as rapidly as we can.”
Well and truly did they keep their words, for we have the satisfaction
of adding, that on the seventh day from the date of that conversation,
they received a communication from the Castle, informing them that,
after having taken the peculiar hardships of O'Donovan's singular case
into mature consideration, they deemed the prayer of the memorial such
as they felt pleasure in complying with; and that the Colonial Secretary
had been written to, to take the proper steps for the return of the
young man and his parents to their own country at the expense of the
Government.
This was enough, and almost more than O'Brien expected. He had now done
as much as could be done for the present, and nothing remained but to
await their arrival with hope and patience. In truth, the prospect that
now presented itself to the Bodagh's family was one in which, for the
sake of the beloved Una, they felt a deep and overwhelming interest.
Ever since Connor's removal from the country her spirits had gradually
become more and more depressed. All her mirth and gayety had abandoned
her; she disrelished reading; she avoided company; she hardly ever
laughed, but, on the contrary, indulged in long fits of bitter grief
while upon her solitary rambles. Her chief companion was Biddy Nulty,
whom she exempted from her usual employment whenever she wished that
Connor should be the topic of their conversation. Many a time have they
strolled together through the garden, where Una had often stood, and,
pointing to the summer--house, where the acknowledgments of their
affection were first exchanged, said to her humble companion,--
“Biddy, that is the spot where he first told me that he loved me, and
where I first acknowledged mine to him.”
She would then pull out from her heart the locket which contained his
rich brown hair, and, after kissing it, sit and weep on the spot which
was so dear to her.
Biddy's task, then, was to recount to the unhappy girl such anecdotes as
she remembered of him; and, as these were all to his advantage, we need
scarcely say that many an entertainment of this kind she was called
upon to furnish to her whose melancholy enjoyment was now only the
remembrance of him, and what he had once been to her.
“I would have been in a convent long before now, Biddy,” said she, a few
days before Flanagan's trial, “but I cannot leave my father and mother,
because I know they could not live without me. My brother John has
declined Maynooth lest I should feel melancholy for want of some
person to amuse me and to cheer me; and now I feel that it would be
an ungrateful return I should make if I entered a convent and left
my parents without a daughter whom they love so well, and my brother
without a sister on whom he doats.”
“Well, Miss,” replied Biddy, “don't be cast down; for my part I'd always
hope for the best. Who knows, Miss, but a betther lave may be turned
up for you yet? I'd hould a naggin' that God nivir intinded an innocent
creature like you to spind the rest of your life in sadness and sorrow,
as you're doin'. Always hope for the best.”
“Ah, Biddy,” she replied, “you don't know what you speak of. His
sentence is one that can never be changed; and as for hoping for the
best how can I do that, Biddy, when I know that I have no 'best' to hope
for. He was my best in this world; but he is gone. Now go in, Biddy, and
leave me to myself for a little. You know how I love to be alone.”
“May God in heaven pity you, Miss Oona,” exclaimed the poor girl, whilst
the tears gushed from her eyes, “as I do this day! Oh, keep up your
heart, Miss, darlin'! for where there's life there's hope.”
Little did she then dream, however, that hope would so soon restored to
her heart, or that the revolution of another year should see her waiting
with trembling delight for the fulness of her happiness.
On the evening previous to Bartle Flanagan's execution, she was pouring
out tea for her father and mother, as was usual, when her brother
John came home on his return from the assizes. Although the smile of
affection with which she always received him lit up her dark glossy
eyes, yet he observed that she appeared unusually depressed, and much
more pale than she had been for some time past.
“Una, are you unwell, dear?” he asked, as she handed him a cup of tea.
She looked at him with a kind of affectionate reproof in her eyes, as if
she wondered that he should be ignorant of the sorrow which preyed upon
her.
“Not in health, John,” she replied; “but that man's trial, and the many
remembrances it has stirred up in my mind, have disturbed me. I am very
much cast down, as you may see. Indeed, to speak the truth, and without
disguise, I think that my heart is broken. Every one knows that a
breaking heart is incurable.”
“You take it too much to yourself, a lanna dhas,” said her mother; “but
you must keep up your spirits, darlin'--time will work wonders.”
“With me, mother, it never can.”
“Una,” said John, with affected gravity, “you have just made two
assertions which I can prove to be false.”
She looked at him with surprise.
“False, dear John?”
“Yes, false, dear Una; and I will prove it, as I said. In the first
place, there is a cure for a breaking' heart; and, in the next place,
time will work wonders even for you.”
“Well,” said she, assuming a look of sickly cheerfulness, “I should be
very ungrateful, John, if I did not smile for you, even when you don't
smile yourself, after all the ingenious plans you take to keep up my
spirits.”
“My dear girl,” replied John, “I will not trifle with you; I ask you now
to be firm, and say whether you are capable of hearing--good news.”
“Good news to me! I hope I am, John.”
“Well, then, I have to inform you that this day Bartle Flanagan has
confessed that it was not Connor O'Donovan who burned our haggard, but
himself. The sheriff has written to inform the Government, so that we
will have Connor back again with a name and character unsullied.”
She looked at him for a moment, then at her parents; and her cheek
still got paler, and after a slight pause she burst into a vehement and
irrepressible paroxysm of grief.
“John, is this true?” inquired his father.
“Vic va hoiah! John--blessed mother!--thrue?--but is it, John? is it?”
“Indeed, it is, mother--the villain, now, that he has no hope of his
life, confessed it this day!”
“God knows, darlin',” exclaimed the Bodagh's warm--hearted wife, now
melting into tears herself, “it's no wondher you should cry tears of joy
for this. God wouldn't be above us, a cushla oge machree, or he'd sind
brighter days before your young and innocent heart.”
Una could not speak, but wept on; the grief she felt, however, became
gradually milder in its character, until at length her violent sobbings
were hushed; and, although the tears still flowed, they flowed in
silence.
“We will have him back, sartinly,” said the Bodagh; “don't cry, dear,
we'll have him here again with no disateful villain to swear away his
life.”
“I could die now,” said the noble--minded girl; “I think I could die
now, without even seeing him. His name is cleared, and will be cleared;
his character untainted; and that is dearer to me even than his love.
Oh, I knew it! I knew it!” she fervently exclaimed; “and when all the
world was against him, I was for him; I and his own mother--for we were
the two that knew his heart best.”
“Well,” said John, smiling, “if I brought you gloomy news once, I
believe I have brought you pleasant news twice. You remember when I told
you he was not to die.”
“Indeed, John, dear, you are the best brother that ever God blessed a
sister with; but I hope this is not a dream. Oh, can it be possible!
and when I awake in the morning, will it be to the sorrowful heart I had
yesterday? I am bewildered. After this, who should ever despair of the
goodness of God, or think that the trial he sends but for a time is to
last always?”
“Bridget,” said the gracious Bodagh, “we must have a glass of punch; an'
upon my reputaytion, Oona, we'll drink to his speedy return.”
“Throth, an' Oona will take a glass, herself, this night,” added her
mother; “an' thanks be to Goodness she'll be our colleen dhas dhun
again--won't you have a glass, asthore machree?”
“I'll do anything that any of you wishes me, mother,” replied Una.
She gave, as she uttered the words, a slight sob, which turned their
attention once more to her, but they saw at once, by the brilliant
sparkle of her eyes, that it was occasioned by the unexpected influx of
delight and happiness which was accumulating around her heart.
“Mother,” she said, “will you make the punch for them to--night?
I cannot rest till I let poor Biddy Kulty know what has happened.
Cleared!” she added, exultingly, “his name and character cleared!”
The beautiful girl then left the room, and, short as was the space which
had elapsed since she heard her brother's communication, they could not
help being struck at the light elastic step with which she tripped out
of it. Brief, however, as the period was, she had time to cast aside the
burthen of care which had pressed her down and changed her easy pace to
the slow tread of sorrow.
“God help our poor colleen dhas,” exclaimed her mother, “but she's the
happy creature, this night!”
“And happy will the hearth be where her light will shine,” replied her
father, quoting a beautiful Irish proverb to that effect.
“The ways of Providence are beautiful when seen aright or understood,”
observed her brother. “She was too good to be punished, but not too
perfect to be tried. Their calamitous separation will enhance the value
of their affection for each other when they meet; for pure and exalted
as her love for him is, yet I am proud to say that Connor is worthy of
her and it.”
That night her mother observed that Una spent a longer time than usual
at her devotions, and, looking into her room when passing, she saw her
on her knees, and heard her again sobbing with the grateful sense of a
delighted heart. She did not again address her, and they all retired to
happier slumbers than they had enjoyed for many a night.
Our readers have already had proofs of Una's consideration, generosity,
and common delicacy. Her conduct at the approach of her lover's trial,
and again when he was about to leave her and his country forever, they
cannot, we are sure, have forgotten. When her brother had shown the
official communication from the Castle, in which government expressed
its intention of bringing Connor and his parent's home at its own
expense, the Bodagh and his wife,--knowing that the intended husband of
their daughter possessed no means of supporting her, declared, in order
to remove any shadow of anxiety from her mind, that O'Donovan, after
their marriage, should live with themselves, for they did not wish, they
said, that Una should be separated from them. This was highly gratifying
to her, but beyond her lover's welfare, whether from want of thought or
otherwise, it is not easy to say, she saw that their sympathy did not
extend. This troubled her, for she knew how Connor loved his parents,
and how much any want of comfort they might feel would distress him. She
accordingly consulted with her ever faithful confidant, John, and begged
of him to provide for them, at her own expense, a comfortable dwelling,
and to furnish it, as near as might be practicable in the manner in
which their former one had been furnished. She also desired him to say
nothing to their parents about this, “for I intend,” she added, “to have
a little surprise for them all.”
About the time, therefore, when the vessel in which they were to arrive
was expected, a snug, well--furnished house, convenient to the
Bodagh's, amply stored with provisions, and kept by a daughter of
Nogher M'Cormick, awaited them. Nothing that could render them easy was
omitted, and many things also were procured, in the shape of additional
comforts, to which they had not been accustomed before.
At length the arrival of the much wished-for vessel was announced, and
John O'Brien, after having agreed to let Una know by letter where the
Bodagh's car should meet them, mounted the day coach, and proceeded to
welcome home his future brother-in-law, prepared, at the same time, to
render both to him and his parents whatever assistance they stood in
need of, either pecuniary or otherwise, after so long and so trying a
voyage.
The meeting of two such kindred spirits may be easily conceived. There
were few words wasted between them, but they were full of truth and
sincerity.
“My noble fellow,” said O'Brien, clasping Connor's hand, “she is at home
with a beating heart and a happy one, waiting for you.”
“John,” replied the other fervently, “the wealth of the universe is
below her price. I'm not worthy of her, except in this, that I could
shed my heart's dearest blood to do her good.”
“Little you know of it yet,” said the other smiling significantly, “but
you will soon.”
It appeared that Fardorougha's wife had borne the hardships of both
voyages better than her husband, who, as his son sensibly observed, had
been too much worn down before by the struggle between his love for him
and his attachment to his money.
“His cares are now nearly over,” said Connor, with a sigh. “Indeed, he
is so far gone that I don't know how to lave him while I'm providin' a
home for him to die in.”
“That is already done,” replied O'Brien. “Una did not forget it. They
have a house near ours, furnished with everything that can contribute to
their comfort.”
Connor, on hearing this, paused, and his cheek became pale and red
alternately with emotion--his nerves thrilled, and a charm of love and
pleasure diffused itself over his whole being.
“There is no use in my speaking,” he exclaimed; “love her more than I do
I cannot.”
In consequence of Fardorougha's illness, they were forced to travel by
slower and shorter stages than they intended. O'Brien, however, never
left them; for he knew that should the miser die on the way, they would
require the presence and services of a friend. In due time, however,
they reached the place appointed by John for the car to meet them; and
ere many hours had passed, they found themselves once more in what they
could call their home. From the miser's mind the power of observing
external nature seemed to have been altogether withdrawn; he made no
observation whatever upon the appearance or novelty of the scene to
which he was conveyed, nor of the country through which he passed; but
when put to bed he covered himself with the bed-clothes, and soon fell
into a slumber.
“Connor,” said his mother, “your father's now asleep, an' won't miss
you; lose no time, thin, in goin' to see her; and may God strinthen you
both for sich a meetin'!” They accordingly went. The Bodagh was out,
but Una and her mother were sitting in the parlor when the noise of a
jaunting-car was heard driving up to the door; Una involuntarily looked
out of the window, and seeing two she started up, and putting her hands
together, hysterically exclaimed thrice, “Mother, mother, mother, assist
me, assist me--he's here!” Her mother caught her in her arms; and at the
same moment Connor rushed in. Una could only extend her arms to receive
him; he clasped her to his heart, and she sobbed aloud several times
rapidly, and then her head sank upon his bosom.
Her mother and brother were both weeping.
Her lover looked down upon her, and, as he hung over the beautiful and
insensible girl, the tears which he shed copiously bedewed her face.
After a few minutes she recovered, and her brother, with his usual
delicacy, beckoned to his mother to follow him out of the room, knowing
that the presence of a third person is always a restraint upon the
interchange of even the tenderest and purest affection. Both, therefore,
left them to themselves; and we, in like manner, must allow that
delicious interview to be sacred only to themselves, and unprofaned by
the gaze or presence of a spectator. The Bodagh and his wife were highly
gratified at the steps their children had taken to provide for the
comfort of Fardorougha and his wife. The next day the whole family paid
them a visit, but on seeing the miser, it was clear that his days were
numbered. During the most vigorous and healthy period of his life, he
had always been thin and emaciated; but now, when age, illness, the
severity of a sis months' voyage, and, last of all, the hand of death,
left their wasting traces upon his person, it would indeed be difficult
to witness an image of penury more significant of its spirit. We must,
however, do the old man justice. Since the loss of his money or rather
since the trial and conviction of his son, or probably since the
operation of both events upon his heart, he had seldom, if ever, by a
single act or expression, afforded any proof that his avarice survived,
or was able to maintain its hold upon him, against the shock which
awakened the full power of a father's love.
About ten o'clock, a. m., on the fourth day after their arrival, Connor,
who had run over to the Bodagh's, was hurriedly sent for by his mother,
who desired Nelly M'Cormick to say that his father incessantly called
for him, and that he must not lose a moment in coming. He returned
immediately with her, and found the old man reclining in bed, supported
by his wife, who sat behind him.
“Is my boy comin'?” he said, in a thin, wiry, worn voice, but in words
which, to any person near him, were as distinct almost as ever--“is my
boy Connor comin'?”
“I am here, father,” replied Connor, who had just entered the sick room;
“sure I am always with you.”
“You are, you are,” said he, “you were ever an' always good. Give me
your hand, Connor.”
Connor did so.
“Connor, darlin',” he proceeded, “don't be like me. I loved money too
much; I set my heart on it, an' you know how it was taken away from me.
The priest yesterday laid it upon me, out of regard to my reignin' sin,
as he called it, to advise you afore I die against lovin' the wealth o'
this world too much.”
“I hope I never will, father, your own misfortune ought to be a warnin'
to me.”
“Ay, you may say that; it's I indeed that was misfortunate; but it was
all through P----an' that nest o' robbers, the Isle o' Man.”
“Don't think of him or it now, my dear father--don't be discomposin'
your mind about them.”
Connor and his mother exchanged a melancholy glance; and the latter,
who, on witnessing his frame of mind, could not help shedding bitter
tears, said to him--
“Fardorougha dear, Fardorougha asthore machree, won't you be guided by
me? You're now on your death--bed, an' think of God's marcy--it's that
you stand most in need of. Sure, ayourneen, if you had all the money you
ever had, you couldn't bring a penny of it where you're goin'.”
“Well, but I'm givin' Connor advice that'll sarve him. Sure I'm not
biddin' him to set his heart on it, for I tould the priest I wouldn't;
but is that any raison why he'd not save it? I didn't tell the priest
that I wouldn't bid him do that.”
“Father,” said Connor, “for the love o' God will you put these thoughts
out o' your heart and mind?”
“So Connor dear,” proceeded the old man, not attending to him, “in
makin' any bargain, Connor, be sure to make as hard a one as you can;
but for all that be honest, an' never lind a penny o' money widout
interest.”
“I think he's wandherin',” whispered his mother. “Oh grant it may be so,
marciful Jasus this day!”
“Honor ahagur.”
“Well, darlin', what is it?”
“There's another thing that throubles me--I never knew what it was to
feel myself far from my own till now.”
“How is that, dear?”
“My bones won't rest in my own counthry; I won't sleep wid them that
belong to me. How will I lie in a strange grave, and in a far land? Oh,
will no one bring me back to my own?”
The untutored sympathies of neither wife nor son could resist this
beautiful and affecting trait of nature, and the undying love of one's
own land, emanating, as it did, so unexpectedly, from a heart otherwise
insensible to the ordinary tendernesses of life.
“Sure you are at home, avourneen,” said Honor; “an' will rest wid your
friends and relations that have gone before you.”
“No,” said he, “I'm not, I'm far away from them, but now I feel more
comforted; I have one wid me that's dearer to me than them all. Connor
and I will sleep together, won't we, Connor?”
This affectionate transition from every other earthly object to himself,
so powerfully smote the son's heart that he could not reply.
“What ails him, Connor?” said his wife. “Help me to keep up his
head--Saver above!”
Connor raised his head, but saw at a glance that the last struggle in
the old man's heart was over. The miser was no more.
Little now remains to be said. The grief for old age, though natural, is
never abiding.
The miser did sleep with his own; and after a decent period allotted
to his memory, need we say that our hero and heroine, if we may be
permitted so to dignify them, were crowned in the enjoyment of those
affections which were so severely tested, and at the same time so worthy
of their sweet reward.
Ned M'Cormick and Biddy Nulty followed their example, and occupied
the house formerly allotted to Fardorougha and his wife. John O'Brien
afterwards married, and the Bodagh, reserving a small but competent
farm for himself, equally divided his large holdings between his son and
son-in-law. On John's mojority he built a suitable house; but Una and her
husband, and Honor, all live with themselves, and we need scarcely say,
for it is not long since we spent a week with them, that the affection
of the old people for their grandchildren is quite enthusiastic, and
that the grandchildren, both boys and girls, are worthy of it.
End of Project Gutenberg's Fardorougha, The Miser, by William Carleton