The tears burst from the eyes of the miserable creature as he replied--

“Before God in glory, your honor, an' in the presence of his Lordship

here, I only got about what 'ud make betther nor half a male widin the

last day, sir. 'Twas a weeshy grain o' male that I got from a friend;

an' as Ned Connor here tauld me that this crathur had nothin' to make

the gruel for him, why I shared it wid him, bekase he couldn't even beg

it, sir, if he wanted it, an' him not able to walk yit.”

The worthy pastor's eyes glistened with a moisture that did him honor.

Without a word of observation, he slipped a crown into the hand of Dunn,

who looked at it as if he had been paralyzed.

“Oh thin,” said he, fervently, “may every hair on your honor's head

become a mould-candle to light you into glory! The world's goodness is

in your heart, sir; an' may all the blessin's of Heaven rain down upon

you an' yours!”

The two gentlemen then gave assistance to the poor scholar, whom the

Bishop addressed in kind and encouraging language:

“Come to me, my good boy,” he added, “and if, on further inquiry, I find

that your conduct has been such as I believe it to have been, you may

rest assured, provided also you continue worthy of my good opinion, that

I shall be a friend and protector to you. Call on me when you got well,

and I will speak to you at greater length.”

“Well,” observed Connor, when they were gone, “the divil's own hard

puzzle the Bishop had me in, about stalin' the milk. It went agin' the

grain wid me to tell him the lie, so I had to invint a bit o' truth to

keep my conscience clear; for sure there was not a man among us that

could tell him, barrin' we said that we oughtn't to say. Doesn't all the

world know that a man oughtn't to condimn himself? That was thruth, any

way; but divil a scruple I'd have in blammin' the other--not but that

he's one o' the best of his sort. Paddy Dunn, quit lookin' at that

crown, but get the shovel an' give the boy his dhrink--he's wantin' it.”

The agitation of spirits produced by Jemmy's cheering interview with

the Bishop was, for three days afterwards, somewhat prejudicial to his

convalescence. In less than a week, however, he was comfortably settled

with Mr. O'Rorke's family, whose kindness proved to him quite as warm as

he had expected.

When he had remained with them a few days, he resolved to recommence

his studies under his tyrant master. He certainly knew that his future

attendance at the school would be penal to him, but he had always looked

forward to the accomplishment of his hopes as a task of difficulty and

distress. The severity to be expected from the master could not,

he thought, be greater than that which he had already suffered; he

therefore decided, if possible, to complete his education under him.

The school, when Jemmy appeared in it, had been for more than an hour

assembled, but the thinness of the attendance not only proved the woful

prevalence of sickness and distress in the parish, but sharpened the

pedagogue's vinegar aspect into an expression of countenance singularly

peevish and gloomy. When the lad entered, a murmur of pleasure and

welcome ran through the scholars, and joy beamed forth from every

countenance but that of his teacher. When the latter noticed this, his

irritability rose above restraint, and he exclaimed:--

“Silence! and apply to business, or I shall cause some of you to denude

immediately. No school ever can prosper in which that _hirudo_, called

a poor scholar, is permitted toleration. I thought, sarra, I told you

to nidificate and hatch your wild project undher some other wing than

mine.”

“I only entrate you,” replied our poor hero, “to suffer me to join the

class I left while I was sick, for about another year. I'll be very

quiet and humble, and, as far as I can, will do everything you wish me.”

“Ah! you are a crawling reptile,” replied the savage, “and, in my

opinion, nothing but a chate and impostor. I think you have imposed

yourself upon Mr. O'Brien for what you are not; that is, the son of an

honest man. I have no doubt, but many of your nearest relations died

after having seen their own funerals. Your mother, you runagate, wasn't

your father's wife, I'll be bail.”

The spirit of the boy could bear this no longer; his eyes flashed, and

his sinews stood out in the energy of deep indignation.

“It is false,” he exclaimed; “it is as false as your own cruel and

cowardly heart, you wicked and unprincipled tyrant! In everything you

have said of my father, mother, and friends, and of myself, too, you

are' a liar, from the hat on your head to the dirt undher your feet--a

liar, a coward, and a villain!”

The fury of the miscreant was ungovernable:--he ran at the still feeble

lad, and, by a stroke of his fist, dashed him senseless to the earth.

There were now no large boys in the school to curb his resentment, he

therefore kicked him in the back when he fell. Many voices exclaimed in

alarm--“Oh, masther! sir; don't kill him! Oh, sir! dear, don't kill him!

Don't kill poor Jemmy, sir, an' him still sick!”

“Kill him!” replied the master; “kill him, indeed! Faith, he'd be no

common man who could kill him; he has as many lives in him as a cat!

Sure, he can live behind a ditch, wid the faver on his back, wid-out

dying; and he would live if he was stuck on the spire of a steeple.”

In the meantime the boy gave no symptoms of returning life, and the

master, after desiring a few of the scholars to bring him oat to the

air, became pale as death with apprehension. He immediately withdrew

to his private apartment, which joined the schoolroom, and sent out his

wife to assist in restoring him to animation. With some difficulty

this was accomplished. The unhappy boy at once remembered what had just

occurred; and the bitter tears gushed from his eyes, as he knelt down,

and exclaimed “Merciful Father of heaven and earth, have pity on me! You

see my heart, great God! and that what I did, I did for the best!”

“Avourneen,” said the woman, “he's passionate, an' never mind him. Come

in an' beg his pardon for callin' him a liar, an' I'll become spokesman

for you myself. Come, acushla, an' I'll get lave for you to stay in the

school still.”

“Oh, I'm hurted!” said the poor youth: “I'm hurted inwardly--somewhere

about the back, and about my ribs!” The pain he felt brought the tears

down his pale cheeks. “I wish I was at home!” said he. “I'll give up all

and go home!” The lonely boy then laid his head upon his hands, as he

sat on the ground, and indulged in a long burst of sorrow.

“Well,” said a manly-looking little fellow, whilst the tears stood in

his eyes, “I'll tell my father this, anyhow. I know he won't let me come

to this school any more. Here, Jemmy, is a piece of my bread, maybe it

will do you good.”

“I couldn't taste it, Frank dear,” said Jemmy; “God bless you; but I

couldn't taste it.”

“Do,” said Frank; “maybe it will bate back the pain.”

“Don't ask me, Frank dear,” said Jemmy; “I couldn't ate it: I'm hurted

inwardly.”

“Bad luck to me!” exclaimed the indignant boy, “if ever my ten toes will

darken this school door agin. By the livin' farmer, if they ax me at

home to do it, I'll run away to my uncle's, so I will. Wait, Jemmy, I'll

be big yit; an', be the blessed Gospel that's about my neck, I'll give

the same masther a shirtful of sore bones, the holy an' blessed minute

I'm able to do it.”

Many of the other boys declared that they would acquaint their friends

with the master's cruelty to the poor scholar; but Jemmy requested them

not to do so, and said that he was determined to return home the moment

he should be able to travel.

The affrighted woman could not prevail upon him to seek a reconciliation

with her husband, although the expressions of the other scholars

induced her to press him to it, even to entreaty. Jemmy arose, and with

considerable difficulty reached the Curate's house, found him at home,

and, with tears in his eyes, related to him the atrocious conduct of the

master.

“Very well,” said this excellent man, “I am glad that I can venture to

ride as far as Colonel B------'s to-morrow. You must accompany me; for

decidedly such brutality cannot be permitted to go unpunished.”

Jemmy knew that the curate was his friend; and although he would

not himself have thought of summoning the master to answer for his

barbarity, yet he acquiesced in the curate's opinion. He stopped that

night in the house of the worthy man to whom Mr. O'Brien had recommended

him on his first entering the town. It appeared in the morning, however,

that he was unable to walk; the blows which he had received were then

felt by him to be more dangerous than had been supposed. Mr. O'Brien, on

being informed of this, procured a jaunting-car, on which they both sat,

and at an easy pace reached the Colonel's residence.

The curate was shown into an ante-room, and Jemmy sat in the hall: the

Colonel joined the former in a few minutes. He had been in England and

on the continent, accompanied by his family, for nearly the last three

years, but had just returned, in order to take possession of a large

property in land and money, to which he succeeded at a very critical

moment, for his own estates were heavily encumbered. He was now

proprietor of an additional estate, the rent-roll of which was six

thousand per annum, and also master of eighty-five thousand pounds in

the funds. Mr. O'Brien, after congratulating him upon his good fortune,

introduced the case of our hero as one which, in his opinion, called for

the Colonel's interposition as a magistrate.

“I have applied to you, sir,” he proceeded, “rather than to any other

of the neighboring gentlemen, because I think this friendless lad has a

peculiar claim upon any good offices you could render him.”

“A claim upon me! How is that, Mr. O'Brien?”

“The boy, sir, is not a native of this province. His father was formerly

a tenant of yours, a man, as I have reason to believe, remarkable for

good conduct and industry. It appears that his circumstances, so long as

he was your tenant, were those of a comfortable independent farmer. If

the story which his son relates be true--and I, for one, believe it--his

family have been dealt with in a manner unusually cruel and iniquitous.

Your present agent, Colonel, who is known in his own neighborhood by the

nickname of Yellow Sam, thrust him out of hia farm, when his wife was

sick, for the purpose of putting into it a man who had married his

illegitimate daughter. If this be found a correct account of the

transaction, I have no hesitation in saying, that you, Colonel B------,

as a gentleman of honor and humanity, will investigate the conduct of

your agent, and see justice done to an honest man, who must have been

oppressed in your name, and under color of your authority.”

“If my agent has dared to be unjust to a worthy tenant,” said the

Colonel, “in order to provide for his bastard, by my sacred honor, he

shall cease to be an agent of mine! I admit, certainly, that from some

circumstances which transpired a few years ago, I have reason to suspect

his integrity. That, to be sure, was only so far as he and I were

concerned; but, on the other hand, during one or two visits I made to

the estate which he manages, I heard the tenants thank and praise him

with much gratitude, and all that sort of thing. There was 'Thank your

honor!'--'Long may you reign over us, sir!'--and, 'Oh, Colonel, you've

a mighty good man to your agent!' and so forth. I do not think, Mr.

O'Brien, that he has acted so harshly, or that he would dare to do it.

Upon my honor, I heard those warm expressions of gratitude from the lips

of the tenants themselves.”

“If you knew the people in general, Colonel, as well as I do,” replied

the curate, “you would admit, that such expressions are often either

cuttingly ironical, or the result of fear. You will always find, sir,

that the independent portion of the people have least of this forced

dissimulation among them. A dishonest and inhuman agent has in his own

hands the irresponsible power of harassing and oppressing the tenantry

under him. The class most hateful to the people are those low wretches

who spring up from nothing into wealth, accumulated by dishonesty

and rapacity. They are proud, overbearing, and jealous, even to

vindictiveness, of the least want of respect. It is to such upstarts

that the poorer classes are externally most civil; but it is also such

persons whom they most hate and abhor. They flatter them to their faces,

'tis true even to nausea; but they seldom spare them in their absence.

Of this very class, I believe, is your agent, Yellow Sam; so that any

favorable expressions you may have heard from your tenantry towards him,

were most probably the result of dissimulation and fear. Besides, sir,

here is a testimonial from M'Evoy's parish priest, in which his father

is spoken of as an honest, moral, and industrious man.”

“If what you say, Mr. O'Brien, be correct,” observed the Colonel, “you

know the Irish peasantry much better than I do. Decidedly, I have

always thought them in conversation exceedingly candid and sincere. With

respect to testimonials from priests to landlords in behalf of their

tenants, upon my honor I am sick of them. I actually received, about

four years ago, such an excellent character of two tenants, as induced

me to suppose them worthy of encouragement. But what was the fact? Why,

sir, they were two of the greatest firebrands on my estate, and put both

me and my agent to great trouble and expense. No, sir, I wouldn't give

a curse for a priest's testimonial upon such an occasion. These fellows

were subsequently convicted of arson on the clearest evidence, and

transported.”

“Well, sir, I grant that you may have been misled in that instance.

However, from what I've observed, the two great faults of Irish

landlords are these:--In the first place, they suffer themselves

to remain ignorant of their tenantry; so much so, indeed, that they

frequently deny them access and redress when the poor people are anxious

to acquaint them with their grievances; for it is usual with landlords

to refer them to those very agents against whose cruelty and rapacity

they are appealing. This is a _carte blanche_ to the agent to trample

upon them if he pleases. In the next place, Irish landlords too

frequently employ ignorant and needy men to manage their estates; men

who have no character, no property, or standing in society, beyond the

reputation of being keen shrewd, and active. These persons, sir, make

fortunes; and what means can they have of accumulating wealth, except by

cheating either the landlord or his tenants, or both? A history of

their conduct would be a black catalogue of dishonesty, oppression, and

treachery. Respectable men, resident on or-near the estate, possessing

both character and property, should always be selected for this

important trust. But, above all things, the curse of a tenantry is

a percentage agent. He racks, and drives, and oppresses, without

consideration either of market or produce, in order that his receipts

may be ample, and his own income large.”

“Why, O'Brien, you appear to be better acquainted with all this sort of

thing than I, who am a landed proprietor.”

“By the by, sir, without meaning you any disrespect, it is the landlords

of Ireland who know least about the great mass of its inhabitants; and

I might also add, about its history, its literature, the manners of the

people, their customs, and their prejudices. The peasantry know this,

and too often practise upon their ignorance. There is a landlord's _Vade

mecum_ sadly wanted in Ireland, Colonel.”

“Ah! very good, O'Brien, very good! Well, I shall certainly inquire into

this case, and if I find that Yellow Ham has been playing the oppressor,

out he goes. I am now able to manage him, which I could not readily do

before, for, by the by, he had mortgages on my property.”

“I would take it, Colonel, as a personal favor, if you would investigate

the transaction I have mentioned.”

“Undoubtedly I shall, and that very soon. But about this outrage

committed against the boy himself? We had better take his informations,

and punish the follow.”

“Certainly; I think that is the best way. His conduct to the poor youth

has been merciless and detestable. We must put him out of this part of

the country.”

“Call the lad in. In this case I shall draw up the informations myself,

although Gregg usually does that.”

Jemmy, assisted by the curate, entered the room, and the humane Colonel

desired him, as he appeared ill, to sit down.

“What is your name?” asked the Colonel.

“James M'Evoy,” he replied. “I'm the son, sir, of a man who was once a

tenant of yours.”

“Ay! and pray how did he cease to be a tenant of mine?”

“Why, sir, your agent, Yallow Sam, put him out of our farm, when my

poor mother was on her sick-bed. He chated my father, sir, out of some

money--part of our rent it was, that he didn't give him a receipt for.

When my father went to him afterwards for the receipt, Yallow Sam abused

him, and called him a rogue, and that, sir, was what no man ever called

my father either before or since. My father, sir, threatened to tell

you about it, and you came to the country soon after; but Yallow Sam got

very great wid my father at that time, and sent him to sell bullocks for

him about fifty miles off, but when he come back again, you had left the

country. Thin, sir, Yallow Sam said nothing till the next half-year's

rent became due, whin he came down on my father for all--that is, what

he hadn't got the receipt for, and the other gale--and, without any

warning in the world, put him out. My father offered to pay all; but

he said he was a rogue, and that you had ordered him off the estate. In

less than a week after this he put a man that married a bastard daughter

of his own into our house and place. That's God's truth, sir; and you'll

find it so, if you inquire into it. It's a common trick of his to keep

back receipts, and make the tenants pay double.” *

* This is the fact. The individual here alluded to,

frequently kept back receipts when receiving rents,

under pretence of hurry, and afterwards compelled the

tenants to pay the same gale twice!

“Sacred Heaven, O'Brien! can this be possible?”

“Your best way, Colonel, is to inquire into it.”

“Was not your father able to educate you at home, my boy?”

“No, sir. We soon got into poverty after we left your farm; and another

thing, sir, there was no Latin school in our neighborhood.”

“For what purpose did you become a poor scholar?”

“Why, sir, I hoped one day or other to be able to raise my father and

mother out of the distress that Yallow Sam brought on us.”

“By Heaven! a noble aim, and a noble sentiment. And what has this d--d

fellow of a schoolmaster done to you?”

“Why, sir, yesterday, when I went back to the school, he abused me, and

said that he supposed that most of my relations were hanged; spoke ill

of my father; and said that my mother”--Here the tears started to his

eyes--he sobbed aloud.

“Go on, and be cool,” said the Colonel. “What did he say of your

mother?”

“He said, sir, that she was never married to my father. I know I was

wrong, sir; but if it was the king on his throne that said it of my

mother, I'd call him a liar. I called him a liar, and a coward, and a

villain: ay, sir, and if I had been able, I would have tramped him under

my feet.”

The Colonel looked steadily at him, but the open clear eye which the boy

turned upon him was full of truth and independence. “And you will find,”

said the soldier, “that this spirited defence of your mother will be the

most fortunate action of your life. Well; he struck you then, did he?”

“He knocked me down, sir, with his fist--then kicked me in the back and

sides. I think some of my ribs are broke.”

“Ay!--no doubt, no doubt,” said the Colonel. “And you were only after

recovering from this fever which is so prevalent?”

“I wasn't a week out of it, sir.”

“Well, my boy, we shall punish him for you.”

“Sir, would you hear me for a word or two, if it would be pleasing to

you?”

“Speak on,” said the Colonel.

“I would rather change his punishment to--I would--that is--if it would

be agreeable to you--It's this, sir--I wouldn't throuble you now against

the master, if you'd be pleased to rightify my father, and punish Yallow

Sam. Oh, sir, for God's sake, put my heart-broken father into his farm

again! If you would, sir, I could shed my blood, or lay down my life

for you, or for any belonging to you. I'm but a poor boy, sir, low and

humble; but they say there's a greater Being than the greatest in this

world, that listens to the just prayers of the poor and friendless. I

was never happy, sir, since we left it--neither was any of us; and when

we'd sit cowld and hungry, about our hearth, We used to be talking of

the pleasant days we spent in it, till the tears would be smothered in

curses against him that put us out of it. Oh, sir, if you could know

all that a poor and honest family suffers, when they are thrown into

distress by want of feeling in their landlords, or by the dishonesty of

agents, you would consider my father's case. I'm his favorite son, sir,

and good right have I to speak for him. If you could know the sorrow,

the misery, the drooping down of the spirits, that lies upon the

countenances and the hearts of such people, you wouldn't, as a man and a

Christian, think it below you to spread happiness and contentment among

them again. In the morning they rise to a day of hardship, no matter

how bright and cheerful it may be to others--nor is there any hope of a

brighter day for them: and at night they go to their hard beds to strive

to sleep away their hunger in spite of cowld and want. If you could see

how the father of a family, after striving to bear up, sinks down at

last; if you could see the look he gives at the childhre that he would

lay down his heart's blood for, when they sit naked and hungry about

him; and the mother, too, wid her kind word and sorrowful smile, proud

of them in all their destitution, but her heart breaking silent! All the

time, her face wasting away. Her eye dim, and her strength gone--Sir,

make one such family happy--for all this has been in my father's house!

Give us back our light spirits, our pleasant days, and our cheerful

hearts again! We lost them through the villainy of your agent. Give

them back to us, for you can do it; but you can never pay us for what we

suffered. Give us, sir, our farm, our green fields, our house, and every

spot and nook that we had before. We love the place, sir, for its own

sake;--it is the place of our fathers, and our hearts are in it. I often

think I see the smooth river that runs through it, and the meadows

that I played in when I was a child;--the glen behind our house, the

mountains that rose before us when we left the door, the thorn-bush at

the garden, the hazels in the glen, the little beach-green beside the

river--Oh, sir, don't blame me for crying, for they are all before my

eyes, in my ears, and in my heart! Many a summer evening have I gone to

the march-ditch of the farm that my father's now in, and looked at the

place I loved, till the tears blinded me, and I asked it as a favor of

God to restore us to it! Sir, we are in great poverty at home; before

God we are; and my father's heart is breaking.”

The Colonel drew his breath deeply, rubbed his hands, and as he looked

at the fine countenance of the boy--expressing, as it did, enthusiasm

and sorrow--his eye lightened with a gleam of indignation. It could

not be against the poor scholar; no, gentle reader, but against his own

agent.

“O'Brien,” said he, “what do you think, and this noble boy is the son

of a man who belongs to a class of which I am ignorant! By Heaven, we

landlords are, I fear, a guilty race.”

“Not all, sir,” replied the Curate. “There are noble exceptions among

them; their faults are more the faults of omission than commission.”

“Well, well, no matter. Come, I will draw up the informations against

this man; afterwards I have something to say to you, my boy,” he added,

addressing Jemmy, “that will not, I trust, be unpleasant.”

He then drew up the informations as strongly as he could word them,

after which Jemmy deposed to their truth and accuracy, and the Colonel,

rubbing his hands again, said--

“I will have the fellow secured. When you go into town, Mr. O'Brien,

I'll thank you to call on Meares, and hand him these. He will lodge the

miscreant in limbo this very night.”

Jemmy then thanked him, and was about to withdraw, when the Colonel

desired him to remain a little longer.

“Now,” said he, “your father has been treated inhumanly, I believe; but

no matter. That is not the question. Your sentiments, and conduct, and

your affection for your parents, are noble, my boy. At present, I say,

the question is not whether the history of your father's wrongs be true

or false; you, at least, believe it to be true. From this forward--but

by the by, I forgot; how could your becoming a poor scholar relieve your

parents?”

“I intended to become a priest, sir, and then to help them.”

“Ay! so I thought; and, provided your father were restored to the farm,

would you be still disposed to become a priest?”

“I would, sir; next to helping my father, that is what I wish to be.”

“O'Brien, what would it cost to prepare him respectably for the

priesthood?--I mean to defray his expenses until he completes his

preparatory education, in the first place, and afterwards during his

residence in Maynooth?”

“I think two hundred pounds, sir, would do it easily and respectably.”

“I do not think it would. However, do you send him--but first let me ask

what progress he has already made?”

“He has read--in fact he is nearly prepared to enter Maynooth. His

progress has been very rapid.”

“Put him to some respectable boarding-school for a year; then let him

enter Maynooth, and I will bear the expense. But remember I do not adopt

this course in consequence of his father's history. Not I, by Jupiter; I

do it on his own account. He is a noble boy, and full of fine qualities,

if they be not nipped by neglect and poverty. I loved my father myself,

and fought a duel on his account; and I honor the son who has spirit to

defend his absent parent.”

“This is a most surprising turn in the boy's fortunes, Colonel.”

“He deserves it. A soldier, Mr. O'Brien, is not without his enthusiasm,

nor can he help admiring it in others, when nobly and virtuously

directed. To see a boy in the midst of poverty, encountering the

hardships and difficulties of life, with the hope of raising up his

parents from distress to independence, has a touch of sublimity in it.”

“Ireland, Colonel, abounds with instances of similar virtue, brought

out, probably, into fuller life and vigor by the sad changes and

depressions which are weighing down the people. In her glens, on her

bleak mountain sides, and in her remotest plains, such examples of pure

affection, uncommon energy, and humble heroism, are to be seen; but,

unfortunately, few persons of rank or observation mingle with the Irish

people, and their many admirable qualities pass away without being

recorded in the literature of their country. They are certainly a

strange people, Colonel, almost an anomaly in the history of the human

race. They are the only people who can rush out from the very virtues

of private life to the perpetration of crimes at which we shudder. There

is, to be sure, an outcry about their oppression; but that is wrong.

Their indigence and ignorance are rather the result of neglect;--of

neglect, sir, from the government of the country--from the earl to

the squireen. They have been taught little that is suitable to their

stations and duties in life, either as tenants who cultivate our lands,

or as members of moral or Christian society.”

“Well, well: I believe what you say is too true. But touching the

records of virtue in human life, pray who would record it when nothing

goes down now-a-days but what is either monstrous or fashionable?”

“Very true, Colonel; yet in my humble opinion, a virtuous Irish peasant

is far from being so low a character as a profligate man of rank.”

“Well, well, well! Come, O'Brien, we will drop the subject. In the

meantime, touching this boy, as I said, he must be looked to, for he has

that in him which ought not to be neglected. We shall now see that this

d--d pedagogue be punished for his cruelty.” The worthy Colonel in a

short time dismissed poor Jemmy with an exulting heart; but not until

he had placed a sufficient sum in the Curate's hands for enabling him to

make a respectable appearance. Medical advice was also procured for him,

by which he sooner overcame the effects of his master's brutality.

On their way home Jemmy related to his friend the conversation which he

had had with his Bishop in the shed, and the kind interest which that

gentleman had taken in his situation and prospects. Mr. O'Brien told him

that the Bishop was an excellent man, possessing much discrimination

and benevolence; “and so,” said he, “is the Protestant clergyman who

accompanied him. They have both gone among the people during this heavy

visitation of disease and famine, administering advice and assistance;

restraining them from those excesses which they sometimes commit, when,

driven by hunger, they attack provision-carts, bakers' shops, or the

houses of farmers who are known to possess a stock of meal or potatoes.

God knows, it is an excusable kind of robbery; yet it is right to

restrain them.”

“It is a pleasant thing, sir, to see clergymen of every religion working

together to make the people happy.”

“It is certainly so,” replied the curate; “and I am bound to say, in

justice to the Protestant clergy, that there is no class of men in

Ireland, James, who do so much good without distinction of creed or

party. They are generally kind and charitable to the poor; so are their

wives and daughters. I have often known them to cheer the sick-bed--to

assist the widow and the orphan--to advise and admonish the profligate,

and, in some instances, even to reclaim them. But now about your own

prospects; I think you should go and see your family as soon as your

health permits you.”

“I would give my right hand,” replied Jemmy, “just to see them, if it

was only for five minutes: but I cannot go. I vowed that I would never

enter my native parish until I should become a Catholic clergyman. I

vowed that, sir, to God--and with his assistance I will keep my vow.”

“Well,” said the curate, “you are right. And now lot me give you a

little advice. In the first place, learn to speak as correctly as you

can; lay aside the vulgarisms of conversation peculiar to the common

people; and speak precisely as you would write. By the by, you acquitted

yourself to admiration with the Colonel. A little stumbling there was in

the beginning; but you got over it. You see, James, the force of truth

and simplicity. I could scarcely restrain my tears while you spoke.”

“If I had not been in earnest, sir, I could never have spoken as I did.”

“You never could. Truth, James, is the foundation of all eloquence; he

who knowingly speaks what is not true, may dazzle and perplex; but he

will never touch with that power and pathos which spring from truth.

Fiction is successful only by borrowing her habiliments. Now, James, for

a little more advice. Don't let the idea of having been a poor scholar

deprive you of self-respect; neither let your unexpected turn of fortune

cause you to forget what you have suffered. Hold a middle course; be

firm and independent; without servility on the one hand, or vanity on

the other. You have also too much good sense, and, I hope, too much

religion, to ascribe what this day has brought forth in your behalf, to

any other cause than God. It has pleased him to raise you from misery to

ease and comfort; to him, therefore, be it referred, and to him be your

thanks and prayers directed. You owe him much, for you now can perceive

the value of what he has done for you! May his name be blessed!”

Jemmy was deeply affected by the kindness of his friend, for such, in

friendship's truest sense, was he to him. He expressed, the obligations

which he owed him, and promised to follow the excellent advice he had

just received.

The schoolmaster's conduct to the poor scholar had, before the close

of the day on which it occurred, been known through the parish. Thady

O'Rorke, who had but just recovered from the epidemic, felt so bitterly

exasperated at the outrage, that he brought his father to the parish

priest, to whom he give a detailed account of all that our hero and the

poorer children of the school had suffered. In addition to this, he

went among the more substantial farmers of the neighborhood, whose

cooperation he succeeded in obtaining, for the laudable purpose of

driving the tyrant out of the parish.

Jemmy, who still lived at the “House of Entertainment,” on hearing what

they intended to do, begged Mr. O'Brien, to allow him, provided the

master should be removed from the school, to decline prosecuting him.

“He has been cruel to me, no doubt,” he added; “still I cannot forget

that his cruelty has been the means of changing my condition in life

so much for the better. If he is put out of the parish it will be

punishment enough; and, to say the truth, sir, I can now forgive

everybody. Maybe, had I been still neglected I might punish him; but,

in the meantime, to show him and the world that I didn't deserve his

severity, I forgive him.”

Mr. O'Brien was not disposed to check a sentiment that did the boy's

heart so much honor; he waited on the Colonel the next morning,

acquainted him with Jemmy's wishes, and the indictment was quashed

immediately after the schoolmaster's removal from his situation.

Our hero's personal appearance was by this time incredibly changed for

the better. His countenance, naturally expressive of feeling, firmness,

and intellect, now appeared to additional advantage; so did his whole

person, when dressed in a decent suit of black. No man acquainted with

life can be ignorant of the improvement which genteel apparel produce in

the carriage, tone of thought, and principles of an individual. It

gives a man confidence, self-respect, and a sense of equality with

his companions; it inspires him with energy, independence, delicacy

of sentiment, courtesy of manner, and elevation of language. The face

becomes manly, bold, and free; the brow open, and the eye clear; there

is no slinking through narrow lanes and back streets: but, on the

contrary, the smoothly dressed man steps out with a determination not

to spare the earth, or to walk as if he trod on eggs or razors. No; he

brushes onward; is the first to accost his friends; gives a careless

bow to this, a bluff nod to that, and a patronizing “how dy'e do” to a

third, who is worse dressed than himself. Trust me, kind reader, that

good clothes are calculated to advance a man in life nearly as well

as good principles, especially in a world like this, where external

appearance is taken as the exponent of what is beneath it.

Jemmy, by the advice of his friend, now waited upon the Bishop, who was

much surprised at the uncommon turn of fortune which had taken place in

his favor. He also expressed his willingness to help him forward, as far

as lay in his power, towards the attainment of his wishes. In order to

place the boy directly under suitable patronage, Mr. O'Brien suggested

that the choice of the school should be left to the Bishop. This,

perhaps, mattered him a little, for who is without his weaknesses? A

school near the metropolis was accordingly fixed upon, to which Jemmy,

now furnished with a handsome outfit, was accordingly sent. There we

will leave him, reading with eagerness and assiduity, whilst we return

to look after Colonel B. and his agent.

One morning after James's departure, the Colonel's servant waited upon

Mr. O'Brien with a note from his master, intimating a wish to see him.

He lost no time in waiting upon that gentleman, who was then preparing

to visit the estate which he had so long neglected.

“I am going,” said he, “to see how my agent, Yellow Sam, as they call

him, and my tenants agree. It is my determination, Mr. O'Brien, to

investigate the circumstances attending the removal of our protege's

father. I shall, moreover, look closely into the state and feelings of

my tenants in general. It is probable I shall visit many of them, and

certain that I will inquire into the character of this man.”

“It is better late than never, Colonel; but still, though I am a friend

to the people, yet I would recommend you to be guided by great caution,

and the evidence of respectable and disinterested men only. You must

not certainly entertain all the complaints you may hear, without clear

proof, for I regret to say, that too many of the idle and political

portion of the peasantry are apt to throw the blame of their own folly

and ignorance--yes, and of their crimes, also--upon those who in no

way have occasioned either their poverty or their wickedness. They are

frequently apt to consider themselves oppressed, if concessions are not

made, to which they, as idle and indolent men, who neglected their own

business, have no fair claim. Bear this in mind, Colonel--be cool,

use discrimination, take your proofs from others besides the parties

concerned, or their friends, and, depend upon it, you will arrive at the

truth.”.

“O'Brien, you would make an excellent agent.”

“I have studied the people, sir, and know them. I have breathed

the atmosphere of their prejudices, habits, manners, customs, and

superstitions. I have felt them all myself, as they feel them; but I

trust I have got above their influence where it is evil, for there are

many fine touches of character among them, which I should not willingly

part with. No, sir, I should make a bad agent, having no capacity for

transacting business. I could direct and overlook, but nothing more.”

“Well, then, I shall set out to-morrow; and in the meantime, permit me

to say that I am deeply sensible of your kindness in pointing out my

duty as an Irish landlord, conscious that I have too long neglected it.”

“Kindness, Colonel, is the way to the Irish heart. There is but one man

in Ireland who can make an Irishman ungrateful, and that is his priest.

I regret that in times of political excitement, and especially during

electioneering struggles, the interference of the clergy produces

disastrous effects upon the moral feelings of the people. When a tenant

meets the landlord whom he has deserted in the critical momont of the

contest the landlord to whom he has solemnly promised his support, and

who, perhaps, as a member of the legislature, has advocated his claims

and his rights, and who, probably, has been kind and indulgent to him--I

say, when he meets him afterwards, his shufflings, excuses, and evasions

are grievous. He is driven to falsehood and dissimulation in explaining

his conduct; he expresses his repentance, curses himself for his

ingratitude, promises well for the future, but seldom or never can

be prevailed upon to state candidly that he acted in obedience to

the priest. In some instances, however, he admits this, and inveighs

bitterly against his interference--but this is only whilst in the

presence of his landlord. I think, Colonel, that no clergyman, set apart

as he is for the concerns of a better world, should become a firebrand

in the secular pursuits and turmoils of this.”

“I wish, Mr. O'Brien, that every clergyman of your church resembled you,

and acted up to your sentiments: our common country would be the better

for it.”

“I endeavor to act, sir, as a man who has purely spiritual duties to

perform. It is not for us to be agitated and inflamed by the political

passions and animosities of the world. Our lot is differently cast, and

we ought to abide by it. The priest and politician can no more agree

than good and evil. I speak with respect to all churches.”

“And so do I.”

“What stay do you intend to make, Colonel?”

“I think about a month. I shall visit some of my old friends there, from

whom I expect a history of the state and feelings of the country.”

“You will hear both sides of the question before you act?”

“Certainly. I have written to my agent to say that I shall look very

closely into my own affairs on this occasion. I thought it fair to give

him notice.”

“Well, sir, I wish you all success.”

“Farewell, Mr. O'Brien; I shall see you immediately after my return.”

The Colonel performed his journey by slow stages, until he reached “the

hall of his fathers,”--for it was such, although he had not for years

resided in it. It presented the wreck of a fine old mansion, situated

within a crescent of stately beeches, whose moss-covered and ragged

trunks gave symptoms of decay and neglect. The lawn had been once

beautiful, and the demesne a noble one; but that which blights the

industry of the tenant--the curse of absenteeism--had also left the

marks of ruin stamped upon every object around him. The lawn was

little better than a common; the pond was thick with weeds and sluggish

water-plants, that almost covered its surface; and a light, elegant

bridge, that spanned a river which ran before the house, was also

moss-grown and dilapidated. The hedges were mixed up with briers, the

gates broken, or altogether removed, the fields were rank with the

ruinous luxuriance of weeds, and the grass-grown avenues spoke of

solitude and desertion. The still appearance, too, of the house itself,

and the absence of smoke from its time-tinged chimneys--all told a

tale which constitutes one, perhaps the greatest, portion of Ireland's

misery! Even then he did not approach it with the intention of residing

there during his sojourn in the country. It was not habitable, nor had

it been so for years. The road by which he travelled lay near it, and

he could not pass without looking upon the place where a long line

of gallant ancestors had succeeded each other, lived their span, and

disappeared in their turn.

He contemplated it for some time in a kind of reverie. There, it stood,

sombre and silent;--its gray walls mouldering away--its windows dark and

broken;--like a man forsaken by the world, compelled to bear the storms

of life without the hand of a friend to support him, though age and

decay render him less capable of enduring them. For a momont fancy

repeopled it;--again the stir of life, pastime, mirth, and hospitality

echoed within its walls; the train of his long departed relatives

returned; the din of rude and boisterous enjoyment peculiar to the

times; the cheerful tumult of the hall at dinner; the family feuds and

festivities; the vanities and the passions of those who now slept in

dust;--all--all came before him once more, and played their part in the

vision of the moment!

As he walked on, the flitting wing of a bat struck him lightly in

its flight; he awoke from the remembrances which crowded on him, and,

resuming his journey, soon arrived at the inn of the nearest town, where

he stopped that night. The next morning he saw his agent for a short

time, but declined entering upon business. For a few days more he

visited most of the neighboring gentry, from whom he received sufficient

information to satisfy him that neither he himself nor his agent

was popular among his tenantry. Many flying reports of the agent's

dishonesty and tyranny were mentioned to him, and in every instance he

took down the names of the parties, in order to ascertain the truth.

M'Evoy's case had occurred more than ten years before, but he found

that the remembrance of the poor man's injury was strongly and bitterly

retained in the recollections of the people--a circumstance which

extorted from the blunt, but somewhat sentimental soldier, a just

observation:--“I think,” said he, “that there are no people in the world

who remember either an injury or a kindness so long as the Irish.”

When the tenants were apprised of his presence among them, they

experienced no particular feeling upon the subject. During all his

former visits to his estate, he appeared merely the creature and puppet

of his agent, who never acted the bully, nor tricked himself out in his

brief authority more imperiously than he did before him. The knowledge

of this damped them, and rendered any expectations of redress or justice

from the landlord a matter not to be thought of.

“If he wasn't so great a man,” they observed, “who thinks it below him

to speak to his tenants, or hear their complaints, there 'ud be some

hope. But that rip of hell, Yallow Sam, can wind him round his finger

like a thread, an' does, too. There's no use in thinkin' to petition

him, or to lodge a complaint against Stony Heart, for the first thing

he'd do 'ud be to put it into the yallow-boy's hands, an' thin, God be

marciful to thim that 'ud complain. No, no; the best way is to wait till

Sam's _masther_* takes him; an' who knows but that 'ud be sooner nor we

think.”

* The devil;--a familiar name for him when mentioned in

connection with a villain.

“They say,” another would reply, “that the Colonel is a good gintleman

for all that, an' that if he could once know the truth, he'd pitch the

'yallow boy' to the 'ould boy.'”

No sooner was it known by his tenantry that the head landlord was

disposed to redress their grievances, and hear their complaints, than

the smothered attachment, which long neglect had nearly extinguished,

now burst forth with uncommon power.

“Augh! by this an' by that the throe blood's in him still. The rale

gintleman to dale wid, for ever! We knew he only wanted to come at the

thruth, an' thin he'd back us agin the villain that harrished us! To the

divil wid skamin' upstarts, that hasn't the ould blood 'in thim! What

are they but sconces an' chates, every one o' thim, barrin' an odd one,

for a wondher!”

The Colonel's estate now presented a scene of gladness and bustle. Every

person who felt in the slightest degree aggrieved, got his petition

drawn up; and, but that we fear our sketch is already too long, we

could gratify the reader's curiosity by submitting a few of them. It

is sufficient to say, that they came to him in every shape--in all the

variety of diction that the poor English language admits of--in the

schoolmaster's best copy-hand, and choicest sesquipedalianism of

pedantry--in the severer, but more Scriptural terms of the parish

clerk--in the engrossing hand and legal phrase of the attorney--in the

military form, evidently redolent of the shrewd old pensioner--and

in the classical style of the young priest:--for each and all of the

foregoing were enlisted in the cause of those who had petitions to send

in “to the Colonel himself, God bless him!”

Early in the morning of the day on which the Colonel had resolved to

compare the complaints of his tenantry with the character which his

agent gave him of the complainants, he sent for the former, and the

following dialogue took place between them.

“Good morning, Mr. Carson! Excuse me for requesting your presence to-day

earlier than usual. I have taken it into my head to know something of my

own tenantry, and as they have pestered me with petitions, and letters,

and complaints, I am anxious to have your opinion, as you know them

better than I do.”

“Before we enter on business, Colonel, allow me to inquire if you

feel relieved of that bilious attack you complained of the day before

yesterday? I'm of a bilious habit myself, and know something about the

management of digestion!”

“A good digestion is an excellent thing, Carson; as for me, I drank too

much claret with my friend B----y; and there's the secret. I don't like

cold wines, they never agree with me.”

“Nor do I; they are not constitutional. Your father was celebrated

for his wines, Colonel: I remember an anecdote told me by Captain

Ferguson--by the by, do you know where Ferguson could be found, now,

sir?”

“Not I. What wines do you drink, Carson?”

“A couple of glasses of sherry, sir, at dinner; and about ten o'clock, a

glass of brandy and water.”

“Carson, you are sober and prudent. Well about these cursed petitions;

you must help me to dispose of them. Why, a man would think by the tenor

of them, that these tenants of mine are ground to dust by a tyrant.”

“Ah! Colonel, you know little about these fellows. They would make black

white. Go and take a ride, sir, return about four o'clock, and I will

have everything as it ought to be.”

“I wish to heaven, Carson, I had your talents for business. Do you think

my tenants attached to me?”

“Attached! sir, they are ready to cut your throat or mine, on the first

convenient opportunity. You could not conceive their knavishness and

dishonesty, except you happened to be an agent for a few years.

“So I have been told, and I am resolved to remove every dishonest tenant

from my estate. Is there not a man, for instance, called Brady? He has

sent me a long-winded petition here. What do you think of him?”

“Show me the petition, Colonel.”

“I cannot lay my hand on it just now; but you shall see it. In the mean

time, what's your opinion of the fellow?”

“Brady! Why, I know the man particularly well. He is one of my

favorites. What the deuce could the fellow petition about, though? I

promised the other day to renew his lease for him.”

“Oh, then, if he be a favorite of yours, his petition may go to the

devil, I suppose? Is the man honest?”

“Remarkably so; and has paid his rents very punctually. He is one of our

safest tenants.”

“Do you know a man called Cullen?”

“The most litigious scoundrel on the estate.”

“Indeed? Oh, then, we must look into the merits of his petition, as

he is not honest. Had he been honest like Brady, Carson, I should have

dismissed it.”

“Cullen, sir, is a dangerous fellow. Do you know, that rascal has

charged me with keeping back his receipts, and with making I him pay

double rent!--ha, ha, ha! Upon my honor, its fact.”

“The scoundrel! We shall sift him to some purpose, however.”

“If you take my advice, sir, you will send him about his business; for

if it be once known that you listen to malicious petitions, my authority

over such villains as Cullen is lost.”

“Well, I set him aside for the present. Here's a long list of others,

all of whom have been oppressed, forsooth. Is there a man called M'Evoy

on my estate?--Dominick M'Evoy, I think.”

“M'Evoy! Why that rascal, sir, has not been your tenant for ten years?

His petition, Colonel, is a key to the nature of their grievances in

general.”

“I believe you, Carson--most implicitly do I believe that. Well, about

that rascal?”

“Why, it is so long since, that upon my honor, I cannot exactly remember

the circumstances of his misconduct. He ran away.”

“Who is in his farm now, Carson?”

“A very decent man, sir. One Jackson, an exceedingly worthy, honest,

industrious fellow. I take some credit to myself for bringing Jackson on

your estate.”

“Is Jackson married? Has he a family?”

“Married! Let me see! Why--yes--I believe he is. Oh, by the by, now

I think of it, he is married, and to a very respectable woman, too.

Certainly, I remember--she usually accompanies him when he pays his

rents.”

“Then your system must be a good one, Carson; you weed out the idle and

profligate, to replace them by the honest and industrious.”

“Precisely so, sir; that is my system.”

“Yet there are agents who invert your system in some cases; who drive

out the honest and industrious, and encourage the idle and profligate;

who connive at them, Carson, and fill the estates they manage with their

own dependents, or relatives, as the case may be. You have been alway's

opposed to this, and I'm glad to hear it.”

“No man, Colonel B------, filling the situation which I have the honor

to hold under you, could study your interests with greater zeal and

assiduity. God knows, I have had so many quarrels, and feuds, and

wranglings, with these fellows, in order to squeeze money out of them to

meet your difficulties, that, upon my honor, I think if it required

five dozen oaths to hang me, they could be procured upon your estate. An

agent, Colonel, who is faithful to the landlord, is seldom popular with

the tenants.”

“I can't exactly see that, Carson; and I have known an unpopular

landlord rendered highly popular by the judicious management of an

enlightened and honest agent, who took no bribes, Carson, and who

neither extorted from nor ground the tenantry under him--something like

a counterpart of yourself. But you may be right in general.”

“Is there anything particular, Colonel, in which I can assist you now?”

“Not now. I was anxious to hear the character of those fellows from

you who know them. Come down about eleven or twelve o'clock; these

petitioners will be assembled, and you may be able to assist me.”

“Colonel, remember I forewarn you, that you are plunging into a mesh

of difficulties, which you will never be able to disentangle. Leave

the fellows to me, sir; I know how to deal with them. Besides, upon my

honor, you are not equal to it, in point of health. You look ill. Pray

allow me to take home their papers, and I shall have all clear and

satisfactory before two o'clock. They know my method, sir.”

“They do, Carson, they do; but I am anxious they should also know mine.

Besides, it will amuse me, for I want excitement. Good day, for the

present; you will be down about twelve, or one at the furthest.”

“Certainly, sir. Good morning, Colonel.”

The agent was too shrewd a man not to perceive that there were touches

of cutting irony in some of the Colonel's expressiqns, which he did

not like. There was a dryness, too, in the tone of his voice and words,

blended with a copiousness of good humor, which, taken altogether,

caused him to feel uncomfortable. He could have wished the Colonel at

the devil: yet had the said Colonel never been more familiar in his

life, nor, with one or two exceptions, readier to agree with almost

every observation made to him.

“Well,” thought he, “he may act as he pleases; I have feathered my nest,

at all events, and disregard him.”

Colonel B-----, in fact, ascertained with extreme regret, that something

was necessary to be done, to secure the good-will of his tenants; that

the conduct of his agent had been marked by rapacity and bribery almost

incredible. He had exacted from the tenantry in general the performance

of duty-labor to such an extent, that his immense agricultural farms

were managed with little expense to himself. If a poor man's corn were

drop ripe, or his hay in a precarious state, or his turf undrawn, he

must suffer his oats, hay, and turf, to be lost, in order to secure the

crops of the agent. If he had spirit to refuse, he must expect to become

a martyr to his resentment. In renewing leases his extortions were

exorbitant; ten, thirty, forty, and fifty guineas he claimed as a fee

for his favor, according to the ability of the party; yet this was quite

distinct from the renewal tine, and went into his own pocket. When such

“glove money” was not to be had, he would accept of a cow or horse, to

which he usually made a point to take a fancy; or he wanted to purchase

a firkin of butter at that particular time; and the poor people usually

made every sacrifice to avoid his vengeance. It is due to Colonel

B------ to say, that he acted in the investigation of his agent's

conduct with the strictest honor and impartiality. He scrutinized every

statement thoroughly, pleaded for him as temperately as he could; found,

or pretended to find, extenuating motives for his most indefensible

proceedings; but all would not do. The cases were so clear and evident

against him, even in the opinion of the neighboring gentry, who had been

for years looking upon the system of selfish misrule which he practised,

that at length the generous Colonel's blood boiled with indignation

in his veins at the contemplation of his villany. He accused himself

bitterly for neglecting his duties as a landlord, and felt both

remorse and shame for having wasted his time, health, and money, in

the fashionable dissipation of London and Paris; whilst a cunning,

unprincipled upstart played the vampire with his tenants, and turned his

estate into a scene of oppression and poverty. Nor was this all; he

had been endeavoring to bring the property more and more into his own

clutches, a point which he would ultimately have gained, had not the

Colonel's late succession to so large a fortune enabled him to meet his

claims.

At one o'clock the tenants were all assembled about the inn door, where

the Colonel had resolved to hold his little court. The agent himself

soon arrived, as did several other gentlemen, the Colonel's friends, who

knew the people and could speak to their character.

The first man called was Dominick M'Evoy. No sooner was his name

uttered, than a mild, poor-looking man, rather advanced in years, came

forward.

“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” said Carson, “here is some mistake; this

man is not one of your tenants. You may remember I told you so this

morning.”

“I remember it,” replied the Colonel; “this is 'the rascal' you spoke

of--is he not? M'Evoy,” the Colonel proceeded, “you will reply to

my questions with strict truth. You will state nothing but what has

occurred between you and my agent; you must not even turn a circumstance

in your own favor, nor against Mr. Carson, by either adding to, or

taking away from it, more or less than the truth. I say this to you, and

to all present; for, upon my honor, I shall dismiss the first case in

which I discover a falsehood.”

“Wid the help o' the Almighty, sir, I'll state nothing but the bare

thruth.”

“How long are you off my estate?”

“Ten years, your honor, or a little more.”

“How came you to run away out of your farm?”

“Run away, your honor! Grod he knows, I didn't run away, sir. The whole

counthry knows that.”

“Yes, ran away! Mr. Carson, here, stated to me this morning, that

you ran away. He is a gentleman of integrity, and would not state a

falsehood.”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel, not positively. I told you I did not

exactly remember the circumstances; I said I thought so; but I may be

wrong, for, indeed, my memory of facts is not good. M'Evoy, however,

is a very honest man, and I have no doubt will state everything as it

happened, fairly and without malice.”

“An honest 'rascal,' I suppose you mean, Mr. Carson,” said the Colonel,

bitterly. “Proceed, M'Evoy.”

M'Evoy stated the circumstances precisely as the reader is already

acquainted with them, after which the Colonel turned round to his agent

and inquired what he had to say in reply.

“You cannot expect, Colonel B------,” he replied, “that with such a

multiplicity of business on my hands, I could remember, after a lapse of

ten years, the precise state of this particular case. Perhaps I may have

some papers, a memorandum or so, at home, that may throw light upon it.

At present I can only say, that the man failed in his rents, I ejected

him, and put a better tenant in his place. I cannot see a crime in

that.”

“Plase your honor,” replied M'Evoy, “I can prove by them that's standin'

to the fore this minute, as well as by this written affidavit, sir,

that I offered him the full rint, havin', at the same time, as God is my

judge, ped part of it afore.”

“That is certainly false--an untrue and malicious statement,” said

Carson. “I now remember that the cause of my resentment--yes, of my just

resentment against you, was your reporting that I received your rent and

withheld your receipt.”

“Then,” observed the Colonel, “There has been more than one charge

of that nature brought against you? You mentioned another to me this

morning if I mistake not.”

“I have made my oath, your honor, of the thruth of it; an' here is a

dacent man, sir, a Protestant, that lent me the money, an' was present

when I offered it to him. Mr. Smith, come forrid, sir, an' spake up for

the poor man, as you're always willin' to do.”

“I object to his evidence,” said Carson: “he is my open enemy.”

“I am your enemy, Mr. Carson, or rather the enemy of your corruption and

want of honesty,” said Smith: “but, as you say, an open one. I scorn to

say behind your back what I wouldn't say to your face. Right well you

know I was present when he tendered you his rent. I lent him part of it.

But why did you and your bailiffs turn him out, when his wife was on her

sick bed? Allowing that he could not pay his rent, was that any reason

you should do so barbarous an act as to drag a woman from her sick bed,

and she at the point of death? But we know your reasons for it.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “pray what character do M'Evoy and Smith

here bear in the country?”

“We have known them both for years to be honest, conscientious men,”

said those whom he addressed: “such is their character, and in our

opinion they well deserve it.”

“God bless you, gintlemen!” said M'Evoy--“God bless your honors, for

your kind Words! I'm sure for my own part, I hope though but a poor man

now, God help me!”

“Pray, who occupies the farm at present, Mr. Carson?”

“The man I mentioned to you this morning, sir. His name is Jackson.”

“And pray, Mr. Carson, who is his wife?”

“Oh, by the by, Colonel, that's a little too close! I see the gentlemen

smile; but they know I must beg to decline answering that question---not

that it matters much. We have all sown our wild oats in our time--myself

as well as another--ha, ha, ha!”

“The fact, under other circumstances,” observed the Colonel, “could

never draw an inquiry from me; but as it is connected with, or probably

has occasioned, a gross, unfeeling, and an unjust act of oppression

towards an honest man, I therefore alluded to it, as exhibiting the

motives from which you acted. She is your illegitimate daughter, sir!”

“She's one o' the baker's dozen o' them, plase your honor,” observed a

humorous little Presbyterian, with a sarcastic face, and sharp northern

accent--“for feth, sir, for my part, A thenk he lies one on every hill

head. All count, your honor, on my fingers a roun' half-dozen, all on

your estate, sir, featherin' their nests as fast as they can.”

“Is this Jackson a good tenant, Mr. Carson?”

“I gave you his character this morning, Colonel B.”

“Hout, Colonel!” said the Presbyterian, “deil a penny rent the man pays,

at all, at all. A'll swear a hev it from Jackson's own lips. He made him

a Bailey, sir; he suts rent free. Ask the man, sir, for his receipts,

an' a'll warrant the truth will come out.”

“I have secured Jackson's attendance,” said the Colonel; “let him be

called in.”

The man in a few minutes entered.

“Jackson,” said the Colonel, “how long is it since you paid Mr. Carson

here any rent?”

Jackson looked at Carson for his cue; but the Colonel rose up

indignantly: “Fellow!” he proceeded, “if you tamper with me a single

moment, you shall find Mr. Carson badly able to protect you. If you

speak falsehood, be it at your peril.”

“By Jing, sir,” said Jackson, “All say nothin' aginst my father-in-laa,

an' A don't care who teks it well or ull. A was just tekin' a _gun_ (* a

half-tumbler of punch) with a fren' or two--an d---me, A say, A'll stick

to my father-m-laa, for he hes stuck to me.”

“You appear to be a hardened, drunken wretch,” observed the Colonel.

“Will you be civil enough to show your last receipt for rent?”

“Wull A show it? A dono whether A wull or not, nor A dono whether A hey

it or not; but ef aall the receipts in Europe wur burnt, d---- my blood,

but A'll stick to my father-in-laa.”

“Your father-in-law may be proud of you,” said the Colonel.

“By h----, A'll back you en that,” said the fellow nodding his head, and

looking round him confidently. “By h-----, A say that, too!”

“And I am sorry to be compelled to add,” continued the Colonel, “that

you may be equally proud of your father-in-law.”

“A say, right agane! D---- me, bit A'll back that too!”and he nodded

confidently, and looked around the room once more. “A wull, d---- my

blood, bit no man can say agane it. A'm married to his daughter; an', by

the sun that shines A'll still stan' up for my father-in-laa.”

“Mr. Carson,” said the Colonel, “can you disprove these facts? Can you

show that you did not expel M'Evoy from his farm, and put the husband of

your illegitimate daughter into it? That you did not receive his rent,

decline giving him a receipt, and afterwards compel him to pay twice,

because he could not produce the receipt which you withheld?”

“Gentlemen,” said Carson, not directly replying to the Colonel, “there

is a base conspiracy got up against me; and I can perceive, moreover,

that there is evidently some unaccountable intention on the part of

Colonel B. to insult my feelings and injure my character. When paltry

circumstances that have occurred above ten years ago, are raked up in my

teeth, I have little to say, but that it proves how very badly off

the Colonel must have been for an imputation against my conduct and

discretion as his agent, since he finds himself compelled to hunt so far

back for a charge.”

“That is by no means the heaviest charge I have to bring against you,”

replied the Colonel. “There is no lack of them; nor shall you be able to

complain that they are not recent, as well as of longer standing. Your

conduct in the case of poor honest M'Evoy here is black and iniquitous.

He must be restored to his farm, but by other hands than yours, and that

ruffian instantly expelled from it. From this moment, sir, you cease to

be my agent. You have betrayed the confidence I reposed in you; you have

misled me as to the character of my tenants; you have been a deceitful,

cunning, cringing, selfish and rapacious tyrant. My people you have

ground to dust; my property you have lessened in value nearly one-half,

and for your motives in doing this, I refer you to certain transactions

and legal documents which passed between us. There is nothing cruel or

mercenary which you did not practice, in order to enrich yourself. The

whole tenor of your conduct is before me. Your profligacy is not only

discovered, but already proved; and you played those villainous pranks,

I suppose, because I have been mostly an absentee. Do not think,

however, that you shall enjoy the fruits of your extortion? I will place

the circumstances, and the proofs of the respective charges against you,

in the hands of my solicitor, and, by the sacred heaven above me! you

shall disgorge the fruits of your rapacity. My good people, I shall

remain among you for another fortnight, during which time I intend to go

through my estate, and set everything to rights as well as I can, until

I may appoint a humane and feeling gentleman as my agent--such a one as

will have, at least, a character to lose. I also take this opportunity

of informing you, that in future I shall visit you often, will redress

your grievances, should you have any to complain of, and will give such

assistance to the honest and industrious among you--but to them

only--as I trust may make us better pleased with each other than we have

been.--Do not you go, M'Evoy, until I speak to you.”

During these observations Carson sat with a smile, or rather a sneer

upon his lips. It was the sneer of a purse-proud villain confident that

his wealth, no matter how ill-gotten, was still wealth, and worth its

value.

“Colonel,” said he, “I have heard all you said, but you see me 'so

strong in honesty,' that I am not moved. In the course of a few weeks

I shall have purchased an estate of my own, which I shall manage

differently, for my fortune is made, sir. I intend also to give up my

other agencies: I am rather old and must retire to enjoy a little of the

_otium cum dignitate_. I wish you all goo'd-morning!”

The Colonel turned away in abhorrence, but disdained any reply.

“A say, Sam,” said the Presbyterian, “bring your son-in-laa wuth you.”

“An' I say that, too,” exclaimed the drunken ruffian--“A say that; A do.

A'm married to his daughter; an' A say stull, that d------my blood, bit

A'll stick to my father-in-laa! That's the point!”--and again he nodded

his head, and looked round him with a drunken swagger:--“A'll stick to my

father-in-laa! A'll do that; feth, A wull!”*

* This dialect is local.

It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that the Colonel's

address to Carson soon got among the assembled tenantry, and a vehement

volley of groans and hisses followed the discarded agent up the street.

“Ha! bad luck to you for an ould villain. You were made to hear on the

deaf side o' your head at last! You may take the black wool out o' your

ears now, you rip! The cries an' curses o' the widows an' orphans that

you made and oppressed, has ris up agin you at the long run! Ha! you

beggarly nager! maybe you'll make us neglect our own work to do yours

agin! Go an' gather the dhry cow-cakes, you misert, an' bring them home

in your pocket, to throw on the dunghill!”

“Do you remimber the day,” said others, “you met Mr. M., an' you goin'

up the street wid a cake of it in your fists, undher your shabby skirts;

an' whin the gintlemen wint to shake hands wid you, how he discovered

your maneness? Three groans for Yallow Sam, the extortioner! a short

coorse to him! Your corner's warm for you, you villain!”

“But now, boys, for the Colonel!” they exclaimed.--“Huzza for noble

Colonel B------ the rale Irish gintlemen, that wouldn't see his tenants

put upon by a villain!--Huzza! Hell resave yees, shout! Huzza! Huzza!

Huzza! Huz--tundher-an'-ounze, my voice is cracked! Where's his

coach?--where's his honor's coach? Come, boys, out wid it,--out wid it!

Tattheration to yees, come! We'll dhraw it to the divil, to hell an'

back agin, if it plases him! Success to Colonel B------! Blood-an-turf!

what'll we do for a fight? Long life to noble Colonel B------, the poor

man's friend!--long life to him for ever an' a day longer! Whoo! my

darlins! Huzza!” etc.

The warm interest which the Colonel took in M'Evoy's behalf, was looked

upon by the other tenants as a guarantee of his sincerity in all he

promised. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They got out his carriage

from the Inn-Yard, and drew it through the town, though the Colonel

himself, beyond the fact of their shouting, remained quite ignorant of

what was going forward.

After Carson's departure, the Colonel's friends, having been first asked

to dine with him at the inn, also took their leave, and none remained

but M'Evoy, who waited with pleasing anxiety to hear what the Colonel

proposed to say--for he felt certain that it would be agreeable.

“M'Evoy,” said the Colonel, “I am truly sorry for what you have suffered

through the villany of my agent; but I will give you redress, and allow

you for what you have lost by the transaction. It is true, as I

have been lately told by a person who pleaded your cause nobly and

eloquently, that I can never repay you for what you have suffered.

However, what we can, we will do. You are poor, I understand?”

“God he sees that, sir; and afflicted, too, plase your honor.”

“Afflicted? How is that?”

“I had a son, sir--a blessed boy! a darlin' boy!--once our comfort, an'

once we thought he'd be our pride an' our staff, but”--

The poor man's tears here flowed fast; he took up the skirt of his

“Cotha More,” or great-coat, and, after wiping his eyes, and clearing

his voice, proceeded:--

“He was always, as I said, a blessed boy, and we looked up to him

alwayrs, sir. He saw our poverty, your honor, an' he felt it, sir, keen

enough, indeed, God help him! How an'-iver, he took it on him to go

up to Munster, sir, undher hopes of risin' us--undher the hopes, poor

child--an' God knows, sir,--if--oh, Jemmy avourneen ma-chree!--doubt--I

doubt you sunk undher what proved too many for you!--I doubt my child's

dead, sir--him that all our hearts wor fixed upon; and if that 'ud

happen to be the case, nothin'--not even your kindness in doin' us

justice, could make us happy. We would rather beg wid him, sir, nor have

the best in the world widout him. His poor young heart, sir, was fixed

upon the place your honor is restorin' us to; an I'm afeard his mother,

sir, would break her heart if she thought he couldn't share our good

fortune! And we don't know whether he's livin' or dead! That, sir, is

what's afflictin' us. I had some notion of goin' to look for him; but

he tould us he would never write, or let us hear from him, till he'd be

either one thing or other.”

“I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that your son is well, M'Evoy.

Believe me, he is well--I know it.”

“Well! Before God, does your honor spake truth? Well! Oh, sir, for His

sake that died for us, an' for the sake of his blessed mother, can you

tell me is my darlin' son alive?”

“He is living; is in excellent health; is as well dressed as I am; and

has friends as rich and as capable of assisting him as myself. But

how is this? What's the matter with you? You are pale! Good God! Here,

waiter! Waiter! Waiter, I say!”

The Colonel rang the bell violently, and two or three waiters entered at

the same moment.

“Bring a little wine and water, one of you, and let the other two remove

this man to the open window. Be quick. What do you stare at?”

In a few minutes the old man recovered, and untying the narrow coarse

cravat which he wore, wiped the perspiration off his pale face.

“Pray, don't be too much affected,” said the Colonel. “Waiter, bring

up refreshment--bring wine--be quiet and calm--you are weak, poor

fellow--but we will strengthen you by-and-by.”

“I am wake, sir,” he replied; “for, God help us! this was a hard year

upon us; and we suffered what few could bear. But he's livin', Colonel.

Our darlin' is livin! Oh, Colonel, your kindness went to my heart this

day afore, but that was nothin'--he's livin' an' well! On my two knees,

before God, I thank you for them words! I thank you a thousand an' a

thousand times more for them words, nor for what your honor did about

Yallow Sam.”

“Get up,” said the Colonel--“get up. The proceedings of the day have

produced a revulsion of feeling which has rendered you incapable of

sustaining intelligence of your son. He is well, I assure you. Bring

those things to this table, waiter.”

“But can your honor tell me anything in particular about him, sir? What

he's doin'--or what he intends to do?”

“Yes! he is at a respectable boarding-school.”

“Boordin'-school! But isn't boordin'-schools Protestants, sir?”

“Not at all; he is at a Catholic boarding-school, and reading hard to be

a priest, which, I hope, he will soon be. He has good friends, and you

may thank him for being restored to your farm.”

“Glory be to my Maker for that! Oh, sir, your tenants wor desaved in

you! They thought, sir, that you wor a hard-hearted gintleman, that

didn't care whether they lived or died.”

“I feel that I neglected them too long, M'Evoy. Now take some

refreshment: eat something, and afterwards drink a few glasses of wine.

Your feelings have been much excited, and you will be the better for it.

Keep up your spirits. I am going to ride, and must leave you: but if you

call on me to-morrow, at one o'clock, I shall have more good news

for you. We must stock your farm, and enable you to enter upon it

creditably.”

“Sir,” said M'Evoy, “you are a Protestant; but, as I hope to enther

glory, I an' my wife an' childhre will pray that your bed may be made in

heaven, this night; and that your honor may be led to see the truth an'

the right coorse.”

The Colonel then left him; and the simple man, on looking at the cold

meat, bread, and wine before him, raised his hands and eyes towards

heaven, to thank God for his goodness, and to invoke a blessing upon his

noble and munificent benefactor.

But how shall we describe the feelings of his family, when, after

returning home, he related the occurrences of that day. The severe and

pressing exigencies under which they labored had prevented his sons

from attending the investigation that was to take place in town. Their

expectations, however, were raised, and they looked out with intense

anxiety for the return of their father.

At length he was seen coming slowly up the hill; the spades were thrown

aside, and the whole family assembled to hear “what was done.”

The father entered in silence, sat down, and after wiping his brow and

laying down his hat, placing his staff across it upon the floor, he drew

his breath deeply.

“Dominick,” said the wife, “what news? What was done?”

“Vara,” replied Dominick, “do you remimber the day--fair and handsome

you wor then--when I first kissed your lips, as my own darlin' wife?”

“Ah, avourneen, Dominick, don't spake of them times. The happiness we

had then is long gone, acushla, in one sense.”

“It's before me like yestherday, Vara--the delight that went through my

heart, jist as clear as yestherday, or the blessed sun that's shinin'

through the broken windy on the floor there. I remimber, Vara, saying

to you that day--I don't know whether you remimber it or not--but I

remimber sayin' to you, that if I lived a thousand years, I could never

feel sich happiness as I did when I first pressed you to my heart as my

own wife.”

“Well, but we want to hear what happened, Dominick, achora.”

“Do you remimber the words, Vara?”

“Och! I do, avourneen. Didn't they go into my heart at the time, an' how

could I forget them? But I can't bear, somehow, to look back at what we

wor then, bekase I feel my heart brakin', acushla!”

“Well, Vara, look at me. Amn't I a poor wasted crathur now, in

comparishment to what I was thin?”

“God he sees the change that's in you, darlin'! But sure 'twasn't your

fau't, or mine either, Dominick, avilish!”

“Well, Vara, you see me now--I'm happpier--before God, I'm

happier--happier, a thousand degrees than I was thin! Come to my arms,

asthore machree--my heart s breakin'--but it's wid happiness--don't be

frightened--it's wid joy I'm sheddin' these tears--it's wid happiness

an' delight In' cryin'! Jemmy is livin', an' well, childhre--he's livin'

an' well, Vara--the star of our hearts is livin', an' well, an' happy!

Kneel down, childhre--kneel down! Bend before the great God, an' thank

him for his kindness to your blessed brother--to our blessed son.

Bless the Colonel, childhre; bless him whin you're down, Protestant an'

all, as he is. Oh, bless him as if you prayed for myself, or for Jemmy,

that's far away from us!”

He paused for a few minutes, bent his head upon his hands as he knelt

in supplication at the chair, then resumed his seat, as did the whole

family, deeply affected.

“Now, childhre,” said he, “I'll tell yez all; but don't any of you be so

poor a crathur as I was to-day. Bear it mild an' asy, Vara, acushla, for

I know it will take a start out of you. Sure we're to go back to our own

ould farm! Ay, an' what'a more--oh, God of heaven, bless him!--what's

more, the Colonel is to stock it for us, an' to help us; an' what is

more, Yallow Sam is out! out!!”

“Out!” they exclaimed: “Jemmy well, an' Yallow Sam out! Oh, father,

surely”--

“Now behave, I say. Ay, and never to come in again! But who do you think

got him out?”

“Who?--why God he knows. Who could get him out?”

“Our son, Vara--our son, childhre: Jemmy got him out, an' got ourselves

back to our farm! I had it partly from the noble Colonel's own lips,

an' the remainder from Mr. Moutray, that I met on my way home. But

there's more to come:--sure Jemmy has friends aquil to the Colonel

himself: an' sure he's at a Catholic boordin'-school, among gintlemen's

childhre, an' in a short time he'll be a priest in full ordhers.”

We here draw a veil over the delight of the family. Questions upon

questions, replies upon replies, sifting and cross-examinations,

followed in rapid succession, until all was known that the worthy man

had to communicate.

Another simple scene followed, which, as an Irishman, I write with

sorrow. When the joy of the family had somewhat subsided, the father,

putting his hand in his coat-pocket, pulled out several large slices of

mutton.

“Along wid all, childhre,” said he, “the Colonel ordhered me my dinner.

I ate plinty myself, an' slipped these slices in my pocket for you: but

the devil a one o' me knows what kind o' mate it is. An' I got wine,

too! Oh!--Well, they may talk, but wine is the drink! Bring me the ould

knife, till I make a fair divide of it among ye. Musha, what kind o'

mate can it be, for myself doesn't remimber atin' any sort, barrin'

bacon an' a bit o' slink-veal of an odd time?”

They all ate it with an experimental air of sagacity that was rather

amusing. None, however, had ever tasted mutton before, and consequently

the name of the meat remained, on that occasion, a profound secret to

M'Evoy and his family.* It is true, they supposed it to be mutton;

but not one of them could pronounce it to be such, from any positive

knowledge of its peculiar flavor.

* There are hundreds of thousands--yes, millions--of

the poorer classes in Ireland, who have never tasted

mutton!

“Well,” said Dominick, “it's no matther what the name of it is, in

regard that it's good mate, any way, for them that has enough of it.”

With a fervent heart and streaming eyes did this virtuous family offer

up their grateful prayers to that God whose laws they had not knowingly

violated, and to whose providence they owed so much. Nor was their

benefactor forgotten. The strength and energy of the Irish language,

being that in which the peasantry usually pray, were well adapted to

express the depth of their gratitude towards a man who had, as they

said, “humbled himself to look into their wants, as if he was like one

of themselves!”

For upwards of ten years they had not gone to bed free from the

heaviness of care, or the wasting grasp of poverty. Now their hearth

was once more surrounded by peace and contentment; their burthens were

removed, their pulses beat freely, and the language of happiness again

was heard under their humble roof. Even sleep could not repress the

vivacity of their enjoyments: they dreamt of their brother--for in the

Irish heart domestic affections hold the first place;--they dreamt of

the farm to which those affections had so long yearned. They trod it

again as its legitimate possessors. Its fields were brighter, its corn

waved with softer murmurs to the breeze, its harvests were richer, and

the song of their harvest home more cheerful than before. Their delight

was tumultuous, but intense; and when they arose in the morning to a

sober certainty of waking bliss, they again knelt in worship to God with

exulting hearts, and again offered up their sincere prayers in behalf of

the just man who had asserted their rights against the oppressor.

Colonel B. was a man who, without having been aware of it, possessed an

excellent capacity for business. The neglect of his property resulted

not from want of feeling, but merely from want of consideration. There

had, moreover, been no precedent for him to follow. He had seen no

Irishman of rank ever bestow a moment's attention on his tenantry. They

had been, for the most part, absentees like himself, and felt satisfied

if they succeeded in receiving their half-yearly remittance in due

course, without ever reflecting for a moment upon the situation of those

from whom it was drawn.

Nay, what was more--he had not seen even the resident gentry enter into

the state and circumstances of those who lived upon their property. It

was a mere accident that determined him to become acquainted with his

tenants; but no sooner had he seen his duty, and come to the resolution

of performing it, than the decision of his character became apparent.

It is true, that, within the last few years, the Irish landlords have

advanced in knowledge. Many of them have introduced more improved

systems of agriculture, and instructed their tenants in the best methods

of applying them; but during the time of which we write, an Irish

landlord only saw his tenants when canvassing them for their votes, and

instructed them in dishonesty and perjury, not reflecting that he was

then teaching them to practise the arts of dissimulation and fraud

against himself. This was the late system: let us hope that it will be

superseded by a better one; and that the landlord will think it a duty,

but neither a trouble nor a condescension, to look into his own affairs,

and keep an eye upon the morals and habits of his tenantry.

The Colonel, as he had said, remained more than a fortnight upon his

estate; and, as he often declared since, the recollections arising from

the good which he performed during that brief period, rendered it

the portion of his past life upon which he could look with most

satisfaction. He did not leave the country till he saw M'Evoy and his

family restored to their farm, and once more independent;--until he had

redressed every well-founded complaint, secured the affections of those

who had before detested him, and diffused peace and comfort among every

family upon his estate. From thenceforth he watched the interests of his

tenants, and soon found that in promoting their welfare, and instructing

them in their duties, he was more his own benefactor than theirs.

Before many years had elapsed, his property was wonderfully improved;

he himself was called the “Lucky Landlord,” “bekase,” said the people,

“ever since he spoke to, an' advised his tenants, we find that it's

lucky to live undher him. The people has heart to work wid a gintleman

that won't grind thim; an' so sign's on it, every one thrives upon his

land: an' dang my bones, but I believe a rotten stick 'ud grow on it,

set in case it was thried.”

In sooth, his popularity became proverbial; but it is probable, that not

even his justice and humanity contributed so much to this, as the

vigor with which he prosecuted his suit against “Yellow Sam,” whom he

compelled literally to “disgorge” the fruits of his heartless extortion.

This worthy agent died soon after his disgrace, without any legitimate

issue; and his property, which amounted to about fifty thousand pounds,

is now inherited by a gentleman of the strictest honor and integrity. To

this day his memory is detested by the people, who, with that bitterness

by which they stigmatized a villain, have erected him into a standard

of dishonesty. If a man become remarkable for want of principle, they

usually say--“he's as great a rogue as Yallow Sam;” or, “he is the

greatest sconce that ever was in the country, barrin' Yallow Sam.”

We now dismiss him, and request our readers, at the same time, not

to suppose that we have held him up as a portrait of Irish agents

in general. On the contrary, we believe that they constitute a most

respectable class of men, who have certainly very difficult duties to

perform. The Irish landlords, we are happy to say, taught by experience,

have, for the most part, both seen and felt the necessity of appointing

gentlemen of property to situations so very important, and which require

so much patience, consideration, and humanity, in those who fill them.

We trust they will persevere in this plan; * but we can assure them,

that all the virtues of the best agent can never compensate, in the

opinion of the people, for neglect in the “Head Landlord.” One visit,

or act, even of nominal kindness, for him, will at any time produce more

attachment and gratitude among them, than a whole life spent in good

offices by an agent. Like Sterne's French Beggar, they would prefer a

pinch of snuff from the one, to a guinea from the other. The agent only

renders them a favor, but the Head Landlord does them an honor.

* This tale has been written nearly twelve years, but

the author deeply regrets that the Irish landlords have

disentitled themselves to the favorable notice taken of

them in the text.

Colonel B., immediately after his return home, sent for Mr. O'Brien,

who waited on him with a greater degree of curiosity than perhaps he had

ever felt before. The Colonel smiled as he extended his hand to him.

“Mr. O'Brien,” said he, “I knew you would feel anxious to hear the

result of my visit to the estate which this man with the nickname

managed for me.”

“Managed, sir? Did you say managed?”

“I spoke in the past time, O'Brien: he is out.”

“Then your protege's story was correct, sir?”

“True to a title. O'Brien, there is something extraordinary in that

boy; otherwise, how could it happen that a sickly, miserable-looking

creature, absolutely in tatters, could have impressed us both so

strongly with a sense of the injustice done ten years ago to his father?

It is, indeed, remarkable.”

“The boy, Colonel, deeply felt that act of injustice, and the expression

of it came home to the heart.”

“I have restored his father, however. The poor man and his family are

once more happy. I have stocked their old farm for them; in! fact, they

now enjoy comfort and independence.”

“I am glad, sir, that you have done them justice. That act, alone, will

go far to redeem your character from the odium which the conduct of your

agent was calculated to throw upon it.”

“There is not probably in Ireland a landlord so popular as I am this

moment--at least among my tenants on that property. Restoring M'Evoy,

however, is but a small part of what I have done. Carson's pranks were

incredible. He was a rack-renter of the first water. A person named

Brady had paid him twenty-five guineas as a douceur--in other words, as

a bribe--for renewing a lease for him; yet, after having received the

money, he kept the poor man dangling after him, and at length told him

that he was offered a larger sum by another. In some cases he kept back

the receipts, and made the poor people pay twice, which was still more

iniquitous. Then, sir, he would not take bank notes in payment. No; he

was so wonderfully concientious, and so zealously punctual in fulfilling

my wishes, as he told them on the subject, that nothing would pass in

payment but gold. This gold, sir, they were compelled to receive from

himself, at a most oppressive premium; so that he actually fleeced them

under my name, in every conceivable manner and form of villainy. He is a

usurer, too; and, I am told, worth forty or fifty thousand pounds: but,

thank heaven! he is no longer an agent of mine.”

“It gives me sincere pleasure, sir, that you have at length got correct

habits of thinking upon your duties as an Irish landlord; for believe

me, Colonel B., as a subject involving a great portion of national

happiness or national misery, it is entitled to the deepest and most

serious consideration, not only of the class to which you belong, but of

the legislature. Something should be done, sir, to improve the condition

of the poorer classes. A rich country and poor inhabitants is an

anomaly; and whatever is done should be prompt and effectual. If the

Irish landlords looked directly into the state of their tenantry, and

set themselves vigorously to the task of bettering their circumstances,

they would, I am certain, establish the tranquillity and happiness of

the country at large. The great secret, Colonel, of the dissensions

that prevail among us is the poverty of the people. They are poor, and

therefore the more easily wrought up to outrage; they are poor, and

think that any change must be for the better; they are not only poor,

but imaginative, and the fittest recipients for those vague speculations

by which they are deluded. Let their condition be improved, and the most

fertile source of popular tumult and crime is closed. Let them be taught

how to labor: let them not be bowed to the earth by rents so far above

the real value of their lands. The pernicious maxims which float among

them must be refuted--not by theory, but by practical lessons performed

before their eyes for their own advantage. Let them be taught how to

discriminate between their real interests and their prejudices; and none

can teach them all this so effectually as their landlords, if they could

be roused from their apathy, and induced to undertake the task. Who ever

saw a poor nation without great crimes?”

“Very true, O'Brien; quite true. I am resolved to inspect personally

the condition of those who reside on my other estates. But now about our

protege? How is he doing?”

“Extremely well. I have had a letter from him a few days ago, in which

he alludes to the interest you have taken in himself and his family,

with a depth of feeling truly affecting.”

“When you write to him, let him know that I have placed his father in

his old farm; and that Carson is out. Say I am sure he will conduct

himself properly, in which case I charge myself with his expenses until

he shall have accomplished his purpose. After that he may work his

own way through life, and I have no doubt but he will do it well and

honorably.”

Colonel B------'s pledge on this occasion was nobly redeemed. Our humble

hero pursued his studies with zeal and success. In due time he entered

Maynooth, where he distinguished himself not simply for smartness as

a student, but as a young man possessed of a mind far above the common

order. During all this time nothing occurred worthy of particular

remark, except that, in fulfilment of his former vow, he never wrote to

any of his friends; for the reader should have been told, that this was

originally comprehended in the determination he had formed. He received

ordination at the hands of his friend the Bishop, whom we have already

introduced to the reader, and on the same day he was appointed by that

gentleman to a curacy in his own parish. The Colonel, whose regard

for him never cooled, presented him with fifty pounds, together with

a horse, saddle, and bridle; so that he found himself in a capacity

to enter upon his duties in a decent and becoming manner. Another

circumstance that added considerably to his satisfaction, was the

appointment of Mr. O'Brien to a parish adjoining that of the Bishop.

James's afflictions had been the means of bringing the merits of that

excellent man before his spiritual superior, who became much attached

to him, and availed himself of the earliest opportunity of rewarding his

unobtrusive piety and benevolence.

No sooner was his ordination completed, than the long suppressed

yearnings after his home and kindred came upon his spirit with a power

that could not be restrained. He took leave of his friends with a

beating heart, and set out on a delightful summer morning to revisit all

that had been, notwithstanding his long absence and severe trials,

so strongly wrought into his memory and affections. Our readers may,

therefore, suppose him on his journey home, and permit, themselves to be

led in imagination to the house of his former friend, Lanigan, where we

must lay the scene for the present.

Lanigan's residence has the same comfortable and warm appearance which

always distinguishes the habitation of the independent and virtuous man.

What, however, can the stir, and bustle, and agitation which prevail

in it mean? The daughters run out to a little mound, a natural terrace,

beside the house, and look anxiously towards the road; then return, and

almost immediately appear again, with the same intense anxiety to catch

a glimpse of some one whom they expect. They look keenly; but why is it

that their disappointment appears to be attended with such dismay?

They go into their father's house once more, wringing their hands, and

betraying all the symptoms of affliction. Here is their mother, too,

coming to peer into the distance, she is rocking with that motion

peculiar to Irishwomen when suffering distress. She places her open hand

upon her brows that she may collect her sight to a particular spot; she

is blinded by her tears; breaks out into a low wail, and returns with

something like the darkness of despair on her countenance. She goes into

the house, passes through the kitchen, and enters into a bed-room; seats

herself on a chair beside the bed, and renews her low but' bitter wail

of sorrow. Her husband is lying in that state which the peasantry know

usually precedes the agonies of death.

“For the sake of the livin' God,” said he, on seeing her, “is there any

sign o' them?”

“Not yet, a _suillish_; (* My light) but they will soon--they must soon,

asthore, be here, an' thin your mind will be asy.”

“Oh, Alley, Alley, if you could know what I suffer for 'fraid I'd die

widout the priest you'd pity me!”

“I do pity you, asthore: but don't be cast down, for I have my trust in

God that he won't desart you in your last hour. You did what you could,

my heart's pride; you bent before him night an' mornin', and sure the

poor neighbor never wint from your door widout lavin' his blessin'

behind him.”

The dying man raised his hands feebly from the bed-clothes; “Ah!” he

exclaimed, “I thought I did a great dale, Alley: but now--but now--it

appears nothin' to what I ought to a' done when I could. Still,

avour-neen, my life's not unpleasant when I look back at it; for I can't

remimber that I ever purposely offinded a livin' mortal. All I want to

satisfy me is the priest.”

“No, avourneen, you did not; for it wasn't in you to offind a child.”

“Alley, you'll pardon me an' forgive me acushla, if ever--if ever I did

what was displasin' to you! An' call in the childhre, till I see them

about me--I want to have their forgiveness, too. I know I'll have

it--for they wor good childhre, an' ever loved me.”

The daughters now entered the room, exclaiming--“_Ahir dheelish_

(beloved father), Pether is comin' by himself, but no priest! Blessed

Queen of Heaven, what will we do! Oh! father darlin', are you to die

widout the Holy Ointment?”

The sick man clasped his hands, looked towards heaven and groaned aloud.

“Oh, it's hard, this,” said he. “It's hard upon me! Yet I won't be cast

down. I'll trust in my good God; I'll trust in his blessed name!”

His wife, on hearing that her son was returned without the priest, sat,

with her face shrouded by her apron, weeping in grief that none but they

who know the dependence which those belonging to her church place in

its last rites can comprehend. The children appeared almost distracted;

their grief had more of that stunning character which attends unexpected

calamity, than of sorrow for one who is gradually drawn from life.

At length the messenger entered the room, and almost choked with tears,

stated that both priests were absent that day at Conference, and would

not return till late.

The hitherto moderated grief of the wife arose to a pitch much wilder

than the death of her husband could, under ordinary circumstances,

occasion. To die without absolution--to pass away into eternity

“unanointed, unaneled”--without being purified from the inherent

stains of humanity--was to her a much deeper affliction than her final

separation from him. She cried in tones of the most piercing despair,

and clapped her hands, as they do who weep over the dead. Had he died in

the calm confidence of having received the Viaticum, or Sacrament before

death, his decease would have had nothing remarkably calamitous in

it, beyond usual occurrences of a similar nature. Now the grief was

intensely bitter in consequence of his expected departure without the

priest. His sons and daughters felt it as forcibly as his wife; their

lamentations were full of the strongest and sharpest agony.

For nearly three hours did they remain in this situation; poor Lanigan

sinking by degrees into that collapsed state from which there is no

possibility of rallying. He was merely able to speak; and recognize his

family; but every moment advanced him, with awful certainty, nearer and

nearer to his end..

A great number of the neighbors were now assembled, all participating in

the awful feeling which predominated, and anxious to compensate by their

prayers for the absence of that confidence derived by Roman Catholics

during the approach of death, from the spiritual aid of the priest.

They were all at prayer; the sick-room and kitchen were crowded with his

friends and acquaintances, many of whom knelt out before the door,

and joined with loud voices in the Rosary which was offered up in his

behalf.

In this crisis were they, when a horseman, dressed in black, approached

the house. Every head was instantly turned round, with a hope that it

might be the parish priest or his curate; but, alas! they were doomed to

experience a fresh disappointment. The stranger, though clerical enough

in his appearance, presented a countenance with which none of them

was acquainted. On glancing at the group who knelt around the door, he

appeared to understand the melancholy cause which brought them together.

“How is this?” he exclaimed. “Is there any one here sick or dying?”

“Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departing glory be to God! An'

what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout the

priest. They're both at Conwhirence, sir, and can't come--Mr. Dogherty

an' his curate.”

“Make way!” said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, and

passing quickly through the people. “Show me to the sick man's room--be

quick, my friends--I am a Catholic clergyman.”

In a moment a passage was cleared, and the stranger found himself

beside the bed of death. Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his

presence stilled it despite of what they felt.

“My dear friends,” said he, “you know there should be silence in the

apartment of a dying man. For shame!--for shame! Cease this clamor, it

will but distract him for whom you weep, and prevent him from composing

his mind for the great trial that is before him.”

“Sir,” said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and looking

distractedly in his face, “are you a priest? For heaven's sake tell us?”

“I am,” he replied; “leave the room every one of you. I hope your

husband is not speechless?”

“Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her name be praised! but near it,

your Reverence--widin little or no time of it.”.

Whilst they spoke, he was engaged in putting the stole about his

neck, after which he cleared the room, and commenced hearing Lanigan's

confession.

The appearance of a priest, and the consolation it produced, rallied the

powers of life in the benevolent farmer. He became more collected; made

a clear and satisfactory confession; received the sacrament of Extreme

Unction; and felt himself able to speak with tolerable distinctness and

precision. The effects of all this were astonishing. A placid serenity,

full of hope and confidence, beamed from the pale and worn features of

him who was but a few minutes before in a state of terror altogether

indescribable. When his wife and family, after having been called in,

observed this change, they immediately participated in his tranquillity.

Death had been deprived of its sting, and grief of its bitterness; their

sorrow was still deep, but it was not darkened by the dread of future

misery. They felt for him as a beloved father, a kind husband, and a

clear friend, who had lived a virtuous life, feared God, and was now

about to pass into happiness.

When the rites of the church were administered, and the family again

assembled round the bed, the priest sat down in a position which enabled

him to see the features of this good man more distinctly.

“I would be glad,” said Lanigan, “to know who it is that God in his

goodness has sent to smooth my bed in death, if it 'ud be plasin', sir,

to you to tell me?”

“Do you remember,” replied the priest, “a young lad whom you met some

years ago on his way to Munster, as a poor scholar! You and your family

were particularly kind to him; so kind that he has never since forgotten

your affectionate hospitality.”

“We do, your Reverence, we do. A mild, gentle crathur he was, poor boy.

I hope God prospered him.”

“You see him now before you,” said the priest. “I am that boy, and I

thank God that I can testify, however slightly, my deep sense of the

virtues which you exercised towards me; although I regret that the

occasion is one of such affliction.”

The farmer raised his eyes and feeble hands towards heaven. “Praise an'

glory to your name, good God!” he exclaimed. “Praise an' glory to your

holy name! Now I know that I'm not forgotten, when you brought back the

little kindness I did that boy for your sake, wid so many blessins to me

in the hour of my affliction an' sufferin'! Childher remimber this,

now that I'm goin' to lave yez for ever! Remimber always to help the

stranger, an' thim that's poor an' in sorrow. If you do, God won't

forget it to you; but will bring it back to yez when you stand in need

of it, as he done to me this day. You see, childhre dear, how small

thrifles o' that kind depend on one another. If I hadn't thought of

helpin' his Reverence here when he was young and away from his own, he

wouldn't think of callin' upon us this day as he was passin'. You see

the hand of God is in it, childhre: which it is, indeed, in every thing

that passes about us, if we could only see it as we ought to do. Thin,

but I'd like to look upon your face, sir, if it's plasin' to you? A

little more to the light, sir. There, I now see you. Ay, indeed, it's

changed for the betther it is--: the same mild, clear countenance, but

not sorrowful, as when I seen it last. Suffer me to put my hand on your

head, sir; I'd like to bless you before I die, for I can't forget what

you undertook to do for your parents.”

The priest sat near him; but finding he was scarcely able to raise his

hand to his head, he knelt down, and the farmer, before he communicated

the blessing inquired--

“Musha, sir, may I ax, wor you able to do anything to help your family

as you expected?”

“God,” said the priest, “made me the instrument of raising them from

their poverty; they are now comfortable and happy.”

“Ay! Well I knew at the time, an' I said it, that a blessin' would

attind your endayvors. An' now resave my blessin'. May you never depart

from the right way! May the blessin' of God rest upon you for

ever--Amin! Childhre, I'm gettin' wake; come near me, till, till I bless

you, too, for the last time! They were good childhre, sir--they were

ever an' always good to me, an' to their poor mother, your Reverence;

an'--God forgive me if it's a sin!--but I feel a great dale o' my heart

an' my love fixed upon them. But sure I'm their father, an' God, I hope,

will look over it! Now, darlins, afore I bless yez, I ax your

forgiveness if ever I was harsher to yez than I ought!”

The children with a simultaneous movement encircled his bed, and could

not reply for some minutes.

“Never, father darlin'! Oh, never did you offind us! Don't speak in that

way, or you'll break our hearts; but forgive us, father asthore! Oh,

forgive an' bless us, an' don't remimber against us, our folly an'

disobedience, for it's only now that we see we warn't towards you as we

ought to be. Forgive us an' pardon us!”

He then made them all kneel around his bed, and with solemn words, and

an impressive manner, placed his hand upon their heads, and blessed them

with a virtuous father's last blessing.

He then called for his wife, and the scene became not only more

touching, but more elevated. There was an exultation in her manner, and

an expression of vivid hope in her eye, arising from the fact of her

husband having received, and been soothed by the rites of her church,

that gave evident proof of the unparalleled attachment borne by persons

of her class to the Catholic religion. The arrival of our hero had been

so unexpected, and the terrors of the tender wife for her husband's soul

so great, that the administration of the sacrament almost superseded

from her heart every other sensation than that of devotional triumph.

Even now, in the midst of her tears, that triumph kindled in her eye

with a light that shone in melancholy beauty upon the bed of death.

In proportion, however, as the parting scene--which was to be their

last--began to work with greater power upon her sorrow, so did this

expression gradually fade away. Grief for his loss resumed its dominion

over her heart so strongly, that their last parting was afflicting even

to look upon.