The state of the country at this period of our narrative was, indeed,
singularly gloomy and miserable. Some improvement, however, had taken
place in the statistics of disease; but the destitution was still so
sharp and terrible, that there was very little diminution of the tumults
which still prevailed. Indeed the rioting, in some districts, had risen
to a frightful extent. The cry of the people was, for either bread or
work; and to still, if possible, this woeful clamor, local committees,
by large subscriptions, aided, in some cases, by loans from government,
contrived to find them employment on useful public works. Previous to
this, nothing could surpass the prostration and abject subserviency with
which the miserable crowds solicited food or labor. Only give them labor
at any rate--say sixpence a day--and they did not wish to beg or violate
the laws. No, no; only give them peaceable employment, and they would
rest not only perfectly contented, but deeply grateful. In the meantime,
the employment they sought for was provided, not at sixpence, but
at one-and-sixpence a day; so that for a time they appeared to feel
satisfied, and matters went on peaceably enough. This, however, was too
good to last. There are ever, among such masses of people, unprincipled
knaves, known as “politicians”--idle vagabonds, who hate all honest
employment themselves, and ask no better than to mislead and fleece
the ignorant unreflecting people, however or wherever they can. These
fellows read and expound the papers on Sundays and holidays; rail not
only against every government, no matter what its principles are, but,
in general, attack all constituted authority, without feeling one single
spark of true national principle, or independent love of liberty. It is
such corrupt scoundrels that always assail the executive of the country,
and at the same time supply the official staff of spies and informers
with their blackest perjurers and traitors. In truth, they are always
the first to corrupt, and the first to betray. You may hear these
men denouncing government this week, and see them strutting about the
Castle, its pampered instruments, and insolent with its patronage, the
next. If there be a strike, conspiracy, or cabal of any kind, these
“patriots” are at the bottom of it; and wherever ribbonism and other
secret societies do not exist, there they are certain to set them
agoing.
For only a short time were these who had procured industrial employment
permitted to rest satisfied with the efforts which had been made on
their behalf. The “patriots” soon commenced operations.
“Eighteen pence a day was nothing; the government had plenty of money,
and if the people wished to hear a truth, it could be tould them by
those who knew--listen hether”--as the Munster men say--“the country
gentlemen and the committees are putting half the money into their own
pockets”--this being precisely what the knaves would do themselves if
they were in their places--“and for that reason we'll strike for higher
wages.”
In this manner were the people led first into folly, and ultimately
into rioting and crime; for it is not, in point of fact, those who are
suffering most severely that take a prominent part in these senseless
tumults, or who are the first to trample upon law and order. The evil
example is set to those who do suffer by these factious vagabonds;
and, under such circumstances, and betrayed by such delusions, the
poor people join the crowd, and find themselves engaged in the outrage,
before they have time to reflect upon their conduct.
At the time of which we write, however, the government did not consider
it any part of its duty to take a deep interest in the domestic or
social improvement of the people. The laws of the country, at that
period, had but one aspect--that of terror; for it was evident that the
legislature of the day had forgotten that neither an individual nor a
people can both love and fear the same object at the same time. The laws
checked insubordination and punished crime; and having done this, the
great end and object of all law was considered to have been attained.
We hope, however, the day has come when education, progress, improvement
and reward, will shed their mild and peaceful lustre upon our
statute-books, and banish from them those Draconian enactments, that
engender only fear and hatred, breathe of cruelty, and have their origin
in a tyrannical love of blood.
We have said that the aspect of the country was depressing and gloomy;
but we may add here, that these words convey but a vague and feeble
idea of the state to which the people at large were reduced. The general
destitution, the famine, sickness and death, which had poured such
misery and desolation over the land, left, as might be expected, their
terrible traces behind them. Indeed the sufferings which a year of
famine and disease--and they usually either accompany or succeed each
other--inflicts upon the multitudes of poor, are such as no human pen
could at all describe, so as to portray a picture sufficiently faithful
to the dreary and death-like spirit which should breath in it. Upon
the occasion we write of, nothing met you, go where you might, but
suffering, and sorrow, and death, to which we may add, tumult, and
crime, and bloodshed. Scarcely a family but had lost one or more.
Every face you met was an index of calamity, and bore upon it the
unquestionable impressions of struggle and hardship. Cheerfulness and
mirth had gone, and were forgotten. All the customary amusements of the
people had died away. Almost every house had a lonely and deserted look;
for it was known that one or more beloved beings had gone out of it to
the grave. A dark, heartless spirit was abroad. The whole land, in fact,
mourned, and nothing on which the eye could rest, bore a green or a
thriving look, or any symptom of activity, but the churchyards, and here
the digging and delving were incessant--at the early twilight, during
the gloomy noon, the dreary dusk, and the still more funeral looking
light of the midnight taper.
The first days of the assizes were now near, and among all those who
awaited them, there was none whose fate excited so profound an interest
as that of old Condy Dalton. His family had now recovered from their
terrible sufferings, and were able to visit him in his prison--a
privilege which was awarded to them as a mark of respect for their many
virtues, and of sympathy for their extraordinary calamities and trials.
They found him resigned to his fate, but stunned with wonder at the
testimony on which he was likely to be convicted. The pedlar, who
appeared to take so singular an interest in the fortunes of his family,
sought and obtained a short interview with him, in which he requested
him to state, as accurately as he could remember, the circumstances on
which the prosecution was founded, precisely as they occurred. This he
did, closing his account by the usual burthen of all his conversation
ever since he went to gaol:
“I know I must suffer; but I think nothing of myself, only for the shame
it will bring upon my family.”
Sarah's unexpected illness disconcerted at least one of the projects of
Donnel Dhu. There were now only two days until the assizes, and she
was as yet incapable of leaving her bed, although in a state of
convalescence. This mortified the Prophet very much, but his subtlety
and invention never abandoned him. It struck him that the most effectual
plan now would be--as Sarah's part in aiding to take away Mave was
out of the question--to merge the violence to which he felt they must
resort, into that of the famine riots; and under the character of one
of these tumults, to succeed, if possible, in removing Mave from her
father's house, ere her family could understand the true cause of her
removal. Those who were to be engaged in this were, besides, principally
strangers, to whom neither Mave nor her family were personally known;
and as a female cousin of hers--an orphan--had come to reside with them
until better times should arrive, it would be necessary to have some one
among the party who knew Mave sufficiently to make no mistake as to her
person. For this purpose he judiciously fixed upon Thomas Dalton, as the
most appropriate individual to execute this act of violence against the
very family who were likely to be the means of bringing his father to
a shameful death. This young man had not yet recovered the use of his
reason, so as to be considered sane. He still roved about as before,
sometimes joining the mobs, and leading them on to the outrage, and
sometimes sauntering in a solitary mood, without seeming altogether
conscious of what he did or said. To secure his co-operation was a
matter of little or difficulty, and the less so as he heard, with
infinite satisfaction, that Dalton was perpetually threatening every
description of vengeance against the Sullivans, about to be tried, and
very likely to suffer for the murder.
It was now the day but one previous to the commencement of the assizes,
and our readers will be kind enough to accompany us to the Grange,
or rather to the garden of the Grange, at the gate of which our
acquaintance Red Rody is knocking. He has knocked two or three times,
and sent, on each occasion, Hanlon, old Dick, young Dick, together with
all the component parts of the establishment, to a certain territory,
where, so far as its legitimate historians assure us, the coldness of
the climate has never been known to give any particular offence.
“I know he's inside, for didn't I see him goin' in--well, may all
the devils--hem--oh, good morrow, Charley--troth you'd make a good
messenger for death. I'm knocking here till I have lost the use of my
arm wid downright fatigue.”
“Never mind, Rody, you'll recover it before you're twice married--come
in.” They then entered. “Well, Rody, what's the news?”
“What the news, is it? Why then is anything in the shape of news--of
good news I mean--to be had in such a counthry as this? Troth it's a
shame for any one that has health an' limbs to remain in it. An' now
that you're answered, what's the news yourself, Charley? I hope that
the Drivership's safe at last, I thought I was to sleep at home in my
comfortable berth last--”
“Not now till afther the 'sizes, Rody.”
“The master's goin' to them? bekaise I heard he wasn't able.”
“He's goin', he says, happen what may; he thinks it's his last visit
to them, and I agree wid him--he'll soon have a greater 'sizes and a
different judge to meet.”
“Ay, Charley, think of that now; an' tell me, he sleeps in Ballynafail,
as usual; eh, now?”
“He does of course.”
“An' Jemmy Branigan goes along wid him?”
“Are you foolish, Kody? Do you think he could live widout him?”
“Well, I b'lieve not. Throth, whenever the ould fellow goes in the next
world, there'll be no keepin' Jemmy from him. Howandiver, to dhrop that.
Isn't these poor times, Charley, an' isn't this a poor counthry to live
in--or it would be nearer the truth to say starve in?”
“No, but it would be the truth itself,” replied the other. “What is
there over the whole counthry but starvation and misery?”
“Any dhrames about America since, Charley? eh, now?”
“Maybe ay, and maybe no, Rody. Is it true that Tom Dalton threatens all
kinds of vengeance on the Sullivans?”
“Ay, is it, an' the whole counthry says that he's as ready to knock one
o' them on the head as ever the father before him was. They don't think
the betther of the ould man for it; but what do you mane by 'maybe ay,
an' maybe no,' Charley?”
“What do you mane by axin' me?”
Each looked keenly for some time at the other as he spoke, and after
this there was a pause. At length, Hanlon, placing his hand upon Rody's
shoulder, replied:
“Rody, it won't do. I know the design--and I tell you now that one word
from my lips could have you brought up at the assizes--tried--and I
won't say the rest. You're betrayed!”
The ruffian's lip fell--his voice faltered, and he became pale.
“Ay!” proceeded the other, “you may well look astonished--but listen,
you talk about goin' to America--do you wish to go?”
“Of coorse I do,” replied Body, “of coorse--not a doubt of it.”
“Well,” proceeded Hanlon again, “listen still! your plan's discovered,
you're betrayed; but I can't tell you who betrayed you, I'm not at
liberty. Now listen, I say, come this way. Couldn't you an' I ourselves
do the thing--couldn't we make the haul, and couldn't we cut off to
America without any danger to signify, that is, if you can be faithful?”
“Faithful!” he exclaimed. “By all the books that was ever opened an'
shut, I'm thruth and honesty itself, so I am--howandiver, you said I was
betrayed?”
“But I can't tell you the man that toald me. Whether you're able to
guess at him or not, I don't know; but the thruth is, Rody, I've taken
a likin' to you--an' if you'll just stand the trial I'm goin' to put you
to, I'll be a friend to you--the best you ever had too.”
“Well, Charley,” said the other, plucking up courage a little, for the
fellow was a thorough coward, “what is the thrial?”
“The man,” continued Hanlon, “that betrayed you gave me one account of
what you're about; but whether he tould me thruth or not I don't know
till I hear another, an' that's yours. Now, you see clearly, Rody, that
I'm up to all as it is, so you need not be a bit backward in tellin' the
whole thruth. I say you're in danger, an' it's only trustin' to me--mark
that--by trustin' faithfully to me that you'll get out of it; an',
plaise the fates, I hope that, before three mouths is over, we'll be
both safe an' comfortable in America. Do you undherstand that? I had my
dhrames, Rody; but if I had, there must be nobody but yourself and me to
know them.”
“It wasn't I that first thought of it, but Donnel Dhu,” replied Kody; “I
never dreamt that he'd turn thraitor though.”
“Don't be sayin' to-morrow or next day that I said he did,” replied
Hanlon. “Do you mind me now? A nod's as good as a wink to a blind
horse.”
Rody, though cowardly and treacherous, was extremely cunning, and upon
turning the matter over in his mind, he began to dread, or rather
to feel that Hanlon had so far over-reached him. Still it might be
possible, he thought, that the prophet had betrayed him, and he resolved
to put a query to his companion that would test his veracity; after
which he would leave himself at liberty to play a double game, if
matters should so fall out as to render it necessary.
“Did the man that tould you everything,” he asked, “tell you the night
that was appointed for this business?”
Hanlon felt this was a puzzler, and that he might possibly commit
himself by replying in the affirmative.
“No,” he replied, “he didn't tell me that.”
“Ah, ha!” thought his companion, “I see whereabouts you are.”
He disclosed, however, the whole plot, with the single exception of the
night appointed for the robbery, which, in point of date, he placed in
his narrative exactly a week after the real time.
“Now,” he said to himself, “so far I'm on the safe side; still, if he
has humbugged me, I've paid him in his own coin. Maybe the whole haul,
as he calls it, may be secured before they begin to prepare for it.”
Hanlon, however, had other designs. After musing a little, they
sauntered along the garden walks, during which he proposed a plan
of their own for the robbery of Henderson; and so admirably was it
concocted, and so tempting to the villainous cupidity of Duncan, that
he expressed himself delighted from the commencement of its fancied
execution until their ultimate settlement in America.
“It was a treacherous thing, I grant, to betray you, Rody,” said Hanlon;
“an' if I was in your place, I'd give him tit for tat. An', by the
way, talkin' of the Prophet--not that I say it was he betrayed you--for
indeed now it wasn't--bad cess to me if it was--I think you wanst said
you knew more about him than I thought.”
“Ah, ha,” again thought Rody, “I think I see what you're afther at last;
but no matther, I'll keep my eye on you. Hut, ay did I,” he replied;
“but I forget now what's this it was. However, I'll try if I can
remember it; if I do, I'll tell you.”
“You an' he will hang that murdherin' villain, Dalton--”
“I'm afeard o' that,” replied the other; “an' for my part, I'd as soon
be out of the thing altogether; however, it can't be helped now.'”
“Isn't it sthrange, Rody, how murdher comes out at last?” observed
Hanlon; “now there's that ould man, an' see, after twenty years or more,
how it comes against him. However, it's not a very pleasant subject, so
let it dhrop. Here's Masther Richard comin' through the private gate,”
he added; “but if you slip down to my aunt's to-night, we'll have a
glass of something that'll do us no harm at any rate, and we can talk
more about the other business.”
“Very well,” replied Rody, “I'll be down, so goodbye; an' whisper,
Charley,” he added, putting on a broad grin; “don't be too sure that I
tould you a single word o' thruth about the rob--hem--ha, ha! take care
of yourself--good people is scarce you know--ha, ha, ha!”
He then left Hanlon in a state of considerable doubt as to the discovery
he had made touching the apprehended burglary; and his uncertainty was
the greater, inasmuch as he had frequently heard the highest possible
encomiums lavished upon Duncan's extraordinary powers of invention and
humbug.
Young Henderson, on hearing these circumstances, did not seriously
question their truth; neither did they in the slightest degree shake
his confidence in the intentions of the Prophet with respect to Mave
Sullivan. Indeed, he argued very reasonably and correctly, that the man
who was capable of the one act, would have little hesitation to commit
the other. This train of reflection, however, he kept to himself, for it
is necessary to state here, that Hanlon was not at all in the secret of
the plot against Mave. Henderson had, on an earlier occasion sounded him
upon it, but perceived at once that his scruples could not be overcome,
and that of course it would be dangerous to repose confidence in him.
The next evening was that immediately preceding the assizes, and it was
known that Dalton's trial was either the second or third on the list,
and must consequently come on, on the following day. The pedlar and
Hanlon sat in a depressed and melancholy mood at the fire; an old crone
belonging to the village, who had been engaged to take care of the house
during the absence of Hanlon's aunt, sat at the other side, occasionally
putting an empty dudeen into her mouth, drawing it hopelessly, and
immediately knocking the bowl of it in a fretful manner, against the
nail of her left thumb.
“What's the matther, Ailey?” asked the pedlar; “are you out o' tobaccy?”
“Throth it's time for you to ax--ay am I; since I ate my dinner, sorra
puff I had.”
“Here then,” he replied, suiting the action to the word, and throwing
a few halfpence into her lap; “go to Peggy Finigan's an' buy yourself a
couple of ounces, an' smoke rings round you; and listen to me, go down
before you come back to Bamy Keeran's an' see whether he has my shoes
done or not, an' tell him from me, that if they're not ready for me
tomorrow mornin', I'll get him exkummunicated.”
When the crone had gone out, the pedlar proceeded:
“Don't be cast down yet, I tell you; there's still time enough, an' they
may be here still.”
“Be here still! why, good God! isn't the thrial to come on to-morrow,
they say?”
“So itself; you may take my word for it, that even if he's found guilty,
they won't hang him, or any man of his years.”
“Don't be too sure o' that,” replied Hanlon; “but indeed what could I
expect afther dependin' upon a foolish dhrame?”
“Never mind; I'm still of the opinion that everything may come about
yet. The Prophet's wife was with Father Hanratty, tellin' him something,
an' he is to call here early in the mornin'; he bid me tell you so.”
“When did you see him?”
“To day at the cross roads, as he was goin' to a sick call.
“But where's the use o' that, when they're not here? My own opinion is,
that she's either sick, or if God hasn't said it, maybe dead. How can
we tell if ever she has seen or found the man you sent her for? Sure, if
she didn't, all's lost.”
“Throth, I allow,” replied the pedlar, “that things is in a distressin'
state with us; however, while there's life there's hope, as the Doctor
says. There must be something extraordinary wrong to keep them away so
long, I grant--or herself, at any rate; still, I say again, trust
in God. You have secured Duncan, you say; but can you depend on the
ruffian?”
“If it was on his honesty, I could not, one second, but I do upon his
villainy and love of money. I have promised him enough, and it all
depends on whether he'll believe me or not.”
“Well, well,” observed the other, “I wish things had a brighter look up.
If we fail, I won't know what to say. We must only thry an' do the best
we can, ourselves.”
“Have you seen the agint since you gave him the petition?” asked Hanlon.
“I did, but he had no discoorse with the Hendherson's; and he bid me
call on him again.”
“I dunna what does he intend to do?”
“Hut, nothing. What 'id he do? I'll go bail, he'll never trouble his
head about it more; at any rate I tould him a thing.”
“Very likely he won't,” replied Hanlon; “but what I'm thinkin' of now,
is the poor Daltons. May God in his mercy pity an' support them this
night!”
The pedlar clasped his hands tightly as he looked up, and said “Amen!”
“Ay,” said he, “it's now, Charley, whin I think of them, that I get
frightened about our disappointment, and the way that everything has
failed with us. God pity them, I say, too!”
The situation of this much tried family, was, indeed, on the night in
question, pitiable in the extreme. It is true, they had now recovered,
or nearly so, the full enjoyment of their health, and were--owing, as
we have already said, to the bounty of some unknown friend--in
circumstances of considerable comfort. Dalton's confession of the murder
had taken away from them every principle upon which they could rely,
with one only exception. Until the moment of that confession, they
had never absolutely been in possession of the secret cause of his
remorse--although, it must be admitted, that, on some occasions, the
strength of his language and the melancholy depth of his sorrow, filled
them with something like suspicion. Still such they knew to be the
natural affection and tenderness of his heart, his benevolence and
generosity, in spite of his occasional bursts of passion, that they
could not reconcile to themselves the notion that he had ever murdered a
fellow creature. Every one knows how slow the heart of wife or child is
to entertain such a terrible suspicion against a husband or a parent,
and that the discovery of their guilt comes upon the spirit with
a weight of distress and agony that is great in proportion to the
confidence felt in them.
The affectionate family in question had just concluded their simple act
of evening worship, and were seated around a dull fire, looking forward
in deep dejection to the awful event of the following day. The silence
that prevailed was only broken by an occasional sob from the girls, or
a deep sigh from young Con, who, with his mother, had not long been
returned from Ballynafail, where they had gone to make preparations for
the old man's defence. His chair stood by the fire, in its usual place,
and as they looked upon it from time to time, they could not prevent
their grief from bursting out afresh. The mother, on this occasion,
found the usual grounds for comfort taken away from both herself and
them--we mean, the husband's innocence. She consequently had but one
principle to rely on--that of single dependence upon God, and obedience
to His sovereign will, however bitter the task might be, and so she told
them.
“It's a great thrial to us, children,” she observed; “an' it's only
natural we should feel it. I do not bid you to stop cryin', my poor
girls, because it would be very strange if you didn't cry. Still, let
us not forget that it's our duty to bow down humbly before whatever
misfortune--an' this is indeed a woeful one--that it pleases God in His
wisdom (or, may be, in His mercy), to lay in our way. That's all we can
do now, God help us--an' a hard thrial it is--for when we think of what
he was to us--of his kindness--his affection!----”
Her own voice became infirm, and, instead of proceeding, she paused a
moment, and then giving one long, convulsive sob, that rushed up from
her very heart, she wept out long and bitterly. The grief now became
a wail; and were it not for the presence of Con, who, however, could
scarcely maintain a firm voice himself, the sorrow-worn mother and her
unhappy daughters would have scarcely known when to cease.
“Mother dear!” he exclaimed--“what use is in this? You began with givin'
us a good advice, an' you ended with settin' us a bad example! Oh,
mother, darlin', forgive me the word--never, never since we remember
anything, did you ever set us a bad example.”
“Con dear, I bore up as long as I could,” she replied, wiping her eye;
“but you know, after all, nature's nature, an' will have its way. You
know, too, that this is the first tear I shed, since he left us.”
“I know,” replied her son, laying her careworn cheek over upon his
bosom, “that you are the best mother that ever breathed, an' that I
would lay down my life to save your heart from bein' crushed, as it is,
an' as it has been.”
She felt a few warm tears fall upon her face as he spoke; and the only
reply she made was, to press him affectionately to her heart.
“God's merciful, if we're obedient,” she added, in a few moments; “don't
you remember, that when Abraham was commanded to kill his only son, he
was ready to obey God, and do it; and don't you remember that it
wasn't until his very hand was raised, with the knife in it, that God
interfered. Whisht,” she continued, “I hear a step--who is it? Oh, poor
Tom!”
The poor young man entered as she spoke; and after looking about him for
some time, placed himself in the arm chair.
“Tom, darlin',” said his sister Peggy, “don't sit in that--that's our
poor father's chair; an' until he sits in it again, none of us ever
will.”
“Nobody has sich a right to sit in it as I have,” he replied, “I'm a
murdherer.”
His words, his wild figure, and the manner in which he uttered them,
filled them with alarm and horror.
“Tom, dear,” said his brother, approaching him, “why do you speak that
way?--you're not a murdherer!”
“I am!” he replied; “but I haven't done wid the Sullivans yet, for what
they're goin' to do--ha, ha, ha!--oh, no. It's all planned; an' they'll
suffer, never doubt it.”
“Tom,” said Mary, who began to fear that he might, in some wild
paroxysm, have taken the life of the unfortunate miser, or of some one
else; “if you murdhered any one, who was it?”
“Who was it?” he replied; “if you go up to Curraghbeg churchyard, you'll
find her there; the child's wid her--but I didn't murdher the child, did
I?”
On finding that he alluded only to the unfortunate Peggy Murtagh, they
recovered from the shock into which his words had thrown them. Tom,
however, appeared exceedingly exhausted and feeble, as was evident from
his inability to keep himself awake. His head gradually sank upon his
breast, and in a few minutes he fell into a slumber. “I'll put him to
bed,” said Con; “help me to raise him.”
They lifted him up, and a melancholy sight it was to see that face,
which had once been such a noble specimen of manly beauty, now shrunk
away into an expression of gaunt and haggard wildness, that was painful
to contemplate. His sisters could not restrain their tears, on looking
at the wreck that was before them; and his mother, with a voice of deep
anguish, exclaimed--
“My brave, my beautiful boy, what, oh, what has become of you? Oh,
Tom, Tom,” she added--“maybe it's well for you that you don't know the
breakin' hearts that's about you this night--or the bitter fate that's
over him that loved you so well.”
As they turned him about, to take off his cravat, he suddenly raised his
head, and looking about him, asked--
“Where's my father gone?--I see you all about me but him--where's my
fath--”
Ere the words were pronounced, however, he was once more asleep, and
free for a time from the wild and moody malady which oppressed him.
Such was the night, and such were the circumstances and feelings that
ushered in the fearful day of Condy Dalton's trial.