With beating and anxious hearts did the family of the Daltons rise upon
the gloomy morning of the old man's trial. Deep concern prevented them
from eating, or even feeling inclined to eat; but when about to sit down
to their early and sorrowful repast, Mrs. Dalton, looking around her,
asked--
“Where is poor Tom from us this morning?”
“He went out last night,” replied one of his sisters, “but didn't come
back since.”
“That poor boy,” said his mother, “won't be long with us; he's gone
every way--health and strength, and reason. He has no appetite--and a
child has more strength. After this day he must be kept in the house, if
possible, or looked to when he goes out; but indeed I fear that in a
day or two he will not be able to go anywhere. Poor affectionate boy!
he never recovered the death of that unhappy girl, nor ever will; an' it
would be well for himself that he was removed from this world, in which,
indeed, he's now not fit to live.”
Little time was lost in the despatch of their brief meal, and they set
out, with the exception of Mary, to be present at the trail of their
aged father.
The court was crowded to excess, as was but natural, for the case had
excited a very deep interest throughout almost the whole country.
At length the judge was seated, and in a few minutes Cornelius Dalton
was put to the bar, charged with the wilful murder of Bartholomew
Sullivan, by striking him on the head with a walking-stick, in the
corner of a field, near a place called the Grey Stone, &c, &c, situate
and being in the barony of, &c, &c.
When the reverend looking old man stood up at the bar, we need scarcely
say that all eyes were immediately turned on him with singular interest.
It was clear, however, that there was an admission of guilt in his very
face, for, instead of appearing with the erect and independent attitude
of conscious innocence, he looked towards the judge and around the court
with an expression of such remorse and sorrow, and his mild blue eye had
in it a feeling so full of humility, resignation and contrition, that
it was impossible to look on his aged figure and almost white hairs with
indifference, or, we should rather say, without sympathy. Indeed, his
case appeared to be one of those in which the stern and unrelenting
decree of human law comes to demand its rights, long after the unhappy
victim has washed away his crime by repentance, and made his peace with
God, a position in connection with conventional offences that is too
often overlooked in the administration of justice and the distribution
of punishment.
It was not without considerable difficulty that they succeeded in
prevailing on him to plead not guilty; which he did at length, but in a
tone of voice that conveyed anything but a conviction of his innocence
to the court, the jury, and those about him.
The first witness called was Jeremiah Sullivan, who deposed that he
was present in one of the Christmas Margamores [Big Market] in the year
1798, when an altercation took place between his late brother Bartle and
the prisoner at the bar, respecting the price of some barley, which the
prisoner had bought from his brother. The prisoner had bought it, he
said, for the sum of thirty-five pounds fifteen shillings, whilst
his brother affirmed that it was only thirty-five pounds thirteen
shillings--upon which they came to blows; his brother, when struck by
the prisoner, having returned the blow, and knocked the prisoner down.
They were then separated by their friends, who interposed, and, as the
cause of the dispute was so trifling, it was proposed that it should be
spent in drink, each contributing one-half. To this both assented, and
the parties having commenced drinking, did not confine themselves to
the amount disputed, but drank on until they became somewhat tipsy, and
were, with difficulty, kept from quarrelling again. The last words he
heard from them that night were, as far as he can remember--“Dalton,”
said his brother, “you have no more brains than the pillar of a gate.”
Upon which the other attempted to strike him, and, on being prevented,
he shook his stick at him, and swore that “before he slept he'd know
whether he had brains or not.” Their friends then took them different
ways, he was separated from them, and knows nothing further about what
happened. He never saw his brother alive afterwards. He then deposed to
the finding of his coat and hat, each in a crushed and torn state. The
footmarks in the corner of the field were proved to have been those of
his brother and the prisoner, as the shoes of each exactly fitted them
when tried. He was then asked how it could be possible, as his brother
had altogether disappeared, to know whether his shoes fitted the
foot-prints or not, to which he replied, that one of his shoes was found
on the spot the next morning, and that a second pair, which he had at
home, were also tried, and fitted precisely.
The next witness was Rody Duncan, who deposed that on the night in
question, he was passing on a car, after having sold a load of oats in
the market. On coming to the corner of the field, he saw a man drag or
carry something heavy like a sack, which, on seeing him, Rody, he (the
man,) left hastily inside the ditch, and stooped, as if to avoid being
known. He asked the person what he was about, who replied that, “he
hoped he was no gauger;” by which he understood that he was concerned
in private distillation, and that it might have been malt; an opinion in
which he was confirmed, on hearing the man's voice, which he knew to be
that of the prisoner, who had been engaged in the poteen work for some
years. One thing struck him, which he remembered afterwards, that
the prisoner had a hat in his hand; and when it was observed in the
cross-examination that the hat might have been his own, he replied that
he did not think it could, as he had his own on his head at the time.
He then asked was that Condy Dalton, and the reply was, “it is,
unfortunately;” upon which he wished him good-night, and drove
homewards. He remembers the night well, as he lived at that time down at
the Long Ridge, and caught a severe illness on his way home, by reason
of a heavy shower that wet him to the skin. He wasn't able to leave the
house for three months afterwards. It was an unlucky night any way.
Next came the Prophet. It was near daybreak on the morning of the same
night, and he was on his way through Glendhu. He was then desired to
state what it was that brought him through Glendhu at such an hour. He
would tell the truth, as it was safe to do so now--he had been making
United Irishmen that night, and, at all events, he was on his keeping,
for the truth was, he had been reported to government, and there was a
warrant out for him. He was then desired to proceed in his evidence,
and he did so. On his way through Glendhu he came to a very lonely
spot, where he had been obliged to hide, at that time, more than once or
twice, himself. Here, to his surprise, he found the body of a man
lying dead, and he knew it at once to be that of the late Bartholomew
Sullivan; beside it was a grave dug, about two feet deep. He was
astonished and shocked, and knew not what to say; but he felt that
murder had been committed, and he became dreadfully afraid. In his
confusion and alarm he looked about to try if he could see any person
near, when he caught a glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, crouched
among a clump of black-thorn bushes, with a spade in his hands. It
instantly came into his head that he, the prisoner, on finding himself
discovered, might murder him also; and, in order to prevent the other
from supposing that he had seen him, he shouted out and asked is there
any body near? and hearing no answer, he was glad to get off safe. In
less than an hour he was on his way out of the country, for on coming
within sight of his own house, he saw it surrounded with soldiers, and
he lost no time in going to England, where, in about a month afterwards,
he heard that the prisoner had been hanged for the murder, which was
an untrue account of the affair, as he, the prisoner, had only been
imprisoned for a time, which he supposed led to the report.
When asked why he did not communicate an account of what he had seen to
some one in the neighborhood before he went, he replied, that “at that
hour the whole country was in bed, and when a man is flying for his
life, he is not very anxious to hould conversations with any body.”
On the cross-examination he said, that the reason why he let the matter
rest until now was, that he did not wish to be the means of bringin'
a fellow-creature to an untimely death, especially such a man as the
prisoner, nor to be the means of drawing down disgrace upon his decent
and respectable family. His conscience, however, always kept him uneasy,
and to tell the truth, he had neither peace nor rest for many a long
year, in consequence of concealing his knowledge of the murder, and he
now came forward to free his own mind from what he had suffered by it.
He wished both parties well, and he hoped no one would blame him for
what he was doing, for, indeed, of late, he could not rest in his bed
at night. Many a time the murdhered man appeared to him, and threatened
him, he thought for not disclosing what he knew.
At this moment, there was a slight bustle at that side of the court
where the counsel for the defense sat, which, after a little time,
subsided, and the evidence was about to close, when the latter
gentleman, after having closely cross-examined him to very little
purpose, said:
“So you tell us, that in consequence of your very tender conscience, you
have not, of late, been able to rest in your bed at night?”
“I do.”
“And you say the murdered man appeared to you and threatened you?”
“I do.”
“Which of them?”
“Peter Magennis--what am I sayin'? I mean Bartle Sullivan.”
“Gentlemen of the jury, you will please take down the name of Peter
Magennis--will your lordship also take a note of that? Well,” he
proceeded, “will you tell us what kind of a man this Bartle or
Bartholomew Sullivan was?”
“He was a very remarkable man in appearance; very stout, with a long
face, a slight scar on his chin, and a cast in his eye.”
“Do you remember which of them?”
“Indeed I don't, an' it wouldn't be raison able that I should, afther
sich a distance of time.”
“And, you saw that man murdered?”
“I seen him dead, afther having been murdhered.”
“Very right--I stand corrected. Well, you saw him buried?”
“I didn't see him buried, but I saw him dead, as I said, an' the grave
ready for him.”
“Do you think now if he were to rise again from that grave, that you
would know him?”
“Well I'm sure I can't say. By all accounts the grave makes great
changes, but if it didn't change him very much entirely, it wouldn't be
hard to know him again--for, as I said, he was a remarkable man.”
“Well, then, we shall give you an opportunity of refreshing your
memory--here,” he said, addressing himself to some person behind him;
“come forward--get up on the table, and stand face to face with that
man.”
The stranger advanced--pushed over to the corner of the table, and,
mounting it, stood, as he had been directed, confronting the Black
Prophet.
“Whether you seen me dead,” said the stranger, “or whether you seen me
buried, is best known to yourself; all I can say is, that here I am--by
name Bartle Sullivan, alive an' well, thanks be to the Almighty for it!”
“What is this?” asked the judge, addressing Dalton's counsel; “who is
this man?”
“My lord,” replied that gentleman, “this is the individual for the
murder of whom, upon the evidence of these two villains, the prisoner
at the bar stands charged. It is a conspiracy as singular as it is
diabolical; but one which, I trust, we shall clear up, by and by.”
“I must confess, I do not see my way through it at present,” returned
the judge; “did not the prisoner at the bar acknowledge his guilt?--had
you not some difficulty in getting him to plead not guilty? Are you
sure, Mr. O'Hagan, that this stranger is not a counterfeit?”
The reply of counsel could not now be heard--hundreds in the court
house, on hearing his name, and seeing him alive and well before them,
at once recognized his person, and testified their recognition by the
usual manifestations of wonder, satisfaction and delight. The murmur,
in fact, gradually gained strength, and deepened until it fairly burst
forth in one loud and astounding cheer, and it was not, as usual, until
the judge had threatened to commit the first person who should again
disturb the court, that it subsided. There were two persons present,
however, to whom we must direct the special attention of our readers--we
mean Condy Dalton and the Prophet, on both of whom Sullivan's unexpected
appearance produced very opposite effects. When old Dalton first noticed
the strange man getting upon the table, the appearance of Sullivan,
associated, as it had been, by the language of his counsel, with some
vague notion of his resurrection from the grave, filled his mind with
such a morbid and uncertain feeling of everything about him that he
began to imagine himself in a dream, and that his reason must
soon awaken to the terrible reality of his situation. A dimness of
perception, in fact, came ever all his faculties, and for some minutes
he could not understand the nature of the proceedings around him. The
reaction was too sudden for a mind that had been broken down so long,
and harrassed so painfully, by impressions of remorse and guilt. The
consequence was, that he had forgot, for a time, the nature of his
situation--all appeared unintelligible confusion about him,--he could
see a multitude of faces, and the people, all agitated by some great
cause of commotion, and that was, then, all he could understand about
it.
“What is this,” said he to himself;--“am I on my trial?--or is it
some dhrame that I'm dhramin' at home in my own poor place among my
heart-broken family?”
A little time, however, soon undeceived him, and awoke his honest heart
to a true perception of his happiness.
“My lord,” said the strange man, in reply to the judge's last
observation, “I am no counterfeit--an' I thank my good an' gracious God
that I have been able to come in time to save this worthy and honest
man's life. Condy Dalton,” said he, “I can explain all; but in the
mane time let me shake hands wid you, and ax your pardon for the bad
tratement and provocation I gave you on that unlucky day--well may I say
so, so far as you are concerned--for, as I hear, an' as I see, indeed,
it has caused you and your family bitter trouble and sorrow.”
“Bartle Sullivan! Merciful Father, is this all right? is it real? No
dhrame, then! an' I have my ould friend by the hand--let me see--let
me feel you!--it is--it's truth--but, there now--I don't care who sees
me--I must offer one short prayer of thanksgivin' to my marciful God,
who has released me from the snares of my enemies, an' taken this great
weight off o' my heart!” As he-spoke, he elapsed his hands, looked up
with an expression of deep and heartfelt gratitude to heaven, then knelt
down in a corner of the dock, and returned thanks to God.
The Prophet, on beholding the man, stood more in surprise than
astonishment, and seemed evidently filled more with mortification rather
than wonder. He looked around the court with great calmness, and then
fastening his eyes upon Sullivan, studied, or I appeared to study, his
features for a considerable time. A shadow so dark or we should rather
say, so fearfully black settled upon his countenance, that it gave him
an almost supernatural aspect; it looked in fact, as if the gloom of his
fate had fallen upon him in the midst of his plans and iniquities. He
seemed, for a moment, to feel this himself; for while the confusion and
murmurs were spreading through the court, he muttered to himself--
“I am doomed; I did this, as if something drove me to it; however, if I
could only be sure that the cursed box was really lost, I might laugh at
the world still.”
He then looked around him with singular composure, and ultimately at
the judge, as if to ascertain whether he might depart or not. At this
moment, a pale, sickly-looking female, aided, or rather supported, by
the Pedlar and Hanlon, was in the act of approaching the place where
Dalton's attorney stood, as if to make some communication to him, when a
scream was heard, followed by the exclamation--
“Blessed Heaven! it's himself!--it's himself!”
Order and silence were immediately called by the crier, but the
Prophet's eyes had been already attracted to the woman, who was no other
than Hanlon's aunt, and for some time he looked at her with an apparent
sensation of absolute terror. Gradually, however, his usual indomitable
hardness of manner returned to him; he still kept his gaze fixed upon
her, as if to make certain that there could be no mistake, after which
his countenance assumed an expression of rage and malignity that no
language could describe; his teeth became absolutely locked, as if he
could have ground her between them, and his eyes literally blazed
with fury, that resembled that of a rabid beast of prey. The shock was
evidently more than the woman could bear, who, still supported by
the Pedlar and Planlon, withdrew in a state almost bordering on
insensibility.
A very brief space now determined the trial. Sullivan's brother and
several of the jurors themselves clearly established his identity,
and as a matter of course, Condy Dalton was instantly discharged. His
appearance in the street was hailed by the cheers and acclamations
of the people, who are in general delighted with the acquittal of
a fellow-creature, unless under circumstances of very atrocious
criminality.
“I suppose I may go down,” said the Prophet,--“you have done with me?”
“Not exactly,” replied Dalton's counsel.
“Let these two men be taken into custody,” said the judge, “and let an
indictment for perjury be prepared against them, and sent to the grand
jury forthwith.”
“My lord,” proceeded the counsel, “we are, we think, in a capacity to
establish a much graver charge against M'Gowan--a charge of murder, my
lord, discovered, under circumstances little short of providential.”
In short, not to trouble the reader with, the dry details of the courts,
after some discussion, it was arranged that two bills should be prepared
and sent up--one for perjury, and the other for the murder of a carman,
named Peter Magennis, almost at the very spot where it had, until then,
been supposed that poor Dalton had murdered Bartholomew Sullivan. The
consequence was, that Donnel, or Donald M'Gowan, the Black Prophet,
found himself in the very dock where Dalton had stood the preceding day.
His case, whether as regarded the perjury or the murder, was entitled to
no clemency, beyond that which the letter of the law strictly
allowed. The judge assigned him counsel, with whom he was permitted
to communicate; and he himself, probably supposing that his chance of
escape was then greater than if more time were allowed to procure and
arrange evidence against him, said he was ready and willing, without
further notice, to be brought to trial.
We beg to observe here, that we do not strictly confine ourselves to the
statements made during the trial, inasmuch as we deem it necessary
to mention circumstances to the reader, which the rules of legitimate
evidence would render inadmissable in a court of justice. We are not
reporting the case, and consequently hold ourselves warranted in
adding whatever may be necessary to making it perfectly clear, or in
withholding circumstances that did not bear upon our narrative. With
this proviso, we now proceed to detail the denouement.
The first evidence against him, was that of our female friend, whom we
have called the Widow Hanlon, but who, in fact, was no other than the
Prophet's wife, and sister to the man Magennis, whom he had murdered.
The Prophet's real name, she stated, was M'Ivor, but why he changed
it, she knew not. He had been a man, in the early part of his life, of
rather a kind and placid disposition, unless when highly provoked, and
then his resentments were terrible. He was all his life, however, the
slave of a dark and ever-wakeful jealousy, that destroyed his peace, and
rendered his life painful both to himself and others. It happened that
her brother, the murdered man, had prosecuted M'Ivor for taking forcible
possession of a house, for which he, M'Ivor, received twelve months'
imprisonment. It happened also about that time, that is, a little before
the murder, that he had become jealous of her and a neighbor, who had
paid his addresses to her before marriage. M'Ivor, at this period, acted
in the capacity of a plain Land Surveyor among the farmers and cottiers
of the barony, and had much reputation for his exactness and accuracy.
While in prison, he vowed deadly vengeance against her brother,
Magennis, and swore, that if ever she spoke to him, acknowledged him,
or received him into her house during his life, she should never live
another day under his roof.
In this state matters were, when her brother, having heard that her
husband was in a distant part of the barony, surveying, or subdividing
a farm, came to ask her to her sister's wedding, and while in the house,
the Prophet, most unexpectedly, was discovered, within a few perches
of the door, on his return. Terror, on her part, from a dread of his
violence, and also an apprehension lest he and her brother should meet,
and, perhaps, seriously injure each other, even to bloodshed, caused her
to hurry the latter into another room, with instructions to get out of
the window as quietly as possible, and to go home. Unfortunately he did
so, but had scarcely escaped, when a poor mendicant woman, coming in
to ask alms, exclaimed--“Take care, good people, that you have not been
robbed--I saw a man comin' out of the windy, and runnin' over toward
Jemmy Campel's house”--Campel being the name of the young man of whom
her husband was jealous.
M'Ivor, now furious, ran towards Campel's, and meeting that person's
servant-maid at the door, asked “if her master was at home.”
She replied, “Yes, he just came in this minute.”
“What direction did he come from?”
“From the direction of your own house,” she answered.
It should be stated, however, that his wife, at once recollecting his
jealousy, told him immediately that the person who had left the house
was her brother; but he rushed on, and paid no attention whatsoever to
her words.
From this period forward he never lived with her, but she has heard
recently--no longer ago than last night--that he had associated himself
with a woman named Eleanor M'Guirk, about thirty miles farther west from
their original neighborhood, near a place called Glendhu, and it was at
that place her brother was murdered.
Neither her anxieties nor her troubles, however, ended here. When her
husband left her, he took a daughter, their only child, then almost an
infant, away with him, and contrived to circulate a report that he and
she had gone to America. After her return home, she followed her nephew
to this neighborhood, and that accounted for her presence there. So
well, indeed, did he manage this matter, that she received a very
contrite and affectionate letter, that had been sent, she thought, from
Boston, desiring her to follow himself and the child there. The deceit
was successful. Gratified at the prospect of joining them, she made
the due preparations, and set sail. It is unnecessary to say, that on
arriving at Boston she could get no tidings whatsoever of either the one
or the other; but as she had some relations in the place, she found them
out, and resided there until within a few months ago, when she set sail
for Ireland, where she arrived only a short time previous to the period
of the trial. She has often heard M'Ivor say that he would settle
accounts with her brother some fine night, but he usually added, “I will
take my time and kill two birds with one stone when I go about it,” by
which she thought he meant robbing him, as well as murdering him, as her
brother was known mostly to have a good deal of money about him.
We now add here, although the fact was not brought out until a later
stage of the trial, that she proved the identity of the body found in
Glendhu, as being that of her brother, very clearly. His right leg had
been broken, and having been mismanaged, was a little crooked, which
occasioned him to have a slight halt in his walk. The top joint also of
the second toe, on the same foot had been snapped off by the tramp of a
horse, while her brother was a schoolboy--two circumstances which were
corroborated by the Coroner, and one or two of those who had examined
the body at the previous inquest, and which they could then attribute
only to injuries received during his rude interment, but which were now
perfectly intelligible and significant.
The next witness called was Bartholemew Sullivan, who deposed--
That about a month before his disappearance from the country, he was one
night coming home from a wake, and within half a mile of the Grey Stone
he met a person, evidently a carman, accompanying a horse and cart, who
bade him the time of night as he passed. He noticed that the man had a
slight halt as he walked, but could not remember his face, although the
night was by no means dark. On passing onwards, towards home, he met
another person walking after the carman, who, on seeing him (Sullivan)
hastily threw some weapon or other into the ditch. The hour was about
three o'clock in the night (morning,) and on looking close at the man,
for he seemed to follow the other in a stealthy way, he could only
observe that he had a very pale face, and heavy black eyebrows; indeed
he has little doubt but that the prisoner is the man, although he will
not actually swear it after such a length of time.
This was the evidence given by Bartholomew Sullivan.
The third witness produced was Theodosius M'Mahon, or, as he was better
known, Toddy Mack, the Pedlar, who deposed to the fact of having,
previously to his departure for Boston, given to Peter Magennis a
present of a steel tobacco-box as a keep-sake, and as the man did not
use tobacco, he said, on putting it into his pocket--
“This will do nicely to hould my money in, on my way home from Dublin.”
Upon which Toddy Mack observed, laughingly--
“That if he put either silver or brass in it, half the country would
know it by the jingle.”
“I'll take care of that, never fear,” replied Magennis, “for I'll put
nothing in this, but the soft, comfortable notes.”
He was asked if the box had any particular mark by which it might be
known?
“Yes, he had himself punched upon the lid of it the initials of the
person to whom he gave it--P. M., for Peter Magennis.”
“Would you know the box if you saw it?”
“Certainly!”
“Is that it?” asked the prosecuting attorney, placing the box in his
hands.
“That is the same box I gave him, upon my oath. It's a good deal rusted
now, but there's the holes as I punched them; and by the same token,
there is the letter P., the very place yet where the two holes broke
into one, as I was punchin' it.”
“Pray, how did the box come to turn up?” asked the judge:--“In whose
possession has it been ever since?”
“My lord, we have just come to that. Crier, call Eleanor M'Guirk.”
The woman hitherto known as Nelly M'Gowan, and supposed to be the
Prophet's wife now made her appearance.
“Will you state to the gentlemen of the jury what you know about this
box?”
Our readers are partially aware of her evidence with respect to it. We
shall, however, briefly recapitulate her account of the circumstance.
“The first time she ever saw it,” she said, “was the night the carman
was murdered, or that he disappeared, at any rate. She resided by
herself, in a little house at the mouth of the Glendhu--the same she and
the Prophet had lived in ever since. They had not long been acquainted
at that time--but still longer than was right or proper. She had
been very little in the country then, and any time he did come was
principally at night, when he stopped with her, and went away again,
generally before day in the morning. He passed himself on her as an
unmarried man, and said his name was M'Gowan. On that evening he came
about dusk, but went out again, and she did not see him till far in the
night, when he returned, and appeared to be fatigued and agitated--his
clothes, too, were soiled and crumpled, especially the collar of his
shirt, which was nearly torn off, as in a struggle of some kind. She
asked him what was the matter with him, and said he looked as if he had
been fighting.” He replied--
“No, Nelly; but I've killed two birds with one stone this night.”
She asked him what he meant by those words, but he would give her no
further information.
“I'll give no explanation,” said he, “but this;” and turning his back
to her, he opened a tobacco-box, which, by stretching her neck, she saw
distinctly, and, taking out a roll of bank notes, he separated one from
the rest, and handing it to her, exclaimed--“there's all the explanation
you can want; a close mouth, Nelly, is the sign of a wise-head, an' by
keepin' a close mouth, you'll get more explanations of this kind. Do you
understand that?” said he. “I do,” she replied.
“Very well, then,” he observed “let that be the law and gospel between
us.”
When he fell asleep, she got up, and looking at the box, saw that it
was stuffed with bank notes, had a broken hinge--the hinge was freshly
broken--and something like two letters on the lid of it.
“She then did not see it,” she continued, “until some weeks ago, when
his daughter and herself having had a quarrel, in which the girl cut
her--she (his daughter) on stretching up for some cobwebs on the wall
to stanch the bleeding, accidentally pulled the box out of a crevice, in
which it had been hid. About this time,” she added, “the prisoner became
very restless at night, indeed, she might say by day and night, and
after a good deal of gloomy ill temper, he made inquiries for it, and on
hearing that it had again appeared, even threatened her life if it were
not produced.” She closed her evidence by stating that she had secreted
it, but could tell nothing of its ultimate and mysterious disappearance.
Hanlon's part in tracing the murder is already known, we presume, to the
reader. He dreamt, but his dream was not permitted to go to the jury,
that his father came to him, and said, that if he repaired to the Grey
Stone, at Glendhu, on a night which he named, at the hour of twelve
o'clock, he would get such a clue to his murder as would enable him to
bring his murderer to justice.
“Are you the son, then, of the man who is said to have been murdered?”
asked the judge.
“He was his son,” he replied, “and came first to that part of the
country in consequence of having been engaged in a Party fight in his
native place. It seems a warrant had been issued against him and others,
and he thought it more prudent to take his mother's name, which was
Hanlon, in order to avoid discovery, the case being a very common one
under circumstances of that kind.”
Rody Duncan's explanation, with respect to the Tobacco-Box, was not
called for on the trial, but we shall give it here in order to satisfy
the reader. He saw Nelly M'Gowan, as we may still call her, thrusting
something under the thatch of the cabin, and feeling a kind of curiosity
to ascertain what it could be, he seized the first opportunity of
examining, and finding a tobacco-box, he put it in his pocket, and
thought himself extremely fortunate in securing it, for reasons which
the reader will immediately understand. The truth is, that Rody,
together with about half a dozen virtuous youths in the neighborhood,
were in the habit of being out pretty frequently at night--for
what purposes we will not now wait to inquire. Their usual place
of rendezvous was the Grey Stone, in consequence of the shelter and
concealment which its immense projections afforded them. On the night
of the first meeting between Sarah and Hanlon, Rody had heard the whole
conversation by accident, whilst waiting for his companions, and very
judiciously furnished the groans, as he did also upon the second night,
on both occasions for his own amusement. His motives for ingratiating
himself through means of the box, with Sarah and Hanlon, are already
known to the reader, and require no further explanation from us.
In fact, such a train of circumstantial evidence was produced, as
completely established the Prophet's guilt, in the opinion of all who
had heard the trial, and the result was a verdict of guilty by the jury,
and a sentence of death by the judge.
“Your case,” said the judge, as he was about to pronounce sentence, “is
another proof of the certainty with which Providence never, so to speak,
loses sight of the man who deliberately sheds his fellow creature's
blood. It is an additional and striking instance too, of the retributive
spirit with which it converts all the most cautious disguises of guilt,
no matter how ingeniously assumed, into the very manifestations by which
its enormity is discovered and punished.”
After recommending him to a higher tribunal, and impressing upon him the
necessity of repentance, and seeking peace with God, he sentenced him to
be hanged by the neck on the fourth day after the close of the assizes,
recommending his soul, as usual, to the mercy of his Creator.
The Prophet was evidently a man of great moral intrepidity and firmness.
He kept his black, unquailing eye fixed upon the judge while he spoke,
but betrayed not a single symptom of a timid or vacillating spirit. When
the sentence was pronounced, he looked with an expression of something
like contempt upon those who had broken out, as usual, into those
murmurs of compassion and satisfaction, which are sometimes uttered
under circumstances similar to his.
“Now,” said he to the gaoler, “that every thing is over, and the worst
come to the worst, the sooner I get to my cell the better. I have
despised the world too long to care a single curse what it says or
thinks of me, or about me. All I'm sorry for is, that I didn't take more
out of it, and that I let it slip through my hands so asily as I did. My
curse upon it and its villany! Bring me in.”
The gratification of the country for a wide circle round, was
now absolutely exuberant. There was not only the acquittal of the
good-hearted and generous old man, to fill the public with a feeling
of delight, but also the unexpected resurrection, as it were, of honest
Bartholomew Sullivan, which came to animate all parties with a double
enjoyment. Indeed, the congratulations which both parties received, were
sincere and fervent. Old Condy Dalton had no sooner left the dock than
he was surrounded by friends and relatives, each and all anxious to
manifest their sense of his good fortune, in the usual way of “treating”
him and his family. Their gratitude, however, towards the Almighty for
the unexpected interposition in their favor, was too exalted and pious
to allow them to profane it by convivial indulgences. With as little
delay, therefore, as might be, they sought their humble cabin, where
a scene awaited them that was calculated to dash with sorrow the
sentiments of justifiable exultation which they felt.
Our readers may remember that owing to Sarah's illness, the Prophet,
as an after thought, had determined to give to the abduction of Mave
Sullivan the color of a famine outrage; and for this purpose he had
resolved also to engage Thomas Dalton to act as a kind of leader--a
circumstance which he hoped would change the character of the
proceedings altogether to one of wild and licentious revenge on the part
of Dalton. Poor Dalton lent himself to this, as far as its aspect of a
mere outbreak had attractions for the melancholy love of turbulence, by
which he had been of late unhappily animated. He accordingly left home
with the intention of taking a part in their proceedings; but he never
joined them. Where he had gone to, or how he had passed the night,
nobody knew. Be this as it may, he made his appearance at home about
noon on the day of his father's trial, in evidently a dying state, and
in this condition his family found him on their return. 'Tis true they
had the consolation of perceiving that he was calmer and more collected
than he had been since the death of Peggy Murtagh. His reason, indeed,
might be said to have been altogether restored.
They found him sitting in his father's arm chair, his head
supported--oh, how tenderly supported!--by his affectionate sister,
Mary.
Mrs. Dalton herself had come before, to break the joyful tidings to
this excellent girl, who, on seeing her, burst into tears, exclaiming in
Irish--
“Mother, dear, I'm afraid you're bringing a heavy heart to a house of
sorrow!”
“A light heart, dear Mary--a light and a grateful heart. Your father,
_acushla machree_--your father, my dear, unhappy Tom, is not a
murderer.”
The girl had one arm around her brother's neck, but she instinctively
raised the other, as if in ecstatic delight, but in a moment she dropped
it again, and said sorrowfully--
“Ay; but, mother dear, didn't he say himself he was guilty?”
“He thought so, dear; but it was only a rash blow; and oh, how many a
deadly accident has come from harsh blows! The man was not killed at
all, dear Mary, but is alive and well, and was in the court-house this
day. Oh! what do we not owe to a good God for His mercy towards us all?
Tom, dear, I am glad to see you at home; you must not go out again.”
“Oh, mother dear,” said his sister, kissing him, and bursting into
tears, “Tom's dying!”
“What's this?” exclaimed his mother--“death's in my boy's face!”
He raised his head gently, and, looking at her, replied, with a faint
smile--
“No, mother, I will not go out any more; I will be good at last--it's
time for me.”
At this moment old Dalton and the rest of the family entered the house,
but were not surprised at finding Mary and her mother in tears; for they
supposed, naturally enough, that the tears were tears of joy for the
old man's acquittal. Mrs. Dalton raised her hand to enjoin silence; and
then, pointing to her son, said--
“We must keep quiet for a little.”
They all looked upon the young man, and saw, that death, immediate
death, was stamped upon his features, gleamed wildly out of his eyes,
and spoke in his feeble and hollow voice.
“Father,” said he, “let me kiss you, or come and kiss me. Thank God for
what has happened this day. Father,” he added, looking up into the
old man's face, with an expression of unutterable sorrow and
affection--“father, I know I was wild; but I will be wild no more. I was
wicked, too; but I will be wicked no more. There, is an end now to all
my follies and all my crimes; an' I hope--I hope that God will have
mercy upon me, an' forgive me.”
The tears rained fast upon his pale face from the old man's eyes, as he
exclaimed--
“He will have mercy upon you, my darlin' son; look to Him. I know,
darlin', that whatever crimes or follies you committed, you are sorry
for them, an' God will forgive you.”
“I am,” he replied; “kiss me all of you; my sight is gettin' wake, an'
my tongue isn't isn't so strong as it was.”
One after one they all kissed him, and as each knew that this tender and
sorrowful, embrace must be the last that should ever pass between them,
it is impossible adequately to describe the scene which then took place.
“I have a request to make,” he added, feebly; “an' it is, that I may
sleep with Peggy and our baby. Maybe I'm not worthy of that; but still
I'd like it, an' my heart's upon it; an' I think she would like it,
too.”
“It can be done, an' we'll do it,” replied his mother; “we'll do it my
darlin' boy--my son, my son, we'll do it.”
“Don't you all forgive me--forgive me--everything?”
They could only, for some time, reply by their tears; but at length they
did reply, and he seemed satisfied.
“Now,” said he, “there was an ould Irish air that Peggy used to sing for
me--I thought I heard her often singin' it of late--did I?”
“I suppose so, darlin',” replied his mother; “I suppose you did.”
“Mary, here,” he proceeded, “sings it; I would like to hear it before I
go; it's the air of _Gra Gal Machree_.”
“Before you go, _alanna!_” exclaimed his father, pressing him tenderly
to his breast. “Oh! but they're bitther words to us, my darlin' an' my
lovin' boy. But the air, Mary, darlin', strive an' sing it for him as
well as you can.”
It was a trying task for the affectionate girl, who, however, so far
overcame her grief, as to be able to sing it with the very pathos of
nature itself.
“Ay,” said he, as she proceeded, “that's it--that's what Peggy used to
sing for me, bekaise she knew I liked it.”
Tender and full of sorrow were the notes as they came from the innocent
lips of that affectionate sister. Her task, however, was soon over; for
scarcely had she concluded the air, when her poor brother's ears and
heart were closed to the melody and affection it breathed, forever.
“I know,” said she, with tears, “that there's one thing will give
comfort to you all respecting poor Tom. Peter Rafferty, who helped
him home, seein' the dyin' state he was in, went over to the Car, and
brought one of Father Hanratty's curates to him, so that he didn't
depart without resaving the rites of the Church, thank God!”
This took the sting of bitterness out of their grief, and infused
into it a spirit that soothed their hearts, and sustained them by that
consolation which the influence of religion and its ordinances, in the
hour of death and sorrow, never fail to give to an Irish family.
Old Dalton's sleep was sound that night; and when he awoke the next
morning the first voice he heard was that of our friend Toddy Mack,
which, despite of the loss they had sustained, and its consequent
sorrow, diffused among them a spirit of cheerfulness and contentment.
“You have no raison,” said he, “to fly in the face of God--I don't mane
you, Mrs. Dalton--but these youngsters. If what I heard is thrue that
that poor boy never was himself since the girl died, it was a mercy for
God to take him; and afther all He is a betther judge of what's fit for
us than we ourselves. Bounce, now, Mr. Dalton; you have little time to
lose. I want you to come wid me to the agent, Mr. Travers. He wishes, I
think, to see yourself, for he says he has heard a good account o' you,
an' I promised to bring you. If we're there about two o'clock we'll hit
the time purty close.”
“What can he want with him, do you think?” asked Mrs. Dalton.
“Dear knows--fifty things--maybe to stand for one of his
childhre--or--but, ah! forgive me--I could be merry anywhere else; but
here--here--forgive me, Mrs. Dalton.”
In a short time Dalton and he mounted a car which Toddy had brought with
him, and started for the office of Mr. Travers.
While they are on their way, we shall return to our friend, young Dick,
who was left to trudge home from the Grey Stone on the night set apart
for the abduction of Mave Sullivan. Hanlon, or Magennis, as we ought now
to call him, having by his shrewdness, and Rody Duncan's loose manner
of talking, succeeded in preventing the burglarious attack upon his
master's house, was a good deal surprised at young Dick's quick return,
for he had not expected him at all that night. The appearance of
the young gentleman was calculated to excite impressions of rather a
serio-comic character.
“Hanlon,” said he, “is all right?--every man at his post?”
“All right, sir; but I did not expect you back so soon. Whatever you've
been engaged on to-night is a saicret you've kep' me out of.”
“D--e, I was afraid of you, Hanlon--you were too honest for what I was
about to-night. You wouldn't have stood it--I probed you on it once
before, and you winced.”
“Well, sir, I assure you I don't wish to know what it is.”
“Why, as the whole thing has failed there, can be no great secret in
it now. The old Prophet hoaxed me cursedly to-night. It was arranged
between us that he should carry off Sullivan's handsome daughter for
me--and what does the mercenary old scoundrel do but put his own in her
place, with a view of imposing her on me.”
“Faith, an' of the two she is thought to be the finest an' handsomest
girl; but, my God! how could he do what you say, an' his daughter sick
o' the typhus?”
“There's some d--d puzzle about it, I grant--he seemed puzzled--his
daughter-seemed sick, sure enough--and I am sick. Hanlon, I fear I've
caught the typhus from her--I can think of nothing else.”
“Go to bed, sir; I tould you as you went out that you had taken rather
too much. You've been disappointed, an' you're vexed;--that's what ails
you; but go to bed, an' you'll sleep it off.”
“Yes, I must. In a day or two it's arranged that I and Travers are to
settle about the leases, and I must meet that worthy gentleman with a
clear head.”
“Is Darby Skinadre, sir, to have Dalton's farm?”
“Why, I've pocketed a hundred of his money for it, an' I think he ought.
However, all this part of the property is out of lease, and you know we
can neither do nor say anything till we get the new leases.”
“Oh, yes, you can, sir,” replied Hanlon, laughing; “it's clear you can
_do_ at any rate.”
“How is that? What do you grin at, confound you?”
“You can take the money, sir; that's what I mane by _doin'_ him. Ha, ha,
ha!”
“Very good, Charley; but I'm sick; and I very much fear that I've caught
this confounded typhus.”
The next day being that on which the trial took place, he rose not from
his bed; and when the time appointed for meeting Travers came he was
not at all in anything of an improved condition. His gig was got ready,
however, and, accompanied by Hanlon, he drove to the agent's office.
Travers was a quick, expert man of business, who lost but little time
and few words in his dealings with the world. He was clear, rapid, and
decisive, and having once formed an opinion, there was scarcely any
possibility in changing it. This, indeed, was the worst and most
impracticable point about him; for as it often happened that his
opinions were based upon imperfect or erroneous data, it consequently
followed that his inflexibility was but another name for obstinacy, and
not unfrequently for injustice.
As Henderson entered the office, he met our friend the pedlar and old
Dalton going out.
“Dalton,” said Travers, “do you and your friend stay in the next room; I
wish to see you again before you go. How do you do, Henderson?”
“I am not well,” replied Henderson, “not at all well; but it won't
signify.”
“How is your father?”
“Much as usual: I wonder he didn't call on you.”
“No, he did not, I suppose he's otherwise engaged--the assizes always
occupy him. However, now to business, Mr. Henderson;” and he looked
inquiringly at Dick, as much as to say, I am ready to hear you.
“We had better see, I think,” proceeded Dick, “and make arrangements
about these new leases.”
“I shall expect to be bribed for each of them, Mr. Richard.”
“Bribed!” exclaimed the other, “ha, ha, ha! that's good.”
“Why, do you think there's anything morally wrong or dishonorable in a
bribe?” asked the other, with a very serious face.
“Come, come, Mr. Travers,” said Dick, “a joke's a joke; only don't put
so grave a face on you when you ask such a question. However, as you say
yourself, now to business--about these leases.”
“I trust,” continued Travers, “that I am both an honest man and a
gentleman, yet I expect a bribe for every lease.”
“Well, then,” replied Henderson, “it is not generally supposed that
either an honest man or a gentleman--”
“Would take a bribe?--eh?”
“Well, d--n it, no; not exactly that either; but come, let us understand
each other. If you will be wilful on it, why a wilful man, they say,
must have his way. Bribery, however--rank bribery--is a--”
“Crime to which neither an honest man nor a gentleman would stoop. You
see I anticipate what you are about to say; you despise bribery, Mr.
Henderson?”
“Sir,” replied the other, rather warmly, “I trust that I am a gentleman
and an honest man, too.”
“But still, a wilful man, Mr. Henderson must have his way, you know.
Well, of course, you are a gentleman and an honest man.”
He then rose, and touching the bell, said to the servant who answered
it:
“Send in the man named Darby Skinadre.”
If that miserable wretch was thin and shrivelled-looking when first
introduced to our readers, he appeared at the present period little
else than the shadow of what he had been. He not only lost heavily the
usurious credit he had given, in consequence of the wide-spread poverty
and crying distress of the wretched people, who were mostly insolvent,
but he suffered severely by the outrages which had taken place, and
doubly so in consequence of the anxiety which so many felt to wreak
their vengeance on him, under that guise, for his heartlessness and
blood-sucking extortions upon them.
“Your name,” proceeded the agent, “is Darby Skinadre?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have given this gentleman the sum of a hundred pounds, as a
bribe, for promising you a lease of Cornelius Dalton's farm?”
“I gave him a hundred pounds, but not at all as a bribe, sir; I'm an
honest man, I trust--an' the Lord forbid I'd have anything to do wid a
bribe; an' if you an' he knew--if you only knew, both o' you--the hard
strivin,' an' scrapin,' an' sweepin' I had to get it together--”
“That will do, sir; be silent. You received this money, Mr. Henderson?”
“Tut, Travers, my good friend; this is playing too high a card about
such a matter. Don't you know, devilish well, that these things are
common, aye, and among gentlemen and honest men too, as you say?”
“Well, that is a discussion upon which I shall not enter. Now, as you
say, to business.”
“Well, then,” continued Henderson, smiling, “if you have no objection,
I am willing that you should take Skinadre's affair and mine as a
precedent between you and me. Let us not be fools, Mr. Travers; it is
every one for himself in this world.”
“What is it you expect, in the first place?” asked the agent.
“Why, new leases,” replied the other, “upon reasonable terms, of
course.”
“Well, then,” said Travers, “I beg to inform you that you shall not
have them, with only one exception. You shall have a lease of sixty-nine
acres attached to the Grange, being the quantity of land you actually
farm.”
“Pray, why not of all the property?” asked Dick.
“My good friend,” replied the agent, nearly in his own words to the
Pedlar; “the fact is, that we are about to introduce a new system
altogether upon our property. We are determined to manage it upon a
perfectly new principle. It has been too much sublet under us, and we
have resolved, Mr. Henderson, to rectify this evil. That is my answer.
With the exception of the Grange farm, you get no leases. We shall turn
over a new leaf, and see that a better order of things be established
upon the property. As for you, Skinadre, settle this matter of your
hundred pounds with Mr. Henderson as best you may. That was a private
transaction between yourselves; between yourselves, then, does the
settlement of it lie.”
He once more touched the bell, and desired Cornelius Dalton and the
Pedlar to be sent in.
“Mr. Henderson,” he proceeded, “I will bid you good morning; you
certainly look ill. Skinadre, you may go. I have sent for Mr. Dalton,
Mr. Henderson, to let him know that he shall be reinstated in his farm,
and every reasonable allowance made him for the oppression and injustice
which he and his respectable family have suffered at--I will not say
whose hands.”
“Travers,” replied Henderson, “your conduct is harsh--and--however, I
cannot now think of leases--I am every moment getting worse--I am very
ill--good-morning.”
He then went.
“An' am I to lose my hundre pounds, your honor, of my hard earned money,
that I squeezed--”
“Out of the blood and marrow and life of the struggling people, you
heartless extortioner! Begone, sirra; a foot of land upon the property
for which I am agent you shall never occupy. You and your tribe, whether
you batten upon the distress of struggling industry in the deceitful
Maelstrooms of the metropolis, or in the dirty, dingy shops of a private
country village, are each a scorpion curse to the people. Your very
existence is a libel upon the laws by which the rights of civil society
are protected.”
“Troth, your honor does me injustice; I never see a case of distress
that my heart doesn't bleed--”
“With a leech-like propensity to pounce upon it. Begone!”
The man slunk out.
“Dalton,” he proceeded, when the old man, accompanied by the Pedlar,
came in, “I sent for you to say that I am willing you should have your
farm again.”
“Sir,” replied the other, “I am thankful and grateful to you for that
kindness, but it's now too late; I am not able to go back upon it; I
have neither money nor stock of any kind. I am deeply and gratefully
obliged to you; but I have not a sixpence worth in the world to put on
it. An honest heart, sir, an' a clear fame, is all that God has left me,
blessed be His name.”
“Don't b'lieve a word of it,” replied the Pedlar. “Only let your honor
give him a good lease, at a raisonable rint, makin' allowance for his
improvements--”
“Never mind conditions, my good friend,” said the agent, “but proceed;
for, if I don't mistake, you will yourself give him a lift.”
“May be, we'll find him stock and capital a thrifle, any way,” replied
the Pedlar with a knowing wink. “I haven't carried the pack all my life
for nothing, I hope.”
“I understand,” said the agent to Dalton, “that one of your sons is
dead. I leave town to-day, but I shall be here this day fortnight;--call
then, and we shall have every thing arranged. Your case was a very hard
one, and a very common one; but it was one with which we had nothing
to do, and in which, until now, we could not interfere. I have looked
clearly into it, and regret to find that such cases do exist upon Irish
property to a painful extent, although I am, glad to find that public
opinion, and a more enlightened experience, are every day considerably
diminishing the evil.”
He then rang for some one-else, and our friends withdrew, impressed
with a grateful sense of his integrity and justice.