--Virtues of a Loyal Magistrate--A Small Dose of Flattery--A Brace of
Blessings--Darby has Notions of becoming a Convert--Hints to a Trusty
Bailiff, with a Bit of Mystery--Drum Dhu, and the Comforts of Christmas
Eve--An Extermination.
One of the greatest curses attending absenteeism is the facility
with which a dishonest and oppressive agent can maintain a system of
misrepresentation and falsehood, either to screen his own delinquency or
to destroy the reputation of those whom he hates or fears. An absentee
landlord has no guarantee beyond the honor and integrity of the man to
whom he entrusts the management of his property, and consequently he
ought to know that his very residence abroad presents strong temptations
to persons, who, in too many instances, are not possessed of any
principle strong enough to compete with their rapacity or cruelty.
Valentine M'Clutchy was one of those fellows in whom the heart was
naturally so hard and selfish that he loved both wealth and the
infliction of oppression, simply on account of the pleasure which they
afforded him. To such a man, and they formed too numerous a class, the
estate of an absentee landlord presented an appropriate, and generally
a safe field for action. The great principle of his life was, in every
transaction that occurred, to make the interest of the landlord on one
hand, and of the tenant on the other, subservient to his own. This was
their rule, and the cunning and adroitness necessary to carry it into
practical effect, were sometimes scarcely deemed worth concealment, so
strong was their sense of impunity, and their disregard of what seldom
took place--retribution. Indeed, the absence of the landlord gave
them necessarily, as matters were managed, an unlimited power over the
people, and gratified that malignant vigilance which ever attends upon
suspicion and conscious guilt. Many of the tenants, for instance,
when driven to the uttermost depths of distress and misery, have been
desperate enough to appeal to the head landlords, and almost in every
case the agent himself was enabled to show them their own letters, which
the absentee had in the meantime transmitted to the identical party
whose tyranny had occasioned them.
The appointment of Phil to the under agency was felt even more strongly
than the removal of Mr. Hickman or Val's succession to that gentleman;
for there was about honest Val something which the people could not
absolutely despise. His talents for business, however, prostituted as
they were to such infamous purposes, only rendered him a greater
scourge to the unhappy tenantry over whom he was placed. As for Phil, he
experienced at their hands that combined feeling of hatred and contempt
with which we look upon a man who has every disposition to villany but
not the ability to accomplish its purposes in a masterly manner.
Val's promotion to the Bench did not occasion so much surprise as might
be supposed. It is well known, that every such scoundrel, however he may
disregard the opinions of the people whom he despises, leaves nothing
undone that either meanness or ingenuity can accomplish to sustain a
plausible character with the gentry of the neighborhood. In the times of
which we write, the great passport to popularity among one party was the
expression of strong political opinions. For this reason, Val, who was
too cunning to neglect any subordinate aid to his success in life, had
created for himself a certain description of character, which in a great
degree occasioned much of his dishonesty and oppression to be overlooked
or forgiven. Like his father, old Deaker, he was a furious Orangeman,
of the true, loyal, and Ascendancy class--drank the glorious, pious,
and immortal memory every day after dinner--was, in fact, master of an
Orange Lodge, and altogether a man of that thorough, staunch, Protestant
principle, which was then, as it has been since, prostituted to the
worst purposes. For this reason, he was looked upon, by those of his own
class not so much as a heartless and unscrupulous knave, as a good sound
Protestant, whose religion and loyalty were of the right kidney. In
accordance with these principles, he lost no time in assuming the
character of an active useful man, who considered it the most important
part of his duty to extend his political opinions by every means in his
power, and to discountenance, in all shapes and under all circumstances,
such as were opposed to them. For this purpose, there was only one
object left untried and unaccomplished; but time and his undoubted
loyalty soon enabled him to achieve it. Not long after his appointment
to the agency, he began to experience some of these uneasy sensations
which a consciousness of not having deserved well at the hands of the
people will occasion. The man, as we have said, was a coward at heart;
but like many others of the same class, he contrived on most occasions
to conceal it. He now considered that it would, at all events, be a safe
and prudent act on his part to raise a corps of yeomanry, securing
a commission in it for himself and Phil. In this case he deemed it
necessary to be able to lay, before government such satisfactory proofs
as would ensure the accomplishment of his object, and at the same time
establish his own loyalty and devotion to the higher powers. No man
possessed the art of combining several motives, under the simple guise
of one act, with greater skill than M'Clutchy. For instance, he had an
opportunity of removing from the estate as many as possible of those
whom he could not reckon on for political support. Thus would he, in the
least suspicious manner, and in the very act of loyalty, occasion
that quantity of disturbance just necessary to corroborate his
representations to government--free property from disaffected persons,
whose consciences were proof against both his threats and promises--and
prove to the world that Valentine M'Clutchy was the man to suppress
disturbance, punish offenders, maintain peace, and, in short, exhibit
precisely that loyal and truly Protestant spirit which the times
required, and which, in the end, generally contrived to bring its own
reward along with it.
One evening, about this period, our worthy agent was sitting in his back
parlor, enjoying with Phil the comforts of a warm tumbler of punch, when
the old knock already described was heard at the hall door.
“How the devil does that rascal contrive to give such a knock?” said
Phil--“upon my honor and reputation, father, I could know it out of a
thousand.”
“It's very difficult to say,” replied the other; “but I agree with you
in its character--and yet, I am convinced that Master Darby by no means
entertains the terror of me which he affects. However, be this as it
may, he is invaluable for his attachment to our interests, and the trust
which we can repose in him. I intend to make him a sergeant in our new
corps--and talking of that, Phil, you are not aware that I received this
morning a letter from Lord Cumber, in which he thanks me for the hint,
and says he will do everything in his power to forward the business. I
have proposed that he shall be colonel, and that the corps be named the
Castle Cumber Yeomanry. I shall myself be captain and paymaster, and you
shall have a slice of something off it, Phil, my boy.”
“I have no objection in life,” replied Phil, “and let the slice be a
good one; only I am rather quakerly as to actual fighting, which may God
of his infinite mercy prevent!”
“There will be no fighting, my hero,” replied the father, laughing;
“if there were, Phil, I would myself rise above all claims for military
glory; but here there will be nothing but a healthy chase across the
country after an occasional rebel or whiteboy, or perhaps the seizing of
a still, and the capture of many a keg of neat poteen, Phil--eh? What do
you say to that my boy?”
“I have no objection to that,” said Phil, “provided everything is done
in an open, manly manner--in broad day-light. These scoundrel whiteboys
have such devilish good practice at hedge-firing, that I have already
made up my mind to decline all warfare that won't be sanctioned by the
sun. I believe in my soul they see better without light than with it, so
that the darkness which would be a protection to them, could be none to
me.”
At this moment, a tap--such as a thief would give when ascertaining
if the master of the house were asleep, in order that he might rob
him--came to the door, and upon being desired to “come in and be d----d”
Darby entered.
“You're an hour late, you scoundrel,” said Val; “what have you to say
for yourself?”
“Yes,” added Phil, who was a perfect Achilles to every bailiff and
driver on the estate--“what have you to say for yourself? If I served
you right, upon my honor and reputation, I would kick you out. I would,
you scoundrel, and I ought.”
“I know you ought, squire, for I desarve it; but, any how, sure it was
the floods that sent me round. The stick was covered above three feet,
and I had to go round by the bridge. Throth his honor there ought to
make the Grand Jury put a bridge acrass it, and I wish to goodness,
Square Phil, you would spake to him to get them to do it next summer.”
When Solomon said, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit, we hope
he did not mean that the two terms were at all synonymous; because, if
he did, we unquestionably stand prepared to contest his knowledge of
human nature, despite both his wisdom and experience. Darby's reply was
not a long one, but its effect was powerful. The very notion that Val
M'Clutchy could, should, might, or ought to have such influence over the
Grand Jury of the county was irresistible with the father; and that he
should live to be actually called squire, nay to hear the word with his
own ears, was equally so with the son.
Vanity! What sensation can the hearts of thousands--millions feel, that
ought for a moment be compared, in an ecstatic sense of enjoyment, with
those which arise from gratified vanity?
“Come, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits--the night's
severe,” said Val.
“Yes, you sneaking scoundrel, take a glass of spirits, and we'll see
what can be done about the bridge before next winter,” added Phil.
“All I can say is, gintlemen,” said Darby, “that if you both take it
up, it will be done. In the mane time, here's both your healths,
your honors; an' may you both be spared on the property, as a pair of
blessins to the estate!” Then, running over to Phil, he whispered in
a playhouse voice--“Square Phil, I daren't let his honor hear me now,
but--here's black confusion to Hickman, the desaver!”
“What is he saying, Phil? What is the cursed sneaking scoundrel saying?”
“Why your honor,” interposed Darby, “I was axin' permission jist to add
a thrifle to what I'm goin' to drink.”
“What do you mean?” said Val.
“Just, your honor, to drink the glorious, pious, and immoral mimory!
hip, hip, hurra!”
“And how can you drink it, you rascal, and you a papist?” asked Phil,
still highly delighted with Darby's loyalty. “What would your priest say
if he knew it?”
“Why,” said Darby, quite unconscious of the testimony he was bearing to
his own duplicity, “sure they can forgive me that, along with my other
sins. But, any how, I have a great notion to leave them and their
ralligion altogether.”
“How is that, you scoundrel?” asked Val.
“Yes, you scoundrel; how is that?” added Phil.
“Why, troth,” replied Darby, “I can't well account for it myself,
barrin' it comes from an enlightened conscience. Mr. M'Slime gave me a
tract, some time ago, called Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace, and I
thought in my own conscience, afther readin' it carefully over, that it
applied very much to my condition.”
“Ah!” said Phil, “what a babe you are! but no matter; I'm glad you
have notions of becoming a good sound Protestant; take my word there's
nothing like it. A man that's a good sound Protestant is always a loyal
fellow, and when he's drunk, drinks--to hell with the Pope.”
“Phil, don't be a fool,” said his father, who inherited many, if not
all of old Deaker's opinions. “If you are about to become a
Protestant, Darby, that's a very different thing from changing your
religion--inasmuch as you must have one to change first. However, as you
say, M'Slime's your man, and be guided by him.”
“So I intend, sir; and he has been spakin' to me about comin' forrid
publicly, in regard of an intention he has of writin' a new tract
consarning me, to be called the Converted Bailiff, or a Companion to
the Religious Attorney; and he says, sir, that he'll get us bound up
together.”
“Does he?” said Val, dryly; “strung up, I suppose he means.”
“Troth your honor's right,” replied Darby; “but my own mimory isn't what
it used to be--it was strung up he said, sure enough, sir.”
“Very well,” said Val, “but now to business. Phil, my boy, you move off
for a little--Darby and I have a small matter to talk over, that nobody
must hear but ourselves.”
“All right,” replied Phil; “so take care of yourselves;” and accordingly
left the room.
Now the truth was, that M'Clutchy, who perfectly understood the
half-witted character of his son--for be it known that worthy Phil was
considered by those who had the honor of his acquaintance, as anything
but an oracle--did not feel himself justified in admitting the said Phil
to full confidence in all his plans and speculations.
“You see now,” said he, addressing Darby sternly--“you see the opinion
which I entertain of your honesty, when I trust you more than I do my
son.”
“Troth I do your honor--and by the same token did I ever betray you?”
“Betray, you scoundrel! what had you to betray?” said Val indignantly,
whatever I do is for the benefit of the country in general, and for Lord
Cumber's property in particular: you know that.”
“Know it! doesn't the whole world know it, sir?”
“Well, then”--said Val, softening---“now to business. In the first place
observe my words--listen.”
Darby said nothing, but looked at him in the attitude of deep and
breathless attention.
“Whenever you happen to execute a warrant of distress--that is, when
removing furniture or any other property off the premises, keep a sharp
look out for any papers or parchments that happen to come in your way.
It would do no harm if you should slip them quietly into your pocket and
bring them to me. I say quietly, because there is a spirit abroad among
the people that we must watch; but if they once suspected that we were
on the look out for it, they might baffle us; these papers, you know can
be returned.”
“I see, your honor,” said Darby--“there you are right, as, indeed, you
always are.”
“Very well, then. Is the night dark and stormy?”
“So dark, sir, that a blind man could see it.”
Val then approached the bailiff, looked cautiously about the
room--opened the door, and peeped into the hall; after which he
returned, and placing about half-a-dozen written papers in his hand,
whispered something to him with great earnestness and deliberation.
Darby heard him with profound attention, nodded his head significantly
as he spoke, and placed the point of his right hand fore-finger on the
papers, as if he said, “I see--I understand--I am to do so and so with
these; it's all clear--all right, and it shall be done before I sleep.”
The conversation then fell into its original channel, and Phil was
summoned, in order to receive his instructions touching a ceremony which
was to take place on the following day but one; which ceremony simply
consisted in turning out upon the wide world, without house, or home, or
shelter, about twenty three families, containing among them the young,
the aged, the sick, and the dying--but this is a scene to which we must
beg the reader's more particular attention.
There stood, facing the west, about two miles from Constitution Cottage,
an irregular string of cabins, with here and there something that might
approach the comfortable air of a middle size house. The soil on which
they stood was an elevated moor, studded with rocks and small cultivated
patches, which the hard hand of labor had, with toil and difficulty,
worn from what might otherwise be called a cold, bleak, desert. The
rocks in several instances were overgrown with underwood and shrubs
of different descriptions, which were browsed upon by meagre and
hungry-looking goats, the only description of cattle that the poverty
of these poor people allowed them to keep, with the exception of two
or three families, who were able to indulge in the luxury of a cow. In
winter it had an air of shivering desolation that was enough to chill
the very blood, even to think of; but in summer, the greenness of the
shrubs, some of which were aromatic and fragrant, relieved the dark,
depressing spirit which seemed to brood upon it. This little colony,
notwithstanding the wretchedness of its appearance, was not, however,
shut out from a share of human happiness. The manners of its inhabitants
were primeval and simple, and if their enjoyments were few and limited,
so also were their desires. God gave them the summer breeze to purify
their blood, the sun of heaven to irradiate the bleakness of their
mountains, the morning and evening dressed in all their beauty, and
music of their mountain streams, and that of the feathered songsters, to
enliven their souls with its melody. The voices of spring, of summer, of
autumn, were cheerful in their ears as the voices of friends, and even
winter, with all his wildness and desolation, was not without a grim
complacence which they loved. They were a poor, harmless, little
community, so very humble and inoffensive, as to be absolutely beneath
the reach of human resentment or injustice. Alas! they were not so.
The cause of the oppression which was now about to place them in its
iron grasp, was as simple as it was iniquitous. They refused to vote for
Lord Cumber's brother, and were independent enough to respect the rights
of conscience, in defiance of M'Clutchy's denunciations. They had voted
for the gentleman who gave them employment, and who happened besides, to
entertain opinions which they approved. M'Clutchy's object was to remove
them from the property, in order that he might replace them with a more
obedient and less conscientious class; for this was his principle of
action under such circumstances.
It so happened that there lived among them a man named O'Regan, who,
in point of comfort, was at the head of this little community. He was a
quiet and an affectionate individual, industrious, sober, and every way
well conducted. This inoffensive and virtuous man, and Iris faithful
wife, had been for some time before the period we are describing,
under the shadow of deep affliction. Their second child, and his little
brother, together with the eldest, who for two or three years before had
been at service in England, were all that had been spared to them--the
rest having died young. This second boy was named Torley, and him they
loved with an excess of tenderness and affection that could scarcely be
blamed. The boy was handsome and manly, full of feeling, and possessed
of great resolution and courage; all this, however, was ultimately of
no avail in adding to the span of the poor youth's life. One day in the
beginning of autumn, he overloaded himself with a log of fir which
he had found in the moors; having laid it down to rest, he broke a
blood-vessel in attempting to raise it to his shoulder the second time:
he staggered home, related the accident as it had occurred, and laid
himself down gently upon his bed. Decline then set in, and the
handsome and high-spirited Torley O'Regan, lay patiently awaiting his
dissolution, his languid eye dim with the shadow of its approach. From
the moment it was ascertained that his death, early and unexpectedly,
was known to be certain, the grief of his parents transcended the bounds
of ordinary sorrow. It was indeed, a distressing thing to witness their
sufferings, and to feel, in the inmost chambers of the heart, the awful
wail of their desolation and despair.
Winter had now arrived in all its severity, and the very day selected
for the removal of these poor people was that which fills, or was
designed to fill, every Christian heart with hope, charity, affection
for our kind, and the innocent enjoyment of that festive spirit which
gives to the season a charm that throws the memory back upon the
sweetest recollections of life--I mean Christmas eve. The morning,
however, was ushered in by storm. There had been above a fortnight's
snow, accompanied by hard frost, and to this was added now the force
of a piercing wind, and a tremendous down pouring of hard dry drift,
against which it is at any time almost impossible even to walk, unless
when supported by health, youth, and uncommon strength.
In O'Regan's house there was, indeed, the terrible union of a most
bitter and twofold misery. The boy was literally dying, and to this was
added the consciousness that M'Clutchy would work his way in spite
of storm, tempest, and sickness, nay, even death itself. A few of the
inhabitants of the wild mountain village, which, by the way, was named
Drum Dhu, from its black and desolate look, had too much the fear of
M'Clutchy before their eyes, to await his measures, and accordingly
sought out some other shelter. It was said, however, and generally
supposed, by several of the neighboring gentry, that even M'Clutchy
himself would scarcely dare to take such a step, in defiance of common
humanity, public opinion, and the laws both of God and--we were about
to add--man, but the word cannot be written. Every step he took was
strictly and perfectly legal, and the consequence was, that he had that
strong argument, “I am supporthed by the, laws of the land,” to enable
him to trample upon all the principles of humanity and justice--to
gratify political rancor, personal hatred, to oppress, persecute, and
ruin.
Removal, however, in Torley O'Regan's case, would have been instant
death. Motion or effort of any kind were strictly forbidden, as was
conversation, except in the calmest and lowest tones, and everything
at at all approaching to excitement. Still the terror lest this inhuman
agent might carry his resolution into effect on such a day, and under
such circumstances, gave to their pitiable sense of his loss a dark and
deadly hue of misery, at which the heart actually sickens. From the hour
of nine o'clock on that ominous morning, the inhabitants of Drum Dhu
were passing, despite the storm, from cabin to cabin, discussing
the probable events of the day, and asking each other if it could be
possible that M'Clutchy would turn them out under such a tempest. Nor
was this all. The scene indeed was one which ought never to be witnessed
in any country. Misery in all its shapes was there--suffering in its
severest pangs--sickness--disease--famine--and death--to all which was
to be added bleak, houseless, homeless, roofless desolation. Had the
season been summer they might have slept in the fields, made themselves
temporary sheds, or carried their sick, and aged, and helpless, to
distant places where humanity might aid and relieve them. But no--here
were the elements of God, as it were, called in by the malignity and
wickedness of man to war against old age, infancy, and disease.
For a day or two proceeding this, poor Torley thought he felt a little
better, that is to say, his usual symptoms of suffering were litigated,
as is sometimes the case when human weakness literally sinks below the
reach of pain itself. Ten o'clock had arrived and he had not yet awoke,
having only fallen asleep a little before daybreak. His father went
to his bed-side, and looking down saw that he was still asleep, with
a peaceful smile irradiating his features, as it were with a sense
of inward happiness and tranquility. He beckoned to his mother who
approached the bed, and contemplated him with that tearless agony which
sears the heart and brain, until the feeling would be gladly
exchanged for madness. The conversation which followed was in Irish, a
circumstance that accounts for its figurative style and tenderness of
expression.
“What is that smile,” said the father. “It is the peace of God,” said
the mother, “shining from an innocent and happy heart. Oh! Torley, my
son, my son!”
“Yes,” replied the father, “he is going to meet happy hearts, but he
will leave none in this house behind him--even little Brian that he
loved so well--but where was there a heart so loving as his?” This we
need scarcely observe, was all said in whispers.
“Ah!” said the father, “you may well ask--but don't you remember this
day week, when we were talking of M'Clutchy--'I hope,' says he, 'that
if he should come, I'll be where no agent can turn me out--that is, in
heaven--for I wouldn't wish to live to see you both and little Brian
put from the place that we all loved so well--and then he wiped away the
tears from his pale cheeks.--Oh! Torley, my son--my son--are you laving
us! laving us forever?”
The father sat down quietly on a chair, and put his hand upon his
forehead, as if to keep the upper part of his head from flying off--for
such, he said, were the sensations he felt. He then wrung his hands
until the joints cracked, and gave one short convulsive sob, which no
effort of his could repress. The boy soon afterwards opened his eyes,
and fixed them with the same peaceful and affectionate smile upon his
parents.
“Torley,” said the mother, kissing him, “how do you feel, our flower?”
“Aisier,” said he, “but I think weaker--I had a dream,” he continued;
“I thought I was looking in through a great gate at the most beautiful
place that ever was--and I said to myself, what country can that be,
that's so full of light, and music, and green trees, and beautiful
rivers? 'That is heaven,' said a sweet voice beside me, but I could
see no one. I looked again, and then I thought I saw my three little
brothers standin' inside the gate smilin'--and I said, 'ar'n't you my
brothers that died when you were young?' 'Yes,' said they, 'and we are
come to welcome you here.' I was then goin' to go in, when I thought I
saw my father and Brian runnun' hand in hand towards the gate, and as' I
was goin' in I thought they called after me--'wait, Torley, dear, for we
will follow you soon.'”
“And I hope we all will, our blessed treasure; for when you leave us,
son of our hearts, what temptation will we have to stay afther you? Your
voice, achora, will be in our ears, and your sweet looks in our eyes--
but that is all that will be left of you--and your father and I will
never have a day's happiness more. Oh, never--never!”
“You both know I wouldn't lave you if I could help it, but it's the will
of God that I should go; then when I'll be so happy, won't it take the
edge off your grief. Bring Brian here. He and I were all that was
left you, since Ned went to England--and now you will have only him. I
needn't bid you to love him, for I know that you loved both of us, may
be more than you ought, or more than I desarved; but not surely more
than Brian does. Brian, my darling, come and kiss your own Torley that
keept you sleeping every night in his bosom, and never was properly
happy without you--kiss me when I can feel you, for I know that before
long, you will kiss me when I can't kiss you--Brian, my darling life,
how loth I am to lave you, and to lave you all, father--to lave you all,
mother.”
As he spoke, and paused from time to time, the tumult of the storm
without, and the fury with which it swept against the roof, door,
and windows of the house, made a terrible diapason to the sweet and
affecting tone of feeling which pervaded the remarks of the dying
boy. His father, however, who felt an irrepressible dread of what was
expected to take place, started at the close of the last words, and
with a heart divided between the two terrors, stood in that stupefaction
which is only the resting-place of misery, where it takes breath and
strengthens itself for its greatest trials. Ho stood with one hand as
before, pressed upon his forehead, and pointed with the other to the
door. The wife, too, paused, for she could not doubt for a moment, that
she heard sounds mingling with those of the storm which belonged not to
it. It was Christmas eve!
“Stop, Mary,” said he, the very current of his heart stilled--its
beating pulses frozen, as it were, by the terrible apprehension--“stop,
Mary; you can open the door, but in such a morning as this you couldn't
shut it, and the wind and drift would come in and fill the house, and
be the death of our boy. No, I must open the door myself, and it will
require all my strength to shut it.”
“I hear it all, now,” said Torley, “the cries and the shouting, the
screechings and the--well, you need not be afeared; put poor Brian in
with me, for I know there is no Irishman but will respect a death-bed,
be it landlord, or agent, ay, or bailey. Oh, no, father, the hand of
God is upon us, and if they respect nothing else, they will surely respect
that. They won't move me, mother, when they see me; for that would kill
me--that would be to murder a dying man.”
The father made no reply, but rushed towards the door, which he opened
and closed after him with more ease than he had expected. The storm, in
fact, was subsiding; the small hard drift had ceased, and it was evident
from the appearance of the sky that there was likely to be a change for
the better.
It would, indeed, appear, as if the Divine Being actually restrained and
checked the elements, on witnessing the cruel, heartless, and oppressive
purposes of man. But, what a scene presented itself to O'Regan, on going
forth to witness the proceedings which were then about to take place on
this woeful day!
Entering the northern end of this wild collection of sheelings was
seen a posse of bailiffs, drivers, constables, keepers, and all that
hard-hearted class of ruffians that constitute the staff of a land agent
upon occasions similar to this. Immediately behind these followed a body
of Orange yeomanry, dressed in regimentals, and with fire-arms--each
man carrying thirty rounds of ball cartridge. We say Orange yeomen
advisedly, because, at the period we speak of, Roman Catholics were not
admitted into the yeomanry, unless, perhaps, one in a corps; and even
out of ten corps, perhaps, you might not find the ten exceptions. When
we add to this the fact, that every Protestant young man was then
an Orangeman, and that a strong, relentless feeling of religious and
political hatred subsisted between them and the Catholic party, we think
that there are few, even among our strongest Conservatives, if any,
who would attempt to defend the inhuman policy of allowing one party of
Irishmen, stimulated by the worst passions, to be let loose thus armed
upon defenceless men, whom, besides, they looked upon and treated as
enemies.
The men in question, who were known by the sobriquet of Deaker's
Dashers, were, in point of fact, the terror of every one in the country
who was not an Orangeman, no matter what his creed or conduct might
be. They were to a man guided by the true Tory principle, not only of
supporting Protestantism, but of putting down Popery; and yet, with
singular inconsistency, they were seldom or never seen within a church
door, all their religion consisting in giving violent and offensive
toasts, and their loyalty in playing party tunes, singing Orange songs,
meeting in Orange lodges, and executing the will of some such oppressor
as M'Clutchy, who was by no means an exaggerated specimen of the Orange
Tory.
Deaker's Dashers were commanded on this occasion by a little squat
figure, all belly, with a short pair of legs at one end, and a little
red, fiery face, that looked as if it would explode--at the other.
The figure was mounted on horseback, and as it and its party gallantly
entered this city of cabins, it clapped its hands on its side, to
impress the enemy, no doubt, with a due sense of its military character
and prowess. Behind the whole procession, at a little distance, rode
M'Clutchy and M'Slime, graceful Phil having declined the honor of the
expedition altogether, principally, he said, in consequence of the
shortness of the days, and the consequent very sudden approach of night.
We cannot omit to state, that Darby O'Drive was full of consequence and
importance, and led on his followers, with a roll of paper containing
the list of fill those who were to be expelled, rolled up in his hand,
somewhat like a baton of office. Opposed to this display stood a crowd
of poor shivering wretches, with all the marks of poverty and struggle,
and, in many cases, of famine and extreme destitution, about them and
upon them. Women with their half starved children in their arms, many
of them without shoes or stockings--laboring care-worn men, their heads
bound up in cotton handkerchiefs, as intimating illness or recovery
from illness--old men bent over their staves, some with long white hair,
streaming to the breeze, and all with haggard looks of terror, produced
by the well known presence among them of Deaker's Dashers.
And this was Christmas eve--a time of joy and festivity!
Other features were also presented, which gave to this miserable scene
a still more depressing character. The voice of lamentation was loud,
especially from the females, both young and old--all of whom, with some
exceptions, were in tears. Many were rending their hair, others clapping
their hands in distraction--some were kneeling to Heaven to implore
its protection, and not a few to call down its vengeance upon their
oppressors. From many of the men, especially the young and healthy,
came stifled curses, and smothered determinations of deep and fearful
vengeance. Brows darkened, eyes gleamed, and teeth were ground with a
spirit that could neither be mistaken or scarcely condemned. M'Clutchy
was then sowing the wind; but whether at a future day to reap the
whirlwind, we are not now prepared to state.
At length it was deemed time that the ceremony should commence; and
M'Clutchy, armed also with a case of pistols, rode up to Darby:--
“O'Drive, you scoundrel,” he shouted--for he saw his enemy, and got
courageous, especially since he had a body of his father's Dashers at
his back--“O'Drive, you scoundrel, do you mean to keep us here all
day? Why don't you commence? Whose is the first name on your list?
The ejectment must proceed,” addressing the poor people as much as
Darby--“it must proceed. Everything we do is by Lord Cumber's orders,
and strictly according to the law of the land. Every attempt at refusing
to give up peaceable possession, makes you liable to be punished; and
punished, by d--n you shall be.”
“Do not swear, my dear friend,” interposed M'Slime; “swear not at all;
but let thy yea be yea, and thy nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than
this cometh of evil. My good friends,” he added, addressing himself to
the people, “I could not feel justified in losing this opportunity to
throw in a word in season for your sakes. I need scarcely tell you that
Mr. M'Clutchy, whose character for benevolence and humanity is perfectly
well known--and I would allude to his strong sense of religion, and its
practical influence on his conduct, were I not afraid of giving rise
to a feeling of spiritual pride in the heart of any fellow-creature,
however humble;--I need not tell you, I say, that he and I are here as
your true friends. I, a frail and unworthy sinner, avow myself as your
friend; at least, it is the most anxious and sincere wish of my heart
to do good to you; for, I trust I can honestly say, that I love my
Catholic--I mean my Roman Catholic friends, and desire to meet them in
the bonds of Christ. Yes, we are your friends. You know it is true
that God loveth whom he chasteneth, and that it is always good to
pass through the furnace of tribulation. What are we, then, but the
instruments of his chastisement of you, and of bringing you through that
furnace for your own good and for His honor! Be truly grateful, then,
for this instance of His interposition in your favor. It is only a
blessing in disguise; my friends--strongly disguised, I grant you--but
still a blessing. And now, my friends, to prove my own sincerity--my
affection, and, I trust, Christian interest in your welfare, I say unto
you, that if such among you as lack bread will come to me, when this
dispensation in your favor is concluded, I shall give them that which
will truly nourish them.”
M'Clutohy could not stand this, but went down to the little squab
Dasher, who joined him in a loud fit of laughter at M'Slime's little
word in season; so that the poor dismayed people had the bitter
reflection to add to their other convictions, that their misery, their
cares, and their sorrows, were made a mockery of by those who were
actually inflicting them.
“When Darby, on whose face there was a heartless smirk of satisfaction
at this opportunity of gratifying M'Clutchy, was about to enter the
first cabin, there arose from the trembling creatures a loud murmur of
wild and unregulated lamentation, which actually startled the bailiff's,
who looked as if they were about to be assaulted. An old man then
approached M'Clutchy, bent with age and infirmity, and whose white hair
hung far down, his shoulders--
“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, and standing before him uncovered,
severe and still bitter as was the day--“I stand here in the name of
these poor creatures you see about us, to beg you, for the sake of
God--of Christ who redeemed us--and of the Holy Spirit that gives
kindness and charity to the heart--not on this blake hill undher sich
a sky, and on sich a day, to turn us out of the only shelter we have on
earth! There's people here that will die if they're brought outside
the door. We did not, at laist the most part of all you see before you,
think you had any thought of houldin' good your threat in such a time
of cowld, and storm, and disolation. Look at us, sir, then, have pity
on us! Make it your own case, if you can, and maybe that will bring our
destitution nearer you--and besides, sir, there's a great number of us
thought betther about votin' with you, and surely you won't think of
puttin' them out.”
“It's too late now,” said M'Clutchy; “if you had promised me your votes
in time, it was not my intention to have disturbed you--at present I am
acting altogether by Lord Cumber's orders, who desires that every one
refusing to vote for him shall be made an example of, and removed from
the property--O'Drive, you scoundrel, do your duty.”
At this moment there rushed forth from the again agitated crowd an old
woman, whose grizzled locks had escaped from under her dowd cap, and
were blown in confusion about her head; she wore a drugget gown that
had once been yellow, and a deep blue petticoat of the same stuff; a
circumstance, which, joined to the excitement, gave to her appearance a
good deal of picturesque effect.
“Low born tyrant,” she shouted, kneeling rapidly down and holding up her
clasped hands, but not in supplication--“low born, tyrant,” she shouted,
“stop;--spawn of blasphemin' Deaker, stop--bastard of the notorious Kate
Clank, hould your hand? You see we know you and yours well. You were a
bad son to a bad mother, and the curse of God will pursue you and
yours, for that and your other villanies. Go back and hould your hand, I
say--and don't dare to bring the vengeance of God upon you, for the plot
of hell you are about to work out this day. I know that plot. Be warned.
Look about you here, and think of what you're going to do. Have you
no feeling for ould and helpless age--for the weakness of women, the
innocence of children? Are you not afraid on such a day to come near
the bed of sickness, or the bed of death, with such an intention? Here's
widows and orphans, the sick and the dyin', ould age half dead, Mid
infancy half starved; and is it upon these, that you and blasphemin'
Deaker's bloody Dashers are goin' to work your will? Hould your hand, I
say, or if you don't, although I needn't curse you myself, for I am
too wicked for that--yet in the name of all these harmless and helpless
creatures before you, I call their curses on your head. In the name
of all the care, and pain, and sorrow, and starvation, and affliction,
that's now before your eyes, be you cursed in soul and body--in all you
touch--in all you love--cursed here, and cursed hereafter forever, if
you proceed in your wicked intentions this woeful day!”
“Who is that mad-woman?” said M'Clutchy. “Let her be removed. All I can
say is, that she has taken a very unsuccessful method of staying the
proceedings.”
“Who am I?” said she; “I will tell you that. Look at this,” she replied,
exposing her bosom; “these are the breasts that suckled you--between
them did you lie, you ungrateful viper! Yes, you may stare--it's many a
long year since the name of Kate Clank reached your ears, and now that
you have heard it, it is not to bless you. Well, you remember when you
heard it last--on the day you hunted your dogs at me, and threatened to
have me horse-whipped--ay, to horse-whip me with your own hands, should
I ever come near your cursed house. Now, you know who I am, and now I
have kept my word, which was never to die till I gave you a shamed face.
Kate Clank, your mother, is before you!”
M'Clutchy took the matter very coolly certainly--laughed at her, and, in
a voice of thunder, desired the ejectments to proceed.
But how shall we dwell upon this miserable work? The wailings and
screams, the solicitations for mercy, their prayers, their imprecations
and promises, were all sternly disregarded; and on went the justice of
law, accompanied by the tumult of misery. The old were dragged out--the
bedriden grand-mother had her couch of straw taken from under her. From
the house of death, the corpse of an aged female was carried out amidst
the shrieks and imprecations of both men and women! The sick child that
clung with faintness to the bosom of its distracted mother, was put out
under the freezing blast of the north; and on, on, onward, from house to
house, went the steps of law, accompanied still by the increasing tumult
of misery. This was upon Christmas eve--a day of “joy and festivity!”
At length they reached O'Regan's,and it is not our intention to describe
the occurrence at any length. It could not be done. O'Regan clasped his
hands, so did his wife; they knelt--they wept--they supplicated.
They stated the nature of his malady--decline--from having ruptured a
blood-vessel. They ran to M'Clutchy, to M'Slime, to the squat figure
on horseback. They prayed to Darby, and especially entreated a ruffian
follower who had been remarkable for, and wanton in, his inhumanity, but
with no effect. Darby shook his head.
“It couldn't be done,” said he.
“No,” replied the other, whose name was Grimes, “we can't make any
differ between one and another--so out he goes.”
“Father,” observed the meek boy, “let them. I will only be the sooner in
heaven.”
He was placed sitting up in bed by the bailiff's, trembling in the cold
rush of the blast; but the moment the father saw their polluted and
sacrilegious hands upon him--he rushed forward accompanied by his
mother.
“Stay,” he said, in a loud, hoarse voice, “since you will have him out,
let our hands, not yours, be upon him.”
The ruffian told him they could not stand there all day, and without any
farther respect for their feelings, they rudely wrapped the bed-clothes
about him, and, carrying him out, he was placed upon a chair before the
door. His parents were immediately beside him, and took him now into
then own care; but it was too late--he smiled as he looked into their
faces, then looked at his little brother, and giving one long drawn
sigh, he passed, without pain or suffering, saving a slight shudder,
into happiness. O'Regan, when he saw that his noble and beloved boy was
gone, surrendered him into the keeping of his wife and other friends,
who prevented his body from falling off the chair. He then bent his eye
sternly upon the group of bailiffs, especially upon the rude ruffian,
Grimes, whose conduct was so atrocious.
“Now listen,” said he, kneeling down beside his dead son--“listen all
of you that has wrought this murder of my dying boy! He is yet warm,”
he added, grinding his teeth and looking up to heaven, “and here beside
him, I pray, that the gates of mercy may be closed upon my soul through
sill eternity, if I die without vengeance for your death, my son!”
His mother, who was now in a state between stupor and distraction,
exclaimed--
“To be sure, darling, and I'll assist you, and so will Torley.”
The death of this boy, under circumstances of such incredible cruelty,
occasioned even M'Clutchy to relax something of his original intentions.
He persisted, however, in accomplishing all the ejectments without
exception, but when this was over, he allowed them to re-occupy their
miserable cabins, until the weather should get milder, and until such
of them as could, might be able to procure some other shelter for
themselves and families.
When all was over, M'Slime, who had brought with him a sheaf of tracts
for their spiritual sustenance, saw, from the deeply tragic character
of the proceedings, that he might spare himself the trouble of such
Christian sympathy as he wished to manifest for their salvation. He
and M'Clutchy, to whom, by the way, he presented the truly spiritual
sustenance of some good brandy out of a flask, with which he balanced
the tracts in his other pocket, then took their way in the very centre
of the Dashers, leaving behind them all those sorrows of life, for
which, however, they might well be glad to exchange their consciences
and their wealth.
The circumstances which we have just described, were too striking not to
excite considerable indignation among all reasonable minds at the time.
An account of that day's proceedings got into the papers, but was so
promptly and fully contradicted by the united testimony of M'Clutchy and
M'Slime, that the matter was made to appear very highly complimentary
to the benevolence and humanity of both. “So far from the proceedings in
question,” the contradiction went on to say, “being marked by the wanton
cruelty and inhumanity imputed to them, they were, on the contrary, as
remarkable for the kindness and forbearance evinced by Messrs. M'Clutchy
and M'Slime. The whole thing was a mere legal form, conducted in a most
benevolent and Christian spirit. The people were all restored to their
tenements the moment the business of the day was concluded, and we
cannot readily forget the admirable advice and exhortation offered to
them, and so appropriately offered by Solomon M'Slime, Esq., the truly
Christian and benevolent law agent of the property in question.”
By these proceedings, however, M'Clutchy had gained Ms point, which was,
under the guise of a zealous course of public duty, to create a basis on
which to ground his private representations of the state of the country
to government. He accordingly lost no time in communicating on the
subject with Lord Cumber, who at once supported him in the project of
raising a body of cavalry for the better security of the public peace;
as, indeed, it was his interest to do, inasmuch, as it advanced his own
importance in the eye of government quite as much as it did M'Clutchy's.
A strong case was therefore made out by this plausible intriguer. In a
few days after the affair of Drum Dhu, honest Val contrived to receive
secret information of the existence of certain illegal papers which
clearly showed that there existed a wide and still spreading conspiracy
in the country. As yet, he said, he could not ground any proceeding of a
definite character upon them.
The information, he proceeded to say, when writing to the Castle, which
came to him anonymously, was to the effect that by secretly searching
the eaves of certain houses specified in the communication received, he
would find documents, clearly corroborating the existence and design of
the conspiracy just alluded to. That he had accordingly done so, and
to his utter surprise, found that his anonymous informant was right. He
begged to enclose copies of the papers, together with the names of the
families residing in the houses where they were found. He did not like,
indeed, to be called a “Conspiracy hunter,” as no man more deprecated
their existence; but he was so devotedly attached to the interests of
his revered sovereign, and those of his government, that no matter at
what risk, either of person or reputation, he would never shrink from
avowing or manifesting that attachment to them. And he had the honor to
be, his very obedient servant.
Valentine M'Clutohy, J.P.
P.S.--He begged to enclose for his perusal a letter from his warm
friend, Lord Cumber, on the necessity, as he properly terms it, of
getting up a corps of cavalry, which is indeed a second thought, as
they would be much better adapted, upon long pursuits and under pressing
circumstances, for scouring the country, which is now so dreadfully
disturbed. And has once more the honor to be, Val M'C.
Representations like these, aided by that most foolish and besotted
tendency which so many of the ignorant and uneducated peasantry have of
entering into such associations, did not fail in working out M'Clutchy's
designs. Most of those in whose houses these papers were placed, fled
the country, among whom was O'Regan, whose dying son Deaker's Dashers
treated with such indefensible barbarity; and what made everything
appear to fall in with his good fortune, it was much about this period
that Grimes, the unfeeling man whom O'Regan appeared to have in his eye
when he uttered such an awful vow of vengeance, was found murdered not
far from his own house, with a slip of paper pinned to his coat, on
which were written, in a disguised hand the words--“Remember O'Regan's
son, and let tyrants tremble.”
Many strong circumstances appeared to bring this murder home to O'Regan.
From the day of his son's death until the illegal papers were found in
the eave of his house, he had never rested one moment. His whole
soul seemed darkly to brood over that distressing event, and to have
undergone a change, as it were, from good to evil. His brow lowered,
his cheek got gaunt and haggard, and his eye hollow and wolfish with
ferocity. Neither did he make any great secret of his intention to
execute vengeance on those who hurried his dying child out of life
whilst in the very throes of dissolution. He was never known, however,
to name any names, nor to mark out any particular individual for
revenge. His denunciations were general, but fearful in their import.
The necessity, too, of deserting his wife and child sealed his ruin,
which was not hard to do, as the man was at best but poor, or merely
able, as it is termed, to live from hand to mouth. His flight,
therefore, and all the circumstances of the case considered, it is
not strange that he was the object of general suspicion, and that the
officers of justice were sharply on the lookout for a clue to him.
In this position matters were, when the Castle Cumber corps of cavalry
made their appearance under all the glitter of new arms, housings and
uniforms, with Valentine M'Clutchy as their captain and paymaster, and
graceful Phil as lieutenant. Upon what slight circumstances do great
events often turn. Because Phil had an ungainly twist in his legs, or
in other words, because he was knock-kneed, and could not appear to
advantage as an infantry officer, was the character of the corps changed
from foot to cavalry, so that Phil and Handsome Harry had an opportunity
of exhibiting their points together. A year had now elapsed, and the
same wintry month of December had again returned, and yet no search had
been successful in finding any trace of O'Regan; but if our readers
will be so good as to accompany us to another scene, they will have an
opportunity of learning at least the character which M'Clutchy's new
corps had won in the country.