A Winter Morning--Father Roche--A Mountain Journey--Raymond
Na-hattha--Cabin on the Moors--M'Clutchy's Bloodhounds--The Conflict--A
Treble Death.
It is the chill and ghastly dawn of a severe winter morning; the gray,
cheerless opening of day borrows its faint light only for the purpose of
enabling you to see that the country about you is partially covered with
snow, and that the angry sky is loaded with storm. The rising sun, like
some poverty-stricken invalid, driven, as it were, by necessity, to the
occupation of the day, seems scarcely able to rise, and does so with
a sickly and reluctant aspect. Abroad, there is no voice of joy or
kindness--no cheerful murmur with which the heart can sympathize--all
the warm and exhilarating harmonies that breathe from nature in her
more genial moods are silent. A black freezing spirit darkens the very
light of day, and throws its dismal shadow upon everything about us,
whilst the only sounds that fall upon the ear are the roaring of
the bitter winds among the naked trees, or the hoarse voice of the
half-frozen river, rising and falling--now near, and now far away in the
distance.
On such a morning as this it was, and at such an hour, that a
pale-faced, thin woman, with all the melancholy evidences of destitution
and sorrow about her, knocked at the door of her parish priest, the
Rev. Francis Roche. The very knock she gave had in it a character of
respectful but eager haste. Her appearance, too, was miserable, and as
she stood in the cold wintry twilight, it would have satisfied any one
that deep affliction and wasting poverty were both at her humble heart.
She had on neither shoe nor stocking, and the consequence was, that the
sharp and jagged surface of the frozen ground, rendered severer by the
impatient speed of her journey, had cut her feet in such a manner that
the blood flowed from them in several places. Cloak or bonnet she had
none; but instead of the former her humble gown was turned over her
shoulders, and in place of the latter she wore a thin kerchief, drawn
round her head, and held under her chin with one hand, as the lower
classes of Irishwomen do in short and hasty journeys. Her journey,
however, though hasty in this instance, was by do means short; and it
was easy to perceive by her distracted manner and stifled sobs, that
however poorly protected against the bitter elements, she had a grief
within which rendered her insensible to their severity.
It was also apparent, that, though humble in life, she possessed, like
thousands of her countrywomen, a mind of sufficient compass and strength
to comprehend, when adequately moved, the united working of more than
one principle at the same moment. We have said it was evident that she
was under the influence of deep sorrow, but this was not all--a second
glance might disclose the exhibition of a still higher principle. The
woman was at prayer, and it was easy to perceive by the beads which she
held in her fervently clasped hands, by the occasional knocking of her
breast, and the earnest look of supplication to heaven, that her soul
poured forth its aspirations in the deep-felt and anxious spirit of that
religion, which affliction is found so often to kindle in the peasant's
heart. She had only knocked a second time when the door was opened, and
having folded up her beads, she put them into her bosom, and entering
the priest's house, immediately found herself in the kitchen. In a
moment a middle-aged woman, with a rush light in her hand, stirred up
the greeshough, and raking the live turf out of it, she threw on a dozen
well-dried peats out of the chimney corner, and soon had a comfortable
and blazing fire, at which the afflicted creature, having first
intimated her wish that his reverence should accompany her home, was
desired to sit until he should be ready to set out.
“Why, then,” exclaimed the good-natured woman, “but you had abitther
thramp of it this cowld and cuttin' mornin'--and a cowld and cuttin'
mornin' it is--for sure didn't I feel as if the very nose was whipt
off o' me when I only wint to open the door for you. Sit near the fire,
achora, and warm yourself--throth myself feels like a sieve, the way
the cowld's goin' through me;--sit over, achora, sit over, and get some
heat into you.”
“Thank you,” said the woman, “but you know it's not a safe thing to go
near the fire when one is frozen or very cowld--'twould only make me
worse when I go out again, besides givin' me pain now.”
“Och, troth you're right, I forgot that--but you surely didn't come
far, if one's to judge by your dress; though, God knows, far or near,
you have the light coverin' an you for such a morning as this is, the
Lord be praised!”
“I came better than three miles,” replied the woman.
“Than what?”
“Than three miles.”
“Saver above, is it possible! without cloak or bonnet, shoe or
stockin'--an' you have your affliction at home, too, poor thing; why the
Lord look down an you, an' pity you I pray his blessed name this day!
Stop, I must warm you a drink of brave new milk, and that'll help to
put the cowld out of your heart--sit round here, from the breath of that
back door--I'll have it ready for you in a jiffey; throth will I, an'
you'll see it'll warm you and do you good.”
“God help me,” exclaimed the woman, “I'll take the drink, bekase I
wouldn't refuse your kind heart; but it's not meat, nor drink, nor
cowld, nor storm, that's throublin' me--I could bear all that, and many
a time did--but then I had _him!_ but now who's to comfort us--who are
we to look to--who is to be our friend? Oh, in the wide world--but God
is good!”--said she, checking herself from a pious apprehension that
she was not sufficiently submissive to his will, “God is good--but still
it's hard to think of losing him.”
“Well, you won't lose him, I hope,” said the good creature, stirring
the new milk with a spoon, and tasting it to ascertain if it was warm
enough--“Of coorse it's your husband you--whitch! whitch!--the divil be
off you for a skillet, I've a'most scalded myself wid you--it's so thin
that it has a thing boilin' before you could say Jack Robinson. Here
now, achora, try it, an' take care it's not a trifle too hot--it'll
comfort you, anyhow.”
It is in a country like Ireland, where there is so much of that close
and wasting poverty which constitutes absolute misery, that these
beautiful gushes of pure and tender humanity are to be found, which
spring in the obscurity of life out of the natural goodness and
untutored piety of the Irish heart. It is these virtues, unseen and
unknown, as they generally are, except by the humble individuals on whom
they are exerted--that so often light up by their radiance the
darkness and destitution of the cold and lowly cabin, and that gives an
unconscious sense of cheerfulness under great privations, which
those who do not know the people often attribute to other and more
discreditable causes.
While the poor woman in question was drinking the warm milk--the very
best restorative by the way which she could get--for poverty is mostly
forced to find out its own humble comforts--Father Roche entered the
kitchen, buttoned up and prepared for the journey. On looking at her he
seemed startled by the scantiness of her dress on such a morning--and
when she rose up at his entrance and dropped him a curtesy, exclaiming,
“God save you, Father!”--at the same time swallowing down the remainder
of the milk that she might not lose a moment; he cast his eye round the
kitchen to see whether she had actually come in the dress she wore.
“How far have you come this morning, my poor woman?” he inquired.
“From the ride of the Sliebeen More Mountains, plaise your reverence.”
“What, in your present dress! without shoe or stocking?”
“True enough, sir; but indeed it was little the cowld, or sleet, or
frost, troubled me.”
“Yes, God help you, I can believe that too--for I understand the cause
of it too well--but have hope--Katty, what was that you gave her?”
“A mouthful of warm milk, your reverence, to put the cowld out of her
heart.”
“Ah, Katty, I wish we could put sorrow and affliction out of it--but
you did well and right in the meantime; still you must do better, Katty,
lend her your cloak--and your shoes and stockings too, poor thing!”
“I'm oblaged to your reverence,” she replied, “but indeed I won't
feel the want of them; as I said, there's only one thought that I am
suffering about--and that is, for your reverence to see my husband
before he departs.”
“Yes--but the consequences of this cold and bitter journey may fall
upon you at another time--and before long, too--so be advised by me, and
don't refuse to take them.”
“It's not aisy to do that, sir,” she replied with a faint smile, for as
she spoke, his servant had the cloak already about her shoulders; “it
appears,” she continued, “that this kind woman must have her will and
way in everything.”
“To be sure I will,” said Katty, “espishially in everything that's
right, any how--come here now, and while his reverence is getting his
staff and mittens in the room above, I'll help you on with the shoes and
stockings. Now,” she added, in one of those touching and irresistible
whispers that are produced by kindness and not by secrecy, “if anything
happens--as God forbid there should--but if anything does happen, keep
these till afther everything is over. Before strangers you know one
wouldn't like to appear too bare, if they could help it.”
The tone in which these words were spoke could not fail in at once
reaching the poor woman's heart. She wept as much from gratitude as the
gloomy alternative involved in Katty's benevolent offer.
“God bless you,” she exclaimed, “but I trust in the Almighty, there
may be hope and that they won't be wanted. Still, how can I hope when I
think of the way he's in? But God is good, blessed be his holy name!”
So saying, the priest came down,and they both set out on their bleak and
desolate journey.
The natural aspect of the surrounding country was in good keeping with
the wild and stormy character of the morning. Before them, in the back
ground, rose a magnificent range of mountains, whose snowy peaks were
occasionally seen far above the dusky clouds which drifted rapidly
across their bosoms. The whole landscape, in fact, teemed with a
spirit of savage grandeur. Many of the glens on each side were deep
and precipitous, where rock beetled over rock, and ledge projected over
ledge, in a manner so fearful that the mind of the spectator, excited
and rapt into terror by the contemplation of them, wondered why they did
not long ago tumble into the chasm beneath, so slight was their apparent
support. Even in the mildest, seasons desolation brooded over the lesser
hills and mountains about them; what then must it not have been at the
period we are describing? From a hill a little to the right, over which
they had to pass, a precipitous headland was visible, against which the
mighty heavings of the ocean could be heard hoarsely thundering at a
distance, and the giant billows, in periods of storm and tempest, seen
shivering themselves into white; foam that rose nearly to the summit of
their immovable barriers.
Such was the toilsome country over which our two travellers had to pass.
It was not without difficulty and fatigue that the priest and his
companion wended their way towards one of the moors we have, mentioned.
The snow beat against them with great violence, sometimes rendering
it almost impossible for them to keep their eyes open or to see
their proper path across the hills. The woman, however, trod her
way instinctively, and whilst the, priest aided her by his superior
strength, she in return guided him by a clearer sagacity. Neither spoke
much, for in truth each had enough to do in combating with the toil and
peril of the journey, as well as in thinking of the melancholy scene to
which they were hastening. Words of consolation and comfort he did
from time to time utter; but he felt that his situation was one of
difficulty. To inspire hope where there was probably no hope, might be
only to deepen her affliction; and, on the other hand, to weigh down a
heart already heavy laden by unnecessarily adding one gloomy forboding
to its burthen, was not in his nature. Such comfort as he could give
without bearing too strongly upon either her hopes or her fears he did
give; and we do not think that an apostle, had he been in his place,
could or ought to have done more.
They had now arrived within half a mile of the moor, when they felt
themselves overtaken by a man whose figure was of a very singular and
startling description, being apparently as wild and untamed as the
barren waste on which he made his appearance. He was actually two or
three inches above the common height, but in addition to this fact, and
as if not satisfied with it, he wore three hats, one sheathed a little
into the other, so that they could not readily separate, and the under
one he kept always fastened to his head, in order to prevent the whole
pyramid from falling off. His person seemed to gain still greater height
from the circumstance of his wearing a long surtout that reached to his
heels, and which he kept constantly buttoned closely about him. His feet
were cased in a tight pair of leather buskins, for it was one of his
singularities that he could endure neither boot nor shoe, and he always
wore a glove of some kind on his left hand, but never any on his right.
His features might be termed regular, even handsome; and his eyes were
absolutely brilliant, yet, notwithstanding this, it was impossible to
look for a moment upon his _tout ensemble_ without perceiving that that
spirit which stamps the impress of reason and intellect upon the human
countenance, was not visible in his. Like a new and well-proportioned
house which had never been occupied, everything seemed externally
regular and perfect, whilst it was evident by its still and lonely
character, as contrasted with the busy marks of on-going life in those
around it, that it was void and without an inhabitant.
Like many others of his unhappy class, Poll Doolin's son,
“Raymond-na-hattha,” for it was he, and so had he been nick-named,
in consequence of his wearing such a number of hats, had a remarkable
mixture of humor, simplicity, and cunning. He entertained a great
penchant, or rather a passion for cock-fighting, and on the present
occasion carried a game one under his arm. Throughout the country no
man possessed a bird of that species, with whose pedigree he was not
thoroughly acquainted; and, truth to tell, he proved himself as great
a thief as he was a genealogist among them. Many a time the unfortunate
foxes from some neighboring cover were cursed and banned, when, if
the truth had been known, the only fox that despoiled the roost was
Raymond-na-hattha. One thing, however, was certain, that unless the
cock was thoroughly game he might enjoy his liberty and ease long enough
without molestation from Raymond. We had well nigh forgotten to say that
he wore on the right side of his topmost hat a cockade of yellow cloth,
from which two or three ribbons of a scarlet color fluttered down to his
shoulder, a bit of vanity which added very much to the fantastic nature
of his general costume.
“Ha! Raymond, my good boy,” said the priest, “how does it happen
that you are so early up this stormy morning? would you not be more
comfortable in your bed?”
“Airly up,” replied Raymond, “airly up! that's good--to be sure you're a
priest, but you don't know everything.”
“Why, what am I ignorant of now, Raymond?”
“Why, that I didn't go to bed yet--so that it's up late, instead of
early, I am--d'ye hear? ha, ha, now take that.”
“When, where, and how did you spend the night then, Raymond; but you
seem in a hurry--surely if you trot on at this fate we cannot keep up
with you.” The truth is, Raymond's general rate of travelling was very
rapid. “Where did you spend the night, Raymond,” continued the priest.
“Wid a set o' jolly cocks--ha, ha,--now make money of that, d'ye hear.”
“You're a riddle, Raymond; you're a riddle; there's no understanding
you--where did you get the cock?--but I needn't ask; of course you stole
him.”
“Then why do you ax if you think so?”
“Because you're notorious for stealing cocks--every one knows as much.”
“No, never steal 'em,--fond o' me--come wid me themselves. Look.” The
words were scarcely uttered when he tossed the bird up into the air, and
certainly, after flying about for a few yards, he alit, and tottering
against the wind towards Raymond, stretched out his neck, as if he
wished to be again taken up by him.
“I see,” said the priest, “but answer me--where did you spend last night
now?”
“I tould you,” said Raymond, “wid de jolly cocks--sure I mostly roost
it; an' better company too than most people, for they're fond o' me.
Didn't you see? ha, ha!”
“I believe I understand you now,” said Father Roche; “you've slept near
somebody's hen roost, and have stolen the cock--to whom are you carrying
it?”
“You won't tell to-morrow; ha, ha, there now, take a rub too--that's
one.”
“Poor creature,” said the priest to his companion, “I am told he is
affectionate, and where he takes a fancy or has received a kindness,
very grateful.”
The parish where the circumstances we are describing occurred, having
been that in which Raymond was born, of course the poor fool was
familiar to every one in it, as indeed every one in it, young and old,
was to him.
During the short dialogue between him and the priest, the female,
absorbed in her own heavy sorrow, was observed by Raymond occasionally
to wipe the tears from her eyes; a slight change, a shade of apparent
compassion came over his countenance, and turning to her, he gently laid
his hand upon her shoulder, and said, in a voice different from, his
flighty and abrupt manner--
“Don't cry, Mary, he has company, and good things that were brought to
him--he has indeed, Mary; so don't be crying now.”
“What do you mean, poor boy?” asked the woman; “I don't understand you,
Raymond.”
“It is difficult to do that at all times,” said Father Roche, “but
notwithstanding the wildness of his manner, he is seldom without
meaning. Raymond will you tell me where you came from now?” he asked.
“From your house,” he replied; “I went to fetch you to him; but you were
both gone, and I overtook you--I could aisy do that--ha ha.”
“But what is the company that's with him, Raymond?” asked the female,
naturally anxious to understand this part of his communication. Raymond,
however, was now in one of his silent moods, and appeared not to hear
her; at all events, he did not think it worth his while to give her any
reply. For a short period he kept murmuring indistinctly to himself, or
if a word or two became audible, it was clear that his favorite sport of
cock-fighting had altogether engrossed his attention.
They had now reached a rough, dark knoll of heath, which brought them
in view of the cabin to which they were going, and also commanded an
extensive and glorious prospect of the rich and magnificent inland
country which lay behind them. The priest and his now almost exhausted
companion, to whom its scenery was familiar, waited not to look back
upon its beauty or its richness. Not so Raymond, who, from the moment
they began to ascend the elevation, kept constantly looking back, and
straining his eyes in one particular direction. At length he started,
and placing his right hand upon the priest's shoulder, said in a
suppressed but eager voice--
“Go on--go on--they're coming.” Then, turning to the female--“Come,”
said he; “come, Mary,--I'll help you.”
“Who is coming?” she exclaimed, whilst the paleness of death and terror
settled in her face; “for God's mercy, Raymond, who is coming?”
“I saw them,” said he; “I saw them. Come--come fast--I'll help
you--don't thrimble--don't thrimble.”
“Let us be guided by him,” said the priest. “Raymond,” he added, “we
cannot go much faster through this marshy heath, but do you aid Mary as
well as you can; as for me, I will try if it be possible to quicken my
pace.”
He accordingly proceeded in advance of the other two for a little;
but it was only for a little. The female--who seemed excited by some
uncommon terror, and the wild, apprehensive manner of her companion,
into something not unlike the energy of despair--rushed on, as if she
had been only setting out, or gained supernatural strength. In a few
minutes she was beside the priest, whom she encouraged, and besought,
and entreated--ay, and in some moments of more vehement feeling,
absolutely chided, for not keeping pace with herself. They had now,
however, came within about a hundred yards of the cabin, which they soon
reached--the female entering it about a minute or two before the others,
in order to make those humble arrangements about a sick-bed, which,
however poverty may be forced to overlook on ordinary occasions, are
always attended to on the approach of the doctor, or the minister of
religion. In the instance before us, she had barely time to comfort her
sick husband, by an assurance that the priest had arrived, after which
she hastily wiped his lips and kissed them, then settled his head more
easily; after which she spread out to the best advantage the poor quilt
which covered him, and tucked it in about his lowly bed, so as to give
it something of a more tidy appearance.
The interior of the cottage, which the priest and Raymond entered
together, was, when the bitter and inclement nature of the morning, and
the state of the miserable inmates is considered, enough to make any
heart possessing humanity shudder. Two or three stools; a couple of
pots; a few shelves, supported on pegs driven into the peat wall;
about a bushel of raw potatoes lying in a corner; a small heap of damp
turf--for the foregoing summer had been so incessantly wet, that the
turf, unless when very early cut, could not be saved; a few wooden
noggins and dishes; together with a bundle of straw, covered up in a
corner with the sick man's coat, which, when shaken out at night, was
a bed; and those, with the exception of their own simple domestic truth
and affection, were their only riches. The floor, too, as is not unusual
in such mountain cabins, was nothing but the natural peat, and so
damp and soft was it, that in wet weather the marks of their feet were
visibly impressed on it at every step. With the exception of liberty to
go and come, pure air, and the light of the blessed day, they might as
well have dragged out their existence in a subterraneous keep belonging
to some tyrannical old baron of the feudal ages.
There was one small apartment in this cabin, but what it contained,
if it did contain anything, could not readily be seen, for the hole or
window, which in summer admitted the light, was now filled with rags
to keep out the cold. From this little room, however, the priest as he
entered, was surprised to see a young man come forth, apparently much
moved by some object which he had seen in it.
“Mr. Harman,” said the priest, a good deal surprised, “who could have
expected to find you here?”
They shook hands as he spoke, each casting his eyes upon this woeful
scene of misery. “God pity them,” ejaculated the priest, clasping his
hands, and looking upwards, “and sustain them!”
“I owe it to poor Raymond, here,” replied the other, “and I feel obliged
to him; but,” said he, taking Father Roche over to the door, “here will
be a double death--father and son.”
“Father and son, how is that?--she mentioned nothing of the son.”
“It is very possible,” said Harman, “that they are not conscious of his
danger. I fear, however, that the poor boy has not many hours to live.”
All that we have just described, occurred in three minutes; but short
as was the time, the wife's impatience to have the rites of the church
administered, could scarcely be restrained; nor was poor Raymond's
anxiety much less.
“They're comin',” said he, “Mr. Harman, they are comin'; hurry, hurry, I
know what they'll do.”
“Who are coming, Raymond?” asked Harman. “Oh!” said the fool,
“hurry--M'Clutchy's blood-hounds.”
The wife clapped her hands, shrieked, and falling on her knees,
exclaimed in a piercing voice, “merciful God, look down on us! Oh,
Father Roche, there is not a moment to be lost!”
The priest and Harman again exchanged a melancholy glance;--“you
must all retire into the little room,” said the clergyman, “until I
administer to him the last rites.”
They accordingly withdrew, the woman having first left a lit rush light
candle at his bed-side, as she knew the ceremony required.
The man's strength was wasting fast, and his voice sinking rapidly,
but on the other hand he was calm and rational, a circumstance which
relieved the priest's mind very much. As is usual, having put a stole
about his neck, he first heard his confession, earnestly exhorted him
to repentance, and soothed and comforted him with all those promises
and consolations which are held out to repentant sinners. He then
administered the Extreme Unction; which being over, the ceremony, and
a solemn one it must be considered, was concluded. On this occasion,
however, his death-bed consolations did not end here. There are in the
Roman Catholic Church prayers for the dying, many of them replete with
the fervor of Christian faith, and calculated to raise the soul to the
hopes of immortality. These the priest read in a slow manner, so as that
the dying man could easily accompany him, which he did with his hands
clasped, upon his breast, and his eyes closed, unless when he raised
them occasionally to heaven. He then exhorted him with an anxiety for
his salvation which transcended all earthly and temporal considerations,
prayed with him and for him, whilst the tears streamed in torrents down
his cheeks. Nor was the spirit of his holy mission lost; the penitent
man's face assumed a placid and serene expression; the light of immortal
hope beamed upon it; and raising his eyes and his feeble arms to heaven,
he uttered several ejaculations in a tone of voice too low to be heard.
At length he exclaimed aloud, “thanks to the Almighty that I did not
commit this murder as I intended! I found it done to my hand; but
I don't know who did it, as I am to meet my God!” The words were
pronounced with difficulty; indeed they were scarcely uttered, when his
arms fell lifelessly, as it were, by his side--they were again suddenly
drawn up, however, as if by a convulsive motion, and the priest saw
that the agonies of death were about to commence; still, it was easy to
perceive that the man was collected and rational.
It was now, however, that a scene took place, which could not, we
imagine, be witnessed out of distracted and unhappy Ireland. Raymond,
who appeared to dread the approach of those whom he termed M'Clutchy's
blood-hounds, no sooner saw that the religious rites were concluded,
than he ran out to reconnoitre. In a moment, however, he returned a
picture of terror, and dragging the woman to the door, pointed to a
declivity below the house, exclaiming--
[Illustration: PAGE 186-- See, Mary, see--they're gallopin]
“See, Mary, see--they're gallopin'.” The dying man seemed conscious of
what was said, for the groan he gave was wild and startling; his wife
dropped on her knees at the door, where she could watch her husband and
those who approached, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, “To your mercy,
O Lord of heaven, to your mercy take him, before he falls into their
hands, that will show him none!” She then bestowed upon him a look full
of an impatient agony, which no language could describe; her eyes had
already become wild and piercing--her cheek flushed--and her frame
animated with a spirit that seemed to partake at once of terror, intense
hatred, and something like frenzy.
“They are gallopin'! they are gallopin'!” she said, “and they will find
life in him!” She then wrung her hands, but shed not a tear--“speed,
Hugh,” she said, “speed, speed, husband of my heart--the arms of God are
they not open for you, and why do you stay?” These sentiments, we
should have informed our readers, were uttered, or rather chaunted in
a recitative of sorrow, in Irish; Irish being the language in which
the peasantry who happen to speak both it and English, always express
themselves when more than usually excited. “The sacred oil of salvation
is upon you--the sacrament of peace and forgiveness has lightened your
soul--the breath of mercy is the breath you're breathin'--the hope of
Jesus is in your heart, and the intercession of his blessed mother, she
that knew sorrow herself, is before you! Then, light of my heart, the
arms of God are they not open for you, and why do you stay here?”
“Nearer--nearer,” she exclaimed, “they are nearer--whippin' and spurrin'
their horses! Hugh O'Regan, that was the sun of my life, and of my
heart, and ever without a cloud, hasten to the God of mercy! Oh, surely,
you will not blame your own Mary that was your lovin' wife--and the
treasure of your young and manly heart, for wishin' to see you taken
from her eyes--and for wishing to see the eyes that,never looked upon
us all but with love and kindness, closed on us forever. Oh,” said she,
putting her hands to her forehead, “an' is it--is it come to this--that
I that was dearer to him than his own life a thousand times, should now
be glad to see him die--be glad to see him die! Oh! they are here,”
she shrieked, “before the door--you may hear their horses' feet!
Hugh O'Regan,” and her voice became louder and more energetic--“the
white-skinned--the fair of hair, the strong of hand, and the true of
heart--as you ever loved me that was once your happy bride--as you ever
loved the religion of our holy church--as you hope for happiness and
mercy, hasten from me--from our orphan--from all--oh, hasten to the arms
of your God!”
During this scene there was a solemn silence in the house, the priest
and Harman having both been struck mute at the solemnity of the scene.
“They are here--they are here!” she screamed. “Oh, sun of my heart,
think not now of me, nor of the children of your love, for we will
follow you in time--but think of the happy country you're going to,--to
live in the sunshine of heaven, among saints and angels for ever! Oh,
sun of my heart, think too of what you lave behind you! What is it?
Oh! what is it to you--but poverty, and misery, and hardship--the cowld
cabin and the damp bed--the frost of the sky--the frown of power, and
the scourge of law--all this, oh, right hand of my affection, with the
hard labor and the scanty food, do you fly from! Sure we had no friend
in this world to protect or defend us against them that, would trample
us under their feet! No friend for us because we are poor, and no friend
for our religion because it is despised. Then hasten, hasten, O light of
my heart--and take refuge in the mercy of your God!”
“Mary,” said the priest, who had his eyes fixed upon the sick man, “Give
God thanks, he is dead--and beyond the reach of human enmity forever.”
She immediately prostrated herself on the floor in token of humility and
thanksgiving--then raising her eyes to heaven, she said, “may the heart
of the woeful widow be grateful to the God who has taken him to his
mercy before they came upon him! But here they are, and now I am not
afraid of them. They can't insult my blessed husband now, nor murdher
him, as his father's villains did our dyin' son, on the cowld Esker of
Drum Dhu; nor disturb him with their barbarous torments on the bed of
death--and glory be to God for that!”
Many of our readers may be led to imagine that the terrors of Mary
O'Regan were altogether unproportioned to anything that might be
apprehended from the approach of the officers of justice, or, at least
to those who came to execute the law. The state of Irish society at that
time, however, was very different from what it is now, or has been for
the last twenty years. At that period one party was in the ascendant and
the other directly under their feet; the former was in the possession
of irresponsible power, and the other, in many matters, without any
tribunal whatsoever to which, they could appeal. The Established Church
of Ireland was then a sordid corporation, whose wealth was parcelled
out, not only without principle, but without shame, to the English and
Irish aristocracy, but principally to the English. Church livings were
not filled with men remarkable for learning and piety, but awarded to
political prostitution, and often to young rakes of known and unblushing
profligacy, connected with families of rank. The consequence was, that
a gross secular spirit, replete with political hatred and religious
rancor, was the only principle which existed in the place of true
religion. That word was then, except in rare cases indeed, a dead
letter; for such was the state of Protestant society then, and for
several years afterwards, that it mattered not how much or how little a
man of that creed knew about the principles of his own church; and as
it was administered the less he knew of it the better--all that was
necessary to constitute a good Protestant was “to hate the Pope.” In
truth--for it cannot be concealed, and we write it with deep pain and
sorrow--the Established Church of Ireland was then, in point of fact,
little else than a mere political engine held by the English government
for the purpose of securing the adherence of those who were willing to
give support to their measures.
In such a state of things, then, it need not be wondered at, that,
neglected and secularized as it was at the period we write of, it should
produce a class of men, whose passions in everything connected with
religion and politics were intolerant and exclusive. Every church, no
matter what its creed, unfortunately has its elect of such professors.
Nor were these confined to the lower classes alone--far from it. The
squire and nobleman were too frequently both alike remarkable for the
exhibition of such principles. Of this class was our friend M'Clutchy,
who was now a justice of the peace, a grand juror, and a captain of
cavalry--his corps having, a little time before, been completed. With
this posse, as the officers of justice, the pranks he played were
grievous to think of or to remember. He and they were, in fact, the
terror of the whole Roman Catholic population; and from the spirit in
which they executed justice, were seldom called by any other name than
that of M'Clutchy's Bloodhounds. Upon the present occasion they were
unaccompanied by M'Clutchy himself--a circumstance which was not to
be regretted, as there was little to be expected from his presence but
additional brutality and insult.
On arriving at the door, they hastily dismounted, and rushed into the
cabin with their usual violence and impetuosity, each being armed with a
carbine and bayonet.
“Hallo!” said the leader, whose name was Sharpe; “what's here? shamming
sickness is it?”
“No,” said Father Roche; “it is death?”
“Ay! shamming death then. Never mind--we'll soon see that. Come, Steele,
give him a prod--a gentle one--and I'll engage it'll make him find
tongue, if anything will.”
Steele, to whom this was addressed, drew his bayonet, and commenced
screwing it on, for the purpose of executing his orders.
“A devilish good trick, too,” said he; “and the first of the kind that
has been practised on us yet--here goes--”
Up until this moment O'Regan's wife sat beside the dead body of
her husband, without either word or motion. A smile of--it might
be satisfaction, perhaps even joy, at his release; or it might be
hatred--was on her face, and in her eye; but when the man pointed his
bayonet at the corpse of her husband, she started to her knees, and
opening out her arms, exclaimed--
“Here's my heart--and through that heart your bayonet will go, before it
touches his body. Oh, if you have hearts in your bodies, you will surely
spare the dead!”
“Here goes, ma'am,” he repeated, “and you had better lave that--we're
not in the habit of being checked by the like of you, at any rate, or
any of your creed.”
“I am not afeared to profess my creed--nor ashamed of it,” she
exclaimed; and if it went to that, I would die for it--but I tell you,
that before your bayonet touches the dead body of my husband, it must
pass through my heart!”
“Don't be alarmed, Mary,” said the priest; “they surely cannot be
serious. It's not possible that any being in the shape of man could be
guilty of such a sacrilegious outrage upon the dead as they threaten.”
“What is it your business?” said the leader; “go and tare off your
masses, and be hanged; none of your Popish interference here, or it'll
be worse for you! I say the fellow's not dead--he's only skeining. Come,
Alick, put the woman aside, and tickle him up.”
“Keep aside, I tell you,” said Steele, again addressing her--“keep
aside, my good woman, till I obey my orders--and don't provoke me.”
Father Roche was again advancing to remonstrate with him, for the man's
determination seemed likely to get stronger by opposition--when, just as
the bayonet which had already passed under the woman's arm, was within a
few inches of O'Regan's body, he felt himself dragged forcibly back,
and Raymond-na-hattha stood before him, having seized both carbine and
bayonet with a strong grip.
“Don't do that,” he exclaimed--“don't--you'd hurt him--sure you'd hurt
poor Hugh!”
The touching simplicity of this language, which, to a heart possessing
the least tincture of humanity, would have more, force than the
strongest argument, was thrown away upon him to whom it was directed.
“Fling the blasted idiot off,” shouted Sharpe; “don't you see he has let
the cat out o' the bag--how could the man be hurted if he was dead; I
knew it was a schame.” To throw Raymond off, however, was easier said
than done, as the fellow found on attempting it. A struggle commenced
between them, which, though violent, was not of long duration. Raymond's
eye got turbid, and glared with a fiery light; but otherwise his
complexion did not change. By a vehement twist, he wrenched the arms
out of Steele's hands, hurling him from him at the same time, with such
force, that he fell on the floor with a crash.
“Now,” said he, pointing the bayonet to his neck, “would you like
it?---ha, ha!--think of that.”
Four carbines--the whole party consisting of five--were immediately
levelled at him; and it is not improbable that half a minute more would
have closed both his existence and his history, had not Father Roche and
the widow both succeeded, with some difficulty, in drawing him back from
the prostrate officer of justice. Raymond, after a little time, gave up
the arms; but his eye still blazed at his opponent, with a glare that
could not be misunderstood.
Harman, who had hitherto taken no part whatsoever in the altercation,
now interfered; and with feelings which he found it nearly impossible to
restrain, pointed out to them the wanton cruelty of such conduct towards
both the living and the dead. “I am ashamed of you,” said he, “as
countrymen, as Irishmen. Your treatment of this poor heartbroken woman,
amidst her desolation and sorrow, is a disgrace to the country that
gave you birth, and to the religion you profess, if, indeed, you profess
any.”
“Come, come, my good fellow,” said Sharpe, “what is it you say about my
religion? I tell you I'll allow no man to spake a syllable against my
religion; so keep quiet if you're wise, and don't attack that, otherwise
don't be surprised if I make you dance the devil's hornpipe in half a
shake, great a hairo as you are.”
“And yet you felt no scruple in just now insulting religion, in the
person of this reverend gentleman who never offended you.”
“Him! why what the hell is he but a priest?”
“And the more entitled to your respect on that account--but since you
are so easily excited in defence of your own creed, why so ready to
attack in such offensive and insulting language that of another?”
“Come, come, Sharpe,” said another of them, “are we to be here all
day--whatever we're to do let us do it at once; if the fellow's dead,
why he has had a devilish good escape of it, and if not, let us clap him
on a horse, that is, provided he's able to travel. I think myself he has
got the start of us, and that the wind's out of him.”
“Take your time,” said Steele, who felt anxious to avenge his defeat
upon some one, “we must know, that before ever we leave the house--and
by the great Boyne, the first person that goes between me and him will
get the contents of this,” and as he uttered the words he coolly and
deliberately cocked the gun, and was advancing as before to the dead
body.
“Holdback,” said Harman, in a voice which made the man start, whilst
with a firm tread and resolute eye, he stood face to face before him;
“hold back, and dare not violate that sacred and awful privilege, which
in every country and creed under heaven is sufficient to protect the
defenceless dead. What can be your object in this? are you men--have
you the spirit, the courage, of men? If you are human beings, is not
the sight of that unhappy fellow-creature--I hope he is happy
now,--stretched out in death before you, sufficient, by the very
stillness of departed life, to calm the brutal frenzy of your passions!
Have you common courage? No; I tell you to your teeth that none but
spiritless caitiffs and cowards would, in the presence of death and
sorrow--in the miserable cabin of the destitute widow and her orphan
boy--exhibit the ruffianly outrages of men who are wanton in their
cruelty, merely because they know there is none to resist them; and I
may add, because they think that their excesses, however barbarous, will
be shielded by higher authority. No, I tell you, if there stood man for
man before you, even without arms in their hands, you would not dare to
act and swagger as you do, or to play these cruel pranks of oppression
and tyranny anywhere, much less in the house of death and affliction.
Fie upon you, you are a disgrace to everything that is human, a reproach
to every feeling of manhood, and every principle of religion.”
Hardened as they were by the habits of their profligate and debasing
employment, such was the ascendancy of manly truth and and moral feeling
over them, that for a minute or two they quailed under the indignant
glance of Harman. Steele drew back his gun, and looked round on his
companions to ascertain their feeling.
“Gentleman,” said Father Roche, anxious to mollify them as much as he
could--“gentleman, for the sake of that poor heart-broken widowed woman
and her orphan son--for her and his sake, and if not for theirs then,
for the sake of God himself, before whose awful judgment-seat we must
all stand to render an account of our works, I entreat--I implore you to
withdraw--do, gentlemen, and leave her and her children to their sorrows
and their misery, for the world has little else for them.”
“I'm willing to go,” said a fellow, ironically called Handsome Hacket,
because he was blind of an eye and deeply pock-pitted--“there's no use
in quarrellin' with a woman certainly--and I don't think there can be
any doubt about the man's death; devil a bit.”
“Well said, Vainus,” exclaimed Sharpe, “and it is not ten days since
we were defrauded of Parra Rackan who escaped from us in Jemmy Reilly's
coffin--when we thought to nab him in the wakehouse--and when we went
away didn't they set him at large, and then go back to bury the man that
was dead. Now, how da you know, Vainus, my purty boy, that this fellow's
not playin' us a trick o' the same color?”
“Come, come,” said another of them who had not yet spoke, “it's aisy
to know that. Curse me, Steele, if you don't give him a tickle, I
will--that's all--we're losin' the day and I want my breakfast Living
or dead, and be hanged to him, I'm starved for want of something to
eat--and to drink, too--so be quick I tell you.”
“Very well, my buck,” said Steele--“that's your sort--here goes--”
He once more advanced with a savage determination to effect his
purpose--when the priest gently and in a mild spirit of remonstrance
laid his hand upon his shoulder; but he had scarcely done so, when
one of them seized him by the collar and flung, or rather attempted to
fling, him back with great violence.
“Go on, Steele,” shouted the last speaker, whose name was Harpur--“Go
on--and be cursed, man, we will support you.”
The words, however, were scarcely out of his lips, when Raymond, his eye
glaring like that of a tiger with the wildness of untamed resentment,
sprang upon him with a bound, and in a moment they once more grappled
together. It was, however, only for a moment--for by the heavy blow he
received from Raymond, the man staggered and fell, but ere he reached
the ground, the gun, which had been ineffectually aimed at the poor
fool, went off, and lodged its contents in the heart of the last
speaker, who staggered, groaned, and fell lifeless where he stood.
For a minute or so, this fatal and unexpected catastrophe stunned them.
They looked upon each other amazed and apparently stupefied, “What,”
cried Sharpe, “is Harpur dead?” Two of them then placed their arms
against the wall in order to ascertain the exact nature of the injury
inflicted.
At this moment, Sharpe, who saw at once the man was indeed lifeless,
raised his gun about to take aim at Raymond, when a blow from Harman
felled him to the earth.
“And here's for your kindness, Mister Harman,” shouted Steele; but
ere the words were uttered, O'Regan's wife threw herself upon him
so effectually, that he felt it impossible to avail himself of his
fire-arms.
“Fight now,” she shouted in Irish, “it is for your lives--it is for the
widow--for the orphan--for the bed of death--and the dead that's upon
it--fight now--for God will be with us! May his strength and power be
in your arms and your hearts, prays the woeful widow this day!
Villain--villain,” she shouted, “I have you powerless now--but it's the
strength of God that is in me, and not my own!”
The conflict that ensued now was bitter, savage, deadly. The moment
Sharpe was knocked down, Raymond flew to their firearms, handed one to
Harman, and kept the other himself. The men who used them were fierce,
and powerful, and cruel. In a moment a furious contest took place. The
four men immediately grappled, each one attempting to wrest the gun
from his antagonist. Raymond, whose passions were now roused so as to
resemble the ravenous fury of madness itself, at one time howled like
a beast of prey, and shouted, and screamed, and laughed with maniac
wildness that was enough to make almost any heart quail. His eyes
blazed, his figure dilated, his muscles stood out, his mouth was white
with froth, and his eyebrows were knit into a deep and deadly scowl.
Altogether his appearance was frightful and appalling.
Harman was still better matched, and the struggle with his foe was for
some time doubtful enough, the latter being one of the strongest and
most resolute men in the whole parish. A powerful tug for the gun now
took place, each pulling in opposite directions with all his might. At
length a thought struck Harman, who all at once let the gun go, when
the other having no longer any resisting power to sustain him, fell back
upon the floor, and in an instant Harman's knee was on his chest and the
gun in his possession. The man ground his teeth, and looking up into his
face with a black scowl of hatred, exclaimed--
“It is your turn now, but I will have mine.”
“You have had yours too long, villain,” replied the other, “but in
the mean time I will teach you to respect the bed of death and the
afflictions of the widow.”
Saying which, he vigorously applied the butt of the gun to his ribs,
until he had rendered him anything but disposed for further conflict.
Both victories were achieved much about the same time; Raymond's
opponent being far the more severely punished of the two. “What,
however, was their surprise after each had expelled his man from the
cabin, to find Steele down, his gun lying on one side. O'Regan's wife
fastened on his throat, and himself panting and almost black in the
face!
“Here now,” she exclaimed, “the battle of the widow was well fought,
and God gave us strength. Put this man out with the rest.” This was
accordingly done, but as in the case of his companions, the gun for the
present was retained.
“See now,” she proceeded, still in Irish, “what the hand of a weak
woman can do, when her heart is strengthened by God, against cruelty and
oppression. What made that strong man weak in my grasp? Because he knew
that the weakness of the widow was his shame--the touch of her hand took
away his strength; and what had he within or about him to depend upon?
could he look in upon his wicked heart, and be strong? could he look
upon the darkness of a bad conscience, and be strong? could he look on
me--upon my dead husband, and his bed of death, and be strong? No--and
above all, could he look up to the Almighty God in heaven, and be
strong--no--no--no--but from all these I gained strength--for surely,
surely, I had it not in myself!”
She uttered these sentiments with wonderful energy, and indeed, from
the fire in her eye, and the flush of her cheek, it was evident she
was highly excited. Father Roche, who had been engaged, and indeed, had
enough to do in keeping the poor child quiet and aloof from the fray,
especially from his mother--now entreated that she would endeavor to
compose herself, as she had reason to thank God, he said, that neither
she herself nor her resolute defenders had sustained any personal
injury. She did not seem to have heard him--for on looking on the body
of her husband she almost bounded over to the bed, and kneeling down
rapturously, and in a spirit of enthusiastic triumph, kissed his lips.
“Now, my husband,” said she, “we have fought and gained the victory--no
insult did you get--no dishonor on your lowly bed where you're sleepin'
your last sleep. Hugh, do you know, asthore, how the wife of your heart
fought for you? Your own poor, weak, sorrowful, heart-broken, but loving
wife, that was as feeble as an infant this mornin'! But who gave her
the strength to put down a strong and wicked man'? The God--the good
God--and to him be the glory!--in whose bosom you are now happy. Ay, we
conquered--ha--ha--ha--we conquered--we conquered--ha--ha--ha!”
The dead body of Harpur in the meantime had been removed by his
companions, who it was evident felt as much, if not more bitterness at
their own defeat, than they did by the fatal accident which deprived him
of life.
Scarcely had the wild triumph of O'Regan's wife time to subside, when
it soon became evident that the tragical incidents of this bitter and
melancholy morning were not yet completed.
The child alluded to by Harman in his first brief conversation with
Father Roche, had been for some time past in a much more dangerous state
than his parents suspected, or at least than his unhappy mother did,
whose principal care was engrossed by the situation of her husband.
The poor boy, at all times affectionate and uncomplaining, felt loth to
obtrude his little wants and sufferings upon her attention, knowing
as he did, that, owing to the nursing of his father, she was scarcely
permitted three hours sleep out of the twenty-four. If he could have
been afforded even the ordinary comforts of a sick-bed, it is possible
he might have recovered. The only drink he could call for was “the black
water,” as it is termed by the people, and his only nutrition a dry
potato, which he could not take; the bed he lay upon was damp straw, yet
did this patient child never utter a syllable to dishearten his mother,
or deepen the gloom which hung over the circumstances of the family,
and his father's heart. When asked how he was, he uniformly replied
“better,” and his large lucid eyes would faintly smile upon his mother,
as if to give her hope, after which the desolate boy would amuse himself
by handling the bedclothes as invalids often do, or play with the humid
straw of his cold and miserable bed, or strive to chat with his mother.
These details are very painful to those whose hearts are so elegantly
and fashionably tender that they recoil with humane horror from scenes
of humble wretchedness and destitution. It is good, however, that they
should be known to exist, for we assure the great and wealthy that
they actually do exist, and may be found in all their sharpness and
melancholy truth within the evening shadow which falls from many a proud
and wealthy dwelling in this our native land.
After all, it is likely, that had not the fearful occurrences of this
morning taken place, their sweet boy might have been spared to them. The
shock, however, occasioned by the discharge of the gun, and the noise
of the conflict, acting upon a frame so feeble were more than he could
bear. Be this as it may, the constables were not many minutes gone,
when, to their surprise, he staggered back again out of his little
room, where Father Roche had placed him, and tottering across the floor,
slipped in the deceased man's blood, and fell. The mother flew to him,
but Harman had already raised him up; when on his feet, he looked at
the blood and shuddered--a still more deadly paleness settled on his
face--his breath came short, and his lips got dry and parched--he could
not speak nor stand, had not Harman supported him. He looked again at
the blood with horror, and then at his mother, whilst he shrank up, as
it were, into himself, and shivered from head to foot.
“Darling of my heart,” she exclaimed, “I understand you. Bryan, our
treasure, be a man for the sake of your poor heart-broken mother--I
will, I will, my darling life, I will wipe it off of you, every stain of
it--why should such blood and my innocent son come together?”
She now got a cloth, and in a few moments left not a trace of it upon
him. He had not yet spoken, but on finding himself cleansed from it, he
stretched out his hands, thereby intimating that he wished to go to her.
“Do you not perceive a bottle on the shelf there?” said Harman, “it
contains wine which I brought for his--,” he checked himself;--“Alas!
my poor boy,” he exclaimed involuntarily, “you are doubly dear to
your-mother now. Mix it with water,” he proceeded, “and give him a
little, it will strengthen and revive him.”
“Better,” said Father Roche in a low voice, not intended for his, “to
put him back into his own bed; he is not now in a state to be made
acquainted with his woeful loss.” As he spoke the boy glanced at the
corpse of his father, and almost at the same moment his mother put wine
and water to his lips. He was about to taste it, but on looking into
the little tin porringer that contained it, he put it away from him, and
shuddered strongly.
“It's mixed with the blood,” said he, “and I can't;” and again he put it
away from him.
“Bryan, asthore,” said his mother, “it's not blood; sure it's wine that
Mr. Harman, the blessin' of God be upon him, brought to you.”
He turned away again, however, and would not take it. “Bring me to my
father,” said he, once more stretching out his arms towards his mother,
“let me stay a while with him.”
“But he's asleep, Bryan,” said Harman, “and I'm sure you would not wish
to awaken him.”
“I would like to kiss him then,” he replied, “and to sleep a while with
him.”
“Och, let him, poor darling,” said his mother, as she took him in her
arms, “it may ease his little heart, and then he'll feel satisfied.”
“Well, if you're allowed to go to him won't you lie very quiet, and not
speak so as to disturb him?” said Harman.
“I'm tired,” said the child, “and I'd like to sleep in his bed. I used
sometimes to do it before, and my father always kept his arms about me.”
His mother's features became convulsed, and she looked up in mute
affliction to heaven; but still, notwithstanding her misery, she was
unable to shed one tear.
“Pulse of my heart” (cushla machree), she said, kissing him, “you
must have your innocent and loving wish.” She then gently raised the
bed-clothes and placed him beside his father.
The poor pale boy sat up in the bed for about a minute, during which he
glanced at the still features of the departed, then at his mother, and
then at the pool of blood on the floor, and again he shuddered. All at
once, however, he started and looked about him; but in a manner
that betokened delight rather than alarm--his eyes brightened--and an
expression almost of radiance settled upon his face. “Mother,” said he,
“kiss me, and let Mr. Harman kiss me.”
They both did so, and his poor mother felt her heart relieved, by the
happiness depicted on his face. “Glory be to God,” she exclaimed, “see
what a change for the better has come over my blessed child.”
Father Roche looked at Harman, and shook his head--“Blessed he will be
soon,” said he, in a low whisper, “the child is dying.”
The boy started again, and the former serenity lit up his pale features.
“Bryan, you are better, darling of my life; you look a thousand pounds
better than you did awhile ago.”
The boy looked into her face and smiled.---“I am,” said he, “but did you
not hear it?”
“Hear what, jewel of my heart?”
“There it is again;” said he, looking eagerly and delightfully about
him, “my father's voice;--that's three times it called, me, but it
didn't come from the bed, although he's in it. I will kiss him and then
sleep--but I will miss his arms from about me, I think.”
He then fixed himself beside that loving parent, aided by his mother,
and getting his arm around his pulseless neck, he kissed him, and laying
down his fair head, he fell asleep in that affecting posture. There was
a solemn stillness for some minutes, and a strange feeling of fear crept
over his mother's heart. She looked into the eyes of those who were
about her, but the looks they returned to her carried, no consolation to
her spirit.
“My child,” she exclaimed--“Oh, my child, what is this? Bryan, my
life--my light, what ails you?” She stooped, and gently turning him
about so as to see his face, she looked keenly into it for a few
moments, and there certainly was the same seraphic expression which so
lately lit it tip. Still she felt dissatisfied, till putting her ear to
his mouth and her hand to his heart, the woeful truth became known to
her. The guiltless spirit of her fair-haired son had followed, that of
his father.
When the afflicted widow saw the full extent of her loss, she clasped
her hands together, and rose up with something of a hasty movement. She
looked about the miserable cabin for a moment, and then peered into
the face of every one in the room--all of whom, with the exception of
Raymond, were in tears. She then pressed her temples, as if striving
to recollect what had happened--sat down again beside her husband and
child, and to their astonishment began to sing an old and melancholy
Irish air, in a voice whose wild sweetness was in singular keeping with
its mournful spirit.
To the bystanders this was more affecting a thousand times than the most
vehement and outrageous grief. Father Roche, however, who had had a
much more comprehensive experience than his companion, knew, or at least
hoped that it would not last long.
Several of the neighbors, having seen the dead body of the constable
borne away, suspected that something extraordinary had occurred on the
mountain, and consequently came flocking to the cabin, anxious to
know the truth. By this means, their acquaintances were brought
about them--aid in every shape, as far as it could be afforded, was
administered, and in a short time they had a little stock of meal,
butter, milk, candles, and such other simple comforts as their poor
friends and neighbors had to bestow. Such is the usual kindness of
the Irish people to each other in moments of destitution and sorrow.
Nothing, on the present occasion, could surpass their anxiety in
ascertaining the wants of this unhappy family: and in such circumstances
it is that the honest prompting of the humble heart, and its sincere
participation in the calamities of its kindred poor, are known to shine
forth with a lustre, which nothing but its distance from the observation
of the great, or their own wilful blindness to it, could prevent it from
being seen and appreciated as it ought.
Having seen her surrounded by friends and neighbors, Father Roche, after
first offering as far as he thought he could reasonably attempt it, some
kind advice and consolation, prepared to take his departure with Harman,
leaving Raymond behind them, who indeed refused to go. “No,” said he,
“I can feed Dickey here--but sure they'll want me to run messages--I'm
active and soople, an I'll go to every place, for the widow can't. But
tell me, is the purty boy, the fair haired boy asleep, or what?--tell
me?”
“Why do you ask, Raymond?” said Father Rocche.
“Bekase I love him,” replied Raymond, “and I hope he'll waken! I would
like to see him kiss his father again--but I'm afeared somehow I never
will. If he awakens I'll give him the cock any how--bad luck to me but I
will.”
“Hush,” said the priest, whilst a tear started to his eye at this most
artless exhibition of affection for the child--“don't swear, Raymond.
The sweet boy will never waken in this world; but he will in heaven,
where he is awake already, and where you will see him again.”
“I would rather see him here,” replied the other; “and I wish I had
gev him the cock first, when he came out of the room; but what'd she do
without his white head before her?--what'll she do, and not have that
to look at? But stop,” said Raymond--“wait a minute, and we'll soon see
whether he'll waken or not.”
He then went into the little room where the poor child had lain during
his illness, and immediately returned, bearing the cock in his hands--
“Wait,” said he; “I was bringing the bird to poor little Brian, for I
promised it to him. We'll see--we'll see.”
As he uttered the words, he placed the bird down on the child's bosom
and called out--
“Brian, here's your present for you, that I promised you--won't you
waken?--spake open your blue eyes, achora machree, and look at the fine
bird I brought you.”
It was a most affecting little incident; for the contrast between the
fiery scintillations flashed from the eye of the noble bird, the utter
unbroken stillness of death, as character was so mournfully impressed
upon the fair sweet features of innocence, was indeed such as few
parental hearts could withstand. Raymond looked awhile as if even he had
been struck by it.
“Ah no,” said he, going down to his mother; “no, Mary, he will never
waken--and then what will you do for Brian's white head?”
“Whisht!” she replied; “whisht, and I'll sing you a song. I have nothing
else to do now but to sing and be happy--
“'Farewell father, farewell mother,
Farewell friends, and farewell foes!
I now will go and court some other,
For love it was the causer of all my woes.”
“An' so it was,” she said; “for I did love some one, I think; but who
they were, or where they are gone to, I cannot tell. Is your name,”
she added, her eye blazing as she spoke to Raymond, “is your, name
M'Clutchy?”
“Say it is,” suggested one of the neighbors; “may be it may startle the
poor thing into her senses.”
“That's not very likely,” replied another, “for it has startled her out
of them--God in his mercy pity her!”
Raymond, however, adopted the first suggestion, without knowing why; and
said in a loud voice--
“Ay is it; my name is Val the Vulture, that commands the blood-hounds.”
The creature started--became for a moment as if convulsed--then
proceeded at a speed that was incredible, screaming frightfully, across
the dark and desolate scenery that surrounded the house. It was vain to
pursue her; for there was none there capable of doing it with success,
unless Raymond, who understood not that she had become insane.