--Marks of Unjust Agency--Reflections thereon--A Mountain Water-Spout,
and Rising of a Torrent--The Insane Mother over the Graves of her
Family--Raymond's Humanity--His Rescue from Death.
“Friday, * * *
“I have amused myself--you will see how appropriate the word is by and
by--since my last communication, in going over the whole Castle
Cumber estate, and noting down the traces which this irresponsible
and rapacious oppressor, aided by his constables, bailiffs, and
blood-hounds, have left behind them. When I describe the guide into
whose hands I have committed myself, I am inclined to think you will
not feel much disposed to compliment me on my discretion;--the aforesaid
guide being no other than a young fellow, named _Raymond-na-Hattha_,
which means, they tell me, Raymond of the Hats--a sobriquet very
properly bestowed on him in consequence of a habit he has of always
wearing three or four hats at a time, one within the other--a
circumstance which, joined to his extraordinary natural height and great
strength, gives him absolutely a gigantic appearance. This Raymond is
the fool of the parish; but in selecting him for my conductor, I acted
under the advice of those who knew him better than I could. There
is not, in fact, a field or farm-house, or a cottage, within a
circumference of miles, which he does not know, and where he is not
also known. He has ever since his childhood evinced a most extraordinary
fancy for game cocks--an attachment not at all surprising, when it is
known that not only was his father, Morgan Monahan, the most celebrated
breeder and handler of that courageous bird--but his mother, Poll
Doolin--married women here frequently preserve, or are called by, their
maiden names through life--who learned it from her husband, was
equally famous for this very feminine accomplishment. Poor Raymond,
notwithstanding his privation, is, however, exceedingly shrewd in many
things, especially where he can make himself understood. As he speaks,
however, in unconnected sentences, in which there is put forth no more
than one phase of the subject he alludes to, or the idea he entertains,
it is unquestionably not an easy task to understand him without an
interpreter. He is singularly fond of children--very benevolent--and
consequently feels a degree of hatred and horror at anything in the
shape of cruelty or oppression, almost beyond belief, in a person
deprived of reason. This morning he was with me by appointment, about
half-past nine, and after getting his breakfast----but no matter--the
manipulation he exhibited would have been death to a dyspeptic patient,
from sheer envy--we sallied forth to trace this man, M'Clutchy, by
the awful marks of ruin, and tyranny, and persecution; for these words
convey the principles of what he hath left, and is leaving behind him.
“'Now, Raymond,' said I, 'as you know the country well, I shall be
guided by you. I wish to see a place called Drum Dhu. Can you conduct
me there?'
“'Ay!' he replied with surprise; 'Why! Sure there's scarcely anybody
there now. When we go on farther, we may look up, but we'll see no
smoke, as there used to be. 'Twas there young Torly Regan died on that
day--an' her, poor Mary--but they're all gone from her--and Hugh the
eldest is in England or America--but him--the youngest--he'll never
waken--and what will the poor mother do for his white head now that she
hasn't it to look at? No, he wouldn't waken, although I brought him the
cock.'
“'Of whom are you speaking now, Raymond?'
“'I'll tell you two things that's the same,' he replied; 'and I'll tell
you the man that has them both.'
“'Let me hear, Raymond.'
“'The devil's blessin' and God's curse;--sure they're the same--ha,
ha--there now--that's one. You didn't know that--no, no: you didn't.'
“'And who is it that has them, Raymond?'
“'M'Clutchy--Val the Vulture; sure 'twas he did that all, and is doin'
it still. Poor Mary!--Brian will never waken;--she'll never see his eyes
again, 'tany rate--nor his white head--oh! his white head! God ought to
kill Val, and I wondher he doesn't.'
“'Raymond, my good friend,' said I, 'if you travel at this rate, I must
give up the journey altogether.'
“The fact is, that when excited, as he was now by the topic in question,
he gets into what is termed a sling trot, which carries him on at
about six miles an hour, without ever feeling fatigued. He immediately
slackened his pace, and looked towards me, with a consciousness of
having forgotten himself and acted wrongly.
“'Well, no,' said he, 'I won't; but sure I hate him.'
“'Hate whom?'
“'M'Clutchy--and that was it; for I always do it; but I won't again, for
you couldn't keep up wid me if I spoke about him.'
“We then turned towards the mountains; and as we went along, the
desolate impresses of the evil agent began here and there to become
visible. On the road-side there were the humble traces of two or three
cabins, whose little hearths had been extinguished, and whose walls were
levelled to the earth. The black fungus, the burdock, the nettle, and
all those offensive weeds that follow in the train of oppression and
ruin were here; and as the dreary wind stirred them into sluggish
motion, and piped its melancholy wail through these desolate little
mounds, I could not help asking myself--if those who do these things
ever think that there is a reckoning in after life, where power, and
insolence, and wealth misapplied, and rancor, and pride, and rapacity,
and persecution, and revenge, and sensuality, and gluttony, will be
placed face to face with those humble beings, on whose rights and
privileges of simple existence they have trampled with such a selfish
and exterminating tread. A host of thoughts and reflections began to
crowd upon my mind; but the subject was too painful--and after avoiding
it as well as I could, we proceeded on our little tour of observation.
“How easy it is for the commonest observer to mark even the striking
characters that are impressed on the physical features of an estate
which is managed by care and kindness--where general happiness and
principles of active industry are diffused through the people? And,
on the other hand, do not all the depressing symbols of neglect and
mismanagement present equally obvious exponents of their operation, upon
properties like this of Castle Cumber? On this property, it is not every
tenant that is allowed to have an interest in the soil at all, since the
accession of M'Clutchy. He has succeeded in inducing the head landlord
to decline granting leases to any but those who are his political
supporters--that is, who will vote for him or his nominee at an
election; or, in other words, who will enable him to sell both their
political privileges and his own, to gratify his cupidity or ambition,
without conferring a single advantage upon themselves. From those,
therefore, who have too much honesty to prostitute their votes to his
corrupt and selfish negotiations with power, leases are withheld, in
order that they may, with more becoming and plausible oppression, be
removed from the property, and the staunch political supporter brought
in in their stead. This may be all very good policy, but it is certainly
bad humanity, and worse religion, In fact, it is the practice of that
cruel dogma, which prompts us to sacrifice the principles of others to
our own, and to deprive them of the very privilege which we ourselves
claim--that of acting according to our conscientious impressions. 'Do
unto others,' says Mr. M'Clutchy and his class, as you would not wish
that others should do unto you.' How beautifully here is the practice
of the loud and headlong supporter of the Protestant Church, and its
political ascendancy, made to harmonize with the principles of that
neglected thing called the Gospel? In fact as we went along, it was easy
to mark, on the houses and farmsteads about us, the injustice of making
this heartless distinction. The man who felt himself secure and fixed by
a vested right in the possession of his tenement, had heart and motive
to work and improve it, undepressed by the consciousness that his
improvements to-day might be trafficked on by a wicked and unjust agent
tomorrow. He knows, that in developing all the advantages and good
qualities of the soil, he is not only discharging an important duty to
himself and his landlord, but also to his children's children after him;
and the result is, that the comfort, contentment, and self-respect which
he gains by the consciousness of his security, are evident at a glance
upon himself, his house, and his holding. On the other hand, reverse
this picture, and what is the consequence? Just what is here visible.
There is a man who may be sent adrift on the shortest notice, unless
he is base enough to trade upon his principles and vote against his
conscience. What interest has he in the soil, or in the prosperity of
his landlord? If he make improvements this year, he may see the landlord
derive all the advantages of them the next; or, what is quite as likely,
he may know that some Valentine M'Clutchy may put them in his
own pocket, and keep the landlord in the dark regarding the whole
transaction. What a bounty on dishonesty and knavery in an agent is
this? How unjust to the interest of the tenant, in the first place--in
the next to that of the landlord--and, finally, how destructive to the
very nature and properties of the soil itself, which rapidly degenerates
by bad and negligent culture, and. consequently becomes impoverished
and diminished in value. All this was evident as we went along. Here was
warmth, and wealth, and independence staring us in the face; there was
negligence, desponding struggle, and decline, conscious, as it were, of
their unseemly appearance, and anxious, one would think, to shrink away
from the searching eye of observation.
“'But here again, Raymond; what have we here? There is a fine looking
farmhouse, evidently untenanted. How is that?'
“'Ha, ha,' replied Raymond with a bitter smile, 'ha, ha! Let them take
it, and see what Captain Whiteboy will do? He has the possession--ha,
ha--an' who'll get him to give it up? Who dare take that, or any of
Captain Whiteboy's farms? But sure it's not, much--only a coal, a
rushlight, and a prod of a pike or a baynet--but I know who ought to
have them.'
“The house in question was considerably dilapidated. Its doors were not
visible, and its windows had all been shivered. Its smokeless chimneys,
its cold and desolate appearance, together with the still more ruinous
condition of the outhouses, added to the utter silence which prevailed
about it, and the absence of every symptom of life and motion--all told
a tale which has left many a bloody moral to the country. The slaps,
gates, and enclosures were down--the hedges broken or cut away--the
fences trampled on and levelled to the earth--and nothing seemed to
thrive--for the garden was overrun with them--but the rank weeds already
alluded to, as those which love to trace the footsteps of ruin and
desolation, in order to show, as it were, what they leave behind them.
As we advanced, other and more startling proofs of M'Clutchy came in our
way--proofs which did not consist of ruined houses, desolate villages,
or roofless-cottages--but of those unfortunate persons, whose simple
circle of domestic life--whose little cares, and struggles, and sorrows,
and affections, formed the whole round of their humble existence,
and its enjoyments, as given them by Almighty God himself. All these,
however, like the feelings and affections of the manacled slave, were
as completely overlooked by those who turned them adrift, as if in
possessing such feelings, they had invaded a right which belonged
only to their betters, and which,the same betters, by the way, seldom
exercise either in such strength or purity as those whom they despise
and oppress. Aged men we met, bent, with years, and weighed down still
more by that houseless sorrow, which is found accompanying them along
the highways of life:--through its rugged solitudes and its dreariest
paths--in the storm and in the tempest--wherever they go--in want,
nakedness, and destitution--still at their side is that houseless
sorrow--pouring into their memories and their hearts the conviction,
which is most terrible to old age, that it has no home here but the
grave--no pillow on which to forget its cares but the dust. The sight
of these wretched old men, turned out from, the little holdings that
sheltered their helplessness, to beg a morsel, through utter charity, in
the decrepitude of life, was enough to make a man wish that he had
never been born to witness such a wanton abuse of that power which
was entrusted to man for the purpose of diffusing happiness instead of
misery. All these were known to Raymond, who, as far as he could, gave
me their brief and unfortunate history. That which showed us, however,
the heartless evils of the-clearance system in its immediate operation
upon the poorer classes, was the groups of squalid females who traversed
the country, accompanied by their pale and sickly looking children, all
in a state of mendicancy, and wofully destitute of clothing. The system
in this case being to deny their husbands employment upon the property,
in order to drive them, by the strong scourge of necessity, off it, the
poor men were compelled to seek it elsewhere, whilst their sorrowing and
heart-broken families were fain to remain and beg a morsel from those
who were best acquainted with the history of their expulsion, and who,
consequently, could yield to them and their little ones a more cordial
and liberal sympathy. After thus witnessing the consequences of bad
management, and worse feeling, in the shape of houses desolate, villages
levelled, farms waste, old age homeless, and feeble mothers tottering
under their weaker children--after witnessing, I say, all this, we came
to the village called Drum Dhu, being one of those out of which these
unhappy creatures were so mercilessly driven.
“A village of this description is, to say the least of it, no credit to
the landed proprietors of any country. It is the necessary result of a
bad system. But we know that if the landlord paid the attention which
he ought to pay, to both the rights and duties of his property, a bad
system could never be established upon it. I am far from saying, indeed,
my dear Spinageberd, there are not cases in which the landlord finds
himself in circumstances of great difficulty. Bad, unprincipled,
vindictive, and idle tenants enough there are in this country--as I am
given to understand from those who know it best--plotting scoundrels,
who, like tainted sheep, are not only corrupt themselves, but
infect others, whom they bring along with themselves to their proper
destination, the gallows. Enough and too many of these there are to be
found, who are cruel without cause, and treacherous without provocation;
and this is evident, by the criminal records of the country, from
which it is clear that it is not in general the aggrieved man who takes
justice in his own hands, but the idle profligate I speak of now. Many
indeed of all these, it is an act due to public peace and tranquility to
dislodge from any and from every estate; but at the same time, it is not
just that the many innocent should suffer as well as the guilty few. To
return, however, to the landlord. It often happens, that when portions
of his property fall out of lease, he finds it over-stocked with a swarm
of paupers, who are not his tenants at all and never were--but who in
consequence of the vices of sub-letting, have multiplied in proportion
to the rapacity and extortion of middle-men, and third-men, and
fourth-men--and though last, not least, of the political exigencies
of the landlord himself, to serve whose purposes they were laboriously
subdivided off into tattered legions of fraud, corruption, and perjury.
Having, therefore, either connived at, or encouraged the creation of
thess creatures upon his property for corrupt purposes, is he justified,
when such a change in the elective franchise has occurred as renders
them of no political importance to him, in turning them out of their
little holdings, without aid or provision of some sort, and without
reflecting besides, that they are in this, the moment of their sorest
distress, nothing else than the neglected tools and forgotten victims of
his own ambition. Or can he be surprised, after hardening them into
the iniquity of half a dozen elections, that he finds fellows in their
number who would feel no more scruples in putting a bullet into him
from behind a hedge, than they would into a dog? Verily, my dear Simon
Spinageberd, the more I look into the political and civil education
which the people of Ireland have received, I am only surprised that
property in this country rests upon so firm and secure a basis as I find
it does.
“On arriving at Drum Dhu, the spectacle which presented itself to us was
marked, not merely by the vestiges of inhumanity and bad policy, but by
the wanton insolence of sectarian spirit and bitter party feeling.
On some of the doors had been written with chalk or charcoal, “Clear
off--to hell or Connaught!” “Down with Popery!” “M'Clutchy's cavalry
and Ballyhack wreckers for ever!” In accordance with these offensive
principles most of all the smaller cottages and cabins had been
literally wrecked and left uninhabitable, in the violence of this bad
impulse, although at the present moment they are about to be re-erected,
to bear out the hollow promises that will be necessary for the
forthcoming election. The village was indeed a miserable and frightful
scene. There it stood, between thirty and forty small and humble
habitations, from which, with the exception of about five or six, all
the inmates had been dispossessed, without any consideration for age,
sex, poverty, or sickness. Nay, I am assured that a young man was
carried out during the agonies of death, and expired in the street,
under the fury of a stormy and tempestuous day. Of those who remained,
four who are Protestants, and two whom are Catholics, have promised to
vote with M'Clutchy, who is here the great representative of Lord
Cumber and his property. If, indeed, you were now to look upon these two
miserable lines of silent and tenantless walls, most of them unroofed,
and tumbled into heaps of green ruin, that are fast melting out of
shape, for they were mostly composed of mere peat--you would surely say,
as the Eastern Vizier said in the apologue. 'God prosper Mr. Valentine
M'Clutchy!--for so long as Lord Cumber has him for an agent, he will
never want plenty of ruined villages!' My companion muttered many things
to himself, but said nothing intelligible, until he came to one of the
ruins pretty near the centre:--
“'Ay,' said he, 'here is the place they said he died--here before the
door--and in there is where he lay during his long sickness. The wet
thatch and the sods is lying there now. Many a time I was with him. Poor
Torley!'
“'Of whom do you speak now, Raymond?' I asked.
“'Come away,' he said, not noticing my question,--'come till I show
you the other place that the neighbors built privately when he was
dying--the father I mean--ay, and the other wid the white head, him that
wouldn't waken--come.'
“I followed him, for truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all that I
had witnessed that morning, and now felt anxious, if I could, to relieve
my imagination of this melancholy imagery and its causes altogether.
He went farther up towards the higher mountains, in rather a slanting
direction, but not immediately into their darkest recesses, and after a
walk of about two miles more, he stopped at the scattered turf walls of
what must once have been a cold, damp, and most comfortless cabin.
“'There,' said he, I saw it all; 'twas the blood-hounds. He died, and
her white-headed boy died; him, you know, that wouldn't waken--there
is where they both died; and see here'--there was at this moment a most
revolting expression of ferocious triumph in his eye as he spoke--'see,
here the blood-hound dropped, for the bullet went through him!--Ha, ha,
that's one; the three dead--the three dead! Come now, come, come.' He
then seemed much changed, for he shuddered as he spoke, and after
a little time, much to my astonishment, a spirit of tenderness and
humanity settled on his face, his eyes filled with tears, and he
exclaimed, 'Poor Mary! they're all gone, and she will never see his
white head again; and his eyes won't open any more; no, they're all
gone, all gone: oh! come away!'
“I had heard as much of this brutal tragedy as made his allusions barely
intelligible, but on attempting to gain any further information from
him, he relapsed, as he generally did, into his usual abruptness of
manner. He now passed down towards the cultivated country, at a pace
which I was once more obliged to request him to moderate.
“'Well,' said he, 'if you don't care, I needn't, for we'll have it--I
know by the roarin' of the river and by the look of the mountains there
above.'
“'What shall we have, Raymond?' I inquired.
“'No matther,' said he, rather to himself than to me, 'we can cross the
stick.* But I'll show you the place, for I was there at the time, and
his coffin was on the top of his father's. Ha, ha, I liked that, and
they all cried but Mary, and she laughed and sung, and clapped her hands
when the clay was makin' a noise upon them, and then the people cried
more. I cried for him in the little coffin, for I loved him--I wondher
God doesn't kill M'Clutchy--the curse o' God, and the blessin' o' the
devil on him! Ha, ha, there's one now: let him take it.'
* In mountain rivers a “stick,” or plank, is frequently a
substitute for a bridge.
“We still proceeded at a brisk pace for about a mile and a half,
leaving the dark and savage hills behind us, when Raymond turning about,
directed my attention to the mountains. These were overhung by masses
of black clouds, that were all charged with rain and the elements of
a tempest. From one of these depended a phenomenon which I had never
witnessed before--I mean a water spout, wavering in its black and
terrible beauty over this savage scenery, thus adding its gloomy
grandeur to the sublimity of the thunder-storm, which now deepened,
peal after peal, among the mountains. To such as are unacquainted with
mountain scenery, and have never witnessed an inland water spout, it
is only necessary to say, that it resembles a long inverted cone, that
hangs from a bank of clouds whose blackness is impenetrable. It appears
immovable at the upper part, where it joins the clouds; but, as it
gradually tapers to a long and delicate point, it waves to and fro with
a beautiful and gentle motion, which blends a sense of grace with the
very terror it excites. It seldom lasts more than a few minutes, for,
as soon as the clouds are dispersed by the thunder it disappears so
quickly, that, having once taken your eye off it when it begins to
diminish, it is gone before you can catch it again--a fact which adds
something of a wild and supernatural character to its life-like motion
and appearance. The storm in which we saw it, was altogether confined
to the mountains, where it raged for a long time, evidently pouring down
deluges of rain, whilst on the hill side which we traversed, there was
nothing but calmness and sunshine.
“'It will be before us,' said Raymond, pointing to a dry torrent bed
close beside us; 'whisht, here it is---ha, ha, I like that--see it, see
it!'
“I looked in the direction of his hand, and was entranced in a kind of
wild and novel delight, by witnessing a large bursting body of water,
something between a dark and yellow hue, tumbling down the bed of the
river, with a roaring noise and impetuosity of which I had never formed
any conception before. From the spot we stood on, up to its formation
among the mountains, the river was literally a furious mountain torrent,
foaming over its very banks, whilst from the same place down to the
cultivated country it was almost dry, with merely an odd pool, connected
here and there by a stream too shallow to cover the round worn stones in
its channel. So rapid, and, indeed dangerous, is the rise of a mountain
flood, that many a life of man and beast have fallen victims to the
fatal speed of its progress. Raymond now bent his steps over to
the left, and, in a few minutes, we entered a graveyard, so closely
surrounded by majestic whitethorns, that it came upon me by surprise.
“'Whisht,' said he, 'she's often here--behind this ould chapel. For 'tis
there they are, the two big coffins and the little one--but I liked the
little one best.'
“He conducted me to an old mullioned window in the gable, through which
a single glance discovered to me the female of whose insanity, and the
dreadful cause of it, I had before heard. Whilst pointing her out to me,
he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and, heavy as it was, I could feel
the more distinctly by its vibrations that he trembled; and, on looking
into his face I perceived that he had got deadly pale, and that the same
spirit of humanity and compassion, to which I have alluded, had returned
to it once more. There was not reason in his face, to be sure, but there
certainly was an expression there, trembling, and mild, and beautiful,
as is the light of the morning star, before the glory of the sun has
unveiled itself in heaven. To Raymond's mind that early herald had
indeed come, but that was all--to him had never arisen the light of
perfect day.
“'There she is,' said he, 'look at her, but don't spake.'
“I looked at her with deep and melancholy interest. She sat on a broken
tombstone that lay beside the grave of those in whom her whole happiness
in this life had centered. Her dress was wofully neglected, her hair
loose, that is, it escaped from her cap, her white bosom was bare, and
her feet without shoe or stocking. I could easily perceive, that great
as her privations had been, God had now, perhaps in mercy, taken
away her consciousness of them, for she often smiled whilst talking
to herself, and occasionally seemed to feel that fulness of happiness
which, whether real or not, appears so frequently in the insane.
At length she stooped down, and kissed the clay of their graves,
exclaiming--
“'There is something here that I love; but nobody will tell me what
it is--no, not one. No matter, I know I love something--I know I love
somebody--somebody--and they love me--but now will no one tell me where
they are? Wouldn't Hugh come to me if I called him? but sure I did, and
he won't come--and Torley, too, won't come, and my own poor white-head,
even he won't come to me. But whisht, may be they're asleep; ay,
asleep, and ah, sure if ever any creatures wanted sleep, they do--sleep,
darlin's, sleep--I'll not make a noise to waken one of you--but what's
that?'
“Here she clasped her hands, and looked with such a gaze of affright and
horror around her, as I never saw on a human face before.
“'What's that? It's them, it's them,' she exclaimed--'I hear their
horses' feet, I hear them cursin' and swearin'--but no matther, I'm not
to be frightened. Amn't I Hugh Roe's wife?--Isn't here God on my side,
an' are ye a match for him.--Here--here's my breast, my heart, and
through that you must go before you touch him. But then,' she added,
with a sigh, 'where's them that I love, an' am waitin' for, an' why
don't they come?'
“She once more stooped down, and kissing the grave, whispered, but loud
enough to be heard, 'are ye here? If ye are, ye may speak to me--it's
not them, they don't know where ye are yet--but sure ye may speak to me.
It's Mary, Hugh--your mother, Torley--your own mother, Brian dear, with
the fair locks.'
“'Ay,' said Raymond, 'that's the white-head she misses--that's him that
I loved--but sure she needn't call him for he won't waken. I'll spake to
her.' As he uttered the words he passed rapidly out of a broken portion
of the wall, and, before she was aware of his approach, stood
beside her. I thought she would have been startled by his unexpected
appearance, but I was mistaken; she surveyed him not only without alarm,
but benignly; and after having examined him for some moments, she said,
'there are three of them, but they will not come--don't you know how I
loved somebody?'
“'Which o' them?' said Raymond.
“'It's a long sleep,' she said, without noticing the question, 'a long
sleep--well, they want it, poor things, for there was but little for
them but care, and cowld, and hardship--Sure we had sickness--Torley
left us first; but,--let me see,--where did Poor Brian go? Well, no
matter, we had sickness, as I said, and sometimes we had little or
nothing to eat, but sure still wasn't my hand tendher about them. I felt
my heart in my fingers when I touched them, and, if I gave them a drink
didn't my heart burn, and oh! it was then I knew how I loved them!
Whisht, then, poor things--och sure I'll do my best--I'll struggle for
you as well as I can--you have none but me to do it--it's not the black
wather I'd give my darlin' child if I had betther; but gruel is what I
can't get, for the sorra one grain of mail is undher the roof wid me;
but I'll warm the cowld potato for my pet, and you can play wid it till
you fall asleep, accushla. Yes, I will kiss you; for afther all, isn't
that the richest little treat that your poor mother has to comfort you
with in your poor cowld sick bed--one and all o' ye.'
“Here she rocked herself to and fro, precisely as if she had been
sitting by the sick bed, then stooping down a third time, she kissed the
earth that contained them once more--
“'Ah,' she exclaimed, 'how cowld their lips are! how cowld my
white-haired boy's lips are! and their sleep is long--Oh! but their
sleep is long!'
“Raymond, during these incoherent expressions, stood mutely beside her,
his lips, however, often moving, as if he were communing with himself,
or endeavoring to shape some words of rude comfort in her sorrows; but
ever and anon, as he seemed to go about it, his face moved with feelings
which he could not utter, like the surface of a brook stirred by the
breeze that passes over it. At length he laid his hand gently on her
shoulder, and exclaimed in a tone of wild and thrilling compassion--
“'Mary!'
“She then started for a moment, and looking around her with something
like curiosity rather than alarm, replied--
“'Well--'
“'Mary,' said he, 'make haste and go to heaven; make haste and go to
heaven--you'll find them all there--Hugh Regan, and Torley, and little
Brian. Don't stop here, for there will be more blood, more bloodhounds,
and more Val M'Clutchy's.'
“She did not seem to have noticed his particular words, but there
appeared to have been some association awakened which gave a new impulse
to her thoughts--
“'Come away,' said she, 'come away!'
“Raymond turned, and looking towards where I stood, beckoned me to
follow them; and truly it was a touching sight to see this unregulated
attempt of the poor innocent, to sooth the heavy sorrows--if such they
were now--of one of whose malady could appreciate no sympathy, and whose
stricken heart was apparently beyond the reach of consolation forever.
“Both now proceeded in silence, Raymond still holding her by the hand,
and affording her every assistance, as we crossed the fields, in order
to shorten the path which led us to the Castle Cumber road. On coming
to a ditch, for instance, he would lift her, but still with care and
gentleness, in his powerful arms, and place her, with scarcely any
effort of her own strength, which, indeed, was nearly gone, safely and
easily upon the other side.
“We had now crossed that part of the sloping upland which led us
out upon a bridle road, that passed close by M'Loughlin's house and
manufactory, and which, slanted across a ford in the river, a little
above their flax-mill. Having got out upon this little road, Raymond,
who, as well as his companion, had for some time past proceeded in
silence, stopped suddenly, and said--'Where is heaven, Mary?'
“She involuntarily looked up towards the sky, with a quick but
more significant glance than any I had yet seen her give; but this
immediately passed away, and she said in a low voice, very full of the
usual tones of sorrow:--'Heaven--it's there,' she replied, pointing
behind her, towards the burying-place, 'in their graves!'
“Raymond looked at me, and smiled, as if much pleased with the answer.
'Ay,' said he, 'so it is--wherever his white head lies is heaven.'
“I cannot tell how it happened, but I know that I felt every source of
tenderness and compassion in my heart moved and opened more by these
simple words on both sides, than by all that had passed since we met
her.
“In a few minutes more we reached that part of the road immediately
adjoining M'Loughlin's house, and which expanded itself as it reached
the river, that here became a ford, being crossed in ordinary cases
by stone steps. As is usual in the case of such, floods, which fall as
rapidly as they rise, we found about a dozen persons of both sexes, some
sitting, others standing, but all waiting until the river should subside
so as to be passed with safety--the little wooden bridge alluded to
having been literally swept away. Among these was Poll Doolin, the
mother of Raymond, who, however, did not appear to take any particular
notice of her, but kept close by, and directed all his attention to,
unhappy Mary O'Regan. About half an hour, had elapsed, when Raymond,
casting his eye upon the decreasing torrent, said--
“'It is now low enough--come, Mary, I will carry you safe over--Raymond
has often crossed it higher, ay, when it was over the rock there to our
right--come.' He lifted her up in his arms without another word, and,
with firm and confident steps, proceeded to ford the still powerful and
angry stream.
“'Raymond, are you mad?' shouted his mother; 'ten times your strength
couldn't stand that flood--come back, you headstrong creature, or you'll
both be lost, as sure as you attempt it.'
“Her remonstrances, however, were in vain. Raymond did not even look
back, nor pay the slightest attention to what she said.
“'Never mind them,' said he; 'I know best--it's often I crossed it.'
“On reaching the centre of the stream, however, he appeared to feel as
if he had miscalculated the strength of either it or himself. He stood
for a moment literally shaking like a reed in its strong current--the
passive maniac still in his arms, uncertain whether to advance with her
or go back. Experience, however, had often told him, that if the fording
it were at all practicable, the danger was tenfold to return, for by
the very act of changing the position, a man must necessarily lose the
firmness of his opposition to the stream, and consequently be borne away
without the power of resisting it. Raymond, therefore, balanced himself
as steadily as possible, and by feeling and making sure his footing in
the most cautious manner--the slightest possible slip or stumble being
at that moment fatal--he, with surprising strength and courage, had just
succeeded in placing her safely on the rock he had before alluded to,
when a stone turned under him--his foot gave way--and the poor creature,
whose reason was veiled to almost every impulse but that of a wild
and touching humanity, tumbled down the boiling torrent, helpless and
unresisting as a child, and utterly beyond the reach of assistance. My
own sensations and feelings I really cannot describe, because, in point
of fact, such was the tumult--the horror--of my mind at that moment,
that I have no distinct recollection of my impressions. I think for
a short space I must have lost both my sight and hearing, for I now
distinctly remember to have heard, only for the first time, the piercing
screams of his mother rising above the wild and alarming cries of the
others--but not until he had gone down the stream, and disappeared round
a sharp angle or bend, which it formed about eight or ten yards below
where he fell.
“There grew a little to the left of the spot where this shocking
disaster occurred, a small clump of whitethorn trees, so closely matted
together, that it was impossible to see through them. We all, therefore,
ran round as if by instinct, to watch the tumbling body of poor Raymond,
when what was our surprise to see a powerful young man, about eight or
ten yards below us, dashing into the stream; where, although the current
was narrower, it was less violent, and holding by a strong projecting
branch of hazel that grew on the bank, stretch across the flood, and,
as the body of Raymond passed him, seize it with a vigorous grasp, which
brought it close to where he stood. Feeling that both were now out of
the force of the current, he caught it in his arms, and ere any of
us had either time or presence of mind even to proffer assistance, he
carried, or rather dragged it out of the water, and laid it on the dry
bank.
“'Come,' said he, 'I am afraid there is little time to be lost--help
me up with him to my father's, till we see what can be done to recover
life, if life is left.'
“The fact is, however, that Raymond was not altogether insensible; for,
as young M'Loughlin--the same, by the way, who had sent the message to
Phil--had concluded, he opened his eyes, breathed, and after gulping up
some water, looked about him.
“'Ah!' said he, 'poor Mary--she's gone to them at last; but she'll be
happier with them. Take my hand,' said he to M'Loughlin, 'sure I thought
I could do it. Poor Mary!'
“This instantly directed our attention to the unhappy woman, whom we had
all overlooked and forgotten for the moment, and I need not say that
our satisfaction was complete, on finding her sitting calmly on the rock
where Raymond had placed her, at the risk of his life. Poll Doolin, now
seeing that her idiot son was safe, and feeling that she was indebted
for his life to the son of that man on whom she is said by many to have
wreaked such a fearful vengeance, through the ruined reputation of
his only daughter, now approached the young man, and with her features
deeply convulsed by a sense probably of her obligation to him, she
stretched out her hand, 'John M'Loughlin,' said she, 'from this day out
may God prosper me here and hereafter, if I'm not the friend of you and
yours!'
“'Bad and vindictive woman,' replied the other indignantly, whilst he
held back the hand she sought, 'our accounts are now settled--I have
saved your son; you have murdered my sister. If you are capable of
remorse I now leave you to the hell of your own conscience, which can be
but little less in punishment than that of the damned.'
“Raymond, whose attention had been divided between them and Mary
O'Regan, now said--
“'Ha, ha, mother--there--that's one--you'll sleep sound now I hope,
for you didn't lately--that little thing that comes to your bedside at
night, won't trouble you any more, I suppose. No, no, the thing you say
in your sleep, that is black in the face, has its tongue out, and the
handkerchief drawn tight about its neck. You'd give back the money in
your dhrame; but sorry a penny while you're waken, I'll engage.'
“Poll turned away rebuked, but not, if one could judge, either in
resentment or revenge. Raymond's words she had not heard, and of course
paid no attention to what he said; but the latter, now seeing that
the river had fallen considerably, again dashed into the stream, and
crossing over, lifted the poor insane widow off the rock, and setting
her down in safety on the other side, they both proceeded onwards
together.
“'The ford, sir, will not be passable for at least another hour,' said
young M'Loughlin, addressing me, 'but if you will have the kindness to
step up to my father's, and rest a little after your mountain journey,
for I think you have been up the hills, you will find it at least more
comfortable than standing here, and less fatiguing than going round
by the bridge, which would make it at least five miles added to your
journey.'
“I thanked him, said I felt obliged, and would gladly avail myself of
his very civil invitation.
“'Perhaps,' he added, 'you might wish to see our flax and linen
manufactory; if so, and that you do not think it troublesome, I will
feel great pleasure in showing it to you.'
“I expressed my obligations, but pleaded fatigue, which indeed I felt;
and we consequently soon found ourselves in his father's parlor, where
I met a very venerable old gentleman, the Rev. Mr. Roche, the Roman
Catholic pastor of the parish.”
We must here exercise the privilege, which, at the commencement of
this correspondence, we assured our readers we should reserve to
ourselves--we allude to the ability which we possess, from ampler
and clearer sources of information--to throw into Mr. Easel's
correspondence, in their proper place, such incidents as he could
not have possibly known, but which let in considerable light upon the
progress of his narrative.