Produced by David Widger
THE TITHE-PROCTOR.
By William Carleton
PREFACE.
After the reader shall, have perused the annexed startling and
extraordinary narrative, on which I have founded the tale of the
Tithe-Proctor, I am sure he will admit that there is very little left
me to say in the shape of a preface. It is indeed rarely, that ever a
document, at once so authentic and powerful, has been found prefixed
to any work of modern Irish Fiction--proceeding as it does, let me add,
from the pen of a gentleman whose unassuming character and modesty are
only surpassed by the distinction which his name has already gained
in one of the most difficult but useful departments of our native
literature.
I trust that there will be found nothing in the work which follows that
is calculated to give any serious offence. Yet, when we look back upon
the contentions, both political and polemical, by which this unhappy
country in connection with tithe especially, has been so frequently and
so bitterly distracted, we can hardly hope, that any writer, however
anxious, nay studious, to avoid giving offence, can expect to treat such
a subject without incurring animosity in _some_ quarter. Be this as it
may, I have only to say, on behalf of myself, that in composing the
work I was influenced by nothing but a firm and honest determination to
depict the disturbances arising from the tithe impost with a fair and
impartial hand: and if any party shall feel hurt by observations which
the necessity of rendering full justice to a subject so difficult
have imposed upon me in the discharge of a public duty, I beg them
to consider that such observations proceeded from no wish to offend
existing prejudices, but are to be looked upon as arising inferentially
from those stern and uncompromising claims of truth and justice, which
equally disregard the prejudices of any and every party. After all, I am
of opinion that the spirit in which the work is written will be found,
whilst it correctly delineates the state and condition of the country
during the fearful tumults and massacres of the Tithe Rebellion, to have
left little, if anything, to be complained of in this respect.
In constructing narratives of this sort, it is to be understood that
certain allowances are always made for small anachronisms that cannot be
readily got over. The murder of the Bolands, for instance, occurred in
the year 1808, and the massacre of Carrickshock, as it has been called,
in 1832. It was consequently impossible for me to have availed myself of
the annexed “Narrative” and brought in the “Massacre” in the same story,
without bringing down the murder of the Bolands to a more recent date.
It may be objected that I have assumed, as the period of my story, one
which was calculated to bring into light and action the worst feelings
and the darkest criminals of my country. This, however, was not my
fault. If they had not existed, I could not have painted them; and so
long as my country is disgraced by great crimes, and her social state
disorganized by men whoso hardened vices bring shame upon civilization
itself, so long, I add, these crimes and such criminals shall never be
veiled over by me. I endeavor to paint Ireland, sometimes as she was,
but always as she is, in order that she may see many of those debasing
circumstances which prevent her from being what she ought to be. In the
meantime, I trust the reader will have an opportunity of perceiving
that I have not in the _Tithe-Proctor_, any more than in my other work,
forgotten to show him that even in the most startling phases of
Irish crime and tumult, I have by no means neglected to draw the warm,
generous, and natural virtues of my countrymen, and to satisfy him that
a very few guilty wretches are quite sufficient, however unjustly, to
blacken and degrade a large district.
There is, however, a certain class of pseudo-patriots in this country,
who are of opinion that every writer, professing to depict our national
character and manners, should make it a point of conscience to suppress
all that is calculated “to lessen us in the eyes of the world,” as they
are pleased to term it, and only to give to the public the bright and
favorable side. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the moral dishonesty
and meanness of a principle, at once so disgraceful to literature and so
repugnant to truth. These thin-skinned gentlemen are of opinion that the
crime itself is a matter of trivial importance compared to the fact of
its becoming known, and that provided the outside of the platter is kept
clean, it matters not how filthy it may be within.
In the days of my boyhood and early life, the people of Ireland were,
generally speaking, an honest, candid, faithful, and grateful people,
who loved truth, and felt the practical influence of religious feeling
strongly, but so dishonest and degrading has been the long curse of
agitation, to which forms of it their moral and social principles have
been exposed, that there probably could not be found in any country,
an instance in which the virtues of the whole people have been so
completely debauched and contaminated (I do not say voluntarily), as
those of the Irish have been by the leading advocates of repeal. The
degeneracy of character, occasioned by those tampering with our national
virtues, is such as we shall not recover from these thirty years to
come. Many of our best, mellow-toned, old virtues, that pass in an
unbroken link of hereditary beauty from father to son, and from family
to family, like some sacred and inestimable heirloom, at once reverenced
and loved, are all gone--such as our love of truth, our simple devotion
and patriarchal piety, our sincerity in all social intercourse, and
others of the same stamp; whilst little else is left us but a barren
catalogue of broken and dishonest promises, and the consciousness of
having been at once fleeced and laughed at. And it would be well if we
could stop here, but truth forces us onward. The Irishman of the present
day--the creature of agitation--is neither honest, nor candid, nor
manly, nor generous, but a poor, skulking dupe, at once slavish
and insolent, offensive and cowardly--who carries, as a necessary
consequence, the principles of political dishonesty into the practices
of private life, and is consequently disingenuous and fraudulent.
Let me not be misunderstood. I love truth; and have never been either
afraid or ashamed to speak it; and I trust I never shall. I now allude
to the principles of Conciliation Hall, and the system by which they
were led. I feel bound, however, to exempt the party called Young
Irelanders from having had any participation in bringing about results
so disastrous to the best moral interests of the country. It is true,
that, as politicians, they were insane; but then they were at least
sincere and honest; and I am satisfied that there is not a man of them,
who would not have abandoned the object he had in view, sooner than
accomplish it by sacrificing the popular virtues and moral character
of the country for its attainment. I have myself been a, strong
anti-repealer during my whole life, and though some of the Young
Irelanders are my personal friends, yet none know better than they
do, that I was strenuously opposed to their principles, and have often
endeavored--need I say unsuccessfully?--to dissuade them from the
madness of their agitation.
Having made these few necessary observations, I now beg to introduce to
my readers the extraordinary narrative already spoken of--a narrative
whose force and graphic power will serve only to bring shame upon the
feeble superstructure which I have endeavored to erect upon it. It is
termed--
THE MURDER OF THE BOLANDS.
In the year 1808, there lived near Croom, in the county of Limerick, a
farmer named Michael Boland. He was an intelligent and prosperous
man, and the owner of many hundred acres of the best land in that fine
county.
He had two sons and two daughters, all grown up to manhood and
womanhood, in this year, and the parish chapel never saw, in their time,
a finer family for stature, symmetry, and comeliness, attend its mass
than Michael Boland, his wife, and children. With the growth of his
family, his ambition and desire of increased wealthiness grew; and,
by the agency of some hundred pounds, he became the tithe-proctor, or
rector of several patches of tithes throughout the county.
At first he was successful in this speculation, and with his increased
profits, himself and his children assumed a higher and more important
tone and bearing in society. In fact, his sons and daughters passed as
ladies and gentlemen, not only in external appearance, but in elegance
of manners and cultivation of mind; for he spared no expense on their
education, as well in his original as in his subsequent condition of
life; besides that at this period, and for a long time previous, the
County of Limerick was the great school-house, not only of Munster, but
of all Ireland--vide Carleton's “Poor Scholar.”
The sudden departure of the Bolands from the intercourse and intimate
acquaintance of their former companions and neighbors, as well as the
long brooding hatred and opposition of the people to the payment of
tithes, soon gave rise to loud murmurs and sarcastic retrospective
observations against them; and people far and near took every occasion
to offend and insult them--both men and women---wherever and whenever
an opportunity of doing so, in a galling manner, offered. Often were
the Misses Boland asked, when mounted on their side-saddles, did they
remember when their mother used to be driving her cart-load of tankards
of sour milk to the market of Limerick, and sitting there for days
retailing it at a penny a gallon, &c.; and as often were the young
brothers asked when bursting over an old neighbor's fence, in scarlet
and buckskin, if they remembered when their father and mother bore an
active hand and shoulder to the carving out and spreading of the manure
to the fields, &c.
Far from being abashed at all this, the Bolands only sought ampler
opportunities to annoy and exasperate their ill-wishers by more
imperious airs to them, and a closer attendance to the gentlemanly
sports of the country, but still they gave no tangible cause to quarrel
broadly with them. While matters were going on in this way, they
received a nocturnal anonymous letter, ordering them to send a few of
their abundant stock of arms to a certain lonely place, for the benefit,
of the popular legislators of that turbulent county. This summons the
Bolands answered by a letter of defiance, and a challenge to the parties
to come and take them forcibly if they durst. They were agan summoned
for their arms, and cautioned to lower their demand for tithes. To this
they sent an exasperating response of defiance, and a challenge, after
which they seriously went about fortifying their dwelling, and putting
it into the best posture of defence against the assault which they were
very certain would be made on them sooner or later.
They built a line of lofty strong stone walls around their house,
offices, and other property, and, thus secure, they awaited anxiously
the expected visit of their deadly enemies.
In the meantime the messengers of vengeance passed through all the
counties of Munster, with an account of the rebellious designs of the
Bolands, against the majesty of midnight legislation; and to collect
levies of men, ammunition, army, and friends, for the purpose of making
a certain destructive attack upon them.
One evening, about the latter end of November, the roads and paths
leading to the little village of Kilteely, a few miles to the east of
Boland's house, was observed to be more than usually thronged with men,
on foot and on horseback, passing, as it were, to and from Limerick, and
strangers, apparently, to all the inhabitants and to each other. Shortly
after nightfall, the hill of Kilteely was seen covered with men and
horses, and within an old ruined house on the top of the hill a
dim light was seen to occasionally flitter. This ruin was full of
respectably dressed men, and at one end of it, on chairs, and at a
table, provided for the occasion, sat twelve of the most respectable of
them, and a portly important-looking gentleman on an elevated chair at
the end of the table. Two or three candies were burning, and some slips
of paper were on the table.
After a silence of a few seconds, the judge asked, in an audible voice,
if there was any business to be brought before the court on that night?
He was immediately answered in a solemn tone, by more than one voice,
that there was a great deal of business, but that only one case, that
of Captain Right against Boland, should be brought before him at
that present time. The judge then desired that the case be gone into.
Whereupon a middle-sized well-set young man, about six-and-twenty years
of age, whose name we know, and who sat behind the judge, now brought
his chair forward to the table, on the judge's left hand, and unrolling
a roll of paper, read in a low, solemn, but audible tone of voice, a
series of charges preferred by the said Captain Right against the said
Michael Boland and his sons.
The captain was then called up, and he deposed to different charges
against the defendants--such as taking beforehand, or in reversion,
several small farms over the heads of poor but solvent tenants, turning
them adrift on the world, and converting their small agricultural farms
into one or more large farms for grazing; thereby adding to the
number of the destitute, and contracting the supply of agricultural
produce--the payment to his laboring men of only eight-pence a day,
which he compounded for in kind--potatoes, milk, &c, at twice, at least,
what those commodities fetched him in the neighboring markets. These
were only a few of the many charges of petty tyranny preferred against
Boland; but the last and greatest of all was his Tithe Exactions.
Several witnesses were called up to prove these weighty offences, after
which it was asked if the accused party had been served with notices to
desist from those high misdemeanors; and if he had engaged any one to
speak for him, or in his favor. After a short pause, a man above the
middle size, with snaggy hair and beard, and of a sinister aspect, came
up to the table and said, that although he had not been employed or
deputed to appear for Mr. Boland and the young masters and misses, his
fine sons and daughters, yet justice to the accused compelled him to
come forward, and offer a few words in extenuation of the punishment,
if any, which should be inflicted for their alleged misdeeds. “First,
then,” he asked, “was it possible that they, the men then present,
should be angry or offended at seeing one of their own race and religion
spring up from among them, and take his station with the best of the
Cromwellian Shoneens that surrounded and oppressed them? And when he did
so spring up, was it any blame to him to avail himself of every means
which The Law allowed him to maintain his elevation, though it might be
by standing on the shoulders and necks of as good fellows as himself?
What had Mr. Boland done but what others had been doing for ages, and
were doing still? As for the matter of tithes, sure they should be paid
to the minister who they never saw nor cared to see, and if Mr. Boland
had profit on them, so much the better, because the less tithe that went
into the absent minister's pocket the more would they all be pleased. To
be sure the tithe-proctor always exacted to the last farthing, and more
than the minister--and it is believed that Mr. Boland was not behind any
of the trade--and some people say, indeed, that, from his knowledge of
farming and the ins and outs of people's little tillage, he sometimes
exacted to within a trifle of one-fifth of the produce. Indeed, in my
own case--and I am but a poor brogue-maker, with half-a-dozen acres of
the |poorest lands of F------, he took from me, between citations to
the Bishop's Court and other costs, with the original tithes, at least
one-fourth of the entire produce of my little farm; nor do I know any
one in the parish that fares better than myself, especially the poor
people who don't understand the law, and who are not able, or willing,
to get into it. However, I confess, I never regretted my own share of
the loss, where I knew and thought that it all went to the glory and
grandeur of the Masters and Misses Boland. Nor shall I ever forget the
cutting-up which young Mick Boland gave me, with the butt-end of his
loaded whip, the day I went to their house to complain that their driver
had put all my sheep into the pound, for a debt of sixteen shillings,
tithe-money. And now, my Lord Justice, as I have said so much of the
truth in favor of Mr. Boland and his family, I hope your lordship will
pass a merciful and just sentence oh them, and that this just jury won't
find these friends to us, to our religion, and to our country, guilty.”
There was a suppressed murmur of approbation, accompanied by an audible
stamping of feet, at the conclusion of this merciful harangue. But
silence being called, the jurors put their heads together across
the table, and in less than two minutes their foreman handed up the
issue-paper to the secretary, who sat by the side of the judge on
receipt of which that functionary arose and in a solemn, scarcely
audible voice, read from the paper a verdict of “guilty” against Michael
Boland and his two sons. The judge then immediately arose from his
chair, and in a low, solemn, but firm and distinct tone of voice,
pronounced the verdict of the court to be, “Death and Dark Destruction
to Michael Boland and his two sons,” and that the sentence should be
executed that very night. On the announcement of the verdict a low
shriek of exultation arose from the audience, followed by a simultaneous
half-suppressed cry of, “Long life to our Judge! Long life to Buck
English!”
The judge stood up again and said: “Now, boys, I know that there is no
man here present but a man who has been often well tried in exploits of
danger and of death: every man of you is the leader of a party of brave
fellows, who, with yourselves, have sworn to sustain the oppressed;
crush the tyrant, and right the wronged. Your men are brave, bold, and
hearty; keep them to: their duty, and in perfect submission to your
orders. Let the old tyrant and his young cubs be cut off, at all
hazards, but spare the women--nay, make every possible exertion to save
them, but, more especially, and by all means, let the eldest daughter,
Miss Anna, be saved, secured, and brought to me, as you all know how
long I have vainly endeavored to make her mine. And now, boys, every man
to his post, and I, your commander, shall lead you on.”
Buck English is a real character--his real name was Ryan, and he
had been respectably reared, but gave himself up to the intoxicating
excitement of the French Revolution--he also fought in '98, and
subsequently, for his intelligence and daring spirit, became the leader
of all the lawless and disaffected parties in his native County of
Limerick, and, indeed, of all Munster.
The parties within the old ruin now made their appearance on the hill,
and every man of them going to the head of his own body, they marched
first to Hospital, a contiguous village, where they boldly beat a drum,
the sound of which called up, as by enchantment, such a concourse of
armed men as frightened the parties themselves. They marched from that,
westwards, to Knockany, where they dug up several extensive fields
(of grass) belonging to Mr. O'Grady. They marched on then, in the
same direction, towards the residence of the Bolands, their numbers
increasing as they went along, by voluntary and involuntary parties.
The Bolands, ever on the watch, soon learned that they were to be
visited that night by those parties whom they had so long defied, but
they never calculated that they Should be attacked by such a strong
force as they now learned was approaching them--for it is believed
that the actual number could not have been less than five thousand men,
contributed by the Counties of Limerick Clare, Kerry, Cork, Waterford,
Tipperary, and Kilkenny.
However, they were not daunted, but immediately put themselves in order
of battle. They first sent out (off their premises) all their servants,
men and women, lest there should be a spy or a traitor among them. They
then carried up all their arms and ammunition to the top floor of their
(two-story, long, thatched) house. The father and the younger sons
planted themselves at one of the window's facing the front. The elder
son and the family tutor, a young man of the neighborhood, who would
not abandon them in their hour of danger, took their stand at the
window which looked directly at the narrow strong door of the wall which
inclosed the house. The two daughters, with their mother, took up their
places between the two windows, under cover of the wall, and having been
well practiced for som, weeks previous, stood prepared to load and hand
up the arms to their heroes when the occasion should arrive. About the
hour of one o'clock in the morning, the barking of dogs, and an odd
random shot, gave the Bolands certain and unmistakable notice that their
hour of terror was at hand. And soon they could hear a monotonous sound
of moving feet and suppressed voices, under the outer walls of their
fortress. A horn was then sounded, and the besieged were called upon to
open their gates and surrender at discretion. But no answer was received
from within, where all was total darkness and apparent inactivity.
Several attempts were now made to burst the strong yard door, but
without effect. The assailants then began to fire at the thatch of
the dwelling house, as well as on the out-offices, with the intent of
setting them in flames; and after several attempts, they ultimately
succeeded in igniting the thatch of a detached cow-house, which stood
out from the other buildings, and the wind, unfortunately happening to
blow from that quarter to the other offices, carried the fire to them,
by which they were soon in a blaze. In the meantime, they procured two
sledges from a neighboring forge, with which they assaulted the yard
door, which they soon broke in. Now there was a dead pause on the
part of the assailants--for they knew very well, that to pass on the
threshold of this door was certain death. However, the pressure from the
rear was so great, that suddenly several men were involuntarily pushed
in through the doorway. And now the work of death commenced, for no
sooner had the first batch been pressed in, than there was such
a well-directed shower of bullets poured out on them from four
well-charged blunderbusses, as levelled every man of them with the
earth. A moment's pause ensued, and the door was again filled with new
aspirants for “fame in the cannon's mouth,” who, however, fared as badly
as the preceding batch. During this time the assailing party had been
busy with crowbars and other instruments, in making several breaches in
the yard walls. At length they succeeded in opening entrances in three
different places at the same time, and thus in a few minutes several
hundred men were precipitated into the yard. And now commenced the work
of death in earnest. The assailants were shot down in scores, while the
upper windows of the house, from which the deadly firing was so ably
kept up, received fifty discharges to the one that issued from them. The
house was immediately surrounded, and guards of chosen faithful men were
placed at its doors and lower windows, with strict orders to let no one,
especially the “old fox,” escape, with the exception only of the women.
To add to the dreadful condition of the Bolands, the assailants had
now succeeded in igniting the thatch of the dwelling-house, and it was
immediately in a blaze. The Bolands and their tutor, ably served by
their mother and sisters, still continued to deal death and destruction
on the parties outside, without being yet fatigued or disabled. But at
length the upper floor became too hot, and the old man, with his wife
and daughters, retreated to the lower floor. The brothers and the tutor,
however, remained above, but doing less execution, because, when the
assailants saw the house on fire, they retreated outside the yard wall,
excepting the guard who were placed round the house, and these stood so
close to the walls that the party above had not power of injuring them,
without fully exposing their own persons at the windows.
While both parties were thus in a fearful state of suspense, the burning
roof of the house fell in on the three young men above, and immediately
buried them for ever in its destructive flames. The assailing crowds set
up a terrific shout of triumph. The floor above now began to crackle,
and so dense was the smoke below, that the old man and the woman were
in a state little short of suffocation. At last the Proctor became
desperate, and opening one of the ground windows, and taking his poor
wife by the hand, he attempted to throw himself and her out through it.
No sooner, however, had they appeared at the window, than the old man
was riddled with bullets from without, and thrown back into the now
blazing room from which he had been endeavoring to escape.
The three young men and the old man being now destroyed, a voice in the
rear of the crowd called out, in a fierce commanding them, to rescue
the women at all hazards, whereupon the sledges were applied to the
front door of the house; but while they were thus engaged, the young
women unbarred the back door, and rushing out with their mother,
uttering the most piercing shrieks, they ran into a stable which
was near, before they could be laid hold of. Here, however, the two
daughters were immediately seized on by order of the commander of the
siege, Buck English, and carried out, but not violently, until they came
to the stable-door, where the eldest daughter laid hold of the iron bolt
staple of the door-post, and so desperately did she hold it, that she
did not let it go till her shoulder was dislocated. They were both
carried off then to the Galtee mountains, the usual resort of the Buck,
who retained the eldest during pleasure. I forget what became of the
younger girl, but the other became deranged, and in that melancholy
state was subsequently taken into the “protection,” as it is called, of
a certain banker of Limerick, who shot himself in that city, to my own
knowledge, in 1815. * * *
The scene at the residence of the Bolands, on the morning after the
attack, was truly horrifying. The remains of the four men, almost
burned to cinders, were dug out of the still burning ruins, nor was the
spectacle in the yard and on the neighboring road less frightful; from
the multitude of dead bodies with which they were strewn; for most of
their stranger assailants who were killed were left on the spot--the
party not choosing to be seen carrying them off by daylight. But such
of the people of the neighboring parishes as fell, were carried off by
friends and acquaintances, and hid during that day, but buried at night
at remote distances from their houses, in the newly-ploughed and in the
wheat-sown fields. The inquest, &c, being over, the government and the
gentry of the county offered a large reward for any information that
would lead to the apprehension or knowledge of the actors, especially
the commander, in this fearful tragedy. A strong military force was
stationed in the neighborhood, and all the bad and suspicious characters
of the district were taken up, and committed to gaol on suspicion.
However, the original concocters of the murder made their escape, either
to England or to the remote parts of Clare, Kerry, and Cork; whilst
terror reigned throughout the whole County of Limerick among the farmers
at seeing the numbers that were arrested, and the largeness of the
reward.
One morning, as a well-known active magistrate of the county was sitting
at his breakfast, a strange woman came to his door, and requested to
see him on business of importance. He immediately called up two of his
servant men, and ordered them to go to the door and see that the woman
was really a woman, and that she had no arms about her. This was
soon done, and the woman, a real one, was ushered into his worship's
presence. She then told him--the room being first cleared of all other
people--that, she was the wife of D---- A------, the brogue-maker of
F----, that her husband was an honest, industrious man, who knew his own
trade and business well, and who knew a great deal about the business of
other people, too, and of what was going on in the country--that he was
a man of upright and Christian principles, who would always feel it a
conscientious duty to aid the laws of his country to preserve social
order and punish crime--that he was not a man to be terrified or bribed
by any amount of punishment or reward; but that if he were properly
managed and kindly treated, he might be found able to give a good deal
of useful information.
His worship had the good-natured poor woman taken good care of for
that day--and at a late hour of the same night he took and put her
comfortably sitting on a horse, behind one of his constables, and,
surrounded by a strong military body, horse and foot, marched her in
safety; she showing the way to her own house. They found honest Darby
sitting by his fire, reading his prayer-book, and in great grief at the
unaccountable absence of his wife. He was dreadfully agitated when he
found himself arrested, and strongly protested that he was an honest,
industrious tradesman, who knew nothing of the wickedness of the world;
and wondered much what this was all about.
His worship advised him to be calm--that all should be well, but that
he should accompany himself to his house. After Darby had spent several
usefully employed days with his new friend, he was transmitted to
Limerick gaol, with orders that he should be well treated, and be
allowed to see his wife as often as she desired it. The wife soon found
that it would be more convenient for her, and perhaps somewhat safer,
to be living near her husband, and therefore went to reside in Limerick.
The news of Darby's arrest caused no little alarm through the county,
and it was soon whispered about that persons were now arrested, of whose
participation in the Boland affair no human being could give any hint
except himself alone. His wife's rooms became crowded every day with
the wives, daughters, and sisters of the men arrested,--and others not
arrested, or suspected by any living being; money in hundreds of pounds
was poured into her lap to purchase the ignorance, the silence, or the
perjury of Darby--and every one went away apparently satisfied with
Darby's promises through his faithful wife.
The assizes came down at last. Darby lost all recollection of any money
but the large public reward, and on that occasion over twenty men were
hanged chiefly on his evidence--though it was very difficult for the
crown counsel to bring the poor reluctant man to the point; but when
he did make a convicting admission, he took care that it should be
a clincher, wrung from him, as he wished it to appear, by a cunning
counsel. The gallows at Limerick continued for years after to be fed by
Darby with victims for this crime; and several hundred were transported,
or went into voluntary banishment on account of this fearful butchery.
The writer of this knew well, and was at school with the secretary of
the Court of Kilteely Hill.
CHAPTER I.--The Chapel Green of Esker Dearg.
The chapel of _Esker Dearg_, or the Red Ridge, was situated in a rich
and well-cultivated country, that for miles about it literally teemed
with abundance. The Red Ridge under which it stood was one of those long
eminences, almost, if not altogether, peculiar to Ireland. It was, as
the name betokens, a prolonged elevation that ran for nearly a mile and
a half in a north-eastern direction without appearing to yield to, or
be influenced by, the natural position or undulations of the country
through which it went. The epithet of red which was attached to it,
originated, according to popular tradition, in a massacre which had
taken place upon it during one of the Elizabethan wars, others imputed
it to a cause much more obvious and natural, viz., its peculiar
appearance during all seasons of the year, owing to the parched and
barren nature of the soil, which, in consequence of its dry and elevated
Position, was covered only with furze and tern, or thin, short grass
that was parched by the sun into a kind of red-brown color.
Under that end of this Esker which pointed nearest to the south-west,
stood the chapel we have just mentioned. It was a rather long building
with double gables and a double roof, perfectly plain, and with no other
ornament, either inside or out, if we except a marble cross that stood
against the wall upon the altar, of which the good priest was not a
little vain, inasmuch as it had been of his own procuring. A public road
of course ran past it, or rather skirted the green unenclosed space, by
which, in common with most country edifices, it was surrounded. Another
road joined that which we have mentioned, within a few perches of it,
so that it stood at what might be nearly considered a cross-road. One
or two large trees grew beside it, which gave to its otherwise simple
appearance something of picturesque effect, especially during the
summer months, when they were thickly covered with leaves, and waved and
rustled in the sun to the refreshing breezes of that delightful season.
It was Sunday in the early part of March--we will not name the
year--when our story commences. The Red Ridge Chapel was as usual
surrounded by the greater portion of the congregation that had assembled
to hear Mass. Within its walls there were only a few classes of
youngsters, male and female, formed into circles, learning their
catechism from the schoolmaster of the neighborhood, the clerk, or some
devotee who possessed education enough to qualify himself for that
kind office. Here and there in different parts of the chapel were
small groups of adult persons, more religiously disposed than the rest,
engaged in saying the rosary, whilst several others were performing
solitary devotions, some stationary in a corner of the chapel, and
others going the circuit around its walls in the performance of the
Fourteen Stations of the Cross. Now, all these religious and devotional
acts take place previous to the arrival of the priest, and are suspended
the moment he commences Mass; into the more sublime majesty of which
they appear, as it were, to lose themselves and be absorbed.
The great body of the congregation, however, until the clergyman makes
his appearance, are to be found outside, on what is called the Chapel
Green. Here they stand in groups, engaged in discussing the topics of
the day, or such local intelligence as may interest them; and it is
to one of those groups that we now beg to call the attention of our
readers.
Under the larger of the two trees we have described stood a circle
of the country people, listening to, and evidently amused by, the
conversation of an individual whose bearing and appearance we must
describe at great length.
He was a person whom at first sight you would feel disposed to class
with young men. In other words, you might be led, from the lively flow
of his spirits and his peculiarly buoyant manner, to infer that he
had not gone beyond thirty or thirty-five. Upon a closer inspection,
however, you could easily perceive that his countenance, despite of
its healthy hue, was a good deal wrecked and weatherbeaten, and gave
indications of those traces, which not only a much longer period of
time, but deep and violent passions, seldom fail to leave behind them.
His features were regular, and at first glance seemed handsome, but upon
a nearer approach you were certain to find that their expression was
heartless and disagreeable. They betokened no symptom of humanity of
feeling, but were lit up with a spirit of harsh and reckless levity,
which, whilst it made him popular with the unthinking multitude, might
have been easily understood as the accompaniment, if not the direct
exponent, of a bad and remorseless heart. The expression of his mouth
was at the same time both hard and wanton, and his eyes, though full
of a lively lustre, resembled in their brightness those of a serpent or
hyena. His forehead was constructive but low, and, we may say, rather
unintellectual than otherwise. He was without whiskers, a circumstance
which caused a wound on the back part of his jaw to be visible, and
one-half of the left-hand little finger had been shot off in defence of
his church and country, according to his own account. This was a subject
however, upon which he always affected a good deal of mystery when
conversing with the people, or we should say, he took care to throw out
such oracular insinuations of what he had suffered in their defence, as,
according to their opinion, almost constituted him a martyr. In size
he was somewhat above the middle height, compact, and exceedingly well
built. His chest was deep and his shoulders powerful, whilst his limbs
were full of muscular strength and great activity.
Having thus given a portrait of his person, it only remains that we
describe his costume as he appeared on the Sunday in question, and we
do so because it may be right to inform our readers, in the outset,
that one of his peculiarities was a habit of seldom appearing, for any
lengthened period, in the same dress, or indeed in the same locality.
On this occasion he had on a pair of tight buckskin breeches, top-boots
and spurs--for he mostly went on horseback--a blue body-coat, with
bright gilt buttons, a buff cassimere waistcoat, and a very fashionable
hat.
The cravat he wore was of green silk, and was tied in a knot, which
might be understood by the initiated as one that entitled him to their
confidence and respect. Our readers may not be surprised at this, for,
unfortunately so high and bitter have party prejudices and feelings in
our disturbed country run, that the very dress has been often forced to
become symbolic of their spirit and existence.
The chapel green, as we have said, was covered by the great bulk of the
peasantry who were waiting the arrival of the priest. Here was a circle
in which stood some rustic politician, who, having had an opportunity
of getting a glimpse at some newspaper of the day, was retailing its
contents to a greedy circle of listeners about him. There again stood
some well-known storyteller, or perhaps a live old senachie, reciting
wild and stirring legends to his particular circle. Some were stretched
indolently on the grass, or lying about the ditches in the adjoining
fields, but by far the greatest and most anxious crowd was assembled
under the tree against which Buck English--for by this name was he
known--leaned. We should say here, however, that he was not called
Buck English, because his name was English, but in consequence of
his attempts at pronouncing the English tongue in such a manner as
he himself considered peculiarly elegant and fashionable. The man's
education was very limited, indeed he had scarcely received any, but he
was gifted at the same time with a low vulgar fluency of language which
he looked upon as a great intellectual gift, and which, in his opinion,
wanted nothing but “tip-top prononsensation,” as he termed it, to make
it high-flown and gentlemanly.
Our friend “the Buck,” as he was universally called, was no sooner
perceived in his usual station under the tree than there was a rapid
gathering of the assembled crowd to hear him.
“Hallo, Paddy! what's the matther? where are you goin' to in sich a hell
of a hurry?”
“Blood alive! man, sure Buck English is at his post to-day.”
“How at his post?”
“Why under the three where he always is when he comes here af a Sunday.”
“Hut! sure I know that; come, begad, let us hear him.”
“Faith, it's he that's up to the outs and ins of everything. Sure the
Counsellor himself made mintion of him in a great speech some time
ago. It seems the Buck sent him up five pounds in a letther, and the
Counsellor read the letther, and said it came from a most respectable
gentleman, a friend of his, one Barney--no, not Barney--it wasn't Barney
he called him, but--but--let me see--ay, begad--Bir--Birnard--ay, one
Birnard English, Esquire, from the Barony of Treena Heela; bekaise, as
the Buck doesn't keep himself very closely to any particular place of
livin', he dated his letther, I suppose, from the Barony at large.”
“At any rate one thing's clear, that he's high up wid the Counsellor,
an' if he wasn't one man in ten thousand he wouldn't be that.”
They had now reached the tree, and found that, short as the time was, a
considerable crowd had already assembled about him, so that they were
obliged to stand pretty far out in the circle. One or two young men,
sons of most respectable farmers--for it somehow happened that the Buck
was no great favorite with the seniors--stood, or rather had the
honor of standing, within the circle, for the purpose of “houldin'
conversation wid him;” for it could not reasonably be supposed that the
Buck could throw away such valuable political information and high-flown
English upon mere boors, who were incapable of understanding either the
one or the other.
“And so, Mr. English,” said one of those whom, he had brought within
the circle, “you think the established church, the great heresy of
Luther,--will go down at last?”
“Think it, Tom--why, if you get me a book I'll swear it, and that's
better than thinking any dee. Didn't Emencipation pess? answer me that.”
“Begad it did so, sir,”--from the crowd. “Well,” proceeded the Buck,
“what doubt or hesiteetion can there be that the seem power and
authority that riz our own church won't be keepable of puttin' down the
great protesting heresy?”
“See that now,” from the crowd; “begad it stands to raison sure enough.”
“Certainly,” he proceeded, “none what-somever; but then the question is,
how can it be effectualized?”
The crowd--“Begad, and so it is.”
“Well, my friends, it isn't at oll difficult to determine that
particularity: you oll know that a men lives by food--very well; pleece
that men in a persition where he can't procur food and the nethrel
kensiquence is that he must die. Eh--ha! ha! ha!--do you kimprehind?”
“Not a doubt of it,” replied Mr. Crowd, “but sure, at any rate, we will
kimprehend it by-an'-by.”
“Very well; take the protesting? church or the parsons, for it is oll
the seem--deprive them of the mains of support, that is to see, deny
them their tithes--don't pay a shilling--hold out to the death, as my
friend the Counsellor--great O'Connell says--and as we oil say, practice
passive resistance,then you know the establishment must stirve and die
of femine and distitootion, as a contributive jidgment for its sins.”
Crowd--“Blood alive, isn't that great!”
“What is it?” from the other circle.
“Why, that the parsons, an' all belonging to them, is to die of family
prostitution for their sins!”
“Devil's cure to them, then, for they desarve it--at least many of them
does, anyhow,” says one segment.
“Faith, an' I don't know that either,” says another segment. “The
parsons, bad as they're spoken of, was, for the most part, willin' to
live among us; and, begad, you all know that they're kind friends and
good neighbors, an' that the money they get out of the parish comes back
into the parish agin--not all as one as absentee landlords. They give
employment as far as they're able, an' thar's no doubt but their wives
and daughters does a great dale of good among the poor, and so, begad,
does the parsons themselves often.”
“Who is that wiseecre that spoke last?” asked the Buck; “if I don't
misteek he leebors with Dennis Purcel, the procter.”
“Ay, an' a very good masther he is,” replied the spokesman of the
segment; “gives plenty of employment anyhow--although the pay's no great
shakes--an' that's more than some that abuses him does.”
“There's no one aboosin' him here, my good friend, so don't imegine
it--at leest I should be extremely sorry to do so. I respect himself and
his family in a very elevated manner, I assoore you. An' what's more, my
friend, I'll thank you to report to him that I said so.”
Here he looked significantly among the mob, especially as he perceived
that the man's eyes were not fixed upon him whilst he spoke, and having
thrust his tongue into his cheek, half in derision, and half as it were
by a natural action, he succeeded at all events in creating a general
laugh; but so easily is a laugh, among such an audience, created, that
it is not altogether within our power or penetration to determine the
point which occasioned their mirth, unless it were the grimace with
which his words were accompanied--or stay--perhaps it was the strong
evil odor in which Purcel, the subject of their conversation, must have
been held.
“Talk of the devil, Mr. English,” replied a stern voice from the
listeners, “and he will appear; look down the road there and you'll see
Purcel himself an' his family drivin' to mass on the sweat and groans of
the people!”
“Not all of them,” replied another voice, in a different tone; “there's
only himself, his wife, and their two spankin' daughters, upon the
jauntin' car; but, blood alive, look at the sons! Devil so purty a lot
of sweat and groans I seen this twelvemonth as the two is riding on,
in the shape of a pair of blood-horses, so that you may put the
blood, Barney, along wid the sweat and the groans, agra. Well done,
tithes!--ha! ha! ha!”
The individual laugh that accompanied these last observation was cruel,
revolting, and hideous. The Buck sought out the speaker among the crowd,
and gave him first a nod of approval--and almost instantly afterward
added, with a quick change of countenance, but not until he perceived
that this double expression was pretty generally understood--
“Don't, my friend--if they get wealthy and proud upon our groans and
tears an' blood, as you say, it is not their invalidity that makes them
do so, but ours. Instead, of being cruel to them it is to ourselves we
are cruel; for by peeing the aforeseed tithes we are peeing away our
heart's blood, an' you know that if we are the fools to pee that way,
small bleeme to them if they take it in the shape of good passable cash.
They--meening sich men as Purcel--are only the instruments with which
the parsons work.”
“Ay,” replied the stern voice, “but, in case we had the country to
ourselves, do you think now, Buck darlin', that when we'd settle off
the jidges, an' lawyers, an' sheriffs, an' bailiffs, that we'd allow the
jails or the gibbets to stan', or the hangmen to live. No, by japers,
we'd make a clane sweep of it; and when sich a man as Purcel becomes
a tool in the parsons' hands to grind the people, I don't see that we
ought to make fish of one an' flesh of the other.”
“Ah, Darby Hourigan, is that you?” exclaimed the Buck; “well, although
I don't exaggerate with your severity, yet I will shake hands with you.
How do you do Darby? Darby, I think you're a true petriot--but, so
far as Mr. Purcel is concirned, I wish you to understand that he is a
particular friend of mine, and so is every mimber of his family.”
“Faith, an' Mr. Buck, it's more than you are with them, I can tell you.”
“But perhaps you are a little misteeken there, Mr. Hourigan,” replied
the Buck, with a swagger, whilst he raised his head and pulled up the
collar of his shirt at both sides, with a great deal of significant
self-consequence;--“perhaps you are--I see so, that's oll. Perhaps, I
repeat, there is some mimber of that family not presupposed against me,
Mr. Hourigan?”
“Well, may be so,” replied the other; “but if it be so, it's of late it
must have happened, that's what I say.”
Hourigan, who was by trade a shoemaker, was also a small farmer; but,
sooth to say, a more treacherous or ferocious-looking ruffian you could
not possibly meet with in a province. He was spare and big-boned slouchy
and stealthy in his gait, pale in face with dark, heavy brows that
seemed to have been kept from falling into his deep and down-looking
eyes only by an effort. His cheekbones stood out very prominently,
whilst his thin, pallid cheeks fell away so rapidly as to give him
something the appearance of the resuscitated skeleton of a murderer, for
never in the same face were the kindred spirits of murder and cowardice
so hideously blended.
Much more dialogue of the description just detailed took place, in which
the proctor was not without defenders; but at the same time, as we are
bound to record nothing but truth, we are compelled to say, that the
majority of the voices were fearfully against him. If, however, he, the
proctor and the instrument, had but few to support him, what must we not
suppose the defence of the system in all its bearings to have been?
At length, as Purcel and his family approached, the conversation was
transferred from the political to the personal, and he, his wife, and
his children, received at the hands of the people that satirical abuse,
equally unjust and ungenerous, which an industrious family, who have
raised themselves from poverty to independence, are in general certain
to receive from all those who are deficient in the virtues by which the
others rose.
“Ay, there he comes now, ridin' on his jauntin' car, an' does he think
that we all forget the time when he went wid his basket undher his arm,
wid his half-a-crown's worth of beggarly hardware in it. He begun it as
a brat of a boy, an' was called nothin' then but _Mahon na gair_ (that
is 'Mat of the-grin'); but, by-and-by, when he came to have a pack over
the shoulder, and to carry a yard wan' he began to turn Bodagh on our
hands. Felix, it's himself that soon thought to set up for the style an'
state.”
“At any rate,” said the friendly voice aforesaid, “no one can deny but
he's a good employer--if he'd give better wages.”
“A good employer!” said Hourigan; “we all know he must get his work
done--small thanks to him for that, an' a small price he-pays for it.”
“We all know the ould proverb,” said another individual; “set a beggar
on horseback, an' he'll ride to the devil. Whist! here they come.”
As the last person concluded, Purcel and the female portion of his
family drew up under the shadow of the tree already alluded to, which
here overhung the road, so that he came right in contact with the crowd.
“Ah, boys,” said he, with his characteristic good-humor, “how are you
all? Darby Hourigan, how are your family? Isn't this glorious weather,
boys?”
“Blessed weather, sir,” replied Hourigan, who became in some degree
spokesman. “I hope your honor an' the mistress, sir, an' the young
ladies is all well.”
“My honor, as you are pleased to call me, was never better in my life;
as for the mistress and the young ladies there they are, so judge for
yourself, Darby: but Darby my good friend, you have a d--d sneaking,
slavish way with you. Why do you call me 'your honor' when you know--for
I've often told you--that wouldn't bear it? Am I not one of yourselves?
and don't most of you know that I began the world upon half-a-crown, and
once carried a hardware basket on my arm?--d--n it, then, speak like a
man to a man, and not like a slave, as I'm half inclined to think you
are.”
“Throth, sir,” replied Hourigan, with an indescribable laugh, “an' for
all that you say, there's many that gets the title of 'your honor,' that
doesn't desarve it _as well_.”
“Ah well, man! Why, there's many a man gets it that doesn't desarve it
_at all_, which is saying more than you said--ha! ha! ha!”
Whilst this little dialogue took place, our worthy Buck had abandoned
his place under the ikee, and flown to the car to assist the ladies
off--a piece of attention not unobserved by Purcel, who obliquely kept
his eye upon that worthy's gallantry, and the reception it was getting
from the parties to whom it was offered.
“Leedies,” said the Buck, in his politest manner and language, “will you
allow me the gallantry to help you off? Mrs. Purcel, I hope you're well.
Here, ma'am, aveel yourself of me.”
“Thank you, Mr. English; I'm much obliged,” she returned, rather coolly.
“Leedies,” he proceeded, flying to the other side, “allow me the
gallantry.”
The two young women, who were full of spirits and good humor, were
laughing most heartily, _sub silentio_, at the attention thus so
ceremoniously paid to their mother by a man whom, beyond all human
beings, she detested. Now, however, that he came to proffer his
“gallantry” to themselves, they were certainly rather hard pressed to
maintain or rather regain their gravity.
“Leedies,” the Buck continued, “may I have the gallantry to help you
off?”
“Oh, thank you, it's too much trouble, Mr. English.”
“None on airth, Miss Purcel--do let me have the high-flown
satisfaction.”
“Oh, well,” she replied, “since you will be so polite,” and giving him
her hand she was about to go down, when suddenly withdrawing it, as if
recollecting herself, she said, nodding with comic significance toward
her sister Julia--“My sister, Mr. English, have you no gallantry for
her?”
“Ah,” he whispered, at the same time gratefully squeezing her hand,
“you're a first-rate divinity--a tip-top goddess--divil a thing else.
Miss Joolia, may I presoome for to have the plisure and polite gallantry
to help you off the car; 'pon honor it'll be quite grateful and
prejudicial to my feelings--it will, I assoore you!”
“Bless me, whose is that wedding party, Mr. English?” asked Miss Julia,
pointing to the opposite direction of the road.
English instantly turned round to observe, when, by a simultaneous act,
both sisters stepped nimbly from the car. Miss Julia, as if offended,
but at the same time with a comic gravity of expression, exclaimed--
“Oh, fie! Mr. English, is that your boasted gallantry? I'm afraid your
eight years' residence in England, however it may have improved
the elegance of your language and accent, hasn't much improved your
politeness!”
So saying, she and her sister tripped off to the chapel, which they
immediately entered. Much about the same time their brothers arrived,
mounted, certainly, upon a pair of magnificent hunters, and having
handed them over to two lads to be walked about until the conclusion of
Mass, they also entered the chapel, for the priest was not now more than
three or four hundred yards; distant.
The jest practised so successfully upon our friend the Buck occasioned
a general laugh at his expense, a circumstance which filled, him
with serious mortification, if not with actual resentment, for it so
happened, that one of his great foibles was such a morbid sensibility to
ridicule as was absolutely ludicrous.
“Bedad, Mr. English, you wor fairly done there; in spite o' the tall
English, you're no match for the ladies. Miss Julia fairly gev' you the
bag to hould.”
The Buck's eye glittered with bitterness.
“Miss Julia, do you say?” he replied; “why, my good friend, the girl was
christened Judy--plain Judy; but now that they've got into high-flown
life, you persave, nothing will sarve them but to ape their betthers.
However, never mind, I'll see the day yet, and that before long, when
saucy Judy won't refuse my assistance. Time about's fair play, you
know.”
It may be observed here, that Buck English happened to forget himself,
which he almost always did whenever he became in earnest: he also forgot
his polite language and peculiar elegance of pronunciation. To a vain
and weak mind there is nothing more cutting than the consciousness of
looking mortified in the eyes of others, and under these circumstances
to feel that the laugh is against you, adds one not important item to
“the miseries of human life.”
The Buck, now that the priest was at the chapel door, walked, with a
stride that very much resembled the mock-heroic, towards the place of
worship; but, in the opinion of the shrewd spectators, his dignity was
sadly tarnished by the humorous contempt implied in the practical jest
that had been so adroitly played off at his expense.