The next morning, when our proctor and his family assembled at
breakfast, their usual buoyancy of spirits was considerably checked by
a report which had already spread over a great portion of the country,
that a very industrious and honest farmer, who lived within about four
miles of them, had been murdered in his own house the night before, by
a party of fellows disguised with blackened faces, and who wore shirts
over their clothes. The barbarous and brutal deed, in consequence of the
amiable and excellent character of the man--who had been also remarkable
for resolution and courage--had already excited an extraordinary
commotion throughout the country.
“Boys,” said Purcel, “I have been in C------m this morning, and, I'm
sorry to say, there's bad news abroad.”
“How is that, sir?” asked Alick,--“no violence, I hope; although I
wouldn't feel surprised if there were; the country is getting into a bad
state: I think myself the people are mad, absolutely mad.”
“You both knew Matthew Murray,” he proceeded, “that lived down at
Rathkeerin?”
“Certainly, father,” said John; “what about him?--no harm, I hope?”
“He was murdered in his own house last night,” replied his father; “but
it's some consolation that one of the murdering villains is in custody.”
“That is bad business, certainly,” replied John; “in fact, it's
dreadful.”
“It is dreadful,” said the father; “but the truth is, we must have
the country, at least this part of it, proclaimed, and martial law
established;--damn the murdering scoundrels, nothing else is fit for
them. We must carry arms, boys, in future; and by d--n, the first man
I see looking at me suspiciously, especially from behind a hedge, I'll
shoot him. As a tithe-proctor I could do so without much risk.”
“Not, father,” said Alick, “until he should first offer, or make an
attempt at violence.”
“I would not, in the present state of the country, wait for it,” replied
the determined and now indignant proctor; “if I saw him watch me with
arms in his hands, or any dangerous weapon about his person, by d--n I'd
put a bullet through him, with no more remorse than I would through a
dog, and, if the animal were a good one, I think he would be the greater
public loss of the two.”
Just at this moment, the females of the family, who had been giving
breakfast to a number of poor destitute creatures, made their
appearance.
“Where have you all been?” asked Mrs. Purcel, addressing her husband
and sons; “here have we been waiting breakfast for you during the last
half-hour, and finding you were none of you within, we went and gave
these poor creatures without something to eat.”
“Ay,” responded the angry proctor, “and it's not unlikely that the son,
or husband, or brother of some of them may take a slap at me or at one
of our sons, from behind a hedge, before these long nights pass off.
D--n me, but it's throwing pearls before swine, to show them either
kindness or charity.”
“Something has angered you, papa,” said Mary; “I hope you have heard
nothing unpleasant; I am not very timid, but when a whole country is
in such a state of disturbance, one may entertain a reasonable
apprehension, certainly.”
“Why, I am angry, Mary,” replied her father; “there's as decent and
quiet, but, at the same time, as spirited a man as there ever was in the
barony, murdered this morning--Mat Murray of Rathkeerin; however, as I
said, it's a great consolation that one of the murderers is in custody.”
“And who is the wretch, papa?” asked Julia.
“One that nobody ever could have suspected for such an act,” replied
Purcel--“a son of one of our own tenants--honest Michael Devlin's
son--James.”
“Utterly impossible, father,” exclaimed Julia, “there must be a mistake;
that quiet and dutiful boy--their only son--never could have been
concerned in the crime of murder.”
“Well, perhaps not, Judy; but, you silly girl, you talk as if you were
in love with him. Why, child, there is such a system abroad, now that a
man can scarcely trust his own brother--no, nor does a father know, when
he sits down to his breakfast in the morning with his own son, whether,
as Scripture says, he is not dipping his hand in the dish with a
murderer.”
“Mat,” said his wife, “you ought not to be out late at night, nor the
boys either. You know there is a strong feeling against you; and indeed
I think you ought not, any of you, ever to go out without, arms about
you--at all events, until the country gets quiet.”
“So I was just saying, Nancy,” replied her husband;--“hallo! who's this
coming up to the hall-door?--begad, our old pleasant friend, the _Cannie
Soogah_. Upon my troth, I'm glad to see him. Hallo! _Cannie!--Cannie
Soogah_, my hearty,--Jolly Pedlar, I say--this way! How are you,
man?--have you breakfasted? Of course not. Well, go to the kitchen and,
if you don't show good eating, it won't be for want of materials.”
“God save you, Misther Purcel,” replied the pedlar, in a rich, round
brogue; “God save you, young gintlemen. Oh, thin, Misther Purcel, by
my sowl it's your four quarthers that has a right to be proud of your;
family! And the ladies--not forgettin' the misthress herself--devil the
likes of the same two young ladies I see on my whole bait, an' that's
the country at large, barrin' the barony of Bedhehusth, where these
cruel murdhers is committed; an' devil a foot I'll ever set into it till
it's changed for the betther.”
“Well, be off,” said the proctor, “to the kitchen; get your breakfast
first, and then we'll chat to you.”
“I will; but oh, Misther Purcel darlin', did you hear what happened last
night?”
“Is it Murray's business?”
“What do you call Murray's business, Misther Purcel? 'Tis Murray's
murdher, you mane?”
“Certainly, I have heard it all this morning in C------m.”
The pedlar only shook his head, looked upwards, and raising his two
hands so as to express amazement, exclaimed--“Well, well, what is the
world goin' to! troth, I'll not ate half my breakwist in regard of it!”
So saying he slung his huge pack upon his shoulder as if it had been a
mere bag of feathers, and took his way round to the kitchen as he had
been desired.
The _Connie Soogah_, for so the people universally termed him, was in
person and figure a fine burly specimen of manhood. His hair was black,
as were a pair of large whiskers, that covered the greater portion of
his face, and nearly met at his chin. His arms and limbs were powerfully
made, and what is not always the case in muscular men, they betokened
great activity as well as unusual strength. Nobody, for instance, would
look without astonishment at the ease with which he swung a pack, that
was weighty enough to load an ass, over his shoulder, or the lightness
and agility with which he trotted on under it from morning till night,
and this during the very severest heat of summer.
M'Carthy, on reaching O'Driscol's the night before, had come to the
conclusion of not making any allusion whatsoever to the incident which
had just occurred to him. O'Driscol, who was only a newly-fledged
magistrate, would, he knew, have made it the ground-work of a fresh
communication to government, or to his friend the Castle, as he called
it, especially as he had many other circumstances of less importance
since his elevation to the magistracy. One indeed would imagine that
the peace and welfare of that portion of the country had been altogether
left to his sole and individual management, and that nothing at all of
any consequence could get on properly in it without his co-operation
or interference in some way. For this reason, as well as for others,
M'Carthy prudently hesitated either to arouse his loyalty or disturb the
tranquility of his family, and after joining him in a tumbler of
punch, or what O'Driscol termed his nightcap, he retired to bed, where,
however, he could not for a considerable time prevent himself from
ruminating, with a good deal of seriousness, upon the extraordinary
interview he had had with the friendly stranger.
After breakfast the next morning he resolved, however, to communicate to
his friends, the Purcels, who were at all events no alarmists, and would
not be apt to make him, whether he would or not, the instrument of a
selfish communication with the government, a kind of honor for which
the quiet and unassuming student had no relish whatsoever. He sauntered
towards the proctor's, at whose house he arrived a few minutes before
the return from the kitchen of our friend the Connie Soogah, who had
been treated there with an excellent and abundant breakfast, to which,
in spite of the murder of Murray, he did ample justice.
“Now, Mr. Purcel,” he exclaimed, tossing down his pack as if it had been
a schoolboy's satchel, “by the lomenty-tarry you have made a new man of
me! Whoo!” he proceeded, cutting a caper more than a yard high, “show
me the man now, that would dar to say bow to your--beg pardon, ladies,
I must be jinteel for your sakes--that would dar, I say, to look crucked
at you or one a' your family, and maybe the Cannie Soogah wouldn't rise
the lap of his liver. Come, young ladies, shall I make my display? I
know you'll buy lot o' things and plenty besides; I can praise my goods,
thank God, for you see, Miss Mary, when the world comes to an end it'll
be found that the man who couldn't say three words for himself, and
one for his friend, must be sent down stairs to keep the fire in. Miss
Julia, I have a shawl here that 'ud make you look worse than you do.”
“Worse, Cannie!” replied Julia, “do you call that a recommendation?”
“Certainly, Miss Julia, you look so well that nothing on airth could
make you look batther, and by way of variety, I've gone to the Well
o' the world's end to get something to make you look worse. God knows
whether I've succeeded or not, but at all events, we'll thry.”
So saying, he produced a very handsome shawl, together with a rather
large assortment of jewelry and other matters connected with the female
toilet, of considerable taste and expense.
“Here,” he added, “are some cotton and silk stockins'--but upon my
profits, it's not to every foot an' leg I'd produce them. I'm a great
coortier, ladies, you must know, and am in love wid every purty girl I
meet--but sure that's only natural; however, as I was sayin', it's not
to a clype or a pair of smooth-in' irons I'll produce such stockins' as
these! No, no, but a purty foot an' leg is always sure to get the worth
o' their money from the Cannie Soogah!”
“Well done, Cannie!” said the proctor, “dix me, but you're a pleasant
fellow--come girls, you must buy something--handsel him. You got no
handsel to-day, Cannie?” he added, winking at the pedlar to say no.
“Barrin' the first foundation in the kitchen within,” he replied; “for
you must know that's what I call my breakfast, handsel of any kind
didn't cross my palm this day.”
“In that case, the girls must certainly buy something,” added Purcel.
“But we've no money, papa.”
“But,” replied the pedlar, “you have what's betther--good credit with
the Cannie Soogah--och, upon my profits I'd rather have one sweet
coaxin' smile from that purty little mouth of yours, Miss Julia, than
money in hand any day! Ah! Misther Purcel, darlin', isn't it a poor
thing not to have an estate of ten thousand a year?” and here he looked
wistfully at the smiling Julia, and shrugged his shoulders like a man
who knew he was never likely to gain his wishes.
“I would buy something,” said Mary, “but, like Julia, I am penniless.”
“Never say so, Miss Mary, to me; only name what you'd like--lave the
price to my honesty, and the payment to my patience, and upon my profits
you won't complain, I'll go bail.”
“Yes,” observed Julia, “or what if papa would treat us to something?
Come, papa, for the sake of old times; let us see whether you have
forgotten any of your former, craft.”
“Good, Judy! ha! ha! ha!--well done! but Cannie, have you nothing for
the gentlemen?”
Now, we must pause for a little to state, that the moment M'Carthy, who
was now present, heard the jolly pedlar's voice, he started, and felt
considerably surprise. The tones of it were neither familiar to him nor
yet were they strange. That he had heard them somewhere, and on some
occasion, he could almost have sworn. Occasionally a turn of the man's
voice would strike him as not being new to him, but again, for the next
minute or two, it was such as he could not remember to have ever heard.
This we say by way of parenthesis.
“For the gentlemen! Lord help you, Mr. Purcel, I never think of them
when the ladies is before me--who would! However, I'm well prepared even
for them. Here is a case o' razors that 'ud cut half an inch before the
edge; now, if you find me another pair that'll do the seem--hem!
the same--I'll buy the Bank of Ireland and give it to you for a
new-year's-gift.”
“Don't you know this gentleman?” asked the proctor, pointing to
M'Carthy.
“Let me see,” said he--“we'll now--eh, no--I think not, he is neither
so well made, nor by any manes so well lookin' as the other;” and the
pedlar, as he spoke, fixed his eyes, but without seeming to gaze, upon
Julia, who, on hearing a comparison evidently so disadvantageous to
M'Carthy, blushed deeply, and passed to another part of the room, in
order to conceal what she felt must have been visible, and might have
excited observation.
“No,” proceeded the pedlar; “I thought at first he was one of the
left-legge'd M'Squiggins's, as they call them, from Fumblestown--but
he is not, I know, for the raisons I said. They're a very good plain
family, the M'Squiggins's, only that nobody's likely to fall in love
wid them--upon my profits, I'm half inclined to think he's one of them
still--eh, let me see again--would you turn round a little, if you
plaise, sir, till I thry if the cast's in your eye. Upon my faith, there
it is sure enough! How are you, Misther M'Squiggins? I'm happy to see
you well, sir. How is your sisther, Miss Pugshey, an' all the family,
sir?--all well, I hope, sir?”
“All well,” replied M'Carthy, laughing as loud as any of the rest, every
one of whom actually in convulsions--for they knew, with the exception
of Julia, who was deceived at first by the pedlar's apparent gravity,
that he was only bantering her lover.
The proctor, who, although a man that loved money as his God--with his
whole heart, soul, and strength--was yet exceedingly anxious to stand
well with the world, and on this account never suffered a mere trifle
to stand between him and the means of acquiring a good name, and
having himself been considered a man of even of a benevolent spirit.
He consequently made some purchase from the pedlar, with whom he held
a very amusing and comic discussion, as touching the prices of many
articles in that worthy's; pack. Nay, he went so far as to give them a
good-humored exhibition of the secrets and peculiarities known only to
the initiated, and bought some small matters in the slang terms with
which none but the trade are acquainted.
“Come, boys,” said he, “I have set you a good example; won't you buy
something from the jolly pedlar?”
John and Alick bought some trifling things, and M'Carthy purchased
a pair of bracelets for the girls, which closed the sales for that
morning.
“Well, now,” said the pedlar, whilst folding up again the goods which he
had displayed for sale, “upon my profits, Misther Purcel, it's a perfect
delight to me to call here, an' that whether I dale or not--although I'm
sure to do so always when I come. Well, you have all dealt wid me now
for payment, and here goes to give you something for nothing--an, in
truth, it's a commodity that, although always chape, is seldom taken.
'Tis called good advice. The ladies--God bless them, don't stand in need
of it, for sure the darlins' never did anything from Eve downwards, that
'ud require it. Here it is then, Misther Purcel, let you and your sons
do what the ould song says--'be good boys and _take care of yourselves.
Thighin thu?_ (*Do you understand.) An' this gintleman, if I knew his
name, maybe I'd say something to him too.”
“This is Mr. M'Carthy, Cannie.”
“Ay, M'Carthy--troth 'tis a good ould name. Well, Mr. M'Carthy, all I
have to say to you! is, that _if you happen to meet a man that gives you
good advice, TAKE IT_. An' now God be Wid you all, an' spare you to one
another!”
So saying, he slung his huge pack over his shoulders almost without an
effort, and commencing a merry old Irish song he proceeded lightly and
cheerfully on his journey.
“Well, boys,” said the proctor, “now that we've had a good hearty laugh
with the _Cannie Soogah_, let us proceed to business. I see by your red
coats and top-boots, that you're for the hounds to-day, but as I'm in a
hurry, I wish before you go, that you'd see those sneaking devils
that are hanging about the place. Hourigan is there again with fresh
falsehoods--don't be misled by him--the ill-looking scoundrel is right
well able to pay--and dix me if I'll spare him. Tell him he needn't
expect any further forbearance--a rascal that's putting money in the
saving's bank to be pleadin' poverty! It's too bad. But the truth is,
boys, there's no one behind in their tithes now entitled to forbearance,
and for the same reason they must pay or take the consequences; we'll
see whether they or the law will prove the strongest, and that very
soon. Good-bye, boys; good-bye, M'Carthy--and I say, Jack and Alick, be
on your sharps and don't let them lads do you--d'ye mind now?--keen's
the word.”
He then got on his comfortable jaunting-car, and drove off to wait,
according to appointment, upon the Rev. Jeremiah Turbot, D.D.
“Mogue Moylan,” said John, “will you go out and tell them fellows that I
and Alick will be in the office presently--and do you hear? tell them
to look like men, and not so much like murderers that came to take our
lives. Say we'll be in the office presently, and that we hope it's not
excuses they're fetching us.”
“I will, Misther John; but, troth, it's the worst word in their cheek
they'd give me, if I deliver the last part of your message. 'Tis my head
in my fist I'd get, maybe; however, Misther John, between you an' me,
they're an ill-looking set, one an' all o' them, an' could pay their
tides, every tail o' them, if they wished.”
“I know that very well,” replied the young fellow, “but my father's not
the man to be trifled with. We'll soon see whether they or the law's the
strongest; that's all.”
Moylan went over to where the defaulters were standing, and putting up
his hand, he stroked down his cheek with great gravity. “Are yez in a
hurry, good people?” said he.
“Some of us is,” replied a voice.
“Ay, all of us,” replied others; “and we're here now for an hour and a
half, and no sign of seein' us.”
“Yez are in a hurry, then?”
“To be sure we are.”
“Well, to them that's in a hurry I've a word to say.”
“What is it, Mogue?”
“Why, it is this, take your time--ever an' always, when you happen to be
in a hurry--take your time.”
“Maybe, Mogue,” they replied, “if you were widout your breakfast, as we
are, you wouldn't say so.”
“Why, did'nt yez get your breakfasts yet?”
“Devil a morsel.”
“Well, to them that didn't get their breakfasts I have another word to
say.”
“What is it, Mogue?”
“Why, have patience--ever and always when you're hungry, have patience,
and you'll find it a great relief; it'll fill you and keep you in good
condition--that I mayn't sin but it will! But, sure, I've got news for
yez, boys,” he added; “Masther John bid me tell you that, after about
a month or so it'll be contrary to law to get hungry: there's an act
o' parliament goin' to be made against it, you see; so that any villain
disloyal enough to get hungry, if it's proved against him, will be
liable to transportation. That I mayn't sin but it'll be a great
comfort for the country--I mane, to have hunger made contrary to act o'
parliament.”
Mogue Moylan was, indeed, a fellow of a very original and peculiar
character. Grave, sly, and hypocritical, yet apparently quiet and not
susceptible of strong or vehement emotions, he was, nevertheless, more
suggestive of evil designs and their fulfilment than any man, perhaps,
in his position of life that ever existed. Though utterly without
spirit, or the slightest conception of what personal courage meant, the
reader not be surprised that he was also vindictive, and consequently
treacherous and implacable. He could project crime and outrage with a
felecity of diabolical invention that was almost incredible. He was,
besides, close and cautious, unless when he thought that he could risk a
falsehood with safety; and, in the opinion of some few who knew him,
not merely dishonest, but an actual thief. His manner, too, was full
of plausible assumption of great conscientiousness and simplicity. He
seemed always calm and cool, was considered rather of a religious turn,
and always expressed a strong horror against cursing or swearing in any
shape. Indeed he had a pat anecdote, which he occasionally told, of
a swoon or faint into which he usually fell, when a youth of about
nineteen, in consequence of having been forced to take a book oath,
for the first time, another act against which he entertained a peculiar
antipathy. Now, all this was indeed very singular and peculiar; but he
accounted for it by the scrupulous love of truth with which not only
he himself, but his whole family, many of whom he said had given their
lives for their country, were affected. The only foible that could be
brought to the charge of honest Mogue, was a singular admiration for his
own visage, which he never omitted to survey with remarkable complacency
several times a day in a broken piece of looking, glass, which he kept
for that especial purpose. This, and its not unnatural consequences
a belief that almost ever female who spoke to him with civility was
smitten by his face and figure, constituted the only two weaknesses in
a character otherwise so spotless and perfect as that of Mogue Moylan.
Mogue was also a good deal subject to the influence of the pathetic,
especially when he alluded to the misfortune, glory be to God, which
had befallen the family, in the person of a lone line of ancestors, and
especially in that of big poor, simple father, whose word, as every
one knew, was as good as his oath; and, indeed, very few doubted that
remarkable fact, but who, notwithstanding had been transported during
the space of seven years for suspicion of perjury; “for didn't the judge
tell him, when he passed sentence upon him, that if he had been found
guilty all out, or of anything beyant suspicion of it, he would be
transported for life; 'an' instead of that,' said the judge, 'bekaise
I persave,' says he, 'that you're an honest man, an' has been sworn
against wrongfully in this business, and bekaise I see clearly that you
love the truth, the sentence of the coort is,' says he, sheddin' tears,
'that you're to be transported only for seven years, an' you lave
the coort an' the counthry,' says he, 'widout at stain upon your
character--it's only the law that's against you--so, God be wid you,'
the judge went on, wipin' his eyes, 'and grant you a safe and pleasant
voyage acrass,' says he, an' he cried for some minutes like a child.
That an' the unjust hangin' of my poor, simple ould grandfather for
horse-stearin'--that is, for suspicion of horse-stealin'--is the only
two misfortunes, thank God, that has been in our family of late days.”
So much for the character of worthy Mogue, whom we must now permit to
resume the delivery of his message.
The last words were uttered with so peculiar and significant a gravity,
not without a good deal of dry sarcastic humor, that the men could not
avoid laughing heartily.
“But,” he proceeded, “I have better news still for yez. Sure Masther
John desired me to let you all know that his father won't ax a penny o'
tithe from one o' yez: all you have to do is to call at the office there
in a few minutes, and you'll get aich o' you a receipt in full; (*
By this he means a horse-whipping.) that is, if you don't keep civil
tongues in your heads.”
One of Mogue's qualities was the power of gravely narrating a fact with
such peculiar significance, that the very reverse of it was conveyed to
the hearer; for the fellow was a perfect master of irony.
“Ah! well done Mogue; many a day o' reckoning _he_ has had wid _us_, but
maybe _our_ day o' reckonin' wid _him_ will come sooner than he expects,
or wishes.”
“Don't be thinkin' ill,” said Mogue, “but keep yourselves always free
from evil. What does Scripthur say? 'One good turn desarves another,'
says Scripthur. Boys, always keep Scripthur before you, and you'll do
right. 'One good turn deserves another,' says Scripthur! and you know
yourselves, I hope, that many a good turn you received at his hands.
That I may be happy, but it's good advice I'm givin' you!”
“Divil a betther, Mogue,” replied Hourigan, with a significant scowl,
and “it's we ourselves that'll be sure to take it some fine night.”
“Night or day,” replied Mogue, “it's always right to be doin' good,
whether we sarve our country or religion. God prosper yez, at all
events, and grant you success in your endeavors, an' that's the worst I
wish you! There now, Masther John's in the office, ready an' willin' to
give sich o' yez a resate in full as will--desarve it.”
The situation in which the parties stood, during this dialogue, was at
the rear of the premises into which the proctor's office opened, and
where the country people were always desired to wait. They stood at the
end of the stable, adjoining a wall almost eight feet high, on the
other side of which was the pig-sty. Here, whilst the conversation just
detailed went forward, stood a pretty, plump-looking, country-girl,
one of the female servants of the proctor's establishment, named Letty
Lenehan. She had come to feed the pigs, just in time to catch the
greater portion of their conversation; and, as she possessed a tolerably
clear insight into Mogue's character, she was by no means ignorant
of certain illusions made in it, although she unquestionably did not
comprehend its full drift. We have said that this girl understood his
character very well, and scarcely any one had a better right or greater
opportunities of doing so. Mogue, in fact, was in love with her, or
at least, pretended to be so; but, whether he was or not, one thing we
write as certain, that he most implicitly believed her to be so
with himself. Letty was a well-tempered, faithful girl, honest and
conscientious, but not without a considerable relish for humor, and with
more than ordinary talents for carrying on either a practical joke or
any other piece of harmless humbug, a faculty in which she was ably
supported by a fellow-servant of a very different description from
Mogue, named Jerry Joyce. Joyce, in fact, was not merely a strong
contrast to Mogue, but his very reverse in almost every point of his
character. He was open and artless in the opinion of many, almost to
folly; but, under this apparent thoughtlessness, there existed a fund of
good sense, excellent feeling, and quickness of penetration, for which
the world gave him no credit, or at least but very little.
Jerry and Letty, therefore, between whom a real affection subsisted,
were in the habit of amusing themselves, whenever they could do so
without discovery, at Mogue's expense. Such, then, was the relative
position of these parties at the present stage of our narrative.
When John Purcel was seen in the office, the tithe defaulters, for such
they were, went to the outside of the window, where they all stood until
it became the turn of each to go in. Although they went there to plead
their inability to pay, yet, in fact, there were a great proportion of
them who exhibited, neither by their manner nor appearance, any symptom
whatever of poverty. On the countenances of most of them might be
read, not only a stern, gloomy, and resolute expression, but one of
dissatisfaction and bitter resentment. As they turned their eyes upon
young Purcel, and looked around at the unequivocal marks of great
wealth, if not luxury itself, that were conspicuous in every direction,
there was a significance in the smiles and glances which passed between
them, that gave very appropriate foretaste of the convulsions which ere
long took place in the country. John Purcel himself had remarked these
appearances on almost every recent occasion, and it was the striking, or
rather startling, aspect of these men, that caused him to allude to it
just before sending Moylan to them.
It is not our intention to detail, at full length, the angry
altercations which took place between them, as each went in, from time
to time, to apologize for not paying up his tithes. Every possible
excuse was offered; but so well and thoroughly were Purcel and his sons
acquainted with the circumstances, of, we may say, almost every family,
not merely in the parish, but in the barony itself, that it proved a
matter of the greatest difficulty to mislead or impose on any of them.
Nay, so anxious did the shrewd tithe-proctor feel upon this subject,
that he actually got himself proposed and elected a governor of
the Savings' Bank, which had been for some time past established in
C------m. By this means, he was enabled to know that many of those who
came to him with poverty on their lips, were actually lodging money in
these economical institutions.
“Well, Carey,” said he, to a comfortable-looking man that entered, “I
hope you have no further apology to offer for your dishonesty?”
“Sorra thing, Mr. John, but that I'm not able to pay. I expect the
landlord to come down upon me some o' these days--and what to do, or on
what hand to turn, I'm sure I don't know on airth.”
“You don't say so now, Carey?”
“Troth I do, Misther John; and I hope you'll spare me for a little--I
mane till the hard times that's in it mends somehow.”
“Well, Carey, all I can say is, that, if you don't know on what hand to
turn, I can tell you.”
“Thank you, Misther John; troth an' I do want to know that.”
“Listen, then; before you come here to me with a barefaced and dishonest
lie in your mouth, you ought to have gone to the C------m Savings' Bank,
and drawn from the sum of two hundred and seventy-three pounds,
which you have lying there, the slight sum of seven pounds twelve and
nine-pence which you owe us. Now, Carey, I tell you that you are nothing
but an impudent, scheming, dishonest scoundrel; and I say, once for all,
that we will see whether you, and every knavish rascal like you, or the
law of the land, is the stronger. Mark me now, you impudent knave, we
shall never ask you again. The next time you see us will be at the head
of a body of police, or a party of the king's troops; for I swear that,
as sure as, the sun shines, so certainly will we take the tithe due out
of your marrow, if we can get it nowhere else.”
“Maybe, then,” said Carey, “you will find that we'll laugh at the law,
the polis, the king's troops, and Misther John Purcel into the bargain;
and I now tell you to your teeth, that if one sixpence of tithe would
save the sowls of every one belongin' to you, I won't pay it--so do your
worst, and I defy you.”
“Begone, you scoundrel. You are, I perceive, as rank a rebel as ever
missed the rope; but you won't miss it. Go home now; for, as I said this
moment, we will take the tithe out of your marrow, if you had thousands
of your cut-throat and cowardly White-boys at your back. Don't think
this villainy will pass with us; we know how to handle you, and will too;
begone, you dishonest ruffian, I have no more time to lose with you.”
In this manner almost every interview terminated. Purcel was a warm and
impetuous young fellow, who certainly detested everything in the shape
of dishonesty or deceit and here he had too many instances of both to be
able to keep his temper, especially when he felt that he and his family
were the sufferers. Other cases, however, were certainly very dissimilar
to this; we allude especially to those of real distress, where the means
of meeting the demand were not to be had. With such individuals the
proctor's sons were disposed to be lenient, which is certainly more than
could be said if he himself had to deal with them.
“Jemmy Mulligan,” he said, to a poor-looking man, “go home to your
family. We don't intend to take harsh measures with you, Jemmy; and you
needn't come here again till we send for you.”
“God bless you, sir; troth I don't know why the people say that you're
all hard and unfeelin'--I can say for myself that I never found you so.
Good morning, sir, and thank you, Misther John; and God forgive them
that blackens you as they do!”
“Yes, Jemmy, I know they hate us, because we compel them to act
honestly; but they will soon find that honesty, after all, is the
cheapest course,--for we shall take d--d good care to make them
pay through the nose for their knavery. We know they have a gang of
firebrand agitators and hungry lawyers at their back; but we shall make
them feel that the law is stronger than any treasonable combination that
can be got up against it.”
A third man came in. “Well, Tom, you're not coming to plead poverty, I
hope?”
The man looked around him with peculiar intelligence. “Are we safe?” he
asked; “and may I spake widout danger?”
“You may, Duggan.”
“Well, then, I came to say that I'll call over to-morrow evenin' and pay
it, but I daren't now.”
“Why so, Tom?”
“Bekaise the most of us all have the tithe in our pockets, but as a
proof that we did not pay it, we will, every man of us, be obliged to
show it before we go home. I might pay it now, Mr. Purcel; but then, if
I did, it' very likely I'd be a corpse before this day week. Sich is the
state that things ha' come to; and how it'll end, God only knows. At any
rate, I'll slip over afther dusk to-morrow evenin' and pay; but as
you hope for mercy, and don't wish to see me taken from my wife and
childre', don't breathe a syllable of it to man or mortual.”
“I shall not, indeed, Tom,” replied Purcel, “but I really did not think
that matters were altogether so bad as you describe them. The people
are infatuated, and will only draw the vengeance of the law upon their
heads. They will suffer, as they always do by their own misconduct and
madness.”
Duggan had scarcely withdrawn, when our old friend, Darby Hourigan,
thrust in his hateful and murderous-looking countenance. “God save you,
Misther John.”
“God save you kindly, Misther Hourigan.”
“Isn't it glorious weather for the saison, sir?”
“I have seen better and I have seen worse, Mr. Hourigan; but Darby,
passing the weather by, which neither you nor I can mend, allow me to
say that I hope you are not coming here for the twentieth time to palm
us off about the tithe.”
“Troth, then, and, Mr. John; I can't afford to pay tide--I'm a poor man,
sir; and, as it happens that I never trouble the parson in religious
matthers, I don't see what right the parson has to trouble me for my
money.”
“Ah! you have got the cant, I see. You have been tutored.”
“I have got the truth, sir.”
“Ay, but have you got the tithe, sir? for I do assure you, Mr. Hourigan,
that it is not your logic, but your money I want.”
“Begad, sir, and I'm afeard you'll be forced to put up wid my logic this
time, too. You can't take more from the cat than her skin, you know.”
There was an atrocious and sneering spirit, not only in this ruffian's
manner, but in the tones of his voice, that was calculated to overcome
human patience.
“Darby, we have let you run a long time, but I now tell you, there's an
end of our forbearance so far as you are concerned. If you were not able
to pay I could feel for you, put we know, and all the world knows, that
you are one of the most comfortable and independent men in the parish.
Darby, you in short are a d--d rogue, and what is worse, a treacherous
and mischief-makin scoundrel. I am aware of the language you use against
our whole family, whom you blacken whenever you have an opportunity of
doing so. You are not only dishonest but ungrateful, sirrah.”
“No man has a betther right to be a judge, and a good judge of
dishonesty, than your father's son,” replied Hourigan. “Why didn't you
call me an oppressor of the poor, and a blood-sucker?--why didn't you
say I was a hard-hearted beggarly upstart, that rose from maneness and
cheatery, and am now tyrannizin' over hundreds that's a thousand times
betther than myself? Why don't you say that I'd sell my church and my
religion to their worst enemies, and that for the sake of filthy lucre
and blackguard upstart pride? I now come to tell you what we all think
of you in this country, and what I believe some of us has tould you
already--that you may go to hell for your tithe, and make the divil your
paymaster, what he'll be yet. We will pay you none, and we set you and
your upstart ould rogue of a father, with the law, the polis, and the
army, all at defiance. I don't choose to say more, but I could if I
liked.”
Purcell's hunting-whip accidentally lay on the table at which he sat,
but he did not take it up immediately after Hourigan had concluded. He
quickly rose, however, and having closed the door and locked it, he let
down the windows, and deliberately drew the blinds.
“Now, you scoundrel,” he replied, taking up the whip, and commencing to
flog Hourigan with all his strength, which was very great, “I will give
you, by way of foretaste, a specimen of what a ruffian like you deserves
when he is insolent.”
With such singular energy, good will, and admirable effect did he lace
Mr. Hourigan, that the latter worthy, after cutting some very antic
capers, and exhibiting in a good many other respects several proofs of
his agility that could scarcely be expected from his heavy and ungainly
figure, was at last fairly obliged to sing out,--“Oh, Misther John,
Misther John! you will--Misther John, darlin', what do you mane, you
murdh--oh, oh, d--n your soul--dear, what do you mane, Mr. John, dear?
I say, what are you at? What do you baste me this way for--oh, may the
divil--the Lord bless you, an' don't--here I am--here, Misther John,
I ax your pardon--hell pursue--Misther John, darlin', I go down on my
knees to you, an' axes your pardon--here now you see, I'm down.--Och
murdher, am I to have the very sowl welted out o' me this way?”
Mr. John, having now satisfied himself, and left very visible marks of
his attachment and good will to Hourigan, upon that individual's face
and person, desired him to get up.
“Now, my good fellow,” he exclaimed, “I trust I have taught you a lesson
that you won't forget.”
“No, Misther John,” he replied, rising and rubbing himself in different
parts of the body, as if to mitigate the pain which he felt; “no, I
won't forget it--I won't by it's a lesson I'll remember, and so will
you.”
“What do you mean, you cowardly villain?” asked Purcel, once more
raising his whip. “You are threatening, are you.”
“No, Misther John, not a bit o' that--divil a threat--me! I wouldn't
threaten you if there wasn't niver another man in Europe. Let me out, if
you plaise--let me out, and may the div--the Lord lov you!”
“Now,” said the other, raising the blinds and afterwards opening the
door, “you may go about your business, and mark me, Mr Hourigan--”
“I do, sir,” replied the other, bolting out “oh, God knows I do--you
have marked me, Misther Purcel, and I will mark you, sir--for--” he
added muttering in a low voice to those who stood about him--“one good
turn desarves another, anyhow.”
We shall not now dwell upon the comments which young Purcel's violence
drew from the defaulters on their way home. Our reader, however, may
easily imagine them, and form for themselves a presentiment of the
length to which “the tithe insurrection,” as they termed it, was likely
to proceed throughout the country at large, with the exception only of
the northern provinces.