At this period, notwithstanding the circumstances which we have just
related--and they were severe enough--the distress of the Protestant
clergy of Ireland was just only beginning to set in. It had not, as
yet, however, assumed anything like that formidable shape in which
it subsequently appeared. To any scourge so dreadful, no class in the
educated and higher ranks of society had been, within the records of
historical recollection, ever before subjected. Still, like a malignant
malady, even its first symptoms were severe, and indicative of the
sufferings by which, with such dreadful certainty, they were followed.
On that day, and at the very moment when the mysterious attempt at
assassination,which we have recorded, was made, Dr. Turbot's worthy
curate, on returning home from the neighboring village of Lisnagola,
was, notwithstanding great reluctance on his part, forced into the
following conversation with his lovely but dejected wife:
“Charles,” said she, fixing her large, tearful eyes upon him, with a
look in which love, anxiety, and sorrow were all blended, “I fear you
have not been successful in the village. Has Moloney refused us?”
“Only conditionally, my dear Maria--that is, until our account is paid
up--but for the present, and perhaps for a little longer, we must deny
ourselves these 'little luxuries,'” and he accompanied the words with
a melancholy smile. “Tea and sugar and white bread are now beyond our
reach, and we must be content with a simpler fare.”
Mrs. Temple, on looking at their children, could scarcely refrain from
tears; but she knew her husband's patience and resignation, and felt
that it was her duty to submit with humility to the dispensation of God.
“You and I, my dear Charles, could bear up under anything--but these
poor things, how will they do?”
“That reflection is only natural, my dear Maria; but it is spoken,
dearest, only like a parent, who probably loves too much and with
an excess of tenderness. Just reflect, darling, upon the hundreds of
thousands of children in our native land, who live healthily and happily
without ever having tasted either tea or loaf-bread at all; and think,
besides, dearest, that there are, in the higher circles, a great number
of persons whose children are absolutely denied these comforts, by
advice of their physicians. Our natural wants, my dear Maria, are but
simple, and easily satisfied; it is wealth and luxury only that corrupt
and vitiate them. In this case, then, dearest, the Christian must speak,
and act, and feel as well as the parent. You understand me now, love,
and that is sufficient. I have not succeeded in procuring anything for
you or them, but you may rest assured that God will not desert us.”
“Yes, dear Charles,” replied his wife, whose black mellow eyes beamed
with joy; “all that is true, but you forgot that Dr. Turbot has arrived
to receive his tithes, and you will now receive your stipend. That will
carry us out of our present difficulty at least.”
“My dear Maria, it is enough to say that Dr. Turbot is in a position
immeasurably more distressed and dreadful than ours. Purcel, his
proctor, has been able to receive only about fifty pounds out of his
usual half-yearly income of eight hundred. From him we are to expect
nothing at present. I know not, in fact, how he and his family will bear
this dreadful privation; for dreadful it must be to those who have lived
in the enjoyment of such luxuries.”
“That is indeed dreadful to such a family, and I pity them from
my heart,” replied his wife; “but, dearest,Charles, what are we to
do?--except a small crust of bread, there is no food in the house for
either them or you.” As she uttered the words their eyes met, and
his gentle and soothing Maria, who had been sitting beside him, threw
herself upon his bosom--he clasped his arms around her--pressed her
with melancholy affection to his heart, and they both wept together.
At length he added, “But you think not of yourself, my Maria.”
“I!” she replied; “ah! what am I? Anything, you know, will suffice
for me--but you and they, my dearest Charles--and then poor Lilly, the
servant; but, dearest,” she exclaimed, with a fresh, and if possible,
a more tender embrace, “I am not at all repining--I am happy with
you--happy, happy--and never, never, did I regret the loss of my great
and powerful friends less than I do at this moment, which enables me
to see and appreciate the virtues and affection to which my heart is
wedded, and which I long since appreciated.”
Her husband forced a smile, and kissed her with an air of cheerfulness.
“Pardon me,” he said, “dearest Maria, for two or three minutes I wish to
go to the library to make a memorandum. I will soon return.”
He then left her, after a tender embrace, and retired, as he said,
to the library, where, smote to the heart by his admiration of her
affection and greatness of mind, he sat down, and whilst he reflected on
the destitution to which he had brought the granddaughter of an earl,
he wept bitterly for several minutes. It was from this peculiar state
of feeling that he was called upon to hear an account of the attempted
assassination, with which the reader is already acquainted.
Our friend, the Cannie Soogah, having taken the town of Lisnagola on
his way, in order to effect some sales with one of those general country
merchants on a somewhat small scale, that are to be found in almost
every country town, happened to be sitting in a small back-parlor, when
a certain conversation took place between Mr. Temple and Molony, the
proprietor of the establishment to which we have just alluded. He heard
the dialogue, we say, and saw that the mild and care-worn curate had
been, not rudely certainly, but respectfully, yet firmly, refused
further credit. By whatever spirit prompted it is not for us to say;
at all events he directed his footsteps to the glebe, and--but it is
unnecessary to continue the description, or rather to repeat it. The
reader is already aware of what occurred until the departure of Dr.
Turbot and the proctor.
Temple, having seen them depart, walked out for a little, in order to
compose his mind, and frame, if possible, some project for the relief of
his wife and children. In the meantime, our jolly pedlar, having caught
a glimpse of Mrs. Temple at the parlor window, presented himself, and
begged to know if she were inclined to make any purchases. She nodded
him a gentle and ladylike refusal, upon which he changed his ground,
and said, “Maybe, ma'am, if you're not disposed to buy, that you'd have
something you'd like to part wid. If you have, ma'am, bad cess to the
purtier purchaser you'd meet wid--shawls or trinkets, or anything that
way--I mane, ma'am,” he added, “things that arn't of any use to you--an'
I'm the boy that will shell out the ready money, and over the value.”
Mrs Temple had known little--indeed nothing--of the habits of such a
class as that to which our gay friend belonged; but be this as it may,
his last words struck her quickly and forcibly.
“Do you make purchases, then?” she said.
“I do, ma'am, plaise your honor,” replied the pedlar.
“Stop a moment, then,” she replied. “I have some superfluous articles of
dress that I may dispose of.”
The whole mother rushed into her heart at the thought; the tender and
loving wife forgot everything but the means of obtaining food for
her husband and children. She went to her dressing-room, and in a few
minutes returned, accompanied by Lilly Stewart, her own servant-maid
previous to ker marriage, to whom their recent distresses had been
no secret, and who was deeply and deservedly in the confidence of the
family.
Whilst she was, absent in her dressing-room the pedlar resumed his song,
as was his custom when alone--a circumstance which caused Mrs. Temple
to remark, as she and Lilly went down to, the parlor--“Alas! dear Lilly,
what a mistaken estimate does one portion of mankind form of another.
This poor pedlar now envies us the happiness of rank and wealth which
we do not feel, and I--yes, even I--what would I not give to be able to
carol so light-hearted a song as that which he is singing! Who is this
man, Lilly, do you know him?”
“Why, ma'am, if all they say is true, every one knows him, and nobody
knows him. He's known as the _Cannie Soogah_, or jolly pedlar. They
say, that although he prefers this kind of life, he's very wealthy.
One person will tell you that he's a great rogue, and would cheat
Satan himself, and others say he's generous and charitable. In other
respects,” continued. Lilly, blushing, “he's not very well spoken of,
but it may be false. I have always found him myself very civil; and them
that spoke harshly of him were people that he kept at a distance.”
The pedlar ceased his song as soon as they made their appearance in
the parlor, into which Lilly admitted him for the sake of mutual
convenience.
“Here's a shawl--a beautiful shawl, Mr. ---- what's this your name is?”
“The name that I have for set days and bonfire nights,” he replied, “is
one I seldom tell,” and at the same time there was a dry air of surprise
about him on hearing her ask the question; “but the name I am generally
known by is the _Cannie Soogah_, which manes, ma'am,” he added,
addressing himself in a respectful manner to Mrs. Temple, “the jolly
merchant or pedlar.”
“Well, Cannie,” said Lilly, pronouncing the word with more familiarity
than could have been expected from their apparent unaquaintance with
each other, “here's a beautiful shawl that my mistress made me a present
of.”
“No, Lilly,” said her mistress, with severity--for she neither could nor
would sanction the falsehood, however delicately and well intended--“no,
do not mislead the man, nor state anything but the truth. The shawl is
mine, my good man, and I wish to dispose of it.”
The pedlar looked at it, and replied, in a tone of disappointment,
“Yes, ma'am, but I'm afeard it's beyant my manes; I know the value of
it right well, and it's seldom ever the likes of it was in my pack. What
are you axin', ma'am? it's as good as new.”
“I think it cost twelve or thirteen guineas, as well as I can remember,”
she replied; “but it is not what it cost, but what you are now disposed
to give for it, that I am anxious to know.”
“Well, ma'am, you know I must look upon it as--hem--as a second--ha--at
all events,” he proceeded, checking himself with more delicacy than
could be expected from him--“you must admit that it isn't new.”
“Certainly,” said she, “it has been more than eight years in my
possession, although, at the same time, I believe I have not worn it
more than half a dozen times.”
“Well, ma'am,” replied the pedlar, “I know the value of the shawl
something betther even than yourself. If you will take six guineas for
it, we will deal; more I cannot afford, for I must at once tell, you the
truth, that I may carry it about these twelve months before I find any
one that knows its value.”
Mrs. Temple was by no means prepared, any more than her servant, for
such a liberal offer; and without any further hesitation she accepted
it, and desired Lilly to place the shawl in his hands, and in the
meantime, with equal consideration and good feeling, he handed Lilly six
guineas, adding, “Give that to your mistress, but in troth, ma'am,” he
proceeded, respectfully addressing her; “it is just robbing you I am,
but I can only say, that if I dispose of it at its proper-value you'll
hear from me again. Troth, if I wasn't a great rogue, ma'am, I'd give
you more for it; but bad cess to the one o' me--ever could be honest,
even if I wasped for it.”
“I do not think you dishonest, my good, man,” replied Mrs. Temple; “on
the contrary, I am not displeased with your, plain blunt manner. Lilly
give him some----”
She checked herself at once, and passed, a significant but sorrowful
glance at Lilly; as she went up to the drawing-room.
She had no sooner gone, than the peddler, with a shrug of satisfaction,
exclaimed, in a subdued but triumphant voice: “Oh! by the hokey I've
done her, and for that you must suffer, Lilly darlin'. Come now, you
jumpin' jewel you, that was born wid a honey-comb somewhere between,
that purty chin and beautiful nose of yours--throth it must have a
taste, for who the dickens could, refuse the _Cannie Soogah_, and before
Lilly, who, by the way, was nothing, loath, could put herself in an
attitude of defense, he had inflicted several smacks upon as pretty a
pair of lips as ever were pressed.
“Upon my word; now, Mr. Magrath, you're very impudent,” she replied, “I
wonder you're not ashamed, you great strong man you, to be kissing girls
in this manner, whether they will or not. Look at the state you have my
hair in; you're very rude, Mr. Magrath, and I'm really angry with you;
you've broken one of my side-combs, too; you're a great rude man, so you
are.”
“Broke your side-comb, did I? Well, then, you couldn't be in better
hands, darlin', here's a pair I make you a present of, and maybe they
won't set you all off to pieces; here, darlin', wear these for my sake.”
“But are you making me a present of these beauties, Cannie?”
“Troth an' I am, Lilly darlin', and wish they were betther for your
sake--what's that I said? a present! oh the sorrow bit, I must have my
payment--aisy now, darlin', my own sweet Lilly; there now, we're clear.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Magrath, I don't know what to say to you, but you're
such a great strong fellow, that a poor weak girl like me is but a child
in your arms; are these real tortoise-shell though?”
“You may swear it; do you think I'd offer you anything else? But now
listen, my darlin' girl, take this shawl, it's 'worth five-and-twenty
guineas at least, troth, poor thing! it wasn't since their marriage it
was bought; take it, I say, and go up widout sayin' a word, and lay
it just where it was before, and if she seems surprised on findin' it
there, tell her you suppose I forgot it, or if she won't believe you,
and that all fails you, say that the _Cannie Soogah_, although she
knows nothing about him, is a man that's undher great obligations to her
family, and that he only tuck that method of payin' back a debt to her
that he honestly owed to them, for, afther all, isn't she one of them?”
Lilly shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, at the manly and
modest generosity of the pedlar.
“Little you know then, Mr. Magrath, the load you have taken off my
dear mistress's heart, and the delight you have brought upon the whole
family.”
“Well, Lilly dear, sure if I did, amn't I well paid, for it? thanks to
your two sweet lips for that. Sure, bad cess to me, but it was on your
account I did it.”
A vile grin, or rather an awkward blank smile, forced by an affectation
of gallantry, accompanied the lie which he uttered.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” replied Lilly, “on my 'account, don't think to
pass that upon me; however, I can forgive you a great many things in
consequence of your behavior--just now.”
“And yet you abused me for it,” he replied, laughing, “but sure I knew
that a purty girl always likes to be kissed; bad cess to me, but the
same behavior comes naturally to me.”
“Go now,” said Lilly, with a comic and peremptory manner; “go your
rounds, I say; you know very well that I mane your behavior about the
shawl, and not your great strong impudence.”
The pedlar, after winking and nodding meanings into her words that she
had never thought of, slung his pack over his shoulder as usual, and
proceeded on his rounds.
We have always been of opinion that there is scarcely anything more
mysterious than the speed with which popular report travels apparently
with very inadequate machinery throughout a large district of country.
Before the day was more than half-advanced, fame had succeeded in
circulating a report that Matthew Purcel and Dr. Turbot had been both
shot dead in the garden of the rectory. This report spread rapidly,
and it is with equal pain and shame we are obliged to confess that in
general it was received with evident and undisguised satisfaction. John
and Alick Purcel, on their way home, were accosted at a place called
“Murderer's Corner,” by two of the men who had attended at their
father's office that morning, and informed that he and Dr. Turbot had
been murdered in the course of the day, a piece of information which
was conveyed by them with a sneer of cowardly triumph that was perfectly
diabolical.
“God save ye, gintlemen!” said one of them, with a peculiar emphasis on
the last word; “did ye here the news?”
“No, Jemmy, what is it?” asked John.
“Why, that Darby Hourigan is very ill,” he replied, with mock gravity.
“No thanks for your information, Jemmy,” replied the other; “if you told
us something of more interest we might thank you.”
“Never mind him, gintlemen,” replied his companion, “there's nothing
wrong wid Darby Horaigan, barrin' that he occasionally rubs himself
where he's not itching, but there's worse news than that before you.”
“What is it, then?” asked Alick; “if you know it, let us hear it, and
don't stand humming and hawing as if you were afraid to speak.”
“Faith, an' it's no wondher I would, sir, when it's to tell you that
you'll find your father a murdhered corpse at home before you.”
“Great God! what do you mean, sir? asked John.
“Why, gintlemen, it seems that himself an' Parson Turbot wor both shot
in the parsonage garden to-day. The parson's takin' his rest in his own
house, but your father's body was brought home upon the car. The bullet
entered your worthy father's breeches' pocket, cut through a sheaf of
notes that he had to pay the parson his tides wid, and from that it went
on----”
Human patience could not endure the ill-suppressed and heartless
satisfaction with which the fellow was about to enter into the details,
and accordingly, ere he had time to proceed further, John Purcel turning
a hunting-whip, loaded for self-defense, left him sprawling on the
earth.
“Now, you ill-conditioned scoundrel,” he exclaimed, “whether he is
murdered or not, take that for your information. Alick, lay on Hacket
there, you are the nearest to him,” he added, addressing his brother.
Hacket at once took to his heels, but the other, touching his horse with
the spurs, cantered up to him, and brought the double thong of his whip
into severe contact with his neck and shoulders. When this was over, the
two fiery young men exclaimed:--
“There, now, are our thanks, not merely for your information, but for
the good will with which it was given, and that to the very sons of the
man whom, by your own account, you have murdered among you. If his blood
however, has been shed, there is not a drop of it for which we will not
exact a tenfold retribution.”
They then dashed home, at the highest speed of which their horses
were capable, and throwing themselves out of the saddle, rushed to the
hall-door, where they knocked eagerly.
“Is my father at home, Letty?”
“Yes, sir, he's in the parlor.”
“In the parlor,” exclaimed Alick, looking keenly into her face; “what is
he doing in the parlor, eh?”
“Why, he's readin' a letther, sir.”
“Reading a letter, is he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed both the young men, breathing freely; “that will
do, Letty--here, Letty, is half-a-crown for you to buy a ribbon.”
“And another from me, Letty, to buy anything you fancy.”
The girl looked at them with surprise, and for a moment or two seemed
at a loss how to account for such evident excitement. At length she
exclaimed: “By dad, I have it; you won the hunt, gintlemen.”
“Better than that, Letty,” they replied, nodding, and immediately
entering the parlor.
“Well, boys,” said the father, “a good day's sport?”
“Capital, father! are you long home!”
“Since about two o'clock.”
“How did you come?”
“Why, boys, ye must know that either Dr. Turbot or I was fired at
to-day. A bullet--a pistol bullet--whistled right between us in the
parsonage garden, and the poor frightened doctor refused to come by the
usual way, and, in consequence, I was obliged to take the lower road.”
He then entered into a more detailed account of the attempted
assassination, and heard from them, in reply, a history of their
intelligence and adventure at Murderer's Corner with Hacket and Bryan,
for so the fellows were named.
“Well,” said the proctor, “thank God, things are not so bad as they
report, after all; but, in the meantime, the plot appears to be
thickening--here's more comfort,” he added, handing him the notice which
Mogue told him he had found upon the steps of the hall-doer, where,
certainly, he had himself left it. John took the document and read as
follows:--
“TO PROCTOR PURCEL AND HIS HORSE-WHIPPIN' SONS.
“This is to give you notice, that nothing can save yez. Look back upon
your work an' see what yez desarve from the counthry. You began with a
farm of sixty acres, and you took farm afther farm over the heads of the
poor an' them that wor strugglin', until you now have six hundre' acres
in your clutches. You made use of the strong purse against the wake man;
an' if any one ventured to complain, he was sure to come in for a
dose of the horsewhip from your tyrannical sons, or a dose of law from
yourself. Now all that I've mentioned might be overlooked an' forgiven,
for the sake of your wife and daughters, but it is for your conduct as
a Tithe Proctor that you and your sons must die. Don't think to escape
me, for it can't be done. There is not a day in the week, nor an hour in
the day, but I have you at my command. Be prepared, then, for your fate
is sealed; and no earthly power can save you. There is the sign [three
coffins] and the blood that marks my name is from my own veins. You and
your sons must die.
“Captain Terror,
“The Millstone-breaker.”
“Tut,” said Alick, “we have received far worse than this; it has been
written by some hedge schoolmaster; as for my part, I despise it.”
“Well, boys, at all events,” proceeded the proctor, “be a little more
sparing with the horse-whip. The scoundrels deserve it to be sure; but
at the same time it is not a thing that can be defended.”
“Why, it's impossible to keep it from them, father,” replied John;
“their insolence is actually more than flesh and blood can bear. But had
we not better make some inquiries into this precious production?”
“Where is the use of that?” said his father, to whom such communications
had lost all their novelty and much of their interest; “however, you may
do so; perhaps some accidental clue may be found that would lead us to
discover the villain who wrote it.”
Mogue was accordingly called in.
“How did this letter come into your hands, Mogue?” asked the proctor.
“It didn't come into them, sir,” replied Mogue, with a smile which he
intended to pass, for one of simplicity; “it was lyin' I got it, upon
the hall-door steps.”
“Did you see any strange person about the place, or near the hall-door
to-day?” he asked.
“None, sir, sorra a creature--well now, wait--that I may never sup
sorrow, but I did--there was a poor woman, sir, wid a whack of a son
along wid her.”
“Did you see her near the steps?”
“That I may be happy, sir, if I could take it upon me to say--not
wishin' to tell a lie--but she might a' been there, the crathur.”
“What kind of a looking woman was she?” asked John.
“A poor woman, sir, as I said.”
“I do not mean that; of course, I know she was; but what dress had she
on, and what kind of features or complexion had she? Was she big or
little?”
“I'm just thinkin',” replied Mogue, seemingly attempting to recollect
something, “was it to-day or yesterday I seen her.”
“Well, but answer directly,” said Alick, “what was she like?”
“The son of her was a bullet-headed _ownsha_,” replied Mogue, “and
herself--well now, that I may never die in sin, if I could say rightly.
I was fetehin' some oats to Gimlet Eye, an' didn't take any particular
notice. The _ownsha_ had black sooty hair, cut short, an' walked as
if his feet were sore--and indeed it strikes me that he had kibes--for
these poor people isn't overly clane, an' don't wash their feet goin' to
bed at night, barrin' at Christmas or Easther, the crathurs. But, sure
the Lord look down on them, they have enough to do to live at all!”
“You couldn't say what direction she came from?”
“Well, then, no.”
“Nor the direction she went by?”
“Well, no sir, I could not.”
“But are you certain it was to-day, and not yesterday, you saw her?”
“Then that's what's puzzlin' me--eh! let me see--ay--it was to-day--an'
I'll tell you how I know it. Bekaise it was to-day I brought the oats to
Gimlet Eye--you know he was harrowing the black park yestherday and was
in care of Paudeen Sthuccaun. But sure, sir, maybe somebody else about
the place seen them.”
An investigation was consequently held upon this reasonable suggestion,
but we need scarcely assure our readers, without effect; the aforesaid
“poor woman” having had existence only in the fertile imagination of
stainless and uncorrupted saint Mogue.
The latter had scarcely retired, when a gentle knock came to the door,
and Alick, on opening it himself, found their friend and neighbor, Darby
Hourigan, standing outside.
“Well, Hourigan, what do you want now? have you repented, and come to
the resolution of paying your tithes?”
Darby gave no direct answer, nor indeed any answer at all to these
questions, but simply said, “There's a bit o' paper, sir, for Misther
John.”
“What is this? Oh, oh, a summons!--very well, Mr. Hourigan, my brother
will attend to it.”
“This is where John Purcel lives, sir?” proceeded the man, according to
some form which he supposed necessary to give effect and reality to the
service; “you acknowledge that, sir, do you?”
“Live here!--why, you scoundrel, don't you know he does? Where else did
he ever live?”
“Ay, but you are only answerin' one question by another,” replied
Hourigan; “and I'll sarve you wid another to-morrow if you don't speak
the truth.”
“John,” shouted his brother, “you're wanted. Here is your old friend
Hourigan, anxious to get another--ha! ha! ha!--he is off like a shot!”
he proceeded, addressing his brother, as the latter entered the hall;
“but in the meantime,” he added, handing him the summons, “this document
is intended for you.”
“Well,” observed John, laughing, “unless our friend O'Driscol is
somewhat change”! I need not much fear Mr. Hourigan.”
“He is changed,” observed the proctor; “the fellow is beginning to run
with the hare and hunt with the hounds. If you wish to secure his favor,
however, you ought to try and put him on the trail of a Conspiracy, or
anything that will give him a tolerable justification for writing to his
Friend the Castle, as he calls it! He is a regular conspiracy hunter,
and were it not that he is now awfully afraid of these Whiteboys, and
naturally cowardly and easily frightened, I think he would be the plague
of government as well as the country.”
It would indeed, be extremely difficult to find a family so resolute and
full of natural courage, and consequently so incapable of intimidation,
as that of our friend the proctor. And what was equally striking, the
female portion of them were as free from the weakness and timidity of
their sex, in this respect, as the males.