--Mogue Moglan's Anxiety for the Safety of the Purcels--Tithe
Distraint--Good News for Mr. Temple.
Matters had now arrived at such a crisis, that either the law must be
vindicated, or tithes should be considered as put down by violence on
the one hand, and passive resistance on the other; for, as the question
stood, it had to grapple with both. The clergymen of the establishment,
cramped by poverty, and harassed by delay, were not now in a condition
to recover their incomes by the tedious and expensive processes that
were hitherto resorted to. Some point, however, was made, or some
antiquated statute was ferreted out, owing to the black-letter craft
of certain astute lawyers, by which the parson or proctor, we believe,
as the case might have been, instead of being forced to incur enormous
expense for the recovery of any individual responsibility, was enabled,
through what was termed a “Writ of Rebellion,” to join the greater
part of a parish, if not the whole of it, in the same legal process, by
inserting their names in the writ. At first, however, and in the early
stage of the proceedings, the resistance was by no means passive.
Experience, however, soon taught the people that the law and the
executive, when opposed, were anything but playthings, and the loss of
several lives on the part of those who attempted, by force, to obstruct
the execution of the former, led to the expediency of adopting the
passive plan. A widow's son had been shot in a tithe-levy; and on the
other side, a clergyman named Ryder had fallen a victim to the outrage
of the people--as, we believe, had other reverend gentlemen also,
together with a tithe-proctor, who was shot in his own field in open
day, his son, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, having also a narrow escape.
Purcel's position was now one of extreme danger and difficulty. The
combination against tithes had been carried to such a height, that
not only were the people sworn to pay no tithes, but all the proctor's
laborers were forced, besides, to quit his employment. No man could work
for him, unless at the certain risk of his life. By the mere influence
of money, and the offer of triple wages, he succeeded in procuring a
number of workmen from a neighboring county; but no sooner were they
seen in his employment, than an immense crowd collected from all parts
of the country, and after treating them with great violence, swore,
every man of them, never to work for Purcel, or any other tithe-proctor
whatever. This treatment exasperated the Purcels exceedingly; indeed,
so much so, that they expressed to the people a wish that their house
should be attacked, in order that they might thereby have an opportunity
of shooting the assailants like dogs. In this way the feeling ran on
between them day by day, until the acrimony and thirst for vengeance,
on each side, had reached its utmost height. In the meantime, a tithe
auction was to take place at a distance of some three or four miles from
the Proctor's. On the morning when it was to take place, Mogue Moylan
told Alick Purcel that he wished to speak to him. This scoundrel's
plausibility was such, that he had continued to act the spy and traitor
in the family, without exciting suspicion in the mind of any one,
with the exception only of Jerry Joyce, who being himself involved in
Whiteboyism, was placed in a position of great difficulty and danger. To
have discovered Mogue's treachery, would not only criminate himself, by
the necessity of admitting his connection with this illegal combination,
which was a felony at the time, but it would also have probably
occasioned the loss of his life, by betraying the designs of his
confederacy, and thus proving himself, as it would have been termed, a
traitor to the people, and to the cause of his country. Such, in truth,
are the multifarious evils that result from illegal conspiracies among
our impulsive and unreasoning countryman.
“It's a word or two I'd wish to spake to you, Mr. Alick.”
“Well, Mogue, what's the matter? Are you still determined to be
hard-hearted to poor Letty Lenehan?”
“That I may never sup sorrow, Mr. Alick, if I can help the foolish
creature! I do all I can to let her see that we are not aiquils; but
the thoughtless girl won't be convinced. I belong to a family, sir, that
always suffered for our counthry. Widin the last six hundre' years, I
have it from sound authority, that there never was a ruction on
Irish ground that wasn't the manes of havin' some o' them hanged or
transported, glory be to God! An' you know, Mr. Alick, that's a proud
boast, an' what every one couldn't say.”
“All I can say then, Mogue, is, that if you look upon that as an honor,
I have no objection that the fate should follow the family, and, I
suppose, neither have you.”
“Well, indeed now, and that I may never die in sin, but I think it an
honor to oppose these Sassanagh laws; an', for that matther, to die
opposin' them; however, as to myself, Mr. Alick, I am by nature of a
peaceable, quiet turn, and not likely--”
“To grace a gibbet, Mogue: well, I believe not; but what is this you
wish to say to me?”
“One or two things then, sir. First, I hear that Mr. M'Carthy is comin'
down to stay wid the family here, bekaise they say it's going to be
attacked.”
“Well, is it not both a friendly and a manly offer for him to make?”
“Granted, Mr. Alick; but instead of help-in' you all to keep the danger
off, he'll only be the manes of bringin' it on; for as soon as it
becomes known that he's here, there will be ten enemies then for one
there is now against you. I happened to overhear a discoorse at the
chapel on Sunday last; and it's from that I'm givin' you my advice.”
“I don't care a d--n,” said the impetuous young man, “about their
discourses at chapel. They go there more for the purpose of plotting
murders, and entering into illegal combinations, than for that of
praying sincerely or worshipping God! No; we despise and defy them.”
“Well, then, Mr.--”
“Silence, Mogue; not another word on that subject. I am obliged to you,
in the meantime, for you kindness, and the interest you feel for us.”
“That my bed may be made in heaven, thin, but I do feel all you say;
and why shouldn't I? But I said I had a thing or two to mention, an'
although it goes against my heart to say it, still I like your family
too well, not to throw you out a hint upon it. 'Tis regardin' Jerry
Joyce, ay--an' Mr. M'Carthy too, sir.”
“Jerry Joyce and M'Carthy; well, what about them? Jerry's a rollicking
shallow fool, but honest, I think.”
“Well, Mr. Alick, this is to be buried between you and me. I say, don't
trust him; an' as for M'Carthy, it doesn't become the likes o' me to
disparage him; but if there's not a traitor to this family in his coat,
I'm not here. It's purty well known that he's a Whiteboy; he was a
caravat it seems, two years agone, and was wid ould _Paudeen Gar_ when
Hanly was hanged for--”
“And who was Paudeen Gar?” asked the other, interrupting him.
“He was the head o' the Shanavests, and it so happened, that one Hanly,
who was head of the Moyle Bangers, as they wor called, was hanged only
for burnin' the house of a man that tuck a farm over another man's
head. Now the Shanavests and the Moyle Rangers, you see, bein' bitther
enemies, the Shanavests prosecuted Hanly for the burning, and on the
day of his execution, Paudeen Gar stayed under the gallows, and said
he wouldn't lave the place till he'd see the _caravat_ (* Carvat;
fact--such is their origin) put about Hanly's neck; an' from that out
the Moyle Bangers was never called anything but Caravats.”
“But what does Shanavest mean?”
“It manes an ould waistcoat; that is, it's the Irish for an ould
waistcoat, and Paudeen Gar's men were called Shanavests, bekaise when
they went out to swear the people against tithes and priests' dues, they
put ould waistcoats about them for fraid o' bein' known.”
“And you tell me that McCarthy's a White-boy?”
“Wasn't he a night wid them? and didn't he come home in the mornin' wid
his face blackened?”
“Well, but he accounted very satisfactorily for that.”
“I'm a friend to your family, Mr. Alick; and what I tell you is thrue;
an' by the same token, Miss Julia isn't safe in the one house wid him.”
“Come, come, Mogue, don't attempt' to make any illusion of that kind.
You are an honest but over-anxious fool, and like many a one in this
world, would make mountains out of mole-hills.”
“Well, sir,” replied Mogue, somewhat downcast, “when the time comes I'll
let you know why I say so. Don't trust either o' them, I say, for the
present, at any rate; for I hope soon to know more about them.”
“Well, then, Mogue,” said Alick, laughing, “I'll keep my eye on them.”
“Do so, sir; an' as I'm spakin' to you as a friend that you may trust,
I tell you, Mr. Alick, that although I'm quiet, as I said a while agone,
still as there's likely to be danger to your family, I'd wish to help
you to meet it, and to do whatever little I could in your defence--I
would, indeed; but you know, Mr. Alick, I can't do that so long as
I'm kept sleepin' in the out-houses. If I was allowed any kind of
a shake-down in the house, I could do a good deal in the way of
assistance. I could help you to load your fire-arms, or I could take
charge of the ladies, and many other thing that I couldn't do out o' the
house, so that was all I had to say to you, Mr. Alick.”
“Thank you, Mogue; I really feel obliged to you; and I shall think
over what you have said to me. If we admit any stranger to sleep in the
house, with the exception of Mr. M'Carthy, you shall be the man; I will
promise you that much, conditionally.”
“And not a word of what I hinted about Jerry?”
“You need not be at all uneasy on that score; as I said, I shall keep
my eye on him. We must now go to prepare for this auction, which, of
course, so far as we are concerned, will be both an unpleasant and
unprofitable affair. Go, then, and get the horses. We have also some
processes to serve, and it will be necessary that we should see the
bailiffs, to give them proper instructions, and directions to the houses
on which they are to serve them.”
“Is Mr. O'Driscol goin' wid you, sir?”
“No, Mogue,” replied Alick, laughing, “ever since the country has risen,
as he calls it, Mr. O'Driscol. has lost his health. Indeed, ever since
the day he was attacked at Philpot's Corner, by the four black faces, a
fact which he has dignified with the name of insurrection, he has taken
no active part in public life. He does nothing now but correspond with
his friend the Castle, as he says.”
The morning on which this conversation took place was a dull, gloomy
one, about the middle of December. It did not rain, but the weather had
been dark and desolate in character for above a week before; in fact,
of that cheerless description which represses animal spirits,
and superinduces upon the mind impressions that are dreary and
disheartening.
A chief constable of police, accompanied by a body of forty men well
armed, started from near the proctor's house, in order to execute a
decree of the Court of Chancery, or rather to protect those who were
about to do so, by first holding an auction, and serving a process from
the same court afterwards, in another place. For the first mile or
so there was not much notice taken of them; a few boys only, and some
women, kept hooting and screaming at their heels as they went along.
Within about two miles or so of the place of their destination, men
began to appear upon the hills in increasing groups, and horns were soon
sounding in every direction. This, however, was not all; on reaching a
chapel, the bell began to ring, and, in a short time, as they advanced,
the bells of the whole country around them were pealing rapidly and with
violence. The crowds now began to coalesce, and to gather about them
in such a manner that they, kept them completely hemmed in; and in this
manner they proceeded, until they arrived at the premises on which the
auction was to be held. The peasantry were formidably armed with every
sort of weapon that the moment could supply; for, on such occasions as
this, the people never used fire-arms. These, carried in the open day,
might enable the police to know the persons of those who illegally
possessed them, and, consequently, get such individuals into trouble.
Their arms, on this occasion, consisted of pitchforks, spades, shovels,
scythes, bill-hooks, and heavy sticks, whilst it was observed that
several of those who carried these weapons in one hand, carried a round,
destructive stone about two or three pounds' weight, in the other. A
powerful man, who wore a sash across his shoulders, and a military
cap that was peaked so as to conceal his face, appeared as leader, and
seemed completely to direct and regulate their motions. The state of
tumult throughout and over the face of the country was indeed frightful,
and it is very likely that a chief constable and only forty police felt
the danger of their position and the utter inadequacy of their numbers,
either to carry the decrees of the law into execution, or to defend
themselves, with anything like success, against the burning ferocity of
the armed multitudes by whom they were surrounded.
At length the auction commenced, and the first article put up for
competition was a fine heifer, but not an individual present would open
his lips to bid for her; and, on a little further examination, it was
ascertained that all the cattle had been branded with the word tithe, in
large and legible characters. The family on whom the execution was about
being levied, walked, about at their ease, and rather seemed to enjoy
the matter, as a triumph over law, than as a circumstance that was
calculated to depress or annoy them. They offered no obstruction;
neither did they, on the other hand, afford the slightest possible
facility to the officers of the law. They were strictly and to the
letter passive.
The heifer alluded to having been put aside for want of a bidder, a fine
cow was put up, and all the usual cajoling and seductive provocations
to competition and purchase were held out, but in vain. Every nourish
of the bailiff, who acted as auctioneer, was lost, as it were, on empty
space, and might as well have been uttered in a desert. Butter-casks,
kitchen' vessels, and everything on which the impress could be affixed,
was marked with the hated brand of “tithe.” No one, however, would bid;
and when the bailiffs, on seeing that none present was either willing or
courageous enough to do so, began to bid themselves, the silence of the
people still remained unbroken. They then put up some furniture, all
of which was branded “tithe;” but, on purchasing it for another market,
they found that it was impossible to remove it, as neither horse nor
cart, nor any available vehicle for that purpose, could be had at
any cost. So far, therefore, the law and all its authority, supported
besides by a large body of constabulary, were completely defeated, and
it was obvious that, unless those on whom the perilous duty of executing
it fell, came provided with the means of removing the property, that is
to say, with horses, carts, and a body of military besides, every such
auction must terminate in failure.
The shortness of the day, and the distance they had to go, when taken
in connection with the ferocious state of the people, prevented the
bailiffs and their protectors from serving the process, to which we have
alluded, on another party. It was therefore determined on to abandon the
property for the present, and execute the service on the following day.
The next morning opened with the same dull, dark, and desolute
appearance, as did the preceding. On this occasion, there was no
auction to hold and but one process to serve, only a single bailiff was
necessary. No diminution, however, was made in the number-of police who
attended; and, indeed, the party selected for the service of this day
ought rather to have been increased, inasmuch as the bailiff in question
had rendered himself so justly obnoxious to the people, that it
was fatuity itself to suppose that, smarting as they were under the
scoundrel's wanton and obscene insults, it was possible they would
suffer him to escape. The party had, consequently, no sooner set out,
than the horns once more began to blow, the bells to ring, and the whole
country around to stir into tumult and action. The same arms as we haye
already mentioned were in requisition, with some old pike-handles, and
an occasional rusty pike or two that may have seen service in '98.
On the previous day the people had resolved to maintain an armed
neutrality, and to observe, unless attacked, the spirit of passive
resistance in its strictest sense. Now, however, the man who, confiding
in and abusing the protection and authority of the Court of Chancery,
had so grossly insulted them by language that was both indecent and
unchristian; who had not only attacked their want of morals, but
ridiculed their religion;--this person, we say, was within their grasp,
and let what might be the result, they were determined, to a man, “_to
have the process-server or blood_” for such was the expression. The
people now shouted, and had evidently made up their minds, not only to
secure the process-server, but to attack the police themselves, at any
risk. Such was the apprehension of this, that their officer deemed it
necessary to halt his party, and order them to prime and load, which
they did. Whilst they halted, so did the assailants; but, upon resuming
their march to the house of the tithe-defaulter, the crowds, who were
every moment increasing in number and in fury, resumed their march also,
gradually closing upon and coming nearly into contact with them. Indeed,
they were now so close, that the object of all this preparation, and
concert, and motion, could be distinctly ascertained from their language
and demeanor. Ever and anon there arose from them, extending far and
wide over the country, one general cry and exclamation, accompanied by
menacing gestures and blazing eyes:--
“The process-server or Blood!--Butler or blood!”
This unfortunate individual, having put a copy of the process under the
door, took his place in the centre of the police, who turned to the left
of the house for the purpose of retreating; and it is to be deplored
that the retreat in question was not conducted with more discipline and
judgment.
On this occasion, as well as on that of the preceding day, the same
person who acted as the popular leader was present, dressed as before,
in a sash, and peaked cap that concealed the greater portion of his
countenance, which was, besides, otherwise disguised. On arriving at the
defaulter's house, this man took off his sash, lest it might make him a
more conspicuous object for the police, in case of a recounter, and put
it into his pocket, from which one end of it, however, protruded. Two
other leaders held subordinate rank under him, a circumstance which
gave to the whole proceedings a character of premeditated concert, and
deliberation.
From the house of the defaulter, the police, encircling the
process-server, proceeded in a certain direction to a place called
Tennison's Gate; but so closely were they now pressed upon by the
multitude that they were obliged to keep them off with their bayonets.
Their threats, their increasing numbers, and their irrepressible fury,
now excited such alarm in the minds of the police, that one of them,
calling to his officer, entreated him to take them into the open field,
where alone their arms could afford them protection; or if not, he
added, that they must fall a sacrifice to the vengeance of their
enemies. At that instant, two or three of the leaders of the people were
in commotion with that gentleman, one of them resting his hand upon
his horse's neck, and the other so close to him that his words could be
distinctly heard.
“Captain G----s,” said the latter, “don't be afraid--meek yourself
aisy--not a hair of your head, nor any of the police, will be touched;
we only want the process-server; let him be given up, and you will be
safe.”
“Sooner than give him up to you,” he replied, “we will, every man of us,
part with our lives. Sacrifice us you may, but we will never surrender
our charge.”
Instead, however, of following the sound advice of one of his own men,
the chief constable, credulous to infatuation, allowed the infuriated
body, by which he and his men were surrounded, still to press in upon
him, without taking those precautions which common sense, coolness, and
the insecurity of his position, should have dictated.
By the time they had passed the place called Tennison's Gate, a large
body had collected in their front, blocking up the road they had to
pass, and which would have conducted, them in a different direction, but
not one so peculiarly perilous. From this they made a turn to the left
into a lane that would have led them back again to a little village,
through which they had already passed, the bell of which was already
sounding their death-knell. The constabulary, by turning into the narrow
lane at the left, unconsciously approached the very ambush into which
the people, or rather their more disciplined leaders, had intended to
decoy them. This lane was enclosed by walls, and on one side the ground
was considerably elevated and covered with stones, thus affording
to their assailants every possible opportunity of completing their
destruction. The unfortunate men were pressed by a crowd on their right,
composed of those who occupied the elevation; another crowd pressed upon
their rear; whilst a third body obstructed them in front, thus keeping
them pent up, and at the mercy of the crowds on every side.
It is quite obvious that the person in command of the constabulary was
not only unfit for his duty, but ignorant of anything like military
discipline or manoeuvring. He must have completely lost his presence
of mind, otherwise his easiness of belief and simplicity are utterly
unaccountable. As it was, in two or three minutes after the hollow
assurances of good-will uttered by those whom he saw bristling at the
same time with vengeance about him, an effort was made by a man to drag
the unfortunate process-server out of the lines. He was immediately
pulled back by a policeman, but was scarcely restored to his place, When
he was struck on the side of the head with a wattle. The blow caused him
to stagger, and would have caused him to fall, but that he was seized
and kept upon his legs by the policeman. He had not time, however, to
recover his steadiness, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from
a stone, which sent him to the ground a corpse. A general assault with
every description of rude and formidable weapons, now commenced upon the
unfortunate constabulary. Their imbecile and uncautious officer fired
his pistol and in a moment afterwards was knocked from his horse and
instantly put to death. The crowd now rushed on them from all sides, and
so sharp, short, and decisive was the massacre, that in about the space
of two minutes, twelve men lay butchered on the spot.
Other scenes of violence and bloodshed there were, but none so frightful
as the above. Most persons remember Rathcormac and Newtonbarry, but we
do not imagine that a recapitulation of such atrocities can be at all
agreeable to the generality of our readers, and for this reason we
content ourselves with barely alluding to them, as a corroboration of
the disorganized condition of society which then existed, and which we
are now attempting to describe.
But perhaps nothing, after all, can test the inextinguishable hatred
of tithes which prevailed at that period, more than the startling and
almost incredible fact that the government, aided by as sound a lawyer,
and as able an attorney-general as ever lived, and a powerful bar
besides, were not able, during the following spring and summer assizes,
to convict a single individual concerned in this massacre, which is now
a portion of our country's history, and still well remembered as that of
Carrickshock, in the county of Kilkenny.
This double triumph of the people over the tithe and police, created a
strong sensation throughout the kingdom, and even shook the two houses
of parliament with dismay.
Indeed, there probably never existed in Ireland, any combination or
confederacy of the people so bitter, or with such a deeply-rooted
hold upon the popular mind as that against tithes, as it slumbered
and revived from time to time. And what is rather singular, too, the
frequent agitations arising from it, which in its periodical returns
convulsed the country, were almost uniformly, or at least very
frequently, productive of a collateral one against priests' dues. Up
until the year '31, however, or '32, the agitators against tithes were
more for their reduction than their extinction. The reduction of tithes
and priests' dues went, as we have said, very frequently together, or
rather the one generally produced the other. The Threshers, in their
early existence, were as active in their attempts to diminish the income
of the priests by intimidation, as they were that of the parson. Their
plan was, with white shirts over their clothes, and white handkerchiefs
round their hats so as to conceal the features, to pay a nightly visit
to some quiet and timid man, whom they swore, on pain of death, to visit
the neighboring chapel in order to inform the priest, in the face of
his own congregation, that unless he reduced the fees for marriage
to half-a-guinea, those of baptism to nineteen-pence half-penny, and
celebrate Mass for thirteen pence, he might prepare his coffin. If he
got hay and oats for his horse at a station, he was at liberty to take
them, but if not, he was to depart quietly, on pain of smarting for
it. The unfortunate individuals on whom they imposed this painful and
dangerous duty, were much to be pitied whilst this confederacy lasted.
To submit to an illegal oath, without reporting the matter to the next
magistrate, was a capital felony, as it was voluntarily to execute any
of their criminal behests. If, then, the unfortunate individual pitched
upon for the performance of this extraordinary office refused to
discharge it, he was probably shot by the Threshers or Carders, and if
he carried their wishes into effect, he was liable to be hanged by the
government, so that his option lay between the relative comforts of
being hanged or shot--a rather anomalous state of society, by the way.
The vengeance of the people against Purcel and his sons had now risen
or was fast rising, to its height. This intrepid man and these
resolute young men, aided by the writs of rebellion and the executive
authorities, had nerved themselves up to the collection of tithe,
through a spirit that was akin to vengeance. In fact, they felt an
inhuman delight--at least the father and his eldest son did--in levying
the execution of the writs in the most pitiless and oppressive manner.
They themselves provided horses and carts, and under protection of the
military and police--for both were now necessary--they swept off cattle,
crops, and furniture, at a ruinous value to the defaulters. At length
they proceeded to the house of a struggling widow, whose only son,
exasperated at the ruin which their proceedings had wrought upon his
mother, in an unguarded moment, induced a few thoughtless boys like
himself to resist the law. It was an act of folly for which his life
paid the penalty. He was shot dead on the spot, and his death proved the
signal for raising the gloomy curtain that veils the last of the drama
in which the tithe-proctor makes his appearance.
Soon after the death of this youth, John Parcel had occasion to go to
Dublin, to transact some business with the Rev. Dr. Turbot, and on his
way to the metropolis he was obliged to stop for more than an hour at
the county town, to await the arrival of the mail-coach. As he lingered
about the door of the coach-office, he noticed a crowd of persons
corning down the street, bearing something that resembled a human figure
on a beir. It was evidently the corpse of some person, but at the same
time he felt it could not have been a funeral, inasmuch as he saw that
it came from the churchyard instead of going to it. The body was covered
with a mort-cloth, so that he could not ascertain whether it was that
of a man or a woman. Walking at its head as a chief mourner does at
a funeral, was an old man with gray hair, who appeared to have every
feature of his venerable countenance impressed with the character of an
affliction which no language could express. He neither spoke nor looked
to either side of him, but walked onward in a stupor of grief that was
evidently too deep for tears--for he shed none, his face was pale even
unto ghastliness, whilst at the same time there was a darkness over it,
which evidently proceeded from the gloom of a broken down and hopeless
heart.
John Purcel, after making some inquiry as to the cause of this singular
procession, was enabled, from several of the by-standers, to ascertain
the following affecting and melancholy particulars. The reader cannot
forget the conversation between the proctor and his sons, concerning
the murder of a certain farmer named Murray, in the early part of this
narrative. The poor youth who had been appointed, under the diabolical
system of Whiteboyism, to perpetrate that awful crime, was the very
young man who, during the journey of the Whiteboys to the mountains, had
held a kind of _sotto voce_ conversation with the mysterious person
who proved himself to be so sincere a friend to Frank M'Carthy. A
misunderstanding for several years, or rather a feeling of ill-will, had
subsisted between his father and Murray, and as this circumstance was
known, the malignant and cowardly miscreants availed themselves of it to
give a color of revenge to the murder, in order to screen themselves.
At all events, the poor misguided youth, who had been stimulated with
liquor, and goaded on to the commission of the crime, from fear of a
violent death if he refused it, was tried, found guilty, and executed,
leaving his childless father and mother, whose affections were centred
in him, in a state of the most indescribable despair and misery. By the
intercession and influence of friends, his body was restored to them,
and interred in the churchyard, from which the procession just mentioned
had issued. The heart, however--or to come nearer the truth--the reason
of the mother--that loving mother--could not bear the blow that deprived
her of her innocent boy--her pride, her only one. In about a week after
his interment she proceeded one morning to his grave, bearing with her
the breakfast which the poor youth had been accustomed to take. This, in
fact, became her daily habit, and here she usually sat for hours, until
in most cases her woe-stricken husband, on missing her, was obliged,
by some pardonable fiction, to lure her home under the expectation
of seeing him. This continued during spring, summer, autumn, and the
greater portion of winter--up in fact until the preceding night. She
had, some time during the course of that night, escaped from her poor,
husband while he slept, and having entered the grave-yard by stone steps
that were in a part of the wall--for a passage went through it--she
reached her boy's grave, where it was supposed, after having for some
time, probably until lassitude and sorrow, and a frame worn down by her
peculiar calamity, had induced sleep--she was found dead in the course
of the morning--an afflicting but beautiful instance of that undying
love of a mother's heart, which survives the wreck of all the other
faculties that compose her being.
Her miserable husband and friends were then bearing her body home,
in order that it might be waked decently and with due respect, ere it
should mingle with the ashes of him whom she had loved so well. So much
for the consequences of being concerned in those secret and criminal
confederacies, that commit such fatal ravages, not only in society, but
in domestic life, and stand so strongly opposed to the laws of both God
and man.
Purcel, on reaching the metropolis, was a great deal astonished at the
change which he observed in Dr. Turbot. That gentleman's double chin had
followed the carnal fortunes of the church that supported it. The rosy
dewlap, in fact, was no longer visible, if we except a slight pendulous
article, which defied the whole nomenclature of colors to classify its
tint, and was only visible when his head and neck assumed a peculiar
attitude. In fact, the change appeared to Purcel to have been an
exceedingly beneficial one. The gross carnal character of his whole
appearance was gone; his person had become comparatively thin, and had
a far and distant, but still an approximating, tendency to something
of the apostolic. He was now leading by compulsion, a reasonable and
natural life, and one not so much at variance with the simple
principles of his religion, whatever it might be with those of the then
establishment. His horses and carriages and powdered servants were all
gone too, so was the rich air of wealth and costly luxury which formerly
breathed throughout his fine mansion, in one of the most fashionable
streets of the metropolis. His eye, no longer loaded by the bloodshot
symptoms of an over-fed and plethoric constitution, was now clear and
intellectual, and there appeared to be an unencumbered activity about
his jaws that argued a vigor and quickness of execution in matters of
a sumptuary character, which, when gross and unwieldy from luxury, they
never could reach. He was by no means in his usual spirits, it is true,
but then he was in much better health, and a vague report of something
in the shape of a loan to the clergy, to the tune of a million, gave him
a considerable degree of cheerfulness.
John Purcel, having dispatched his business with him as quickly as he
could, called upon M'Carthy in college. This gentleman having, in fact,
heard such an account of the threats and determinations of vengeance
with which the Purcel family were threatened, had felt deep anxiety as
to their fate. He had written more than once to them on the subject,
entreating that, as their wealth had rendered them independent, they
would remove either to Lisnagola or Dublin. This, however, was a
determination to which they had come recently themselves, and one
portion of John's business to the metropolis was connected with it.
On the day previous to Purcel's visit to M'Carthy, that young man had
received the following short and somewhat mysterious communication from
the country:--
“Mr. M'Carthy.--Sir--If you wish to save some of Mr. Purcel's
family--save them all you cannot--and if you have courage, and isn't
afraid to risk your life, you will come down to Longshot Lodge and wait
there till you here more from 'One that has proved himself your Friend'.”
This determined M'Carthy; and when John Purcel asked him to spend the
Christmas with them, he felt gratified at the alacrity with which the
other embraced his offer. The next morning they started for Longshot
Lodge, and in due time were cordially greeted by the proctor and his
family.
The day before Christmas--universally known as Christmas Eve--at length
arrived. On that morning, our friend Mr. Temple and his family were
seated at breakfast with easy and cheerful hearts, when the following
conversation took place; and we introduce it for the purpose of
gratifying our readers, who, we are certain, will rejoice in hearing the
circumstances that form its subject matter.
“Charles, my dear, I always knew that my dear grandpapa was a kind and
forgiving man; and, to tell the truth, I felt a conviction that such
sincerity of heart, and such unexampled purity of purpose as yours,
would not be permitted long to suffer. Read the letter again my love.”
Her husband, whose mild features were absolutely radiant with an
expression of delight--an expression that was elevated, besides, with a
glow of fervent and devotional feeling--now read the letter again, which
was to the following effect:--
“My dear Maria,--I do not think that a man of my years--now near
seventy-two--who feels how many duties he has neglected in this life,
and who, consequently, knows how much he requires to be forgiven, ought
any longer to class himself with those who are disposed to withhold
their pardon from human error. I wrote some time ago to your father,
requesting, nay, commanding him, to suffer himself to be reconciled to
you; but his reply was, that, although he was not averse to it in due
time, yet he said that for the present he must decline it--not so much,
he added, for want of affection for you, as that he might the more
strongly manifest a sense of his displeasure at your conduct, in
throwing yourself away upon an 'educated beggar.'”
The hectic of a moment, as Sterne beautifully says, came across his
fine and handsome features as he uttered the words; and he added,
“He forgets, my love, that my family is not, as your grandpapa says,
inferior to his own.”
“Do not dwell on that, dearest Charles,” she added, “but let us hear
good old grandpapa out.”
“No, my dear Maria, I differ with your papa; Mr. Temple was not an
educated beggar, but an educated and accomplished gentleman, whose
family, in point of blood and birth; is equal even to ours. Still, my
love, you know that on many accounts, and as persons to whom you were so
justly dear, and who felt such a strong interest in your settlement and
position in life, we had reason to feel offended at the step you took in
marrying him. That, however, is past--and now let it be forgotten. Your
papa still loves you tenderly, my Maria; for I could observe that in a
passage where he said it was necessary that you should suffer a little
longer, there were the marks of tears--and of tears too, that fell
thickly. Now, however, for something that will cheer my own favorite.
I have succeeded in getting Mr. Temple appointed to the living of
Ballynolan, in a safe and quiet part of the country, not many miles from
Drumgooran Castle.”
“That you know my dear Charles, is his own family seat.”
“I know, my love, it is; however, to proceed--from Drumgooran Castle;
so that I will once more enjoy the pleasure of having you near me.. The
living is worth about five hundred a-year, after paying two curates and
all other claims; so that, with frugality and moderation, you may
live comfortably at least. Ah! my dear Maria, you knew the avenue to
grandpapa's affections, when you called your eldest son after him.
Present him with the enclosed, in my name, and tell Mr. Temple that
he shall have a communication from me in a few days--it will be one
of business; and I trust soon to have the pleasure of making his
acquaintance.
“I am, my dear Maria, your ever affectionate grandfather,
“TAVNIMORE.”
The enclosure alluded to was a bank post-bill for two hundred pounds.
It is unnecessary, however, to dwell upon the happiness which this
communication conferred upon Mrs. Temple and her affectionate family.
She saw her accomplished and amiable husband's brilliant talents and
many rare virtues, about to be rewarded--she saw poverty, distress, and
famine driven from their hearth--she saw her beloved children about
to be placed in circumstances not unbecoming their birth; and, having
contemplated all this, she wept once more with a sense of happiness, as
pure as it was unexpected.
Breakfast was now over--a plain and severely frugal one, by the way, it
was--and her husband was about to proceed to Lisnisgola, in order to get
the bank post-bill changed, when, from the parlor where they sat, he saw
the _Cannie Soogah_ approaching the hall-door, the huge pack, as usual,
on his shoulder.
“Here, my love, comes that benevolent pedlar,” he exclaimed, “whose
conduct, on the occasion you mentioned, was at once so delicate and
generous.”
He then stepped to the window, and raised it as our friend approached,
who, on seeing him, put his hand to his hat, exclaiming, “Many happy
returns of the saison, sir, to you and your family! My Christmas-box on
you!”
“I thank you, my friend,” replied Mr. Temple, “and I sincerely wish you
the same.”
Mrs. Temple now approached also, bent her head kindly and
condescendingly, in token of salutation, with a blush which she could
not prevent. The worthy pedlar perfectly understood the blush--a
circumstance by which he was a good deal embarrassed himself, and
which occasioned him to feel in rather a difficult position. He felt
flattered, however, by her condescension; and instead of merely touching
his hat to her he pulled it off and stood respectfully uncovered.
“Put on your hat, my friend,” said Temple; “the morning is too cold to
stand with a bare head--pray put it on.”
“I know, your honor,” replied the pedlar, “the respect that is due to
you both, and especially, sir,” he added, in that tone, and with that
peculiar deference, so gratifying to a husband who loves and is proud of
his wife--“especially, sir, to her, for I know her family well--as who
doesn't!”
“By the way,” said Mrs. Temple, “I think you committed a mistake on the
occasion of your last call here?”
“A mistake, ma'am!” said he, with well-feigned surprise--“well, indeed,
ma'am, it's not unlikely; for, to tell you the truth, I've a vile
mimory--sorra thing a'most but I disremimber, in a day or two after it
happens.”
“Do you not remember,” she proceeded, with a melancholy smile, “a
negotiation we had when you were here last?”
“A what, ma'am?”
“A--a--purchase you made from me,” she added.
“From you!” he exclaimed, with apparent astonishment; “well, then, I
can't say that I have any recollection of it--I remember something--that
is, some dalins or other I had wid the maid, but I don't remember
purchasin' anything from you, ma'am.”
“It was a shawl,” she replied, “which you purchased, if you remember,
and paid for, but which you forgot to bring with you.”
“Why, then,” he exclaimed, after rubbing his head with his fore-finger,
“bad cess to me if I can remimber it; but the truth is, ma'am, I make
so many purchases, and so many sales, that like the priest and them that
confess to him, the last thing fairly drives the one that went afore it
out o' my head.”
“You paid six guineas,” continued Mrs. Temple, “for the shawl, but left
it behind you.”
“Well, bedad, ma'am,” said the pedlar, smiling, “it's aisy to see that
you're no rogue, at any rate. In the present case, thin,” he added, “I
suppose you wish to give me the shawl?”
“Oh, certainly,” she replied, “if you wish for it; but at the same time
I would much rather keep the shawl and return you the money.”
“I'm in no hurry, ma'am for either shawl or money, if it isn't--hem--if
it isn't just convanient.”
“You are an honest, sterling fellow,” said her husband, “and I assure
you that we thoroughly appreciate your delicacy and worth. I know Mrs.
Temple would prefer keeping the shawl, and if you will call in the
course of the evening, I shall return the money to you. I must first go
into Lisnagola to get change for a note.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the Cannie, “but it is time enough--I am in no
hurry at all--not the laist; it will do when I call again.. And now that
that's settled--and many thanks to you, ma'am,” he added, bowing to Mrs.
Temple, “for thinkin' of it, I'd be glad to have a word or two wid you,
sir, if you plaise.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Temple, going to the hall-door, and opening it,
“come in a moment; leave your pack in the hall there, and come this
way.”
He then proceeded to the library, whither the pedlar followed him; and
after looking about him with something like caution, he said, “You know
Mr. Purcel, the proctor, sir?”
“Of course I do,” replied Mr. Temple.
“I'm not askin' it as a question,” he proceeded; “but I wish to say,
that as you do know him and his sons, it's possible you may save them
from destruction. I was tould by a stranger that I never seen before,
and that I didn't know from Adam, that his house is to be attacked
either this night or to-morrow night.”
“Can you not say which?” asked Mr. Temple.
“No,” replied the Cannie Soogah; “I axed the stranger the same question,
and he couldn't tell me. Now, sir, you know them, and I know how much
they respect you; and the thing is this,--I think if you'd see them, and
thry to get them to go to Lisnagola, or some safe place, takin' their
lives and money along wid them, you'd save them from murdher; they'd be
apt to listen to you; but as for me, or the likes o' me, they'd laugh
at me; indeed, they're rather wishin' for an attack, in hopes they might
get revenge upon the people, for, to tell you the truth, they've been
foolish enough to say so; an' as their words has gone abroad, the
people's determined, it seems, to let them know which o' them is
strongest.”
“Well,” replied the curate, “I am sorry to hear this--it is dreadful.
That they are unpopular--nay, detested--I know; as I do, also, that they
have latterly gone daring lengths--oppressive and unjustifiable lengths
--in collecting tithes. I shall, however, see them, and endeavor to make
them take refuge in some place of security.”
“It will be a good act,” said the pedlar, “and if I can do anything,
humble as I am, to save them, I'll do it.”
“I think they ought to get a party of police to protect the house,”
observed Mr. Temple.
“I know they ought, sir,” replied the pedlar, “but the truth is, they're
so proud and foolhardy, that the very mention of such a thing throws
them into a fury.”
“That is unfortunate,” said the other. “At all events, I shall leave
nothing undone within my power to prevail on them to take steps for
their security. You may rely on it,” he added, “that whatever I can do
for that purpose, I shall do.”
“Well, now,” said the Cannie, “my mind, thank God's, aisier. I'll lose
no time myself in seein' what I can do to prevent this business; that
is, I mane, their stayin' in the house,” he added, as if checking or
correcting himself.
He then bade Mr. Temple good morning, and hurried away, without waiting
to see his fair friend, Lilly, as was his custom to do.