how to endure; to struggle on under poverty and sickness; in seasons of
famine, in times of national calamity, to hoard up the little pittance
for his landlord and the payment for his Priest; and he has nothing
more to seek for. Were it our object here, it would not be difficult
to pursue this theme further, and examine, if much of the imputed
slothfulness and indolence of the people was not in reality due to that
very hopelessness. How little energy would be left to life, if you took
away its ambitions; how few would enter upon the race, if there were no
goal before them! Our present aim, however, is rather with the fortunes
of those we have so lately left. To these poor men, now, a new existence
opened. Not the sun of spring could more suddenly illumine the landscape
where winter so late had thrown its shadows, than did prosperity fall
brightly on their hearts, endowing life with pleasures and enjoyments,
of which they had not dared to dream before.
In preferring this mountain-tract to some rich lowland farm, they
were rather guided by that spirit of attachment to the home of their
fathers--so characteristic a trait in the Irish peasant--than by the
promptings of self-interest. The mountain was indeed a wild and bleak
expanse, scarce affording herbage for a few sheep and goats; the callows
at its foot, deeply flooded in winter, and even by the rains of autumn,
made tillage precarious and uncertain; yet the fact that these were
rent-free, that of its labour and its fruits all was now their own,
inspired hope and sweetened toil. They no longer felt the dreary
monotony of daily exertion, by which hour was linked to hour, and year
to year, in one unbroken succession;--no; they now could look forward,
they could lift up their hearts and strain their eyes to a future, where
honest industry had laid up its store for the decline of life; they
could already fancy the enjoyments of the summer season, when they
should look down upon their own crops and herds, or think of the winter
nights, and the howling of the storm without, reminding them of the
blessings of a home.
How little to the mind teeming with its bright and ambitious aspirings
would seem the history of their humble hopes! how insignificant and how
narrow might appear the little plans and plots they laid for that new
road in life, in which they were now to travel! The great man might
scoff at these, the moralist might frown at their worldliness; but there
is nothing sordid or mean in the spirit of manly independence; and they
who know the Irish people, will never accuse them of receiving worldly
benefits with any forgetfulness of their true and only source. And now
to our story.
The little cabin upon the mountain was speedily added to, and fashioned
into a comfortable-looking farmhouse of the humbler class. Both father
and son would willingly have left it as it was; but the landlord's
wish had laid a command upon them, and they felt it would have been a
misapplication of his bounty, had they not done as he had desired. So
closely, indeed, did they adhere to his injunctions, that a little room
was added specially for his use and accommodation, whenever he came
on that promised excursion he hinted at. Every detail of this little
chamber interested them deeply; and many a night, as they sat over their
fire, did they eagerly discuss the habits and tastes of the “quality,”
anxious to be wanting in nothing which should make it suitable for one
like him.
Sufficient money remained above all this expenditure to purchase some
sheep, and even a cow; and already their changed fortunes had excited
the interest and curiosity of the little world in which they lived.
There is one blessing, and it is a great one, attendant on humble life.
The amelioration of condition requires not that a man should leave the
friends and companions he has so long sojourned with, and seek, in a
new order, others to supply their place; the spirit of class does
not descend to him, or rather, he is far above it; his altered state
suggests comparatively few enjoyments or comforts in which his old
associates cannot participate; and thus the Connors' cabin was each
Sunday thronged by the country people, who came to see with their own
eyes, and hear with their own ears, the wonderful good fortune that
befell them.
Had the landlord been an angel of light, the blessings invoked upon
him could not have been more frequent or fervent; each measured the
munificence of the act by his own short standard of worldly possessions;
and individual murmurings for real or fancied wrongs were hushed in the
presence of one such deed of benevolence.
This is no exaggerated picture. Such was peasant-gratitude once; and
such, O landlords of Ireland! it might still have been, if you had not
deserted the people. The meanest of your favours, the poorest show
of your good-feeling, were acts of grace for which nothing was deemed
requital. Your presence in the poor man's cabin--your kind word to him
upon the highway--your aid in sickness--your counsel in trouble, were
ties which bound him more closely to your interest, and made him more
surely yours, than all the parchments of your attorney, or all the
papers of your agent. He knew you then as something more than the
recipient of his earnings. That was a time, when neither the hireling
patriot nor the calumnious press could sow discord between you. If it be
otherwise now, ask yourselves, are you all blameless? Did you ever
hope that affection could be transmitted through your agent, like the
proceeds of your property? Did you expect that the attachments of a
people were to reach you by the post? Or was it not natural, that, in
their desertion by you, they should seek succour elsewhere? that in
their difficulties and their trials they should turn to any who might
feel or feign compassion for them?
Nor is it wonderful that, amid the benefits thus bestowed, they should
imbibe principles and opinions fatally in contrast with interests like
yours.
There were few on whom good fortune could have fallen, without exciting
more envious and jealous feelings on the part of others, than on
the Connors. The rugged independent character of the father--the gay
light-hearted nature of the son, had given them few enemies and many
friends. The whole neighbourhood flocked about them to offer their good
wishes and congratulations on their bettered condition, and with
an honesty of purpose and a sincerity that might have shamed a more
elevated sphere. The Joyces alone shewed no participation in this
sentiment, or rather, that small fraction of them more immediately
linked with Phil Joyce. At first, they affected to sneer at the stories
of the Connors' good fortune; and when denial became absurd, they
half-hinted that it was a new custom in Ireland for men “to fight for
money.” These mocking speeches were not slow to reach the ears of the
old man and his son; and many thought that the next fair-day would bring
with it a heavy retribution for the calamities of the last. In this,
however, they were mistaken. Neither Owen nor his father appeared that
day; the mustering of their faction was strong and powerful, but they,
whose wrongs were the cause of the gathering, never came forward to head
them.
This was an indignity not to be passed over in silence; and the murmurs,
at first low and subdued, grew louder and louder, until denunciations
heavy and deep fell upon the two who “wouldn't come out and right
themselves like men.” The faction, discomfited and angered, soon broke
up; and returning homeward in their several directions, they left the
field to the enemy without even a blow. On the succeeding day, when the
observances of religion had taken place of the riotous and disorderly
proceedings of the fair, it was not customary for the younger men to
remain. The frequenters of the place were mostly women; the few of the
other sex were either old and feeble men, or such objects of compassion
as traded on the pious feelings of the votaries so opportunely evoked.
It was with great difficulty the worthy Priest of the parish had
succeeded in dividing the secular from the holy customs of the time,
and thus allowing the pilgrims, as all were called on that day, an
uninterrupted period for their devotions. He was firm and resolute,
however, in his purpose, and spared no pains to effect it: menacing
this one--persuading that; suiting the measure of his arguments to the
comprehension of each, he either cajoled or coerced, as the circumstance
might warrant. His first care was to remove all the temptations to
dissipation and excess; and for this purpose, he banished every show
and exhibition, and every tent where gambling and drinking went
forward;--his next, a more difficult task, was the exclusion of all
those doubtful characters, who, in every walk of life, are suggestive of
even more vice than they embody in themselves. These, however, abandoned
the place, of their own accord, so soon as they discovered how few were
the inducements to remain; until at length, by a tacit understanding, it
seemed arranged, that the day of penance and mortification should suffer
neither molestation nor interruption from those indisposed to partake
of its benefits. So rigid was the Priest in exacting compliance in this
matter, that he compelled the tents to be struck by daybreak, except
by those few, trusted and privileged individuals, whose ministerings to
human wants were permitted during the day of sanctity.
And thus the whole picture was suddenly changed. The wild and riotous
uproar of the fair, the tumult of voices and music, dancing, drinking,
and fighting, were gone; and the low monotonous sound of the pilgrims'
prayers was heard, as they moved along upon their knees to some holy
well or shrine, to offer up a prayer, or return a thanksgiving for
blessings bestowed. The scene was a strange and picturesque one; the
long lines of kneeling figures, where the rich scarlet cloak of the
women predominated, crossed and recrossed each other as they wended
their way to the destined altar; their muttered words blending with the
louder and more boisterous appeals of the mendicants,--who, stationed
at every convenient angle or turning, besieged each devotee with
unremitting entreaty,--deep and heartfelt devotion in every face, every
lineament and feature impressed with religious zeal and piety; but
still, as group met group going and returning, they interchanged their
greetings between their prayers, and mingled the worldly salutations
with aspirations heavenward, and their “Paters,” and “Aves,” and
“Credos,” were blended with inquiries for the “childer,” or questions
about the “crops.”
“Isn't that Owen Connor, avick, that's going there, towards the
Yallow-well?” said an old crone as she ceased to count her beads.
“You're right enough, Biddy; 'tis himself, and no other; it's a turn he
took to devotion since he grew rich.”
“Ayeh! ayeh! the Lord be good to us! how fond we all be of life, when
we've the bit of bacon to the fore!” And with that she resumed her pious
avocations with redoubled energy, to make up for lost time.
The old ladies were as sharp-sighted as such functionaries usually are
in any sphere of society. It was Owen Connor himself, performing his
first pilgrimage. The commands of his landlord had expressly forbidden
him to engage in any disturbance at the fair; the only mode of complying
with which, he rightly judged, was by absenting himself altogether. How
this conduct was construed by others, we have briefly hinted at. As for
himself, poor fellow, if a day of mortification could have availed him
any thing, he needn't have appeared among the pilgrims;--a period of
such sorrow and suffering he had never undergone before. But in justice
it must be confessed, it was devotion of a very questionable character
that brought him there that morning. Since the fair-day, Mary Joyce had
never deigned to notice him; and though he had been several times at
mass, she either affected not to be aware of his presence, or designedly
looked in another direction. The few words of greeting she once gave him
on every Sunday morning--the smile she bestowed--dwelt the whole week in
his heart, and made him long for the return of the time, when, even for
a second or two, she would be near, and speak to him. He was not slow
in supposing how the circumstances under which he rescued the landlord's
son might be used against him by his enemies; and he well knew that she
was not surrounded by any others than such. It was, then, with a heavy
heart poor Owen witnessed how fatally his improved fortune had dashed
hopes far dearer than all worldly advantage. Not only did the new
comforts about him become distasteful, but he even accused them to
himself as the source of all his present calamity; and half suspected
that it was a judgment on him for receiving a reward in such a cause. To
see her--to speak to her if possible--was now his wish, morn and night;
to tell her that he cared more for one look, one glance, than for all
the favours fortune did or could bestow: this, and to undeceive her as
to any knowledge of young Leslie's rudeness to herself, was the sole aim
of his thoughts. Stationing himself therefore in an angle of the ruined
church, which formed one of the resting-places for prayer, he waited for
hours for Mary's coming; and at last, with a heart half sickened with
deferred hope, he saw her pale but beautiful features, shaded by the
large blue hood of her cloak, as with downcast eyes she followed in the
train.
“Give me your place, acushla; God will reward you for it; I'm late at
the station,” said he, to an old ill-favoured hag that followed next
to Mary; and at the same time, to aid his request, slipped half-a-crown
into her hand.
The wrinkled face brightened into a kind of wicked intelligence as she
muttered in Irish: “'Tis a gould guinea the same place is worth; but
I'll give it to you for the sake of yer people;” and at the same time
pocketing the coin in a canvass pouch, among relics and holy clay, she
moved off, to admit him in the line.
Owen's heart beat almost to bursting, as he found himself so close to
Mary; and all his former impatience to justify himself, and to speak to
her, fled in the happiness he now enjoyed. No devotee ever regarded the
relic of a Saint with more trembling ecstacy than did he the folds of
that heavy mantle that fell at his knees; he touched it as men would do
a sacred thing. The live-long day he followed her, visiting in turn each
shrine and holy spot; and ever, as he was ready to speak to her, some
fear that, by a word, he might dispel the dream of bliss he revelled in,
stopped him, and he was silent.
[Illustration: 074]
It was as the evening drew near, and the Pilgrims were turning towards
the lake, beside which, at a small thorn-tree, the last “station” of all
was performed, that an old beggar, whose importunity suffered none to
escape, blocked up the path, and prevented Mary from proceeding until
she had given him something. All her money had been long since bestowed;
and she said so, hurriedly, and endeavoured to move forward.
“Let Owen Connor, behyind you, give it, acushla! He's rich now, and can
well afford it,” said the cripple.
She turned around at the words; the action was involuntary, and their
eyes met. There are glances which reveal the whole secret of a lifetime;
there are looks which dwell in the heart longer and deeper than words.
Their eyes met for merely a few seconds; and while in _her_ face
offended pride was depicted, poor Owen's sorrow-struck and broken aspect
spoke of long suffering and grief so powerfully, that, ere she turned
away, her heart had half forgiven him.
“You wrong me hardly, Mary,” said he, in a low, broken voice, as the
train moved on. “The Lord, he knows my heart this blessed day! _Pater
noster, qui es in colis?_'” added he, louder, as he perceived that his
immediate follower had ceased his prayers to listen to him. “He knows
that I'd rather live and die the poorest--'Beneficat tuum nomen!'” cried
he, louder. And then, turning abruptly, said:
“Av it's plazing to you, sir, don't be trampin' on my heels. I can't
mind my devotions, an' one so near me.
“It's not so unconvaynient, maybe, when they're afore you,” muttered
the old fellow, with a grin of sly malice. And though Owen overheard the
taunt, he felt no inclination to notice it.
“Four long years I've loved ye, Mary Joyce; and the sorra more
encouragement I ever got nor the smile ye used to give me. And if ye
take _that_ from me, now--Are ye listening to me, Mary? do ye hear me,
asthore?--Bad scran to ye, ye ould varmint! why won't ye keep behind?
How is a man to save his sowl, an' you making him blasphame every
minit?”
“I was only listenin' to that elegant prayer ye were saying,” said the
old fellow, drily.
“'Tis betther you'd mind your own, then,” said Owen, fiercely; “or, by
the blessed day, I'll teach ye a new penance ye never heerd of afore!”
The man dropped back, frightened at the sudden determination these words
were uttered in; and Owen resumed his place.
“I may never see ye again, Mary. 'Tis the last time you'll hear me spake
to you. I'll lave the ould man. God look to him! I'll lave him now,
and go be a sodger. Here we are now, coming to this holy well; and
I'll swear an oath before the Queen of Heaven, that before this time
to-morrow--”
“How is one to mind their prayers at all, Owen Connor, if ye be talking
to yourself, so loud?” said Mary, in a whisper, but one which lost not a
syllable, as it fell on Owen's heart.
“My own sweet darling, the light of my eyes, ye are!” cried he, as
with clasped hands he muttered blessings upon her head; and with such
vehemence of gesture, and such unfeigned signs of rapture, as to evoke
remarks from some beggars near, highly laudatory of his zeal.
“Look at the fine young man there, prayin' wid all his might. Ayeh, the
Saints give ye the benefit of your Pilgrimage!”
“Musha! but ye'r a credit to the station; ye put yer sowl in it,
anyhow!” said an old Jezebel, whose hard features seemed to defy
emotion.
Owen looked up; and directly in front of him, with his back against a
tree, and his arms crossed on his breast, stood Phil Joyce: his brow was
dark with passion, and his eyes glared like those of a maniac. A cold
thrill ran through Owen's heart, lest the anger thus displayed should
fall on Mary; for he well knew with what tyranny the poor girl was
treated. He therefore took the moment of the pilgrims' approach to the
holy tree, to move from his place, and, by a slightly circuitous path,
came up to where Joyce was standing.
“I've a word for you, Phil Joyce,” said he, in a low voice, where every
trace of emotion was carefully subdued. “Can I spake it to you here?”
Owen's wan and sickly aspect, if it did not shock, it at least
astonished Joyce, for he looked at him for some seconds without
speaking; then said, half rudely:
“Ay, here will do as well as any where, since ye didn't like to say it
yesterday.”
There was no mistaking this taunt; the sneer on Owen's want of courage
was too plain to be misconstrued; and although for a moment he looked
as if disposed to resent it, he merely shook his head mournfully, and
replied: “It is not about that I came to speak; it's about your sister,
Mary Joyce.”
Phil turned upon him a stare of amazement, as quickly followed by a
laugh, whose insulting mockery made Owen's cheek crimson with shame.
“True enough, Phil Joyce; I know your meanin' well,” said he, with an
immense effort to subdue his passion. “I'm a poor cottier, wid a bit of
mountain-land--sorra more--and has no right to look up to one like her.
But listen to me, Phil!” and here he grasped his arm, and spoke with a
thick guttural accent: “Listen to me! Av the girl wasn't what she is,
but only your sister, I'd scorn her as I do yourself;” and with that,
he pushed him from him with a force that made him stagger. Before he had
well recovered, Owen was again at his side, and continued:--“And now,
one word more, and all's ended between us. For you, and your likings or
mis-likings, I never cared a rush: but 'tis Mary herself refused me, so
there's no more about it; only don't be wreaking your temper on her, for
she has no fault in it.”
“Av a sister of mine ever bestowed a thought on the likes o' ye, I'd
give her the outside of the door this night,” said Joyce, whose courage
now rose from seeing several of his faction attracted to the spot, by
observing that he and Connor were conversing. “'Tis a disgrace--divil a
less than a disgrace to spake of it!”
“Well, we won't do so any more, plaze God!” said Owen, with a smile of
very fearful meaning. “It will be another little matter we'll have to
settle when we meet, next. There's a score there, not paid off yet:”
and at the word he lifted his hat, and disclosed the deep mark of the
scarce-closed gash on his forehead: “and so, good bye to ye.”
A rude nod from Phil Joyce was all the reply, and Owen turned homewards.
If prosperity could suggest the frame of mind to enjoy it, the rich
would always be happy; but such is not the dispensation of Providence.
Acquisition is but a stage on the road of ambition; it lightens the way,
but brings the goal no nearer. Owen never returned to his mountain-home
with a sadder heart. He passed without regarding them, the little
fields, now green with the coming spring; he bestowed no look nor
thought upon the herds that already speckled the mountain-side;
disappointment had embittered his spirit; and even love itself now gave
way to faction-hate, the old and cherished animosity of party.
If the war of rival factions did not originally spring from the personal
quarrels of men of rank and station, who stimulated their followers
and adherents to acts of aggression and reprisal, it assuredly was
perpetuated, if not with their concurrence, at least permission; and
many were not ashamed to avow, that in these savage encounters the “bad
blood” of the country was “let out,” at less cost and trouble than by
any other means. When legal proceedings were recurred to, the landlord,
in his capacity of magistrate, maintained the cause of his tenants; and,
however disposed to lean heavily on them himself, in the true spirit of
tyranny he opposed pressure from any other hand than his own. The people
were grateful for this advocacy--far more, indeed, than they often
proved for less questionable kindness. They regarded the law with so
much dread--they awaited its decisions with such uncertainty--that he
who would conduct them through its mazes was indeed a friend. But,
was the administration of justice, some forty or fifty years back in
Ireland, such as to excite or justify other sentiments? Was it not this
tampering with right and wrong, this recurrence to patronage, that made
legal redress seem an act of meanness and cowardice among the people?
No cause was decided upon its own merits. The influence of the great
man--the interest he was disposed to take in the case--the momentary
condition of county politics--with the general character of the
individuals at issue, usually determined the matter; and it could
scarcely be expected that a triumph thus obtained should have exercised
any peaceful sway among the people.