change of fortune; for Mary was even more distant and cold to him than
ever, as though to shew that, whatever expectations he might conceive
from her brother's friendship, he should not reckon too confidently on
her feelings. Owen knew not how far he had himself to blame for this; he
was not aware that his own constrained manner, his over-acted reserve,
had offended Mary to the quick; and thus, both mutually retreated in
misconception and distrust. The game of love is the same, whether the
players be clad in velvet or in hodden grey. Beneath the gilded ceilings
of a palace, or the lowly rafters of a cabin, there are the same hopes
and fears, the same jealousies, and distrusts, and despondings; the
wiles and stratagems are all alike; for, after all, the stake is human
happiness, whether he who risks it be a peer or a peasant! While Owen
vacillated between hope and fear, now, resolving to hazard an avowal
of his love and take his stand on the result, now, deeming it better to
trust to time and longer intimacy, other events were happening around,
which could not fail to interest him deeply. The new agent had commenced
his campaign with an activity before unknown. Arrears of rent were
demanded to be peremptorily paid up; leases, whose exact conditions had
not been fulfilled, were declared void; tenants occupying sub-let
land were noticed to quit; and all the threatening signs of that rigid
management displayed, by which an estate is assumed to be “admirably
regulated,” and the agent's duty most creditably discharged.
Many of the arrears were concessions made by the landlord in seasons of
hardship and distress, but were unrecorded as such in the rent-roll or
the tenant's receipt. There had been no intention of ever redemanding
them; and both parties had lost sight of the transaction until the sharp
glance of a “new agent” discovered their existence. So of the leases:
covenants to build, or plant, or drain, were inserted rather as
contingencies, which prosperity might empower, than as actual conditions
essential to be fulfilled; and as for sub-letting, it was simply the act
by which a son or a daughter was portioned in the world, and enabled to
commence the work of self-maintenance.
This slovenly system inflicted many evils. The demand of an extravagant
rent rendered an abatement not a boon, but an act of imperative
necessity; and while the overhanging debt supplied the landlord with a
means of tyranny, it deprived the tenant of all desire to improve his
condition. “Why should I labour,” said he, “when the benefit never can
be mine?” The landlord then declaimed against ingratitude, at the time
that the peasant spoke against oppression. Could they both be right? The
impossibility of ever becoming independent soon suggested that dogged
indifference, too often confounded with indolent habits. Sustenance was
enough for him, who, if he earned more, should surrender it; hence the
poor man became chained to his poverty. It was a weight which grew with
his strength; privations might as well be incurred with little labour as
with great; and he sunk down to the condition of a mere drudge, careless
and despondent. “He can only take all I have!” was the cottier's
philosophy; and the maxim suggested a corollary, that the “all” should
be as little as might be.
But there were other grievances flowing from this source. The extent of
these abatements usually depended on the representation of the tenants
themselves, and such evidences as they could produce of their poverty
and destitution. Hence a whole world of falsehood and dissimulation was
fostered. Cabins were suffered to stand half-roofed; children left to
shiver in rags and nakedness; age and infirmity exhibited in attitudes
of afflicting privation; habits of mendicity encouraged;--all, that
they might impose upon the proprietor, and make him believe that any
sum wrung from such as these must be an act of cruelty. If these schemes
were sometimes successful, so in their failure they fell as heavy
penalties upon the really destitute, for whose privations no pity was
felt. Their misery, confounded in the general mass of dissimulation, was
neglected; and for one who prospered in his falsehood, many were visited
in their affliction.
That men in such circumstances as these should listen with greedy
ears to any representation which reflected heavily on their wealthier
neighbours, is little to be wondered at. The triumph of knavery and
falsehood is a bad lesson for any people; but the fruitlessness of
honest industry is, if possible, a worse one. Both were well taught by
this system. And these things took place, not, be it observed, when the
landlord or his agent were cruel and exacting--very far from it.
They were the instances so popularly expatiated on by newspapers and
journals; they were the cases headed--“Example for Landlords!” “Timely
Benevolence!” and paragraphed thus:--“We learn, with the greatest
pleasure, that Mr. Muldrennin, of Kilbally-drennin, has, in
consideration of the failure of the potato-crop, and the severe pressure
of the season, kindly abated five per cent of all his rents. Let this
admirable example be generally followed, and we shall once more see,”
&c. &c. There was no explanatory note to state the actual condition of
that tenantry, or the amount of that rent from which the deduction was
made. Mr. Muldrennin was then free to run his career of active puffery
throughout the kingdom, and his tenantry to starve on as before.
Of all worldly judgments there is one that never fails. No man was
ever instrumental, either actively or through neglect, to another's
demoralisation, that he was not made to feel the recoil of his conduct
on himself. Such had been palpably the result here. The confidence of
the people lost, they had taken to themselves the only advisers in their
power, and taught themselves to suppose that relief can only be effected
by legislative enactments, or their own efforts. This lesson once
learned, and they were politicians for life. The consequence has
been, isolation from him to whom once all respect and attachment were
rendered; distrust and dislike follow--would that the catalogue went no
further!
And again to our story. Owen was at last reminded, by the conversation
of those about, that he too had received a summons from the new agent to
attend at his office in Galway--a visit which, somehow or other, he had
at first totally neglected; and, as the summons was not repeated,
he finally supposed had been withdrawn by the agent, on learning the
condition of his holding. As September drew to a close, however, he
accompanied Phil Joyce on his way to Galway, prepared, if need be, to
pay the half-year's rent, but ardently hoping the while it might never
be demanded. It was a happy morning for poor Owen--the happiest of
his whole life. He had gone over early to breakfast at Joyce's, and on
reaching the house found Mary alone, getting ready the meal. Their usual
distance in manner continued for some time; each talked of what their
thoughts were least occupied on; and at last, after many a look from the
window to see if Phil was coming, and wondering why he did not arrive,
Owen drew a heavy sigh and said, “It's no use, Mary; divil a longer I
can be suffering this way; take me or refuse me you must this morning!
I know well enough you don't care for me; but if ye don't like any one
else better, who knows but in time, and with God's blessin', but ye'll
be as fond of me, as I am of you?”
“And who told ye I didn't like some one else?” said Mary, with a sly
glance; and her handsome features brightened up with a more than common
brilliancy.
“The heavens make him good enough to desarve ye, I pray this day!” said
Owen, with a trembling lip. “I'll go now! that's enough!”
“Won't ye wait for yer breakfast, Owen Connor? Won't ye stay a bit for
my brother?”
“No, thank ye, ma'am. I'll not go into Galway to-day.”
“Well, but don't go without your breakfast. Take a cup of tay anyhow,
Owen dear!”
“Owen dear! O Mary, jewel! don't say them words, and I laving you for
ever.”
The young girl blushed deeply and turned away her head, but her
crimsoned neck shewed that her shame was not departed. At the moment,
Phil burst into the room, and standing for a second with his eyes fixed
on each in turn, he said, “Bad scran to ye, for women; but there's
nothing but decate and wickedness in ye; divil a peace or ease I ever
got when I quarrelled with Owen, and now that we're friends, ye're as
cross and discontented as ever. Try what you can do with her yourself,
Owen, my boy; for I give her up.”
“'Tis not for me to thry it,” said Owen, despondingly; “'tis another has
the betther luck.”
“That's not true, anyhow,” cried Phil; “for she told me so herself.”
“What! Mary, did ye say that?” said Owen, with a spring across the room;
“did ye tell him that, darling?”
“Sure if I did, ye wouldn't believe me,” said Mary, with a side-look;
“women is nothing but deceit and wickedness.”
“Sorra else,” cried Owen, throwing his arm round her neck and kissing
her; “and I'll never believe ye again, when ye say ye don't love me.”
“'Tis a nice way to boil the eggs hard,” said Phil, testily; “arrah,
come over here and eat your breakfast, man; you'll have time enough for
courting when we come back.”
[Illustration: 138]
There needed not many words to a bargain which was already ratified; and
before they left the house, the day of the wedding was actually fixed.
It was not without reason, then, that I said it was a happy day for
Owen. Never did the long miles of the road seem so short as now; while,
with many a plan for the future, and many a day-dream of happiness to
come, he went at Phil's side scarce crediting his good fortune to be
real.
When they arrived at the agent's office in the square at Galway, they
found a great many of their neighbours and friends already there;
some, moody and depressed, yet lingered about the door, though they
had apparently finished the business which brought them; others,
anxious-looking and troubled, were waiting for their turn to enter. They
were all gathered into little groups and parties, conversing eagerly
together in Irish; and as each came out of the office, he was speedily
surrounded by several others, questioning him as to how he had fared,
and what success he met with.
Few came forth satisfied--not one happy-looking. Some, who were
deficient a few shillings, were sent back again, and appeared with the
money still in their hands, which they counted over and over, as
if hoping to make it more. Others, trusting to promptitude in their
payments, were seeking renewal of their tenures at the same rent, and
found their requests coldly received, and no pledge returned. Others,
again, met with severe reproaches as to the condition of their dwellings
and the neglected appearance of their farms, with significant hints that
slovenly tenants would meet with little favour, and, although pleading
sickness and distress, found the apology hut slightly regarded.
“We thought the ould agent bad enough; but, faix, this one bates him
out, entirely.” Such was the comment of each and all, at the treatment
met with, and such the general testimony of the crowd.
“Owen Connor! Owen Connor!” called out a voice, which Owen in a moment
recognised as that of the fellow who had visited his cabin; and passing
through the densely crowded hall, Owen forced his way into the small
front parlour, where two clerks were seated at a table, writing.
“Over here; this way, if you please,” said one of them, pointing with
his pen to the place he should stand in. “What's your name?”
“Owen Connor, sir.”
“What's the name of your holding?”
“Ballydorery, Knockshaughlin, and Cushaglin, is the townlands, and the
mountain is Slieve-na-vick, sir.”
“Owen Connor, Owen Connor,” said the clerk, repeating the name three or
four times over. “Oh, I remember; there has been no rent paid on your
farm for some years.''
“You're right there, sir,” said Owen; “the landlord, God be good to him!
tould my poor father--”
“Well, well, I have nothing to do with that--step inside--Mr. Lucas
will speak to you himself;--shew this man inside, Luffey;” and the grim
bailiff led the way into the back parlour, where two gentlemen were
standing with their backs to the fire, chatting; they were both young
and good-looking, and, to Owen's eyes, as unlike agents as could be. .
“Well, what does this honest fellow want?--no abatement, I hope; a
fellow with as good a coat as you have, can't be very ill off.”
“True for you, yer honor, and I am not,” said Owen in reply to the
speaker, who seemed a few years younger than the other. “_I_ was bid
spake to yer honor about the little place I have up the mountains, and
that Mr. Leslie gave my father rent-free--”
“Oh, you are the man from Maam, an't you?”
“The same, sir; Owen Connor.”
“That's the mountain I told you of, Major,” said Lucas in a whisper;
then, turning to Owen, resumed: “Well, I wished to see you very much,
and speak to you. I've heard the story about your getting the land
rent-free, and all that; but I find no mention of the matter in the
books of the estate; there is not the slightest note nor memorandum that
I can see, on the subject; and except your own word--which of course, as
far as it goes, is all very well--I have nothing in your favour.”
While these words were being spoken, Owen went through a thousand
tortures; and many a deep conflicting passion warred within him. “Well,
sir,” said he at last, with a heavily drawn sigh, “well, sir, with God's
blessin', I'll do my best; and whatever your honour says is fair, I'll
thry and pay it: I suppose I'm undher rent since March last?”
“March! why, my good fellow, there's six years due last twenty-fifth;
what are you thinking of?”
“Sure you don't mean I'm to pay, for what was given to me and my
father?” said Owen, with a wild look that almost startled the agent.
“I mean precisely what I say,” said Lucas, reddening with anger at the
tone Owen assumed. “I mean that you owe six years and a half of rent;
for which, if you neither produce receipt nor money, you'll never owe
another half year for the same holding.”
“And that's flat!” said the Major, laughing.
“And that's flat!” echoed Lucas, joining in the mirth.
Owen looked from one to the other of the speakers, and although never
indisposed to enjoy a jest, he could not, for the life of him, conceive
what possible occasion for merriment existed at the present moment.
“Plenty of grouse on that mountain, an't there?” said the Major, tapping
his boot with his cane.
But, although the question was addressed to Owen, he was too deeply sunk
in his own sad musings to pay it any attention.
“Don't you hear, my good fellow? Major Lynedoch asks, if there are not
plenty of grouse on the mountain.”
“Did the present landlord say that I was to pay this back rent?” said
Owen deliberately, after a moment of deep thought.
“Mr. Leslie never gave me any particular instructions on your account,”
said Lucas smiling; “nor do I suppose that his intentions regarding you
are different from those respecting other tenants.”
[Illustration: 144]
“I saved his life, then!” said Owen; and his eyes flashed with
indignation as he spoke.
“And you saved a devilish good fellow, I can tell you,” said the
Major, smiling complacently, as though to hint that the act was a very
sufficient reward for its own performance.
“The sorra much chance he had of coming to the property that day,
anyhow, till I came up,” said Owen, in a half soliloquy.
“What! were the savages about to scalp him? Eh!” asked the Major.
Owen turned a scowl towards him that stopped the already-begun laugh;
while Lucas, amazed at the peasant's effrontery, said, “You needn't wait
any longer, my good fellow; I have nothing more to say.”
“I was going to ask yer honner, sir,” said Owen, civilly, “if I paid
the last half-year--I have it with me--if ye'll let me stay in the place
till ye'll ask Mr. Leslie--”
“But you forget, my friend, that a receipt for the last half-year is a
receipt in full,” said Lucas, interrupting.
“Sure; I don't want the receipt!” said Owen hurriedly; “keep it
yourself. It isn't mistrusting the word of a gentleman I'd be.”
“Eh, Lucas! blarney! I say, blarney, and no mistake!” cried the Major,
half-suffocated with his own drollery.
“By my sowl! it's little blarney I'd give you, av I had ye at the side
of Slieve-na-vick,” said Owen; and the look he threw towards him left
little doubt of his sincerity.
“Leave the room, sir! leave the room!” said Lucas, with a gesture
towards the door.
“Dare I ax you where Mr. Leslie is now, sir?” said Owen, calmly.
“He's in London: No. 18 Belgrave Square.”
“Would yer honour be so kind as to write it on a bit of paper for me?”
said Owen, almost obsequiously.
Lucas sat down and wrote the address upon a card, handing it to Owen
without a word.
“I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to either of ye,” said
Owen, with a bow, as he moved towards the door; “but distress of mind
doesn't improve a man's manners, if even he had more nor I have; but if
I get the little place yet, and that ye care for a day's sport--”
“Eh, damme, you're not so bad, after all,” said the Major: “I say,
Lucas--is he, now?”
“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Owen, who felt too indignant at the
cool insolence with which his generous proposal was accepted, to trust
himself with more; and with that, he left the room.
“Well, Owen, my boy,” said Phil, who long since having paid his own
rent, was becoming impatient at his friend's absence; “well, Owen, ye
might have settled about the whole estate by this time. Why did they
keep you so long?”
In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the result of his
interview, adding, as he concluded, “And now, there's nothing for it,
Phil, but to see the landlord himself, and spake to him. I've got the
name of the place he's in, here--it's somewhere in London; and I'll
never turn my steps to home, before I get a sight of him. I've the
half-year's rent here in my pocket, so that I'll have money enough, and
to spare; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell Mary how the whole case is,
and to take care of little Patsy for me till I come back--he's at your
house now.”
“Never fear, we'll take care of him, Owen; and I believe you're doing
the best thing, after all.”
The two friends passed the evening together, at least until the
time arrived, when Owen took his departure by the mail. It was a sad
termination to a day which opened so joyfully, and not all Phil's
endeavours to rally and encourage his friend could dispossess Owen's
mind of a gloomy foreboding that it was but the beginning of misfortune.
“I have it over me,” was his constant expression as they talked; “I have
it over me, that something bad will come out of this;” and although
his fears were vague and indescribable, they darkened his thoughts as
effectually as real evils.
The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty '“God speed you,” shook
his friend's hand, and he was gone.
It would but protract my story, without fulfilling any of its objects,
to speak of Owen's journey to England and on to London. It was a season
of great distress in the manufacturing districts; several large
failures had occurred--great stagnation of trade existed, and a general
depression was observable over the population of the great trading
cities. There were daily meetings to consider the condition of the
working classes, and the newspapers were crammed with speeches and
resolutions in their favour. Placards were carried about the streets,
with terrible announcements of distress and privation, and processions
of wretched-looking men were met with on every side.
Owen, who, from motives of economy, prosecuted his journey on foot,
had frequent opportunities of entering the dwellings of the poor, and
observing their habits and modes of life. The everlasting complaints of
suffering and want rung in his ears from morning till night; and yet, to
his unaccustomed eyes, the evidences betrayed few, if any, of the evils
of great poverty. The majority were not without bread--the very poorest
had a sufficiency of potatoes. Their dwellings were neat-looking and
comfortable, and, in comparison with what he was used to, actually
luxurious. Neither were their clothes like the ragged and tattered
coverings Owen had seen at home. The fustian jackets of the men were
generally whole and well cared for; but the children more than all
struck him. In Ireland, the young are usually the first to feel the
pressure of hardship--their scanty clothing rather the requirement of
decency, than a protection against weather: here, the children were
cleanly and comfortably dressed--none were in rags, few without shoes
and stockings.
What could such people mean by talking of distress, Owen could by no
means comprehend. “I wish we had a little of this kind of poverty in
ould Ireland!” was the constant theme of his thoughts. “'Tis little
they know what distress is! Faix, I wondher what they'd say if they saw
Connemarra?” And yet, the privations they endured were such as had not
been known for many years previous. Their sufferings were really
great, and the interval between their ordinary habits as wide, as
ever presented itself in the fortunes of the poor Irishman's life.
But poverty, after all, is merely relative; and they felt that as
“starvation” which Paddy would hail as a season of blessing and
abundance.
“With a fine slated house over them, and plenty of furniture inside, and
warm clothes, and enough to eat,--that's what they call distress! Musha!
I'd like to see them, when they think they're comfortable,” thought
Owen, who at last lost all patience with such undeserved complainings,
and could with difficulty restrain himself from an open attack on their
injustice.
He arrived in London at last, and the same evening hastened to Belgrave
Square; for his thoughts were now, as his journey drew to a close,
painfully excited at the near prospect of seeing his landlord. He found
the house without difficulty: it was a splendid town-mansion, well
befitting a man of large fortune; and Owen experienced an Irishman's
gratification in the spacious and handsome building he saw before him.
He knocked, at first timidly, and then, as no answer was returned, more
boldly; but it was not before a third summons that the door was opened;
and an old mean-looking woman asked him what he wanted.
“I want to see the masther, ma'am, av it's plazing to ye!” said Owen,
leaning against the door-jamb as he spoke.
“The master? What do you mean?”
“Mr. Leslie himself, the landlord.”
“Mr. Leslie is abroad--in Italy.”
“Abroad! abroad!” echoed Owen, while a sickly faint-ness spread itself
through his frame. “He's not out of England, is he?”
“I've told you he's in Italy, my good man.”
“Erra! where's that at all?” cried Owen, despairingly.
“I'm sure I don't know; but I can give you the address, if you want it.”
“No, thank ye, ma'am--it's too late for that, now,” said he. The old
woman closed the door, and the poor fellow sat down upon the steps,
overcome by this sad and unlooked-for result.
It was evening. The streets were crowded with people,--some on foot,
some on horseback and in carriages. The glare of splendid equipages,
the glittering of wealth--the great human tide rolled past, unnoticed by
Owen, for his own sorrows filled his whole heart.
Men in all their worldliness,--some, on errands of pleasure, some,
care-worn and thoughtful, some, brimful of expectation, and others,
downcast and dejected, moved past: scarcely one remarked that poor
peasant, whose travelled and tired look, equally with his humble dress,
bespoke one who came from afar.
“Well, God help me, what's best for me to do now?” said Owen Connor, as
he sat ruminating on his fortune; and, unable to find any answer to his
own question, he arose and walked slowly along, not knowing nor caring
whither.