who, friendless and alone, finds himself a wanderer within its walls.
The man of education and taste looks around him for objects of interest
or amusement, yet saddened by the thought that he is cut off from all
intercourse with his fellow-men; but, to the poor unlettered stranger,
how doubly depressing are all these things! Far from speculating on the
wealth and prosperity around him, he feels crushed and humiliated in its
presence. His own humble condition appears even more lowly in contrast
with such evidences of splendour; and instinctively he retreats from the
regions where fashion, and rank, and riches abound, to the gloomy abodes
of less-favoured fortunes.
When Owen awoke the following morning, and looked about him in the
humble lodging he had selected, he could scarcely believe that already
the end of his long journey had been met by failure. Again and again he
endeavoured to remember if he had seen his landlord, and what reply he
had received; but except a vague sense of disappointment, he could fix
on nothing. It was only as he drew near the great mansion once more,
that he could thoroughly recollect all that had happened; and then,
the truth flashed on his mind, and he felt all the bitterness of his
misfortune. I need not dwell on this theme. The poor man turned again
homeward; why, he could not well have answered, had any been cruel
enough to ask him. The hope that buoyed him up before, now spent and
exhausted, his step was slow and his heart heavy, while his mind, racked
with anxieties and dreads, increased his bodily debility, and made each
mile of the way seem ten.
On the fourth day of his journey--wet through from morning till late in
the evening--he was seized with a shivering-fit, followed soon after by
symptoms of fever. The people in whose house he had taken shelter for
the night, had him at once conveyed to the infirmary, where for eight
weeks he lay dangerously ill; a relapse of his malady, on the day before
he was to be pronounced convalescent, occurred, and the third month was
nigh its close, ere Owen left the hospital.
It was more than a week ere he could proceed on his journey, which
he did at last, moving only a few miles each day, and halting before
nightfall. Thus wearily plodding on, he reached Liverpool at last, and
about the middle of January arrived in his native country once more.
His strength regained, his bodily vigour restored, he had made a long
day's journey to reach home, and it was about ten o'clock of a bright
and starry night that he crossed the mountains that lie between
Ballinrobe and Maam. To Owen, the separation from his home seemed like
a thing of years long; and his heart was full to bursting as each
well-remembered spot appeared, bringing back a thousand associations of
his former life. As he strode along he stopped frequently to look down
towards the village, where, in each light that twinkled, he could
mark the different cabins of his old friends. At length, the long low
farmhouse of the Joyces came into view--he could trace it by the line
of light that glittered from every window--and from this, Owen could not
easily tear himself away. Muttering a heartfelt prayer for those beneath
that roof, he at last moved on, and near midnight gained the little glen
where his cabin stood. Scarcely, however, had he reached the spot, when
the fierce challenge of a dog attracted him. It was not his own poor
colley--he knew his voice well--and Owen's blood ran chilly at the sound
of that strange bark. He walked on, however, resolutely grasping his
stick in his hand, and suddenly, as he turned the angle of the cliff,
there stood his cabin, with a light gleaming from the little window.
“'Tis Phil Joyce maybe has put somebody in, to take care of the place,”
said he; but his fears gave no credence to the surmise.
Again the dog challenged, and at the same moment the door was opened,
and a man's voice called out, “Who comes there?” The glare of the fire
at his back shewed that he held a musket in his hand.
“'Tis me, Owen Connor,” answered Owen, half sulkily, for he felt that
indescribable annoyance a man will experience at any question, as to his
approaching his own dwelling, even though in incognito.
“Stay back, then,” cried the other; “if you advance another step, I'll
send a bullet through you.”
“Send a bullet through me!” cried Owen, scornfully, yet even more
astonished than indignant. “Why, isn't a man to be let go to his own
house, without being fired at?”
“I'll be as good as my word,” said the fellow; and as he spoke, Owen saw
him lift the gun to his shoulder and steadily hold it there. “Move one
step now, and you'll see if I'm not.”
Owen's first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, and if not
wounded, to grapple with his adversary; but he reflected for a second
that some great change must have occurred in his absence, which, in all
likelihood, no act of daring on his part could avert or alter. “I'll
wait for morning, anyhow,” thought he; and without another word, or
deigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned, and retraced his
steps down the mountain.
There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, where Owen
determined to pass the night. The old man who lived there, had been a
herd formerly, but age and rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he now
lived on the charity of the neighbours.
“Poor Larry! I don't half like disturbing ye,” said Owen, as he arrived
at the miserable contrivance of wattles that served for a door; but
the chill night air, and his weary feet decided the difficulty, and he
called out, “Larry--Larry Daly! open the door for me--Owen Connor. 'Tis
me!”
The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and despite the
consequences of his malady, managed to hobble to the door in a few
seconds. “Oh! wirra, wirra! Owen, my son!” cried he, in Irish; “I hoped
I'd never see ye here again--my own darlin'.”
“That's a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man coming back among his
own people.”
“'Tis a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord help us, this is
bad fortune.”
“What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to disgrace my name, that I
wouldn't come back here?”
“'Tisn't what ye done, honey, but what's done upon ye. Oh, wirra, wirra;
'tis a black day that led ye home here.”
It was some time before Owen could induce the old man to moderate his
sorrows, and relate the events which had occurred in his absence. I will
not weary my reader by retailing the old man's prolixity, but tell them
in the fewest words I am able, premising, that I must accompany the
narrative by such explanations as I may feel necessary.
Soon after Owen's departure for England, certain disturbances occurred
through the country. The houses of the gentry were broken open at
night and searched for arms by men with blackened faces and in various
disguises to escape recognition. Threatening notices were served on many
of the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they did not
speedily comply with certain conditions, either in the discharge of some
obnoxious individuals from their employment, or the restoration of some
plot of ground to its former holder. Awful denunciations were uttered
against any who should dare to occupy land from which a former tenant
was ejected; and so terrible was the vengeance exacted, and so sudden
its execution, that few dared to transgress the orders of these savage
denunciators. The law of the land seemed to stand still, justice
appeared appalled and affrighted, by acts which bespoke deep and
wide-spread conspiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on what
was to be done; and the only one who ventured to propose a bold and
vigorous course of acting was murdered on his way homeward. Meanwhile,
Mr. Lucas, whose stern exactions had given great discontent, seemed
determined to carry through his measures at any risk. By influence with
the government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police-force,
and, under cover of these, he issued his distress-warrants and
executions, distrained and sold, probably with a severity increased by
the very opposition he met with.
The measures undertaken by government to suppress outrage failed most
signally. The difficulty of arresting a suspected individual was great
in a country where a large force was always necessary. The difficulty of
procuring evidence against him was still greater; for even such as were
not banded in the conspiracy, had a greater dread of the reproach of
informer, than of any other imputation; and when these two conditions
were overcome, the last and greatest of all difficulties remained
behind,--no jury could be found to convict, when their own lives might
pay the penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went the
agent, with his cumbrous accompaniments of law-officers and parchments,
police constables and bailiffs, to effect a distress or an ejectment;
the midnight party with arms patrolled the country, firing the haggards
and the farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in their
own bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre.
Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime; the very calendar
was red with murder. Friends parted with a fervour of feeling, that
shewed none knew if they would meet on the morrow; and a dark, gloomy
suspicion prevailed through the land, each dreading his neighbour, and
deeming his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. All
the bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred and affection,
were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, fathers, and sons were
arrayed against each other. A despotism was thus set up, which even they
who detested dared not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superior
power, awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling lessened
when they saw that these dreadful acts--acts so horrible as to make
men shudder at the name of Ireland when heard in the farthest corner
of Europe--that these had their apologists in the press, that even
a designation was invented for them, and murder could be spoken of
patriotically as the “Wild Justice” of the people.
There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose pure heart had
never harboured a bad thought cannot live untainted where wickedness
is rife. The really base and depraved were probably not many; but
there were hardships and sufferings every where; misery abounded in
the land--misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult to
connect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or supposed, of the
wealthier classes. Some, believed the theory with all the avidity of men
who grasp at straws when drowning; others, felt a savage pleasure at the
bare thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, mixed up
their own wrongs with what they regarded as national grievances, and
converted their private vengeance into a patriotic daring. Few stood
utterly aloof, and even of these, none would betray the rest.
The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible incentive to its
commission. The agent shot, the law he had set in motion stood still,
the process fell powerless; the “Wild Justice” superseded the slower
footsteps of common law, and the murderer saw himself installed in
safety, when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim.
Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation, that recklessness of
life is its almost invariable accompaniment; and thus, many of these men
ceased to speculate on the future, and followed the dictates of their
leaders in blind and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felt
a kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and actually loved
the very hazard of the game. Many more had private wrongs--old debts of
injury to wipe out--and grasped at the occasion to acquit them; but even
when no direct motives existed, the terror of evil consequences induced
great numbers to ally themselves with this terrible conspiracy, and when
not active partisans, at least to be faithful and secret confidants.
Among the many dispossessed by the agent was Owen Connor. Scarcely had
he left the neighbourhood, than an ejectment was served against him; and
the bailiff, by whose representations Owen was made to appear a man of
dangerous character, installed in his mountain-farm. This fellow was
one of those bold, devil-may-care ruffians, who survive in every contest
longer than men of more circumspect courage; and Lucas was not sorry
to find that he could establish such an outpost in this wild and dreary
region. Well armed, and provided with a sufficiency of ammunition, he
promised to maintain his strong-hold against any force--a boast not so
unreasonable, as there was only one approach to the cabin, and that,
a narrow path on the very verge of a precipice. Owen's unexpected
appearance was in his eyes, therefore, a signal for battle; he supposed
that he was come back to assert his ancient right, and in this spirit
it was, he menaced him with instant death if he advanced another step.
Indeed, he had been more than once threatened that Owen's return would
be a “dark day” for him, and prepared himself for a meeting with him,
as an occasion which might prove fatal to either. These threats, not
sparingly bandied by those who felt little inclination to do battle on
their own account, had become so frequent, that many looked for Owen's
reappearance as for an event of some moment.
Old Larry often heard these reports, and well knowing Owen's ardent
disposition and passionate temper, and how easily he became the tool of
others, when any deed of more than ordinary hazard was presented to him,
grieved deeply over the consequences such promptings might lead to; and
thus it was, that he received him with that outburst of sorrow for which
Owen was little prepared.
If Owen was shocked as he listened first to the tale of anarchy
and bloodshed the old man revealed, a savage pleasure came over him
afterwards, to think, what terror these midnight maraudings were making
in the hearts of those who lived in great houses, and had wealth and
influence. His own wrongs rankled too deeply in his breast to make him
an impartial hearer; and already, many of his sympathies were with the
insurgents.
It was almost day-break ere he could close his eyes; for although
tired and worn out, the exciting themes he was revolving banished every
thought of sleep, and made him restless and fretful. His last words to
Larry, as he lay down to rest, were a desire that he might remain for
a day or two concealed in his cabin, and that none of the neighbours
should learn anything of his arrival. The truth was, he had not courage
to face his former friends, nor could he bear to meet the Joyces: what
step he purposed to take in the mean while, and how to fashion his
future course, it is hard to say: for the present, he only asked time.
The whole of the following day he remained within the little hut; and
when night came, at last ventured forth to breathe the fresh air and
move his cramped limbs. His first object, then, was to go over to
Joyce's house, with no intention of visiting its inmates--far from it.
The poor fellow had conceived a shrinking horror of the avowal he should
be compelled to make of his own failure, and did not dare to expose
himself to such a test.
The night was dark and starless: that heavy, clouded darkness which
follows a day of rain in our western climate, and makes the atmosphere
seem loaded and weighty. To one less accustomed than was Owen, the
pathway would have been difficult to discover; but he knew it well in
every turning and winding, every dip of the ground, and every rock and
streamlet in the course. There was the stillness of death on every side;
and although Owen stopped more than once to listen, not the slightest
sound could be heard. The gloom and dreariness suited well the “habit of
his soul.” His own thoughts were not of the brightest, and his step was
slow and his head downcast as he went.
At last the glimmering of light, hazy and indistinct from the foggy
atmosphere, came into view, and a few minutes after, he entered the
little enclosure of the small garden which flanked one side of the
cabin. The quick bark of a dog gave token of his approach, and Owen
found some difficulty in making himself recognised by the animal,
although an old acquaintance. This done, he crept stealthily to the
window from which the gleam of light issued. The shutters were closed,
hut between their joinings he obtained a view of all within.
At one side of the fire was Mary--his own Mary, when last he parted with
her. She was seated at a spinning-wheel, but seemed less occupied with
the work, than hent on listening to some noise without. Phil also stood
in the attitude of one inclining his ear to catch a sound, and held a
musket in his hand like one ready to resist attack. A farm-servant, a
lad of some eighteen, stood at his side, armed with a horse-pistol, his
features betraying no very equivocal expression of fear and anxiety.
Little Patsy nestled at Mary's side, and with his tiny hands had grasped
her arm closely.
They stood there, as if spell-bound. It was evident they were afraid, by
the slightest stir, to lose the chance of hearing any noise without; and
when Mary at last lifted up her head, as if to speak, a quick motion
of her brother's hand warned her to be silent. What a history did that
group reveal to Owen, as, with a heart throbbing fiercely, he gazed upon
it! But a few short months back, and the inmates of that happy home
knew not if at night the door was even latched; the thought of attack or
danger never crossed their minds. The lordly dwellers in a castle felt
less security in their slumbers than did these peasants; now, each night
brought a renewal of their terrors. It came no longer the season of
mutual greeting around the wintry hearth, the hour of rest and repose;
but a time of anxiety and dread, a gloomy period of doubt, harassed by
every breeze that stirred, and every branch that moved.
“'Tis nothing _this time_,” said Phil, at last. “Thank God for that
same!” and he replaced his gun above the chimney, while Mary blessed
herself devoutly, and seemed to repeat a prayer to herself. Owen gave
one parting look, and retired as noiselessly as he came.
To creep forth with the dark hours, and stand at this window, became
with Owen, now, the whole business of life. The weary hours of the day
were passed in the expectancy of that brief season--the only respite
he enjoyed from the corroding cares of his own hard fortune. The dog,
recognising him, no longer barked as he approached; and he could stand
unmolested and look at that hearth, beside which he was wont once to sit
and feel at home.
Thus was it, as the third week was drawing to a close, when old Larry,
who had ventured down to the village to make some little purchase,
brought back the news, that information had been sworn by the bailiff
against Owen Connor, for threatening him with death, on pain of his not
abandoning his farm. The people would none of them give any credit to
the oath, as none knew of Owen's return; and the allegation was only
regarded as another instance of the perjury resorted to by their
opponents, to crush and oppress them.
“They'll have the police out to-morrow, I hear, to search after ye; and
sure the way ye've kept hid will be a bad job, if they find ye after
all.”
“_If_ they do, Larry!” said Owen, laughing; “but I think it will puzzle
them to do so.” And the very spirit of defiance prevented Owen at once
surrendering himself to the charge against him. He knew every cave and
hiding-place of the mountain, from childhood upwards, and felt proud to
think how he could baffle all pursuit, no matter how persevering his
enemies. It was essential, however, that he should leave his present
hiding-place at once; and no sooner was it dark, than Owen took leave
of old Larry and issued forth. The rain was falling in torrents,
accompanied hy a perfect hurricane, as he left the cabin; fierce gusty
blasts swept down the bleak mountain-side, and with wild and melancholy
cadence poured along the valley; the waters of the lake plashed and beat
upon the rocky shore; the rushing torrents, as they forced their way
down the mountain, swelled the uproar, in which the sound of crashing
branches and even rocks were mingled.
“'Tis a dreary time to take to the cowld mountain for a home,” said
Owen, as he drew his thick frieze coat around him, and turned his
shoulder to the storm. “I hardly think the police, or the king's throops
either, will try a chase after me this night.”
There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflection than at
first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind of heroism in his own
daring at that moment, that supported and actually encouraged him in
his course. The old spirit of bold defiance, which for ages has
characterised the people; the resolute resistance to authority, or
to tyranny, which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy
nature; and he asked for nothing better, than to pit his own skill,
ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents, for the mere pleasure of
the encounter.
As there was little question on Owen's mind that no pursuit of him would
take place on such a night, he resolved to pass the time till day-break
within the walls of the old churchyard, the only spot he could think
of which promised any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there,
where he could safely remain till morning. An hour's walking brought him
to the little gate, the last time he had entered which, was at his poor
father's funeral. His reflection, now, was rather on his own altered
condition since that day; but even on that thought he suffered himself
not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face the future, in
utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part he proposed to himself;
and he did his utmost to bend his mind to the effort.
As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was amazed to see
the faint flickering of a fire within it. At first a superstitious fear
held him back, and he rapidly repeated some prayers to himself; but the
emotion was soon over, and he advanced boldly toward it. “Who's there?
stand! or give the word!” said a gruff voice from within. Owen stood
still, but spoke not. The challenge was like that of a sentry, and he
half-feared he had unwittingly strayed within the precincts of a patrol.
“Give the word at once! or you'll never spake another,” was the savage
speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his ears, while the
click of a gun-Cock was distinctly audible.
“I'm a poor man, without a home or a shelter,” said Owen, calmly; “and
what's worse, I'm without arms, or maybe you wouldn't talk so brave.”
“What's yer name? Where are ye from?”
“I'm Owen Connor; that's enough for ye, whoever ye are,” replied he,
resolutely; “it's a name I'm not ashamed nor afraid to say, anywhere.”
The man within the cell threw a handful of dry furze upon the
smouldering flame, and while he remained concealed himself, took a
deliberate survey of Owen as he stood close to the doorway. “You're
welcome, Owen,” said he, in an altered voice, and one which Owen
immediately recognised as that of the old blacksmith, Miles Regan;
“you're welcome, my boy! better late than never, anyhow!”
“What do you mean, Miles? 'Tisn't expecting me here ye were, I suppose?”
“'Tis just that same then, I was expecting this many a day,” said Miles,
as with a rugged grasp of both hands he drew Owen within the narrow
cell. “And 't'aint me only was expecting it, but every one else. Here,
avich, taste this--ye're wet and cowld both; that will put life in
ye--and it never ped tha king sixpence.”
And he handed Owen a quart bottle as he spoke, the odour of which was
unmistakeable enough, to bear testimony to his words.
“And what brings you here, Miles, in the name of God?” said Owen, for
his surprise at the meeting increased every moment.
“'Tis your own case, only worse,” said the other, with a drunken laugh,
for the poteen had already affected his head.
“And what's that, if I might make bould?” said Owen, rather angrily.
“Just that I got the turn-out, my boy. That new chap, they have over the
property, sould me out, root and branch; and as I didn't go quiet, ye
see, they brought the polis down, and there was a bit of a fight, to
take the two cows away; and somehow”--here he snatched the bottle rudely
from Owen's hand, and swallowed a copious draught of it--“and, somehow,
the corporal was killed, and I thought it better to be away for a
while--for, at the inquest, though the boys would take 'the vestment'
they seen him shot by one of his comrades, there was a bit of a smash
in his skull, ye see”--here he gave a low fearful laugh--“that fitted
neatly to the top of my eleven-pound hammer; ye comprehend?”
Owen's blood ran cold as he said, “Ye don't mean it was you that killed
him?”