"I did not think," said M'Small, "that you had such a strong sense of your own deserts left, Val!—I have some hopes of you yet."

"Ah," said Val, "I fear that on your way to heaven, if you meet a difficulty, you will not be likely to find a grand jury to build a bridge for you across it."

"I perfectly agree with you," replied M'Small, "the face of a grand juror will be a novel sight in that direction."

"And in the other direction," observed Hartley, "no bridges will be wanted."

"Why so?" said M'Small.

"Because," he replied, "there will be such an absence of water as will render them unnecessary."

"Ay," retorted another, "but as there will be plenty of grand jurors we may do then as we did now, build the bridge without the water, and trouble ourselves no further with the consequences."

After much more conversation, partly on business, and partly on desultory topics, the quarrellings, and bickerings, and all the noisy enmities of that corrupt little world that is contained within—we should rather say, that was contained within the walls of a grand jury room, ceased; and, with the exception of one or two small matters of no consequence, everything was settled, but not so as to give general satisfaction; for there still remained a considerable number of grumblers, whose objects had been either completely lost in greater corruption, or set aside for the present.

"Here's another matter," said Spavin, "which we had better settle at once. A man here named O'Drive—Darby O'Drive—is to be appointed to the under gaolership—he is strongly recommended by Mr. Lucre, as a man that has renounced Popery."

"That's enough, Spavin," said Hartley, "that, I suppose, comprises all the virtues necessary for an under gaoler, at all events."

"You know him, M'Clutchy," said one or two of them.

"He'll make a good under gaoler," replied Val, "as there will be in Europe. Appoint him, gentlemen; you will get no such man."

"And that is just," said Sir William aside to Hartley, "all that Val's recommendation is good for."

And thus closed as much as we feel necessary to describe of that extraordinary scene—a grand jury room in the year 1804, or thereabouts.



CHAPTER XXIII.—A Rent Day

—Relative Position of Landlord and Tenant—Grades of Tenantry—Phil's Notion of Respect—Paddy Corrigan's Protestant Wig—Phil and Solomon in a Fit of Admiration—The Widow Tyrrell.

One single week in the progress of time, after the exhibition last described, had wonderfully advanced the catastrophe of our simple and uncomplicated narrative. Harman, very much to the mortification of M'Clutchy, was acquitted, the evidence being not only in his favor, but actually of such a character, as to prove clearly that his trial was merely one of those dishonest stretches of political vengeance which characterized the times. On coming out, however, he found the affairs of the firm in a state of bankruptcy and ruin. The insidious paragraphs in the papers, masked with compassion, and "a hope that the affairs of this respectable firm—which was hitherto supposed to be a solvent one—would, still, be wound up in a way, they trusted, somewhat more satisfactory than was given out by their enemies." Nor was this the worst, so far as Harman himself was concerned. The impression of Mary M'Loughlin's perfidy had been now so thoroughly stamped into his heart, that he neither could, nor would listen to any attempt upon the part of their mutual friends at her vindication. This last stroke of anguish was owing, also, to Phil's diabolical ingenuity. Harman on reflecting day after day, and hour by hour, upon the occurrence, and comparing it with her conduct and confusion on previous occasions, felt, as we before said, strongly inclined to believe her guilty. He determined, however, not to rest here, but to sift the matter to the bottom. He accordingly heard from his cousin, and from several others, while in prison, such details of the particulars, and such an authentic list of the persons who were present, many of whom, owing to the ingenious malignity of Poll Doolin, were friendly and favorable to the family—that he privately sent for them, and on comparing the narratives one with the other, he found the harmony among them so strong, that he gave up all thoughts of her, save such as recurred involuntarily to his mind with indignation and anguish. In addition to his other mortifications, it happened that the second day after his release from imprisonment was what the agents call "Gale day;" that is, the day upon which they get into their chair of state, as it were, and in all the insolence of office receive their rents, and give a general audience to the tenantry. Phil, indeed, even more than the father, looked forward to these days with an exultation of soul and a consciousness of authority, that fully repaid him for all the insults, disasters, and tweakings of the nose, which he was forced to suffer during the whole year besides. In truth, nothing could equal, much less surpass, the Pistolian spirit by which this lion-hearted gentleman was then animated. His frown, swagger, bluster, and authoritative shakings of his head, the annihilating ferocity of his look, and the inflated pomp of manner with which he addressed them, and "damned his honor," were all inimitable in their way. The father was more cautious and within bounds, simply because he had more sense, and knew the world better; but, at the same time, it was easy to see by his manner, that in spite of all his efforts at impartiality and justice, he possessed the poison as well as the wisdom of the serpent, but not one atom of the harmlessness of the dove. At another table, a little to the right of M'Clutchy, sat M'Slime, ready to take his appropriate part in the proceedings of the day, and prepared, whilst engaged in the task of seeing that everything was done according to law, to throw in "a word in season, touching the interests of the gospel."

At length eleven o'clock arrived, and found Val, Phil, our old friend Darby, who had not yet entered upon the duties of his office, together with one or two other understrappers, all ready for business. The two principal characters were surrounded by books, rentals, receipts, and every other document necessary and usual upon such occasions. The day was wet and cold, and by no means in the spirit of the season; but we know not why it happens, that there seems in general to be a fatality of disastrous weather peculiar to such days, leading one to imagine that the agent possessed such a necromantic foreknowledge of the weather, as enabled him to superinduce the severity of the elements upon his own cruelty. In a country so poor as Ireland, the scene presented by a rent day is one too impressive and melancholy ever to be forgotten by any heart touched with benevolence. There is little, if any, of that erect freedom of demeanor and natural exhibition of good will, which characterize conscious independence and a sense of protection on the part of the tenant; whilst on that of the agent or landlord there is a contemptuous hardness of manner, a vile indifference, and utter disregard of the feelings of those by whom he is surrounded, that might enable the shallowest observer to say at a glance, there is no sympathy between that man and these people.

But that is not all. Give yourself time to observe them more closely, listen to that agent pouring his insolent invective upon the head of this poor man, whose only crime is his poverty, and whose spirit appears to be broken down with the struggles and sufferings of life; yet, who hears his honesty impugned, his efforts ridiculed, and his character blackened, without manifesting any other than a calm spirit that looks inwards to his own heart for the consciousness of these falsehoods. Look at this, we repeat, and you will surely feel yourself forced to say—not that there is no sympathy between these men, but there sits the oppressor and there stands the oppressed.

But even this is not all. Bestow a still more searching glance upon the scene. Here is more than invective; more than the imputation of dishonesty and fraud; more than the cruel defamation of character in the presence of so many. Mark the words of that agent or landlord again. He is sealing the fate of this struggling man; he tells him he is to have no home—no house to shelter himself, his wife, and their children; that he must be dispossessed, ejected, turned out upon the world, without friends to support or aid him, or the means to sustain their physical existence. Hear all this, and mark the brow of that denounced man; observe how it knits and darkens; how firmly he compressess his lips, and with what a long, determined, gloomy gaze he surveys his denouncer—observe all this, we repeat; and need you feel surprised, at finding yourself compelled to go still farther, and say there sits a doomed man and there most assuredly stands his murderer.

Let it not be supposed that we are capable of justifying murder, or the shedding of human blood; but we are palliating, and ever shall palliate that crime in the humble man, which originates in the oppression of the great man. Is the act which banishes happiness and contentment—introduces poverty, misery, destitution—which scatters out of the heart all the little amenities and sweet endearments of life—which wastes away the strength of the spirit, and paralyzes that of the hand—which dims the eye and gives paleness to the cheek, and by combining all these together makes home—yes, home, the trysting place of all the affections, a thing to be thought of only with dread—an asylum for the miseries of life;—is the act, we say, which inflicts upon a human being, or a human family, this scathing and multitudinous curse—no crime? In the sight of God and in the sight of man is it no crime? Yes! In the sight of God and man it is a deep, an awful, and a most heartless crime! To return, however, to our rent day. The whole morning was unseasonably cold and stormy, and as there was but little shelter about the place, we need scarcely say, that the poor creatures who were congregated before the door were compelled to bear the full force of its inclemency.

Indeed, it may be observed with truth, that when people are met together under circumstances of a painful nature, they cannot relax or melt into that social ease which generally marks those who come together with no such restraint upon the heart or spirits. Here, too, as in every other department of life, all the various grades of poverty and dependence fall into their respective classes. In one place, for instance, might be seen together those more comfortable farmers who were able to meet their engagements, but who labored under the galling conviction, that, however hard and severely industry might put forth its exertions, there was no ultimate expectation of independence—no cheering reflection, that they resided under a landlord who would feel gratified and proud at their progressive prosperity. Alas! it is wonderful how much happiness a bad landlord destroys! These men stood with their backs to the wind and storm, lowly conversing upon the disastrous change which was coming, and had come, over the estate. Their brows were lowered, their dialogue languid and gloomy, and altogether their whole appearance was that of men who felt that they lived neither for themselves or their families, but for those who took no interest whatsoever in their happiness or welfare.

In another place were grouped together men who were still worse off than the former—men, we mean, who were able to meet their engagements, but at the expense of all, or mostly all, that constitutes domestic comfort—who had bad beds, bad food, and indifferent clothes. These persons were far more humbled in their bearing than the former, took a less prominent situation in the crowd, and seemed to have deeper care, and much more personal feeling to repress or combat. It is an indisputable fact, that the very severe and vexatious tyranny exercised over them had absolutely driven the poor creatures into hypocrisy and falsehood—a general and almost uniform consequence of conduct so peculiarly oppressive. They were all, at best, God knows, but very poorly clothed; yet, if it so happened that one or two of them, somewhat more comfortable than the rest, happened to have got a new coat a little before gale day, he invariably declined to appear in it, knowing, as he did, that he should receive a torrent of abuse from the agent, in consequence of "getting fat, impudent, and well-dressed on his Lordship's property;" terms of abuse, which, together with the cause that produced them, are at this moment well known to thousands as expressions whose general occurrence on such, occasions has almost fixed them into proverb. Will our English neighbors believe this? That we know not, but we can assure them that they may.

There were other groups farther down in the scale of distress, where embarrassment and struggle told a yet more painful tale; those who came with their rent, in full to be sure, but literally racked up from their own private destitution—who were obliged to sell the meal, or oats, or wheat, at a ruinous loss, in order to meet the inexorable demands of the merciless and tyrannical agent. Here were all the' external evidences of their condition legible by a single look at their persons; they also herded together, ill clad, ill fed, timid, broken down, heartless. All these, however, had their rents—had them full and complete in amount; now the reader may well say, this picture is, indeed, very painful, and I am glad it is closed at last. Closed! oh, no, kind reader, it is not closed, nor could it be closed by any writer acquainted either with the subject or the country. What are we to say of those who had not the rent, and who came there only to make that melancholy statement, and to pray for mercy? Here was raggedness, shivering—not merely with the cold assault of the elements—but from the dreaded apprehension of the terrible agent—downcast looks that spoke of keen and cutting misery—eyes that were dead and hopeless in expression—and occasionally, a hasty wringing of the hands, accompanied by an expression so dejected and lamentable, as makes us, when we cast our eye in imagination upon such men as Valentine M'Clutchy, cry out aloud, "where are the lightnings of the Almighty, and why are his thunderbolts asleep?" There was there the poor gray-haired old man—the grandfather—accompanied, perhaps, by his promising young grandsons, left fatherless and motherless to his care, and brought now in order that the agent might see with his eyes how soon he will have their aid to cultivate their little farm, and consequently, to make it pay better, he hopes. Then the widow, tremulous with the excess of many feelings, many cares, and many bitter and indignant apprehensions. If handsome herself, or if the mother of daughters old enough, and sufficiently attractive, for the purposes of debauchery, oh! what has she to contend with? Poor, helpless, friendless, coming to offer her humble apology for not being able to be prepared for the day. Alas! how may she, clutched as she is in the fangs of that man, or his scoundrel and profligate son—how may she fight out the noble battle of religion, and virtue, and poverty, against the united influences of oppression and lust, wealth and villany.

The appearance of these different groups—when the inclemency of the day, their sinking hearts, and downcast pale countenances, were taken into consideration—was really a strong exponent of the greatest evil which characterizes and oppresses the country—the unsettled state of property, and of the relative position of landlord and tenant in Ireland.

At length the hall-door was opened, and a hard-faced ruffian came out upon the steps, shouting the name of a man named O'Hare. The man immediately approached the steps, and after shaking the heavy rain out of his big coat, and having whisked his hat backwards and forwards several times, that he might not soil his honor's office, he was brought in, and having made his humble bow, stood to hear his honor's pleasure. His honor, however, who had divided the labor between himself and Phil, had also, by an arrangement which was understood between them, allotted that young gentleman, at his own request, a peculiar class marked out in the rental, in which class this man stood. "O'Hare," said Val, "how do you do?"

"Upon my conscience, your honor, but poorly," replied O'Hare, "the last heavy fit of illness, joined to the bad times, sir—"

"O'Hare," said Solomon, "suffer me humbly, and without assuming anything to myself, to point out to you the impropriety of swearing; I do it, my friend, in all humility; for I fear, that so long as you indulge in that most sinful practice, the times will seldom be other than bad with you, or, indeed, with any one that gives way to so Wicked a habit. Excuse me, O'Hare, I speak to you as a Christian, I humbly trust."

"By G—, that's good, father," exclaimed Phil, "M'Slime preaching to such a fellow as this!"

"I humbly thank you, sir," said O'Hare to Solomon, "for your kindness in—"

"Thank the devil, sirra," said Phil; "What the devil does he or I care about your d——d thanks. Have you your rent?"

The man, with trembling hands, placed some notes, and gold, and silver before him—the latter being rolled up in the former.

"I'm short for the present," he added, "just thirty shilling, sir; but you can give me an acknowledgment for the sum I give you now: a regular receipt will do when I bring you the balance, which, God willin', will be in about a fortnight."

"Ay, and this is your rent, Mr. O'Hare," exclaimed Phil, gathering up the money into a lump, and with all his force flinging it at the man's head; "this is your rent, Mister O'Hare," placing an emphasis of contempt on the word Mr.; "thirty shillings short, Mr. O'Hare, but I'll tell you what, Mr. O'Hare, by —-, if you don't have the full rent for me in two hours, Mr. O'Hare, I'll make short work, and you may sleep on the dunghill. I can in ten minutes get more rent than you pay, Mr. O'Hare, so now go to h—l, and get the money, or out you go."

The poor man stooped down, and with considerable search and difficulty, succeeded in picking up his money.

"In two hours, sir," said he, "I could never do it."

"That's your own business," said Phil, "not mine—if you have it not for me in two hours, out you go; so now be off to hell out of this, and get it."

Val, who had been poring over an account-book, now raised his head, as if disturbed by the noise for the first time—

"What's the matter?" said he, "what is it, Phil?"

"Why, d—n my honor," replied Phil, "but that scoundrel O'Hare, had the assurance to come to me thirty shillings short of his rent, and, what is more, only brought me a part of it in gold!"

"God help me!" exclaimed poor O'Hare, "I know not what to do—sure I did the—best I could."

He then went out to the hall, and was about to leave the house, when Val rising, called him into another room, where both remained for a few minutes, after which the man went away, thanking his honor, and praying God to bless him; and Val, having; seated himself at the desk, appeared to feel rather pleased at their little interview than otherwise.

"Ah, my dear friend, M'Clutchy," said Solomon, "you are a treasure in your way—when you do a kind act it is always in secret, ever mindful of our spiritual obligations, my friend."

"Why," said Val, "a man is not always to trumpet forth any little act of kindness he may choose to render to a poor simple fellow like O'Hare. You mustn't mind him, Phil—I have told him not to be in a hurry, but to take his time."

"Very well," said Phil, who had just knowledge enough of his father's villany, to feel satisfied, that in whatever arrangement took place between them, O'Hare's interest was not consulted;* "very well; d—n my honor, I suppose it's all right, old cock."

* This scene is verbatim et literatim from life.

Our readers, we presume, have already observed, that however tenderly our friend Solomon felt for the shearing habit of the poor, he was somehow rather reluctant in offering a word in season to any one else. What his motive could be for this we are really at a loss to know, unless it proceeded from a charitable consciousness, that as there was no earthly hope of improving them by admonition, it was only deepening their responsibility to give it—for Solomon was charitable in all things.

"Call in Tom Maguire, from Edenmore," said Val. "Now," he proceeded, "this is a stiff-necked scoundrel, who refuses to vote for us; but it will go hard, or I shall work him to some purpose. Well, Maguire," he proceeded, after the man had entered, "I'm glad to see you—how do you do?"

"I'm much obliged to you, sir," replied the other—"why just able to make both ends barely meet, and no more; but as the time goes, sure it's well to be able to do that same, thank goodness."

"Tom," said Solomon, "I am pleased to hear you speak in such a spirit; that was piously expressed—very much so indeed."

"Well, Tom," proceeded Val; "I suppose you are prepared?"

"Why, sir," replied Tom, who, by the way, was a bit of a wag; "you know, or at least Mr. M'Slime does, that it's good to be always prepared. The rent in full is there, sir," he added, laying it down on the table; "and I'll thank you for the receipt."

Val deliberately reckoned over the gold—for in no other coin would he receive it—and then drew a long breath, and appeared satisfied, but not altogether free from some touch of hesitation.

"Ay," said he, "it is all right, Tom, certainly—yes, certainly, it is all right. Darby, fill Tom a bumper of whiskey—not that—I say the large glass, you scoundrel."

"Throth, Captain, 'tisn't my heart 'ud hindher me to give him the largest in the house; but I have a conscientious scruple against doin' what I believe isn't right. My Bible tells me—. Well, well, sure I'm only obeying orders. Here, Tom," he added, handing him the large bumper.

"Confound the fellow," said Val; "ever since he has become a convert to Mr. Lucre there's no getting a word out of him that hasn't religion in it."

"Ah, Captain," replied Darby, "sure Mr. M'Slime there knows, that 'out of the abundance of the heart the mouth spaiketh.'"

"I cannot answer for what you are latterly, Darby," replied Solomon—"thank you, Tom," to Maguire, who had held his glass in his hand for some time, and at length hurriedly drank their healths;—"but I know that the first spiritual nutrition you received, was at least from one who belonged to an Apostolical Church—a voluntary Presbytery—unpolluted by the mammon of unrighteousness, on which your Church of Ireland is established."

"But you know," said Darby, "that we're ordhered to make for ourselves, friends of that same mammon of unrighteousness."

"Upon my honor," said Phil, "I know that you're a hypocritical old scoundrel. Be off to h—l, sir, and hold your tongue."

"Throth and I will, Captain Phil—I will then," and he was silent; but his face, as he glanced first at Tom Maguire, and then at Solomon and the rest, was a perfect jewel, beyond all price.

"Tom," proceeded Val, "I hope you've thought over what I mentioned to you on our canvass the other day?"

"I have, sir," said Tom, "and I'm still of the same opinion. I'll vote for Hartley and no other."

"You don't imagine of what service Lord Cumber and I could be of to you."

"I know of no service Lord Cumber ever was to any of his tenants," replied Maguire; "except, indeed, to keep them ground to the earth, in supportin' his extravagance, and that he might spend their hard earnings in another country, not caring one damn whether they live or starve. It's for that raison, sir, I vote, and will vote against him."

"Well, but," said Val, whose brow began to darken, "you have not considered what an enemy he can be to those like you, whose obstinacy draws down his resentment upon them. Have you ever considered that— eh?"

"I don't see how he can readily be a worse enemy to me, or any tenant he has, than he is at present. I'll trouble you for my receipt, Mr. M'Clutchy, but I won't vote for him. I beg your pardon, sir," said he, on looking at the receipt which Val, as he spoke, had handed to him; "this isn't signed—your name's not to it."

"Show," said Val; "upon my life it is not. You are right, Maguire; but the truth is, M'Slime, that while speaking on any subject that affects Lord Cumber's interests, I am scarcely conscious of doing anything else. Now, sir," he proceeded, addressing Maguire, with a brow like midnight; "there is your receipt—bring it home—show it to your family—and tell them it is the last of the kind you will ever receive on the property of Lord Cumber. I shall let you know, sir, that I am somewhat stronger than you are."

"That's all to be proved yet, sir," said the sturdy farmer: "you know the proverb, sir—'man proposes, but God disposes.'"

"What do you mean, sirra? What language is this to my father? Be off to h—l or Connaught, sir, or we'll make it worse for you—ha!—bow-wow." He did not utter the last interjection, but his face expressed it.

"That's not the religious individual I took him to be," said Solomon; "there is much of the leaven of iniquity in him."

"Religion be hanged, M'Slime!" said Phil, "what religion could you expect a Papist like him to have?"

"M'Murt, call in old Paddy Corrigan."

A venerable old man, who, though nearly a hundred years old, stood actually as erect as the Apollo Belvidere himself, now entered. He was, however, but poorly clad, and had nothing else remarkable about him, with the exception of a rich wig, which would puzzle any one to know how it had got upon his head. On entering, he took off his hat as usual, and paid his salutation.

"What the devil do you mean, Corrigan?" said Phil, once more in a fluster; "what kind of respect is that in our presence?—what kind of respect is that, I say? Take off your wig, sir."

"With great respect to you, sir," replied Corrigan, "I have been in as jinteel company as this, and it's the first time ever I was axed to take my wig off."

"Phil," said Val, who really felt somewhat ashamed of this ignorant and tyrannical coxcomb, "Phil, my good boy, I think you are rather foolish—never mind him, Paddy, he is only jesting."

"Are not you the man?" asked Solomon, "in whom our rector, Mr. Lucre, takes such a deep and Christian interest?"

"I am, sir," returned Corrigan.

"And pray, what interest does he take in you?" said Val.

"Troth, sir," replied Paddy, "he is very kind and very good to me. Indeed, he's the generous gentleman, and the good Christian, that doesn't forget Paddy Corrigan."

"But, Paddy, what does he do for you?" asked the agent.

"Why, sir," replied Corrigan, "he gives: me a cast-off wig once a year, God bless him!—This is his I have on me. Throth, ever since I began to wear them I feel a strong-relish for beef and mutton, and such fine feedin'; but somehow, God forgive me, I! haven't the same leanin' to devotion that I used to have."

"Paddy, my old boy," said Phil, "that alters the case altogether. I thought the wig was as Popish as yourself; but had I known that it was a staunch and constitutional concern, of sound High Church principle, I should have treated it with respect. I might have known, indeed, that it could not be a Popish one, Paddy, for I see it has the thorough Protestant curl."

The father looked at Phil, to ascertain whether he was serious or not, but so unmeaning or equivocal was the expression of his countenance that he could make nothing out of it.

"You are reasoning," said Solomon, "upon wrong, certainly not upon purely gospel principles, Phil. The wig at this moment has a great deal more of Popery in it than ever it had of Protestantism."

"And, if I'm not much mistaken, more honesty, too," observed Val, who had not forgotten the opposition he received in the grand jury room by Lucre's friends; nor the fact that the same reverend gentleman had taken many fat slices of his mouth on several other occasions.

"Well, then, confound the wig," said Phil, "and that's all I have to say about it."

Paddy then paid his rent, and having received a receipt, was about to go, when Val thus addressed him:—"Paddy, I hope you will not hesitate to give up that farm of yours at Slatbeg; I told you before that if you do, I'll be a friend to you for life."

"I'll sell it, sir," said Paddy; "but surely you wouldn't have me to give up my interest in such a farm as that."

"I'll make it up to you in other ways," said Val; "and I'll mention you besides to Lord Cumber."

"I'm thankful to you, sir," said Paddy; "but it's in heaven I'll be, most likely, before ever you see his face."

"Then, you won't give it up, nor rely upon my generosity or Lord Cumber's? It's Lord Cumber you will be obliging, not me."

"Wid every respect for you both, sir," replied Paddy, "I must think of my own flesh and blood, my childre, and grand-childre, and great-grand-childre, before I think of either you or him. The day, sir, you made me tipsy, and sent me on your own car for the lease, I would a given it—but then, they wouldn't let me at home, and so, on thinking-it over—"

"Pooh, you're doting, man, you're doting," said Val. "go home, now—but I tell you, you will have cause to remember this before you die, old as you are—go home."

"The truth is, Solomon, I was offered two hundred pounds for it by one of my 'hounds' which would be a good thing enough, and would afford you a slice into the bargain. The old fellow would have brought me the lease the day he speaks of, were it not for the family—and, talking of leases, you will not forget to draw up those two for the O'Flaherties, with a flaw in each. They are certainly with us up to the present time, but, then, we can never be sure of these Papists."

"No, d—n my honor, if ever we can," re-echoed Phil; "they hate us because we keep them down. Put in two good thumping flaws, Solomon, and be hanged to you; so that we can pop them out if ever they refuse to vote for us."

"Never you mind Solomon," said his father, "Solomon will put in a pair of flaws that will do him honor."

"If I did not feel that in doing so, my dear M'Clutchy, I am rendering a service to religion, and fighting a just and righteous fight against Popery and idolatry, I would not deem myself as one permitted to do this thing—but the work is a helping forward of religion, and that is my justification."

"Call Philip Duggan in."

A poor looking man now entered with a staff in his hand, by the aid of which he walked, for he was lame.

"Well, Duggan, your rent?"

"I have scrambled it together, sir, from God knows how many quarthers."

"Phil," said Solomon aside, "is it not painful to hear how habitually these dark creatures take the sacred name in vain."

"By —-, it's perfectly shocking," said Phil, "but what else could you expect from them?"

"Duggan," said Val, "what is this, here's a mistake—you are short three pound ten."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, it's all right," replied Duggan; "you see, your honor, here's my little account for the work I wrought for you for five weeks wid horse and cart, up until I put my knee out o' joint in the quarry—you remember, sir, when I brought it to you, you said to let it stand, that you would allow for it in the next gale."

"I remember no such thing, my good fellow, or, if ever I said such a thing, it must have been a mistake; do you imagine, now—are you really so stupid and silly as to imagine that I could transmit this account of yours to Lord Cumber, in payment of his rent?"

"But wasn't it by your own ordhers I did it, sir?"

"No, sir; it couldn't be by my orders. Duggan, you're a great knave, I see. I once had a good opinion of you; but I now perceive my error. Here you trump up a dishonest bill against me, when you know perfectly well that most of the work you charge me with was duty work."

"Beggin,' your pardon, sir, I paid you the duty-work besides, if you'll remember it."

"I tell you, sirra, you are a most impudent and knavish scoundrel, to speak to me in this style, and in my own office, too! Go and get the balance of the rent, otherwise you shall repent it; and, mark me, sirra, no more of your dishonesty."

"As God is to judge me—"

"Ah, my friend—," began Solomon.

"Be off to h—l, sir, out of this," thundered Phil. "Be off, I say, to h—l or Connaught; or if you don't, take my word for it, you'll find yourself in a worse mess. To address my father in such language! Be off, sir; ha!"—Bow-wow! said his face once more.

"Ah," said Solomon, when the man had retired, "I see your patience and your difficulties—but there is no man free from the latter in this checkered vale of sorrow."

"Call Roger Regan," said Val; "here's a fellow, now, who has an excellent farm at a low rent, yet he never is prepared with a penny. Well Regan."

"Oh! devil resave the penny, sir;—you, must only prize (appraise) the craps; the ould game, sir—the ould game; however, it's a merry world as long as it lasts, and we must only take our own fun out of it."

"What is the matter with your head, Regan?" asked Val.

"Devil a much, sir; a couple o' cuts that you might lay your finger in. We an' the Haimigans had another set to on Thursday last, but be my sowl, we thrashed them into chaff—as we're well able to do. Will I have the pleasure of drinking your health, gintlemen? I think I see the right sort here."

"Give him a glass of spirits," said Val; "I think, Regan, you have seen some one drinking to-day already."

"Well, gintlemen, here's—if we're to have a short life, may it be a merry one!—and may we never ait worse mait than mutton. Mr. M'Slime, more power to you!—She's next door to me"—and he winked at Solomon—"an' barrin' the paleness, by the powers gettin' on famous; throth, sir," in reply to Val—"only share of two half-pints wid Paddy Colgan, in regard of that day that's in it—blowin' bullocks—and, I believe, another half-pint wid Para Bellow. Blood, sir, but that's a beautiful drop! Sowl it would take the tear off a widow's pig—or the widow herself. Faith, Mr. M'Clutchy, I could tell where the cow grazes that was milked for that! Awough! However, no matther, I'm rantin' Regan from sweet Anghadarra—Regan the Rake that never seen to-morrow. Whish! more power!"

"That will do, Regan; you have not your rent."

"Oh! d—n the penny, as usual.—Success!

"Well, but what's to be done? I must come down."

"Devil afoot you'll come down, please your honor; but you'll come up and prize the crap. It's worth five times the rent, at any rate—that's one comfort. Hurroo!"

"Upon my honor, Regan, I'm tired of this I have done it several times through kindness to yourself and family, but I cannot, really, do it any more."

"Very well, sir—no offence—what one won't, another will; I can raise three times the rent on it in four and twenty hours."

"What an unfortunate man you are, to be sure. Well, Regan, I shall appraise your crops and take them, or a competent share of them in payment, on this occasion—but mark me, it shall be the last."

"More power, I say.—Long life to you, sir. You know a hawk from a hand-saw, any how—and be my sowl, kind father, for you—whish! I'm rantin' Regan from sweet Anghadarra!"

So saying, poor, idle, drinking, negligent, pugnacious Regan, by his own sheer neglect, put his property into the hands of the most relentless harpy that ever robbed and fleeced a tenantry. This mode of proceeding was, in fact, one of the many methods resorted to by rapacious agents, for filling their own pockets at the expense of the tenant, who, by this means, seldom received more than a fourth part of the value of his crops. The agent under the mask of obliging him, and saving his crops from the hammer, took them at a valuation when the markets were low; and in order that he might be able to do so, he always kept over the tenant's head what is called a hanging gale—which means that he was half a year's rent in arrear. The crops were then brought home to the agent's place, and frequently, to save appearances, to the haggard of some friend of his, where they were kept until the markets got up to the highest price. So that it was not an unusual thing for the iniquitous agent to double the rent, one-half of which he coolly put into his own pocket.—In pastoral lands the butter was appraised in the same manner, mostly with similar results to both parties. To return—when Regan had departed, Val asked Solomon what he thought of him. "Think of him," said Solomon, who could not forgive the allusion to Susanna, "I would fain think of him as becomes a Christian; but, somehow, I could not help feeling, whenever I looked at him, there was the outline of an execution in his face; however, I may be mistaken—indeed, I hope—I trust I am—the villain!"

"M'Murt, call in Catharine Tyrrell."

"Yes," said Phil, "call in Widow Tyrrell. Now, Solomon, only you have no relish for anything except what's sanctified and spiritual, you would say that here comes such a specimen of Irish beauty as you have seldom seen."

"I never had any objection," said Solomon, who, in spite of all his gravity, betrayed an alertness on this occasion that was certainly not usual to him;—"I never had any objection to look upon any work from His hand, with pleasure. Indeed, on the contrary, I often felt that it raised my sense of—of what was beautiful, in such a way that my feelings became, as it were, full of a sweet fervor that was not to be despised; I will consequently not decline to look upon this comely widow—that is—in the serious light I mention."

"How do you do, Mrs. Tyrrell? I hope you have not got much wet?" said Val, turning round very blandly.

"Oh, Mrs. Tyrrell, I hope you're very well," followed Phil; "I fear you have got wet—have the goodness to take a chair, Mrs. Tyrrell—and a glass of wine, ma'am."

Mrs. Tyrrell took a chair, but she declined the glass of wine. Mrs. Tyrrell had been the wife of a young husband, who died in his twenty-fourth year, just when they had been about a year and a half married. She was herself, on the day in question, about the same age as her husband when he died. She had been a widow just two years, and had one child, a son. She was indeed a beautiful woman—in fact a very beautiful woman, as one could almost see in her humble condition of life. Her tresses were a raven black, but her skin was white and polished as ivory. Her face was a fine specimen of the oval—her brows exquisitely pencilled—and her large black, but mellow eyes, flashed a look that went into your very heart. But, if there was anything that struck you as being more fascinating than another, it was the expression of innocence, and purity, and sweetness, that lay about her small mouth and beautifully rounded chin. Her form was symmetry itself, and a glimpse of the small, but beautiful foot and ankle, left no doubt upon the mind as to the general harmony of her whole figure. On this occasion there was a positive air about her which added to the interest she excited; for, we believe, it may be truly observed, that beauty never appears so impressively or tenderly fascinating, as when it is slightly overshadowed with care. We need scarcely say, that there was a great deal of contrast in the gaze she received from Phil and our friend Solomon. That of Phil was the gross, impudent stare of a libertine and fool—a stare, which, in the eye of a virtuous woman, soon receives its own withering rebuke of scorn and indignation. That of Solomon, on the other hand, was a look in which there lurked a vast deal of cunning, regulated and sharpened by experience, and disguised by hypocrisy into something that absolutely resembled the open, ardent admiration of a child, or of some innocent man that had hardly ever been in the world. There was, however, a villainous dropping of the corners of the mouth, with an almost irrepressible tendency to lick the lips, accompanied with an exudation of internal moisture from the glands—vulgarly termed a watering of the teeth—which, to a close observer, would have betrayed him at once, and which were evident from the involuntary workings of his whole face.

"Mrs. Tyrrell," said Val, "I am glad to hear that you are making considerable improvements on your farm."

"Improvements, sir," replied the widow in amazement; "I don't know who could have told you that, sir. Didn't my potato crop fail altogether with me, and my flax, where I had it spread on the holme below, was all swept away by the flood."

"I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Tyrrell;—we are very hard up for money here, and the landlord doesn't know on what hand to turn; I must raise a large sum for him forthwith:—indeed to tell you the truth, I have received instructions that are not at all pleasant to myself—I am to let no one pass, he says, and if I cannot get the rent otherwise, I am to enforce it. Now this is very unpleasant, Mrs. Tyrrell, inasmuch as it compels me to take steps that I shall feel very painful.

"God help me, then," replied the poor young woman, "for, as to rent, sir, I have it not; and, indeed, Mr. M'Clutchy, what brought me here to-day, was to ask a little time, just till I get my butter made up and sold.

"Yes, but what can I do, Mrs. Tyrrell? I have no power to let any one off, even where I feel inclined, as I do in your case. It really is not in my power; Lord Cumber took care to leave me no discretion in the business at all."

"But surely, sir, you don't mean to say, that unless I pay the rent, you will seize upon my property.'

"This," said Val, as if to himself, "is really very distressing— unfortunately, Mrs. Tyrrell, I must indeed, unless you can raise the money in some way; wouldn't your friends, for instance, stand by you, until your butter is made up?"

"I have no such friends," replied the poor woman, "them that would, arn't able; and them that are able, won't; and, that's only the way of the world, sir."

"It's too true, indeed, Mrs. Tyrrell; I am very sorry, exceedingly sorry, for what must be done. It is such circumstances as these that make me wish I never had become an agent."

"For God's sake, sir, have patience with me for about a month or six weeks, and I will be able to pay it all easily."

"If I was my own master," returned Val, "it would give me pleasure to do so, but I am not."

Here there was a groan from Solomon of compassion for the poor widow, followed by a second, which was clearly a comment upon the first. What a pity, said the first, to see so interesting a young widow without the means of paying her rent—and is it not a wicked and hard-hearted world, said the second that has not in it one individual to befriend her! Mrs. Tyrrell looked round on hearing an expression of sympathy, and there was Solomon gazing on her with a look, in which admiration and sympathy were so well feigned, that she felt grateful to Solomon in her heart. As for Phil, whether he gazed at her, his father, or at the attorney, such was the comprehensive latitudinarianism of his squint, that she felt it impossible to tell; neither, indeed, did she care. She was now in tears, and Val having declared his determination to proceed, was silent, as if out of respect to her feelings. At length she rose up, and when on the eve of going out, she asked for the last time:—

"Mr. M'Clutchy is there no hope? I trust, sir, that when you consider how long my family and my husband have been living on this property, you'll think better of it than to bring myself and my poor orphan boy to beggary and ruin. What will become of him and myself!"

"D—n my honor, Mrs. Tyrrell, but I feel for you," said Phil, eagerly, as if rushing head foremost into a fit of the purest humanity.

"Do not be cast down, Mrs. Tyrrell," said Solomon, "there is one who can befriend the widow, and who will be a father to the fatherless. Rely on Him!—who knows but an instrument may be raised up for your relief. Don't be thus cast down."

"No," said Phil, "do not, or you will only spoil them devlish fine eyes of yours, Mrs. Tyrrell, by crying. Come, come, father, you must give her,the time she asks; upon my honor, I'll guarantee she, won't disappoint.

"And, if he is not sufficient, I will join him," said Solomon; "you may rest upon her word, my friend, for I am satisfied that no serious falsehood's in the habit of proceeding from a mouth so sweet and comely in expression, as Mrs. Tyrrell's. Come, Val, have a heart, and be compassionate towards the fair widow."

"If you or Phil will pay the money," said M'Clutchy, "well and good; but you both know, that otherwise it is out of my power." There is a vast deal of acuteness of observation in Irish women, together with a quickness of perception, that sometimes resembles instinct. Mrs. Tyrrell's purity of feeling and good sense were offended at the compliments which the attorney and Phil mixed up with the sympathy they expressed for her. She felt something jar disagreeably upon her natural delicacy, by their selecting the moment of her distress for giving utterance to language, which, coming at any time from either of them to one in her station of life, was improper; but, under the present circumstances, an insult, and an impertinent trifling with her affliction.

"Well," said she, without paying them the slightest attention, "I must say, Mr. M'Clutchy, that if you proceed as you threaten to do, your conduct towards me and my poor orphan will be such as I don't think you can justify either to God or man. I wish you good morning, sir; I have no more to say upon it."

"Oh, Mrs. Tyrrell, if you begin to abuse us and lay down the law on the matter, I have no more to say either."

She then went out, but had not left the hall, when Phil, following, said in a low, impudent, confidential tone—

"Don't be in a hurry, Mrs. Tyrrell, just step into the parlor for a few minutes, and we'll see what can be done—step in."

"No, sir," she replied, feeling very naturally offended at the familiarity of his manner, I will not step in; anything you have to, say you can say it here."

"Yes—but, then, they may overhear us. D—n my honor, but you're a very pretty woman, Mrs. Tyrrell, and I'd be sorry to see harsh, proceedings taken against you—that is, if we could understand one another. The scarlet hue of indignation had already overspread her face and temples, her eyes flashed, and her voice became firm and full.

"What do you mean, sir," she asked.

"Why," said he, "couldn't there be an understanding between us? In fact, Mrs. Tyrrell, you would find me a friend to you."

She made no reply but returned into the room.

"Mr. M'Clutchy," said she, "I thought that a woman—especially a poor, unprotected widow like me—might, at least, come into your house about her necessary business without being insulted; I thought that if there was one house above another where I ought to expect protection, it is yours. It's your duty, I think, to protect them that's livin' upon this property, and strugglin' to pay you, or him that employs you, the hard-earned rent that keeps them in poverty and hardship. I think, sir, it ought to be your duty, as I said, to protect me, and such as me, rather than leave us exposed to the abominable proposals of your son."

"How is this?" said Val; "where are you, Phil?"

Phil entered with a grin on him, that betrayed very clearly the morals of the father, as well as of himself. There was not the slightest appearance of shame or confusion about him; on the contrary, he looked upon the matter as a good joke, but, by no means, so good as if it had been successful.

"Phil," said his father, barely restraining a smile, "is it possible that you could dare to insult Mrs. Tyrrell under this roof?"

"D—n my honor, a confounded lie," replied Phil; "she wanted me to lend her the money, and because I did not, she told you I made proposals to her. All revenge and a lie."

Mrs. Tyrrell looked at him—"Well," said she, "if there is a just God in heaven, you will be made an example of yet. Oh! little they know that own this property, and every other property like it—of the insults, and hardships, and oppressions, that their tenantry must suffer in their absence from them that's placed over them; and without any one to protect them or appeal to for satisfaction or relief—sir, that villain in the shape of your son—that cowardly villain knows that the words he insulted me in are not yet cowld upon his lips."

"I have reason to put every confidence in what my son says," replied Val very coolly, "and he is not a villain, Mrs. Tyrrell—so I wish you a good morning, ma'am!"

This virtuous poor woman flushed with a sense of outraged modesty, with scorn and indignation, left the room; and with a distracted mind and a breaking heart, sought her orphan, whose innocent face of wonder she bedewed on her return home with tears of the bitterest sorrow.

It is not our intention to describe at full length the several melancholy scenes which occurred between poverty and dependence on one side and cold, cruel, insolent authority, on the other. It is needless and would be painful to tell how much age and helplessness suffered at the hands of these two persons; especially at those of Phil, whose chief delight appeared to consist in an authoritative display of pomp and natural cruelty.

The widow had not been more than a minute gone, when the door opened, and in walked, without note or preparation, a stout swarthy looking fellow named M'Clean. "Well, Tom," said Val, "is this you?"

"Brother M'Clean," said Solomon, "how are you?"

"What would ail me?" said M'Clean, "there's nothing wrong with me but what money could cure—if I had it."

"And you have no money, Tom!" said Val, smiling, "that, Tom, is a bad business—for we never wanted it more than we do at present. Seriously, have you the rent?"

"D—n the penny, brother M'Clutchy; and what's more, won't have it for at least three months."

"That's bad again, Tom. Any news?—any report?"

"Why, ay—there was a gun, or a pistol, or a pike, or something that way, seen with the Gallaghers of Kilscaddan."

"Ha—are you sure of that?"

"Not myself sure; but I heard it on good authority; but I think we had better make sure, by paying them a visit some night soon."

"We will talk about that," said Val; "but I am told that you treated priest Roche badly the other night. Is that true?"

"Why, what did you hear?" asked M'Clean.

"I heard you fired into his house; that you know was dangerous."

"All right," said Phil; "what right have. Popish priests to live under a Protestant government? By my sacred honor, I'd banish them like wild cats."

"No," said M'Clean, in reply to Val, "we did not; all we did was to play 'Croppies lie Down,' as we passed the house, and fire three volleys over it—not into it; but if there was e'er a one among us with a bad aim you know, that wasn't his fault or ours; ha—ha—by Japers," said he in a low, confidential whisper, "we frightened the seven senses out of him, at any rate—the bloody Papist rascal—for sure they are all that, and be d——d to them."

"Capital doctrine—and so they are, Tom; light, Tom; so you frightened the bog Latin out of him! ha! ha! ha!"

"Ha—ha—ha—by my sowl we did, and more maybe, if it was known; I must be off now."

"Go and help yourself to a bumper of spirits before you go," said Val; "and, Tom, keep a sharp lookout, and whenever you find, or hear of arms, let me know immediately."

Tom only nodded to that, as he put the glass to his lips; "gentlemen," said he, "your healths; here's no Popery! no surrender!" saying which, he deposited the empty glass on the table, giving the same time two or three short coughs occasioned by the strength of the liquor. "Good morning, gentlemen—brother, M'Slime"—he voiced and nodded significantly at Solomon, then added—"good people are scarce; so be a good boy and take care of yourself."

"Now, Tom, be a good fellow and don't forget the rent," said Val; Tom nodded again, for it was a habit he had, and departed.

The next person who presented himself was a little, meagre, thin looking man, with a dry, serious air about him, that seemed to mark him as a kind of curiosity in his way. From the moment he entered, Solomon seemed to shrink up into half his ordinary dimensions, nor did the stranger seem unconscious of this, if one could judge by the pungent expression of his small gray eyes which were fastened on Solomon with a bitter significance that indicated such a community of knowledge as did not seem to be pleasant to either of them.

"Ah, Sam Wallace," said Val, "always punctual, and never more welcome than now; scraping and scrambling we are, Sam, to make up the demand for the landlord."

"What way ir ye, Mr. M'Clutchy; am gled to see ye luck so well; I a-am indeed."

"Thank you, Sam. How are all your family."

"Deed, as well as can be expected under the stain that's over us."

"Stain! What do you mean, Sam?"

"Feth, a main what's purty well known; that misfortune that befell our daughter Susanna."

"Dear me, Sam, how was that?"

"The way of it was this—she went as a children's maid into a religious femily"—here the two glittering eyes were fiercely fastened upon Solomon—"where she became a serious young person of decided piety, as they call it—an' h—l till me, but another month will make it decided enough—-well, sir, deel a long she was there till the saint, her masther, made a sinner of her, and now she's likely to have her gifts, such as they ir.

"I am very sorry to hear this, Sam; but, surely the man who seduced your daughter does not deserve to be called religious."

"Disn't he, feth? why, Lord bless you, sure it was all done in a religious way—they sang psalms together, prayed together, read the Bible together, and now the truth is, that the consequence will be speaking for itself some of these days."

Here another fiery look was darted at Solomon, who appeared deeply engaged among leases, papers, and such other documents as were before him.

"It's a bad business certainly, Sam—but now about the rent?"

"Hut! de'il a penny o' rent I have—hell take the tester; and yet, for all that, all pay you afore a laive the room—what do you think of that?"

"I don't understand it, Sam."

"Now," said Sam, going over to Solomon, "you'll pay Mr. M'Clutchy the sum of twelve pounds, fourteen, and three pence for me, Mr. M'Slime—if you please, sir."

There was a peremptory tone in his words, which, joined to the glittering look he riveted on Solomon, actually fascinated that worthy gentleman.

"My friend," replied Solomon, taking out his pocket-book, and seeming to look for a memorandum, "you have made a slight mistake against yourself; the sum, I find, is twelve pounds, seventeen, and three pence, so that you have made a slight mistake of three shillings, as I said, against yourself."

"Do you pay the half year's rent, which is the sum, I say, and you may give the three shillings in charity, which I know you will do."

"Shall I fill the receipt," asked Val, looking to Solomon.

"Fill it," said the other, "I am very glad I happened to have so much about me, poor man."

"So am I," returned Sam, significantly.

Solomon rose, and with all the calmness of manner which he could assume, laid the money down before M'Clutchy.

"Try," said he, "if that is right."

"Show here," said Sam, "ail reckon em;" and having done so, he put one particular note in his pocket—"Never you mind," he added, addressing himself to Val, "I'll give you another note for this;" and he winked significantly as he spoke. He accordingly did so, and having paid the money and received his receipt, he bid them goodbye, once more winking, and touching his waistcoat pocket as he went. He had not been long gone, however, when Solomon once more examined his pocket-book, and in a tone which no pen could describe, exclaimed, "verily, the ways of Providence are wonderful! Will you look again at that money?" said he—"I have given away a note for ten pounds instead of a note for one."

"It is not here, then," replied Val, "but I'll venture to say that Sam, the knave, put it in his pocket when he made the exchange."

"Shall I call him back?" said Phil, "there he goes towards the gate."

"No," replied the other, "I have great reliance on Sam's honesty. He will return it no doubt on perceiving the mistake, or if not, I shall send to him for it. Yes, I know Sam is honest—truly the ways of Providence are wonderful."

So saying, with a visage peculiarly rueful and mortified, he closed his book and put it in his pocket.

The last person whom we shall notice was Brian M'Loughlin, on whose features care had recently made a deep impression. On being asked to sit, he declined—"I thank you," said he, "my visit will be but a short one, and what I have to say, I can say standing."

"That as you please, Mr. M'Loughlin; shall I fill your receipts?"

"No," replied the other, "I simply came to state, that, owing to the derangement of our affairs, I am not just now in a condition to pay my rent."

"That is unpleasant, Mr. M'Loughlin."

"Of course it is," he replied; "that was my only business, Mr. M'Clutchy, and now I bid you good-day."

"Not so fast, if you please, Mr. M'Loughlin; do not be in such a hurry. You remember a meeting you and I had once in Castle Cumber fair?"

"I do."

"You remember the extraordinary civility with which you treated me?"

"I do, Val, and I only expressed what I thought then and think now; but indeed you have improved the wrong way wonderfully since."

"Your language was indiscreet then, and it is so now."

"It was true for all that, Mr. M'Clutchy."

"Now, might not I, if I wished, take ample revenge for the insulting terms you applied to me?"

"You might, and I suppose you will—I expect nothing else, for I know you well."

"You do not know me. Mr. M'Loughlin, so far from acting up to what you imagine, I shall not avail myself of your position; I have no such intention, I assure you, so that whatever apprehensions you may entertain from others, you need have none from me. And, now, Mr. M'Loughlin, do you not perceive that you judged me unjustly and uncharitably?"

"That's to be seen yet, Mr. M'Clutchy, time will tell."

"Well, then, make your mind easy; I shall take no proceedings in consequence of your situation—so far from that, I shall wait patiently till it is your convenience to pay the rent—so now, I wish you good day, Mr. M'Loughlin."

"That is a beautiful exhibition of Christian spirit," exclaimed Solomon, "good works are truly the fruit of faith."

"Before you go," said Phil, with a sneer, "will you allow me to ask how poor Mary is."

M'Loughlin paused, and calmly looked first at Phil, and then at his father.

"Phil," said the latter, "I shall order you out of the room, sir, if I hear another word on that unfortunate subject. I am very sorry, I assure you, Mr. M'Loughlin, for that untoward transaction—to be sure, I wish your daughter had been a little more prudent, but young ladies cannot, or at least, do not always regulate their passions or attachments; and so, when they make a false step, they must suffer for it. As for myself, I can only express my sincere regret that the faux pas happened, and that it should have got wind in such a way as to deprive the poor girl of her character."

After contemplating the father and son for some time alternately, with a look in which was visible the most withering contempt and scorn, and which made them both quail before him, he replied:

"Your falsehood, scoundrels, is as vindictive as it is cowardly, and you both know it; but I am an honest man, and I feel to stoop to a defence of my virtuous child against either of you, would be a degradation to her as well as to myself. I therefore go, leaving you my contempt and scorn, I could almost say my pity."

He then walked out, neither father nor son having thought it prudent to brave the expression of his eye by replying to his words.

"Now," said Val, addressing Solomon, "let there be an execution issued without a moment's delay—the man is doomed, his hour has come; and so, may I never prosper, if I don't scatter him and his, houseless and homeless, to the four corners of heaven! I have meshed him at last, and now for vengeance."

"But," said Solomon, in a tone of slight remonstrance, "I trust, my dear M'Clutchy, that,in taking vengeance upon this man and his family, you will do so in a proper spirit, and guard against the imputations of an uncharitable world. When you take vengeance, let your motives be always pure and upright and even charitable—of course you expect and hope that you ruin this man and his; family for their own spiritual good. The affliction that you are about! to bring on them, will soften and subdue their hard and obstinate hearts, and lead them it is to be hoped, to a better and more Christian state of feeling. May He grant it!"

"Of course," replied Val, humoring him in his hypocrisy, "of course it is from these motives I act; certainly it is."

"In that case," said Solomon, "I am bound to acknowledge that I never have heard a man vow vengeance, or express a determination to ruin his fellow creature, upon more delightfully Christian principles. It is a great privilege, indeed, to be able to ruin a whole family in such a blessed spirit, I have no doubt you feel it so."



CHAPTEK XXIV.—Raymond's Sense of Justice

—Voice of the Ideal—Poll Doolin's Remorse—Conversation on Irish Property—Disclosure concerning Mary M'Laughlin

About dusk, on the evening of that day, Poll Doolin having put on her black bonnet, prepared to go out upon some matter of a private nature, as was clearly evident by her manner, and the cautious nature of all her movements. Raymond, who eyed her closely, at length said—

"Take care now—don't harm them."

"Them!" replied Poll, "who do you mean by them?"

"The M'Loughlins—go and look at Mary, and then ask yourself why you join the divil:—there now, that's one. Who saved me? do you know that, or do you care? Very well, go now and join the divil, if you like, but I know what I'll do some fine night. Here he leaped in a state of perfect exultation from the ground.

"Why, what will you do?" said Poll.

"You'll not tell to-morrow," replied Raymond, "neither will any one else; but I don't forget poor white-head, nor Mary M'Loughlin."

"Well, keep the house like a good boy," she said, "till I come back; and, if anybody should come in, or ask where I am, say that I went up to Jerry Hannigan's for soap and candles."

"Ay, but that's not true, because I know you're goin' to join the divil; but, no matter—go there—you'll have his blessin' any how, and it's long since he gave it to you—with his left hand. I wish I wasn't your son—but no matther, no matther."

She then peeped out to see that the coast was clear, and finding that all was safe, she turned her steps hurriedly and stealthily, in a direction leading from, instead of to Castle Cumber. When she was gone, Raymond immediately closed and bolted the door, and began as before, to spring up in the air in a most singular and unaccountable manner. The glee, however, which became apparent on his countenance, had an expression of ferocity that was frightful; his eyes gleamed with fire, his nostrils expanded, and a glare of terrible triumph lit up every feature with something of a lurid light.

"Ha, ha!" he exclaimed, addressing, as some imaginary individual, an old pillow which he caught up; "I have you at last—now, now, now; ha, you have a throat, have you? I feel it now, now, now! Ay, that will do; hoo, hoo—out with it, out with it; I see the tip of it only, but you must give better measure ay, that's like it. Hee, hee, hee! Oh, there—that same tongue never did you good, nor anybody else good—and what blessed eyes you have! they are comin' out, too, by degrees, as the lawyers goes to Heaven! Now! now! now! ay, where's your strugglin' gone to? It's little you'll make of it in Raymond's iron fingers—Halloo, this is for white-head, and white-head's—poor little white-head's—-father, and for poor little white-head's mother, and this—ay, the froth's comin' now, now, now—and this last's for poor Mary M'Loughlin! Eh, ho, ho! There now—settled at last, with your sweet grin upon you, and your tongue out, as if you were makin' fun of me—for a beauty you were, and a beauty you are, and there I lave you!"

While uttering these words, he went through with violent gesticulations, the whole course and form of physical action that he deemed necessary to the act of strangling worthy Phil, whose graceful eidolon was receiving at his hands this unpleasant specimen of the pressure from without. He had one knee on the ground, his huge arms moving with muscular energy, as he crushed and compressed the pillow, until the very veins of his forehead stood out nearly black with the force at once of hatred and exertion. Waving thus wrought his vengeance out to his own satisfaction, he once more, in imagination, transformed the pillow into his little white-head, as he loved to call him; and assumed a very different aspect from that which marked the strangulation scene just described.

"Come here," said he—taking it up tenderly in his arms—"come here—don't be afeard now; there's nobody that can do you any harm. Ah! my poor white-head—don't! you want your mother to keep up your poor sick head, and to lay your poor pale face against her breast? And your father—you would like to get upon his knee and climb up to kiss him—wouldn't you, white-head? Yes, he says he would—white-head says he would—and tell me, sure I have the cock for you still; and if you want a drink I have-something better than bog wather for you—the sickening bog wather! Oh! the poor-pale face—and the poor sickly eye—up in the cowld mountains, and no one to think about you, or to give you comfort! Whisht now—be good—och, why do I say that, poor white-head—for sure you were always good! Well wait—bog wather—ah, no—but wait here—or come wid me—I won't lay you down, for I love you, my poor white-head; but come, and you must have it. My mother's gone out—and she's not good; but you must have it."

He rose, still holding the pillow like a child in his arms, and going over to a cupboard, took from it a jug of milk, and so completely was he borne away by the force of his imagination that he actually poured a portion of the milk upon the pillow.

The act seemed for the moment to dispel, the illusion—but only for a moment; the benevolent heart of the poor creature seemed, to take delight in these humane reminiscences; and, almost immediately, he was. proceeding with his simple, but touching little drama.

"Well," said he, "that's better than cowld bog wather; how would the rich like to see their sick childre put on cowld wather and cowld pratees? But who cares for the rich, for the rich doesn't care about huz; but no matther, white-head—if you'll only just open your eyes and spake to me, I'll give you the cock." He gave a peculiar call, as he spoke, which was perfectly well known to the bird in question, which immediately flew from the roost, and went up to him; Raymond then gently laid the pillow down, and taking the cock up, put his head under one of his wings, and placed him on the pillow where he lay quietly and as if asleep. For many minutes he kept his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, until the image in his mind growing still stronger, and more distinct, became at last so painful that he, burst into tears.

"No," said he, "he will never open his eyes again; he will never look upon any one more: and what will she do when she hasn't his white head before her?"

Whilst poor Raymond thus indulged himself in the caprices of a benevolent imagination, his mother was hastening to the house of Mr. Hickman, the former agent of the Castle Cumber property, with the intention of rendering an act of justice to an individual and a family whom she had assisted deeply and cruelly to injure. Whilst she is on the way, however, we will take the liberty of introducing our readers to Mr. Hickman's dining-room, where a small party are assembled; consisting of the host himself, Mr. Easel, the artist, Mr. Harman, and the Rev. Mr. Clement; and as their conversation bears upon the topic of which we write, we trust it may not be considered intruding upon private society to detail a part of it.

"Property in this country," said Hickman, "is surrounded by many difficulties—difficulties which unfortunately fall chiefly upon those who cultivate it. In the first place, there is the neglect of the landlord; in the next, the positive oppression of either himself or his agent; in the third, influence of strong party feeling—leaning too heavily on one class, and sparing or indulging the other; and perhaps, what is worse than all, and may be considered the fons et origo malorum, the absence of any principle possessing shape or form, or that can be recognized as a salutary duty on the part of the landlord. This is the great want and the great evil. There should be a distinct principle to guide, to stimulate, and when necessary to restrain him; such a principle as would prevent him from managing his property according to the influence of his passions, his prejudices, or his necessities."

"That is very true," said Mr. Clement, "and there is another duty which a landlord owes to those who reside upon his property, but one which unfortunately is not recognized as such; I mean a moral duty. In my opinion a landlord should be an example of moral propriety and moderation to his tenantry, so as that the influence of his conduct might make a salutary impression upon their lives and principles. At present the landed Proprietary of Ireland find in the country no tribunal by which they are to be judged; a fact which gives them the full possession of unlimited authority; and we all know that the absence of responsibility is a great incentive to crime. No man in a free country should be invested with arbitrary power; and yet, it is undeniable that an Irish landlord can exercise it whenever he pleases."

"Then what would you do," said Easel; "where is your remedy?"

"Let there be protective laws enacted, which will secure the tenant from the oppression and injustice of the landlord. Let him not lie, as he does, at the mercy of his caprices, passions, or prejudices."

"In other words," said Harman, "set the wolves to form protective enactments for the sheep. I fear, my good sir, that such a scheme is much too Utopian for any practically beneficial purpose. In the meantime, if it can be done, let it. No legislation, however, will be able, in my mind, to bind so powerful a class as the landlords of Ireland are, unless a strong and sturdy public opinion is created in the country."

"But how is this to be done?" asked Easel.

"It is to be done by educating the people; by teaching them their proper value in society; by instructing them in their moral and civil duties. Let them not labor under that humiliating and slavish error, that the landlord is everything, and themselves nothing; but let the absurdity be removed, and each party placed upon the basis of just and equal principle."

"It is very right," said Hickman, "to educate the people, but who is to educate the landlords?"

"A heavy task, I fear," said Easel, "from what I have observed since I came to the country."

"The public opinion I speak of will force them into a knowledge of their duties. At present they disregard public opinion, because it is too feeble to influence them; and consequently they feel neither fear nor shame. So long as the landlords and the people come together as opposing or antithetical principles, it is not to be supposed that the country can prosper."

"But how will you guide or restrain the landlord in estimating the value of his property?" inquired Mr. Clement. "Here are two brothers, for instance, each possessed of landed property; one is humane and moderate, guided both by good sense and good feeling; this man will not overburthen his tenant by exacting an oppressive rent. The other, however, is precisely the reverse of him, being naturally either rapacious or profligate, or perhaps both; he considers it his duty to take as much out of the soil as he can, without ever thinking of the hardships which he inflicts upon the tenant. Now, how would you remedy this, and prevent the tenant from becoming the victim either of his rapacity or profligacy?"

"Simply by taking from him all authority in estimating the value of his own property.

"But how?" said Clement, "is not that an invasion of private right?"

"No; it is nothing more than a principle which transfers an unsafe privilege to other hands in order to prevent its abuse."

"But how would you value the land?"

"I am not at this moment about to legislate for it; but I think, however, that it would be by no means difficult to find machinery sufficiently simple and effective for the purpose. I am clearly of opinion that there should, be a maximum value on all land, beyond which, unless for special purposes—such, for instance, as building—no landlord ought to be permitted to go. This would prevent an incredible amount of rack-renting and oppression on the one hand; and of poverty, revenge, and bloodshed on the other. Where is the landlord now who looks to the moral character or industrial habits of a tenant? Scarcely one. On the contrary, whoever bids highest, or bribes highest, is sure to be successful, without any reference to the very qualities which, in a tenant, ought to be considered as of most importance."

"I have now," said Easel, "made myself acquainted with the condition and management of the Castle Cumber property; and, truth to tell, I am not surprised at the frightful state of society upon it. M'Clutchy is the type of too numerous a class, and his son is a most consummate scoundrel. Why my—why Lord Cumber should have appointed him to his agency I cannot imagine."

"But I can," said Harman; "that which has appointed many a scoundrel like him—necessity on the part of the landlord, and a desire to extend his political influence in the county."

"He could not have gone a more successful way about it, however," observed Easel.

"If there be one curse," observed Harman, "worse than another on any such property, it is to have for your agent an outrageous partisan—a man who is friendly to one party and inimical to another—a fellow who scruples not to avail himself of his position, for the gratification of party rancor, and who makes the performance of his duties subservient to his prejudices, both religious and political. Think, for instance, of a rancorous No-Popery-man being made agent to an estate where the majority of the tenantry are Catholics."

"As is the case on the Castle Cumber estate," said Easel.

"And as is the case on too many estates, throughout the country," added Harman; but the truth is, that unless something is done soon to redress the local grievances of the people, there will, I fear, be bad work among us ere long. The tenantry are all ready in a state of tumult; they assemble on Sundays in vindictive-looking and suspicious groups; they whisper together, as if fraught with some secret purposes; and I am also told that they frequently hold nightly meetings to deliberate on what may be done. Between the M'Clutchys and M'Slimes, I must say they have ample cause for discontent."

"Everything considered," said Easel, "it is better that we should anticipate them. When I say we, you of course know who I mean; but indeed we shall expect every aid, and it will be welcome, no matter from what quarter it comes."

"M'Clutchy and the estate in question are topics on which I wish not to speak," said Hickman; "I do not blame Lord Cumber for dismissing me, Mr. Easel, the fact being—that I dismissed myself; but I most sincerely hope and trust, for the sake of the people, that some change for the better may take place. Good God, sir, how popular your——how popular Lord Cumber might become, and what a blessing to his tenantry and his country he might be in a short time."

"I feel that, Mr. Hickman," said Easel, "I feel it now, because I know it. In this instance, too, I trust that knowledge will be power. Lord Cumber, sir, like other Irish Lords, has nothing to detain him in his native country but his own virtue. His absence, however, and the absence of his class in general, is, I fear "—and he smiled as he spoke—a proof that his virtue, as an Irish nobleman, and theirs, is not sufficiently strong to resist the temptations of an English court, and all its frivolous, expensive, and fashionable habits. He has now no duty as an Irish peer to render his residence in Ireland, at least for a considerable portion of the year, a matter of necessity to his class and his country. However, let us not despair—I have reason to think that his brother has nearly succeeded in bringing him to a sense of his duty; and it is not impossible that the aspect of affairs may be soon changed upon his estate."

"The sooner, the better, for the sake of the people," said Harman. "By the by, Mr. Clement, are you to be one of the Reverend gladiators in this controversial tournay, which is about to take place in Castle Cumber?"

"No," said Mr. Clement; "I look upon such exhibitions as manifestations of fanaticism, or bigotry, and generally of both. They are, in fact, productive of no earthly good, but of much lamentable evil; for instead of inculcating brotherly love, kindness, and charity—they inflame the worst passions of adverse creeds—engender hatred, ill-will, and fill the public mind with those narrow principles which disturb social harmony, and poison our moral feelings in the very fountain of the heart. I believe there is no instance on record of a sincere convert being made by such discussions."

"But is there not an extensive system of conversion proceeding, called the New Reformation?" asked Easel. "It appears to me by the papers, that the Roman Catholic population are embracing Protestantism by hundreds."

"How little are the true causes of great events known," said Hickman, laughing; "who, for instance, would suppose that the great spiritual principle by which this important movement has been sustained is the failure of the potato crop in the country, where this gracious work is proceeding. One would think, if everything said were true, that there are epidemics in religion as well as in disease; but the truth is, that the knavery or distress of two or three Catholics who were relieved, when in a state of famine, by a benevolent and kind-hearted nobleman, who certainly would encourage neither dishonesty nor imposture, first set this Reformation agoing. The persons I speak of, fearing that his Lordship's benevolence might cease to continue, embraced Protestantism pro forma and pro tempore. This went abroad, and almost immediately all who were in circumstances of similar destitution adopted the same course, and never did man pay more dearly for evangelical truth than did his Lordship. In the forthcoming battle the parsons are to prove to the world that all who belong to Popery must be damned, whilst the priests, on the other hand, broil the parsons until they blaze in their own fat. But, my God, when will charity and common sense prevail over bigotry and brimstone!"

At this moment a servant entered to say that Poll Doolin—for she was well known—wished to see Mr. Harman on very particular business.

"I can scarcely bear to look on the wretch," said Harman, "but as I Strongly suspect, that she may in some shape be useful to us, I desired her to come here. She called three times upon me, but I could not bring myself to see or speak to' her; she shall be the bearer of no messages to me," he said bitterly, "let her carry them elsewhere; d—n her."

He betrayed deep and powerful emotion as he spoke, but, as his allusions were understood, there was—from a respect for his feelings, on the part of his audience—no reply made to his observations.

"Since she called first," said Harman, pursuing the train of melancholy thought, "some vague notion, like the shadow of a dream crossed me; but, alas! it is transgressing the bounds of imagination itself even to suppose that it could be true. However, if it were, it is in your presence, sir" he said, addressing himself to Easel, "that I should wish to have it detailed; and, perhaps, after all, this slight, but latent reflection of hope, influenced me in desiring her to come here. Gentlemen, excuse me," said he, covering his face with his hands, "I am very wretched and unhappy—I cannot account for what has occurred; it looks like an impossibility, but it is true. Oh, if he were a man!—but, no, no, you all know how contemptible—what a dastardly scoundrel he is!"

"Harman, my dear fellow," said Hickman, "we understand you, we respect your feelings, and we sympathize with you—but, in the meantime, do see and hear this woman."

He had scarcely uttered the words when the servant entered, stating that she was at the door.

"Let her come in," said Harman; "let the vile wretch come in."

"And, do you, John, withdraw," said Hickman.

Poll Doolin entered.

Her appearance threw Harman into a violent state of agitation; he trembled, got pale, and seemed absolutely sickened by the presence of the wicked wretch who had been the vile instrument of Phil M'Clutchy's success, of Mary M'Loughlin's dishonor, and of his own unhappiness. It was the paleness, however, of indignation, of distress, of misery, of despair. His blood, despite the paleness of his face, absolutely boiled in his veins, and that the more hotly, because he had no object on which he could wreak his vengeance. Poll, who was always cool, and not without considerable powers of observation, at once noticed the tumult of his feelings, and, as if replying to them, said—

"I don't blame you, Mr. Harman, thinkin' as you do; the sight of me is not pleasant to you—and, indeed, you don't hate me more than you ought."

"What is your business with me?" said Harman.

Poll looked around her for a moment, and replied—

"I'm glad of it, the more the better; Francis Harman," she proceeded, "sit down, and listen to me; yes, listen to me—for I have it in my power to make you a happy man."

"Great God! could my dream be true?" said Harman, placing himself in the chair.

"Listen to me," she continued.

"I listen; be brief—for I am in no humor for either falsehood or imposture."

"I never bore you ill-will," she said, "and yet I have—and may God forgive me for it I—scalded the very heart within you."

Harman again covered his face with his hands and groaned.

"Will it relieve your heart to know that Mary M'Loughlin's an innocent and a slandered girl?"

"Prove that," said Harman, starting to his feet, "oh, prove that, Poll, and never whilst I have life shall you want a—but, alas!" he exclaimed, "I am a beggar, and can promise you nothing."

"And I'll tell you who beggared you before all is over—but, as I said, listen. It's now fifteen years since Brian M'Loughlin transported my son Dick, for stealin' a horse from him; he was my only son, barrin' poor Raymond, who was then a mere slip. He was a fine young man, but he was wild and wicked, and it was in Squire Deaker's house, and about Squire Deaker's stables, that he picked up his dishonesty and love of horses—he was groom to that ould profligate, who took him into sarvice for a raison he had."

"Be as brief as you can," said Harman, "brief—brief."

"On the contrary, Mr. Harman," said Clement, "let her, if you will be advised by me, take her own time, and her own way."

"Thank you, sir," said Poll, "that's just what I wish. Well, he, M'Loughlin, transported my boy, that my heart was in, and from that minute I swore never to die till I'd revenge that act upon him. Very well—I kept my word. Phil M'Clutchy sent for me, and in his father's presence, we made up a plot to disgrace Miss M'Loughlin. I brought her out two or three times to meet me privately, and it was all on your account, by the way, for I tould her you were in danger; and I so contrived it, that on one or two occasions you should see myself and her together. I made her promise solemnly not to tell that she saw me, or mention what passed between us, or if she did, that your life was not safe; her love for you, kept her silent even to yourself. But it was when you were sent to gaol, that we found we had the best opportunity of ruining her, which was all I wanted: but Phil, the boy, wished to give you a stab as well as her. As for myself it was in for a penny, in for a pound with me, and I didn't care a traheen what you suffered, provided I had my revenge on any one belongin' to Brian M'Loughlin, that transported my son."

"Is Mary M'Loughlin innocent?" asked Harman, starting from his seat, and placing his face within a few inches of Poll Doolin's.

Poll calmly put her hand upon his shoulder, and said:—

"Sit down, young man; don't disturb or stop me in what I'm sayin', and you'll come the sooner at the truth."

"You are right," he replied, "but who can blame me?—my happiness depends on it."

"Listen," said she, "we made up a plan that she was to meet Phil behind her father's garden—and why? Why, because I told her that Val had made up his mind to hang you; but I said that Phil, for her sake, could prevent that, and save you, if she would only see him that he might clear himself of some reports that had gone abroad on him. For your sake she consented to that; but not until I had brought her nearly to despair, and till she believed that there was no other hope for you. It was Val M'Clutchy, though, that put me up to bring several of the neighbors, and among the rest your own cousin, to witness the trick of Phil's gettin' in at the windy; as it was his to bring the bloodhounds, at the very minute, to catch the scoundrel in the poor girl's bedroom. That was enough; all the wather in the say couldn't wash her white, when this was given to the tongue of scandal to work upon."

"But," said Mr. Clement, "you unfortunate woman, let me ask, why you suffered Mr. Harman to live under a conviction of Miss M'Loughlin's guilt?"

"I tould you I had sworn to be revenged on either him, M'Loughlin, or his; and so I was—may God forgive me!—but one day that my poor foolish son undertook to convey Hugh Roe O'Regan's wife across the ford of Drum Dhu river while in a flood, he lost his footing, and never would breathe the breath of life again, only that God sent John M'Loughlin to the spot, and at the risk of his own life, he saved poor Raymond's. From that day out my heart changed. If one son was sent from me in life, the other was saved from death; and I swore to tell you the truth. But that's not the only injury I have done you. They put me up, and so did Solomon M'Slime, to drop hints wherever I went, that you and Mr. M'Loughlin were on the point of failin'; and, I believe, from some words I heard Phil say to Solomon one morning, that they put something into the paper that injured you."

"What was it you heard?" said Hickman.

"Phil said—'all right, Solomon, it's in—and—d—n my honor and reputation, but it will set a screw loose in the same firm;' he was reading the paper as he spoke."

"All this is of great value," said Easel, "and must be made use of."

"As for me," said Harman in an impassioned voice, "I care not a jot for our bankruptcy; the great and oppressive evil of my heart is removed; I ought, I admit, to have known that admirable girl better than to suffer any suspicion of; her to have-entered into my heart; but, then, I must have discredited my own eyes—and so I ought. God bless you, Poll! I forgive you all that you and those malignant villains have made me suffer, in consequence of what you have just now disclosed to us."

"I could not have believed this," observed Easel; "I scarcely thought that such profound infamy was in human nature. Good God—and these two men hold the important offices of Head and Under Agent on the Castle Cumber estate!"

"Have you nothing particular, Poll, about that pious little man, M'Slime?" asked Hickman. Poll, however, who in no instance was ever known to abuse professional confidence, shook her head in the negative.

"No;" said she, "I know nothing that I can tell about him; honor bright's my motive—no—no. However, thank God, I've aised my mind by tellin' the truth, and when you see Mr. M'Loughlin, Mr. Harman, I'll thank you to let him know that I have done his daughter justice, and that from the minute his son saved mine, I had no ill-will to him or his family." She then departed.



CHAPTER XXV.—Val and his Son brought to Trial

A Ribbon Lodge—Their Crimes against the People,—Their Doom and Sentence—A Rebel Priest Preaching Treason—A Respite.

It is undoubtedly a fact, as was observed in the dialogue just given, that the state of affairs on this property was absolutely fearful. The framework of society was nearly broken up, for such was the heartless rapacity and cruelty—such the multiplied and ingenious devices by which he harassed and robbed the tenantry, or wreaked his personal vengeance on all who were obnoxious to him or his son, that it was actually impossible matters could proceed much longer in a peaceable state. If the reader will accompany us to a large waste house, from which a man had been some time before ejected, merely because Val had a pique against him, he may gather from the lips of the people themselves, there assembled, on the very night in question, sufficiently clear symptoms of the state of feeling in the neighborhood.

The hour at which they assembled, or rather began to assemble, was eleven o'clock, from which period until twelve they came in small groups of two or three at a time; so as to avoid observation on the way. Some of them had their faces blackened, and others who appeared utterly indifferent to consequences, did not think it worth their while to assume such a disguise. The waste house in which they were assembled, stood on a hillside, about half way between Castle Cumber and Drum Dhu; so that its isolated situation was an additional proof of their security from, surprise by the bloodhounds. The party were nearly all armed, each with such weapons as he could get, and most of them with fire or side arms, such as they were. They had several lights, but so cautious were they, that quilts and window-cloth's were brought to hang over the windows, to prevent them from being seen; for it was well known that the house was not inhabited, and the appearance of lights in it would most certainly send the wreckers on their back; as it was, however, they obviated all danger of this in the way I mention. When these men were met together, it might be supposed that they presented countenances marked by savage and ferocious passions, and that atrocity and cruelty were the-predominating traits in each face. This, however, was not so. In general they were just as any other number of men brought together for any purpose might be. Some, to be sure, among them betrayed strong indications of animal impulse; but taken together, they looked just as I say. When they were all nearly assembled, one might-naturally imagine that the usual animated dialogue and discussions, which the cause that brought them together furnished, would have taken place. This, however, was not the case. On the contrary, there was something singularly wild, solemn, and dreadful, in their comparative quietness; for silence we could not absolutely term it.