The sudden change from the cold night-air to the warmth of the cabin soon made him drowsy. Fatigue and watching aiding the inclination to sleep, he was obliged to move about the hut, and even expose himself to the chill blast, to resist its influence. The very purpose on which he was bent, so far from dispelling sleep, rather induced its approach; for, strange as it may seem, the concentration with which the mind brings its powers to bear on any object will overcome all the interest and anxiety of our natures, and bring on sleep from very weariness.

He slept, at first, calmly and peacefully--exhaustion would have its debt acquitted--and he breathed as softly as an infant. At last, when the extreme of fatigue was pa.s.sed, his brain began to busy itself with flitting thoughts and fancies,--some long-forgotten day of boyhood, some little scene of childish gaiety, flashed across him, and he dreamed of the old mountain-lake, where so often he watched the wide circles of the leaping trout, or tracked with his eye the foamy path of the wild water-hen, as she skimmed the surface. Then suddenly his chest heaved and fell with a strong motion, for with lightning's speed the current of his thoughts was changed; his heart was in the mad tumult of a faction-fight, loud shouts were ringing in his ears, the crash of sticks, the cries of pain, entreaties for mercy, execrations and threats, rung around him, when one figure moved slowly before his astonished gaze, with a sweet smile upon her lips, and love in her long-lashed eyes. She murmured his name; and now he slept with a low-drawn breath, his quivering lips repeating, "Mary!"

Another and a sadder change was coming. He was on the mountains, in the midst of a large a.s.semblage of wild-looking and haggard men, whose violent speech and savage gestures well suited their reckless air. A loud shout welcomed him as he came amongst them, and a cry of "Here's Owen Connor--Owen at last!" and a hundred hands were stretched out to grasp his, but as suddenly withdrawn, on seeing that his hands were not bloodstained nor gory.

He shuddered as he looked upon their dripping fingers; but he shuddered still more as they called him "Coward!" What he said he knew not; but in a moment they were gathered round him, and clasping him in their arms; and now, his hands, his cheeks, his clothes, were streaked with blood; he tried to wipe the foul stains out, but his fingers grew clotted, and his feet seemed to plash in the red stream, and his savage comrades laughed fiercely at his efforts, and mocked him.

"What am I, that you should clasp me thus?" he cried; and a voice from his inmost heart replied, "A murderer!" The cold sweat rolled in great drops down his brow, while the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips, and his frame trembled in a terrible convulsion. Confused and fearful images of bloodshed and its penalty, the crime and the scaffold, commingled, worked in his maddened brain. He heard the rush of feet, as if thousands were hurrying on, to see him die, and voices that swelled like the sea at midnight. Nor was the vision all unreal: for already two men had entered the hut.

The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its climax, and with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep, and cried in a shriek of heart-wrung anguish, "No, never--I am not a murderer. Owen Connor can meet his death like a man, but not with blood upon him."

"Owen Connor! Owen Connor, did you say?" repeated one of the two who stood before him; "are you, then, Owen Connor?"

"I am," replied Owen, whose dreams were still the last impression on his mind. "I give myself up;--do what ye will with me;--hang, imprison, or transport me; I'll never gainsay you."

"Owen, do you not know me?" said the other, removing his travelling cap, and brushing back the hair from his forehead.

"No, I know nothing of you," said he, fiercely.

"Not remember your old friend--your landlord's son, Owen?"

Owen stared at him without speaking; his parted lips and fixed gaze evidencing the amazement which came over him.

"You saved my life, Owen," said the young man, horror-struck by the withered and wasted form of the peasant.

"And you have made me this," muttered Owen, as he let fall the pistol from his bosom. "Yes," cried he, with an energy very different from before, "I came out this night, sworn to murder that man beside you--your agent, Lucas; my soul is perjured if my hands are not b.l.o.o.d.y."

Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, and c.o.c.ked it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek shewed he did not think the danger was yet over.

"Put up your weapon," said Owen, contemptuously. "What would I care for it, if I wanted to take your life? do you think the likes of me has any hould on the world?" and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh.

"How is this, then?" cried Leslie; "is murder so light a crime that a man like this does not shrink from it?"

"The country," whispered Lucas, "is indeed in a fearful state. The rights of property no longer exist among us. That fellow--because he lost his farm--"

"Stop, sir!" cried Owen, fiercely; "I will deny nothing of my guilt--but lay not more to my charge than is true. Want and misery have brought me low--dest.i.tution and recklessness still lower--but if I swore to have your life this night, it was not for any vengeance of my own."

"Ha! then there is a conspiracy!" cried Lucas, hastily. "We must have it out of you--every word of it--or it will go harder with yourself."

Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that moment, he never uttered another word. All Lucas's threats, all Leslie's entreaties, were powerless and vain. The very allusion to becoming an informer was too revolting to be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every thing, rather than endure the mere proposal.

They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had succeeded in repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, which led to the opportune appearance of the landlord and his agent in the hut; Owen accompanying them without a word or a gesture.

So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips; the dread of committing himself, or in any way implicating one amongst his companions, deterred him; but when Leslie sent for him, alone, and asked him the circ.u.mstances which led him to the eve of so great a crime, he confessed all--omitting nothing, save such pa.s.sages as might involve others--and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic.

The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow to the peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the mischiefs neglect and abandonment can propagate, nor of how many sins mere poverty can be the parent. He knew not before that the very endurance of want can teach another endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors of the law and its inflictions. He was not aware of the condition of his tenantry; he wished them all well off and happy; he had no self-accusings of a grudging nature, nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself of any hardships that originated with "the agent."

The cases brought before his notice rather disposed him to regard the people as wily and treacherous, false in their pledges and unmindful of favours; and many, doubtless, were so; but he never inquired how far their experience had taught them, that dishonesty was the best policy, and that trick and subtlety are the only aids to the poor man. He forgot, above all, that they had neither examples to look up to, nor imitate, and that when once a people have become sunk in misery, they are the ready tools of any wicked enough to use them for violence, and false enough to persuade them, that outrage can be their welfare; and, lastly, he overlooked the great fact, that in a corrupt and debased social condition, the evils which, under other circ.u.mstances, would be borne with a patient trust in future relief, are resented in a spirit of recklessness; and that men soon cease to shudder at a crime, when frequency has accustomed them to discuss its details.

I must not--I dare not dwell longer on this theme. Leslie felt all the accusations of an awakened conscience. He saw himself the origin of many misfortunes--of evils of whose very existence he never heard before.

Ere Owen concluded his sad story, his mind was opened to some of the miseries of Ireland; and when he had ended, he cried, "I will live at home with ye, amongst ye all, Owen! I will try if Irishmen cannot learn to know who is their true friend; and while repairing some of my own faults, mayhap I may remedy some of theirs."

"Oh! why did you not do this before I came to my ruin?" cried Owen, in a pa.s.sionate burst of grief; for the poor fellow all along had given himself up for lost, and imagined, that his own plea of guilt must bring him to the gallows. Nor was it till after much persuasion and great trouble, that Leslie could reconcile him to himself, and a.s.sure him, that his own fortunate repentance had saved him from destruction.

"You shall go back to your mountain-cabin, Owen; you shall have your own farm again, and be as happy as ever," said the young man. "The law must deal with those who break it, and no one will go farther than myself to vindicate the law; but I will also try if kindness and fair-dealing will not save many from the promptings of their own hearts, and teach men that, even here, the breach of G.o.d's commandments can bring neither peace nor happiness."

My object in this little story being to trace the career of one humble man through the trials and temptations incident to his lot in life, I must not dwell upon the wider theme of national disturbance. I have endeavoured--how weakly, I am well aware--to shew, that social disorganisation, rather than political grievances, are the source of Irish outrage; that neglect and abandonment of the people on the part of those who stood in the position of friends and advisers towards them, have disseminated evils deeper and greater than even a tyranny could have engendered. But for this desertion of their duties, there had been no loss of their rightful influence, nor would the foul crime of a.s.sa.s.sination now stain the name of our land. With an educated and resident proprietary, Ireland could never have become what she now is; personal comfort, if no higher motive could be appealed to, would have necessitated a watchful observance of the habits of the people--the tares would have been weeded from the wheat; the evil influence of bad men would not have been suffered to spread its contagion through the land.

Let me not be supposed for a moment as joining in the popular cry against the landlords of Ireland. As regards the management of their estates, and the liberality of their dealings with their tenantry, they are, of course with the exceptions which every country exhibits, a cla.s.s as blameless, and irreproachable as can be found any where--their real dereliction being, in my mind, their desertion of the people. To this cause, I believe, can be traced every one of the long catalogue of disasters to which Ireland is a prey: the despairing poverty, reckless habits, indifference to the mandates of the law, have their source here.

The impa.s.sioned pursuit of any political privilege, which they are given to suppose will alleviate the evils of their state, has thrown them into the hands of the demagogue, and banded them in a league, which they a.s.sume to be National. You left them to drift on the waters, and you may now be shipwrecked among the floating fragments!

My tale is ended. I have only one record more to add. The exercise of the law, a.s.sisted by the energy and determination of a fearless and resident landlord, at length suppressed outrage and banished those who had been its originators. Through the evidence of Gavan Daly, whose treachery had been already suspected, several of the leaders were found guilty, and met the dreadful penalty of their crimes. The fact of an informer having been found amongst them, did, however, far more to break up this unholy league than all the terrors of the law, una.s.sisted by such aid; but it was long before either peace or happiness shed their true blessings on that land: mutual distrust, the memory of some lost friend, and the sad conviction of their own iniquity, darkened many a day, and made even a gloomier depth than they had ever known in their poverty.

There came, however, a reverse for this. It was a fine day in spring--the mountain and the lake were bright in the sunshine--the valley, rich in the promise of the coming year, was already green with the young wheat--the pleasant sounds of happy labour rose from the fields fresh-turned by the plough--the blue smoke curled into thin air from many a cabin, no longer mean-looking and miserable as before, but with signs of comfort around, in the trim hedge of the little garden and the white walls that glistened in the sun.

Towards the great mountain above the lake, however, many an eye was turned from afar, and many a peasant lingered to gaze upon the scene which now marked its rugged face.

Along the winding path which traced its zigzag course from the lake-side to the little glen where Owen's cabin stood, a vast procession could be seen moving on foot and some on horseback. Some, in country cars, a.s.sisted up the steep ascent by men's strong shoulders; others, mounted in twos and threes upon some slow-footed beast; but the great number walking, or rather, clambering their way--for in their eagerness to get forward, they, each moment, deserted the path to breast the ferny mountain-side. The scarlet cloaks of the women, as they fluttered in the wind, and their white caps, gave a brilliancy to the picture, which, as the ma.s.ses emerged from the depth of some little dell and disappeared again, had all the semblance of some gorgeous panorama. Nor was eye the only sense gladdened by the spectacle--for even in the valley could be heard the clear ringing laughter as they went along, and the wild cheer of merriment that ever and anon burst forth from happy hearts, while, high above all, the pleasant sounds of the bagpipe rose, as, seated upon an a.s.s, and entrusted to the guidance of a boy, the musician moved along; his inspiriting strains taken advantage of at every spot of level ground, by some merry souls, who would not "lose so much good music."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 218]

As the head of the dense column wound its way upward, one little group could be seen by those below, and were saluted by many a cheer and the waving of handkerchiefs. These were a party, whose horses and gear seemed far better than the rest; and among them rode a gentleman mounted on a strong pony,-his chief care was bestowed less on his own beast, than in guiding that of a young country girl, who rode beside him. She was enveloped in a long blue cloak of dark cloth, beneath which she wore a white dress; a white ribbon floated through her dark hair, too; but in her features and the happy smile upon her lip, the bride was written more palpably than in all these.

High above her head, upon a pinnacle of rock, a man stood, gazing at the scene; at his side a little child of some four or five years old, whose frantic glee seemed perilous in such a place, while his wild accents drew many an upward glance from those below, as he cried--

"See, Nony, see! Mary is coming to us at last!" This, too, was a "St.

Patrick's Eve," and a happy one.--May Ireland see many such!

THE END