mere assemblage of wet sods with thegrass still growing, and covered by some branches of trees and loosestraw over them. Owen halted the ass at the opening of the miserableden, through which the smoke now issued, and at the same moment aman, stooping double to permit him to pass out into the open air, cameforward: he was apparently about fifty years of age--his real age wasnot thirty; originally a well-formed and stout-built fellow, starvationand want had made him a mere skeleton. His clothes were, a ragged coat,which he wore next his skin, for shirt he had none, and a pair of worncorduroy trousers; he had neither hat, shoes, nor stockings; but still,all these signs of destitution were nothing in comparison with themisery displayed in his countenance. Except that his lip trembled witha convulsive shiver, not a feature moved--the cheeks were livid andflattened--the dull grey eyes had lost all the light of intelligence,and stared vacantly before him.
"Well, Martin, how is she?"
"I don't know, Owen dear," said he, in a faltering voice; "maybe 'tissleeping she is."
Owen followed him within the hut, and stooping down to the fire, lighteda piece of bogwood to enable him to see. On the ground, covered only bya ragged frieze coat, lay a young woman quite dead: her arm, emaciatedand livid, was wrapped round a little child of about three years old,still sleeping on the cold bosom of its mother.
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"You must take little Patsy away," said Owen in a whisper, as he liftedthe boy in his arms; "_she's_ happy now."
The young man fell upon his knees and kissed the corpse, but spoke nota word; grief had stupified his senses, and he was like one but halfawake. "Come with me, Martin; come with me, and I'll settle every thingfor you." He obeyed mechanically, and before quitting the cabin, placedsome turf upon the fire, as he was wont to do. The action was a simpleone, but it brought the tears into Owen's eyes. "I'll take care ofPatsy for you till you want him. He's fond of me of ould, and won'tbe lonesome with me;" and Owen wrapped the child in his greatcoat, andmoved forwards.
When they had advanced a few paces, Martin stopped suddenly andmuttered, "She has nothing to drink!" and then, as if rememberingvaguely what had happened, added, "It's a long sleep, Ellen dear!"
Owen gave the directions for the funeral, and leaving poor Martin in thehouse of one of the cottiers near, where he sat down beside the hearth,and never uttered a word; he went on his way, with little Patsy stillasleep within his arms.
"Where are you going, Peggy?" asked Owen, as an old lame woman movedpast as rapidly as her infirmity would permit: "you're in a hurry thismorning."
"So I am, Owen Connor--these is the busy times wid me--I streaked fiveto-day, early as it is, and I'm going now over to Phil Joyce's. What'sthe matter wid yourself, Owen? sit down, avich, and taste this."
"What's wrong at Phil's?" asked Owen, with a choking fulness in histhroat.
"It's the little brother he has; Billy's got it, they say.
"Is Mary Joyce well--did ye hear?"
"Errah! she's well enough now, but she may be low before night,"muttered the crone; while she added, with a fiendish laugh, "her purtyfaytures won't save her now, no more nor the rest of us."
"There's a bottle of port wine, Peggy; take it with ye, dear. 'Tis thefinest thing at all, I'm tould, for keeping it off--get Mary to take aglass of it; but mind now, for the love o' ye, never say it was me gavit. There's bad blood between the Joyces and me, ye understand."
"Ay, ay, I know well enough," said the hag, clutching the bottleeagerly, while opening a gate on the roadside, she hobbled on her waytowards Phil Joyce's cabin.
It was near evening as Owen was enabled to turn homewards; for besideshaving a great many places to visit, he was obliged to stop twice to getpoor Patsy something to eat, the little fellow being almost in a stateof starvation. At length he faced towards the mountain, and with a sadheart and weary step plodded along.
"Is poor Ellen buried?" said he, as he passed the carpenter's door,where the coffin had been ordered.
"She's just laid in the mould--awhile ago."
"I hope Martin bears up better;--did you see him lately?"
"This is for him," said the carpenter, striking a board with his hammer;"he's at peace now."
"Martin! sure he's not dead?--Martin Neale, I mean."
"So do I too; he had it on him since morning, they say; but he justslipped away without a word or a moan."
"O God, be good to us, but the times is dreadful!" ejaculated Owen.
"Some says it's the ind of the world's comin'," said an old man, thatsat moving his stick listlessly among the shavings; "and 'twould be wellfor most of us it was too."
"Thrue for you, Billy; there's no help for the poor."
No sentiment could meet more general acceptance than this--none lesslikely to provoke denial. Thrown upon each other for acts of kindnessand benevolence, they felt from how narrow a store each contributed toanother's wants, and knew well all the privations that charity like thisnecessitated, at the same time that they felt themselves deserted bythose whose generosity might have been exercised without sacrificinga single enjoyment, or interfering with the pursuit of any accustomedpleasure.
There is no more common theme than the ingratitude of the poor--theirselfishness and hard-heartedness; and unquestionably a life of povertyis but an indifferent teacher of fine feelings or gentle emotions. Thedreary monotony of their daily lives, the unvarying sameness of thelife-long struggle between labour and want, are little suggestive ofany other spirit than a dark and brooding melancholy: and it were well,besides, to ask, if they who call themselves benefactors have beenreally generous, and not merely just? We speak more particularly of therelations which exist between the owner of the land and those who tillit; and where benevolence is a duty, and not a virtue depending on thewill: not that they, in whose behalf it is ever exercised, regard itin this light--very far from it! Their thankfulness for benefits isgenerally most disproportioned to their extent; but we are dissatisfiedbecause our charity has not changed the whole current of their fortunes,and that the favours which cost us so little to bestow, should notbecome the ruling principle of their lives.
Owen reflected deeply on these things as he ascended the mountain-road.The orphan child he carried in his arms pressed such thoughts uponhim, and he wondered why rich men denied themselves the pleasures ofbenevolence. He did not know that many great men enjoyed the happiness,but that it was made conformable to their high estate by institutionsand establishments; by boards, and committees, and guardians; by allthe pomp and circumstance of stuccoed buildings and liveried attendants.That to save themselves the burden of memory, their good deeds werechronicled in lists of "founders" and "life-subscribers," and theirnames set forth in newspapers; while, to protect their finer naturesfrom the rude assaults of actual misery, they deputed others to be thestewards of their bounty.
Owen did not know all this, or he had doubtless been less unjustregarding such persons. He never so much as heard of the pains thatare taken to ward off the very sight of poverty, and all the appliancesemployed to exclude suffering from the gaze of the wealthy. All hislittle experience told him was, how much of good might be done withinthe sphere around him by one possessed of affluence. There was not acabin around, where he could not point to some object claiming aid orassistance. Even in seasons of comparative comfort and abundance, what adeal of misery still existed; and what a blessing it would bring on himwho sought it out, to compassionate and relieve it! So Owen thought,and so he felt too; not the less strongly that another heart thenbeat against his own, the little pulses sending a gush of wild delightthrough his bosom as he revelled in the ecstacy of benevolence. Thechild awoke, and looked wildly about him; but when he recognised inwhose arms he was, he smiled happily, and cried, "Nony, Nony," the nameby which Owen was known among all the children of the village and itsneighbourhood.
"Yes, Patsy," said Owen, kissing him, "your own Nony! you're coming homewith him to see what a nice house he has upon the mountain for you, andthe purty lake near it, and the fish swimming in it."
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The little fellow clapped his hands with glee, and seemed delighted atall he heard.
"Poor darlin'," muttered Owen, sorrowfully; "he doesn't know 'tis thesad day for him;" and as he spoke, the wind from the valley bore on itthe mournful cadence of a death-cry, as a funeral moved along the road."His father's berrin'!" added he. "God help us! how fast misfortune doesbe overtaking us at the time our heart's happiest! It will be many a daybefore he knows all this morning cost him."
The little child meanwhile caught the sounds, and
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