St. Patrick's Eve

by Charles James Lever

journey, whichhe did at last, moving only a few miles each day, and halting beforenightfall. Thus wearily plodding on, he reached Liverpool at last, andabout the middle of January arrived in his native country once more.

  His strength regained, his bodily vigour restored, he had made a longday's journey to reach home, and it was about ten o'clock of a brightand starry night that he crossed the mountains that lie betweenBallinrobe and Maam. To Owen, the separation from his home seemed likea thing of years long; and his heart was full to bursting as eachwell-remembered spot appeared, bringing back a thousand associations ofhis former life. As he strode along he stopped frequently to look downtowards the village, where, in each light that twinkled, he couldmark the different cabins of his old friends. At length, the long lowfarmhouse of the Joyces came into view--he could trace it by the lineof light that glittered from every window--and from this, Owen could noteasily tear himself away. Muttering a heartfelt prayer for those beneaththat roof, he at last moved on, and near midnight gained the little glenwhere his cabin stood. Scarcely, however, had he reached the spot, whenthe fierce challenge of a dog attracted him. It was not his own poorcolley--he knew his voice well--and Owen's blood ran chilly at the soundof that strange bark. He walked on, however, resolutely grasping hisstick in his hand, and suddenly, as he turned the angle of the cliff,there stood his cabin, with a light gleaming from the little window.

  "'Tis Phil Joyce maybe has put somebody in, to take care of the place,"said he; but his fears gave no credence to the surmise.

  Again the dog challenged, and at the same moment the door was opened,and a man's voice called out, "Who comes there?" The glare of the fireat his back shewed that he held a musket in his hand.

  "'Tis me, Owen Connor," answered Owen, half sulkily, for he felt thatindescribable annoyance a man will experience at any question, as to hisapproaching his own dwelling, even though in incognito.

  "Stay back, then," cried the other; "if you advance another step, I'llsend a bullet through you."

  "Send a bullet through me!" cried Owen, scornfully, yet even moreastonished than indignant. "Why, isn't a man to be let go to his ownhouse, without being fired at?"

  "I'll be as good as my word," said the fellow; and as he spoke, Owen sawhim lift the gun to his shoulder and steadily hold it there. "Move onestep now, and you'll see if I'm not."

  Owen's first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, and if notwounded, to grapple with his adversary; but he reflected for a secondthat some great change must have occurred in his absence, which, in alllikelihood, no act of daring on his part could avert or alter. "I'llwait for morning, anyhow," thought he; and without another word, ordeigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned, and retraced hissteps down the mountain.

  There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, where Owendetermined to pass the night. The old man who lived there, had been aherd formerly, but age and rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he nowlived on the charity of the neighbours.

  "Poor Larry! I don't half like disturbing ye," said Owen, as he arrivedat the miserable contrivance of wattles that served for a door; butthe chill night air, and his weary feet decided the difficulty, and hecalled out, "Larry--Larry Daly! open the door for me--Owen Connor. 'Tisme!"

  The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and despite theconsequences of his malady, managed to hobble to the door in a fewseconds. "Oh! wirra, wirra! Owen, my son!" cried he, in Irish; "I hopedI'd never see ye here again--my own darlin'."

  "That's a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man coming back among hisown people."

  "'Tis a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord help us, this isbad fortune."

  "What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to disgrace my name, that Iwouldn't come back here?"

  "'Tisn't what ye done, honey, but what's done upon ye. Oh, wirra, wirra;'tis a black day that led ye home here."

  It was some time before Owen could induce the old man to moderate hissorrows, and relate the events which had occurred in his absence. I willnot weary my reader by retailing the old man's prolixity, but tell themin the fewest words I am able, premising, that I must accompany thenarrative by such explanations as I may feel necessary.

  Soon after Owen's departure for England, certain disturbances occurredthrough the country. The houses of the gentry were broken open atnight and searched for arms by men with blackened faces and in variousdisguises to escape recognition. Threatening notices were served on manyof the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they did notspeedily comply with certain conditions, either in the discharge of someobnoxious individuals from their employment, or the restoration of someplot of ground to its former holder. Awful denunciations were utteredagainst any who should dare to occupy land from which a former tenantwas ejected; and so terrible was the vengeance exacted, and so suddenits execution, that few dared to transgress the orders of these savagedenunciators. The law of the land seemed to stand still, justiceappeared appalled and affrighted, by acts which bespoke deep andwide-spread conspiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on whatwas to be done; and the only one who ventured to propose a bold andvigorous course of acting was murdered on his way homeward. Meanwhile,Mr. Lucas, whose stern exactions had given great discontent, seemeddetermined to carry through his measures at any risk. By influence withthe government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police-force,and, under cover of these, he issued his distress-warrants andexecutions, distrained and sold, probably with a severity increased bythe very opposition he met with.

  The measures undertaken by government to suppress outrage failed mostsignally. The difficulty of arresting a suspected individual was greatin a country where a large force was always necessary. The difficulty ofprocuring evidence against him was still greater; for even such as werenot banded in the conspiracy, had a greater dread of the reproach ofinformer, than of any other imputation; and when these two conditionswere overcome, the last and greatest of all difficulties remainedbehind,--no jury could be found to convict, when their own lives mightpay the penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went theagent, with his cumbrous accompaniments of law-officers and parchments,police constables and bailiffs, to effect a distress or an ejectment;the midnight party with arms patrolled the country, firing the haggardsand the farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in theirown bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre.

  Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime; the very calendarwas red with murder. Friends parted with a fervour of feeling, thatshewed none knew if they would meet on the morrow; and a dark, gloomysuspicion prevailed through the land, each dreading his neighbour, anddeeming his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. Allthe bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred and affection,were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, fathers, and sons werearrayed against each other. A despotism was thus set up, which even theywho detested dared not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superiorpower, awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling lessenedwhen they saw that these dreadful acts--acts so horrible as to makemen shudder at the name of Ireland when heard in the farthest cornerof Europe--that these had their apologists in the press, that evena designation was invented for them, and murder could be spoken ofpatriotically as the "Wild Justice" of the people.

  There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose pure heart hadnever harboured a bad thought cannot live untainted where wickednessis rife. The really base and depraved were probably not many; butthere were hardships and sufferings every where; misery abounded inthe land--misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult toconnect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or supposed, of thewealthier classes. Some, believed the theory with all the avidity of menwho grasp at straws when drowning; others, felt a savage pleasure at thebare thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, mixed uptheir own wrongs with what they regarded as national grievances, andconverted their private vengeance into a patriotic daring. Few stoodutte
rly aloof, and even of these, none would betray the rest.

  The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible incentive to itscommission. The agent shot, the law he had set in motion stood still,the process fell powerless; the "Wild Justice" superseded the slowerfootsteps of common law, and the murderer saw himself installed insafety, when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim.

  Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation, that recklessness oflife is its almost invariable accompaniment; and thus, many of these menceased to speculate on the future, and followed the dictates of theirleaders in blind and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felta kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and actually lovedthe very hazard