The Tithe-Proctor Part 19

But this was not the worst of it. In the discussion of this subject, it is rather hazardous for the champion of our former Establishment to make any allusion to the landlord at all; the fact unfortunately being, that in the management and disposal of land, the landlords, in general, were gifted with a very convenient forgetfulness that such a demand as t.i.the was to come upon the tenant at all. The land in general was let as if it had been t.i.the-free, whilst, at the same time, and in precisely the same grasping spirit, it so happened, that wherever it was t.i.the-free the rents exacted were also enormous, and seen as--supposing t.i.the had not an existence--no country ever could suffer to become the basis of valuation, or to settle down into a system. In fact, such was the spirit, and so profligate the condition of the Established Church for a long lapse of time, both before and after the Union, that we may lay it down as a general principle, that everything was rewarded in it but piety and learning.

If there were anything wanting to prove the truth and accuracy of our statements, it would be found in the bitter and relentless spirit with which the Established Church and her pastors were a.s.sailed, at the period of which we write. And let it be observed here, that even then, the Church in this country, in spirit, in learning, in zeal, and piety, was an angel of purity compared to what she had been twenty or thirty years before. The course of clerical education had been defined, established, and extended; young profligates could not enter the Church, as in the good old times, without any earthly preparation, either in learning or morals. They were obliged to read, and thoroughly to understand, an extensive and enlightened course of divinity--to attend lectures and ent.i.tle themselves, both by attendance and answering, to a certain number of certificates, without which they had no chance for orders. In point of fact, they were forced to become serious; and the consequences soon began to appear in the general character of the Church. Much piety, activity, learning, and earnest labor were to be found in it; and indeed, we may venture to say, that, with the exception of her carnal and debasing wealth, she had been purified and reformed to a very considerable extent, even then. Still, however, the bloated ma.s.s of mammon hung about her, prostrating her energies, secularizing her spirit, and, we must add, oppressing the people, out of whose pockets it was forced to come. When the calamity, therefore, which the reader may perceive is partly upon and impending over, the Protestant clergy, actually occurred, it did not find them unprepared, nor without the sympathy of many of the very people who were forced by the tyrannical influence of party feeling to oppose them publicly. To their sufferings and unexampled patience, however, we shall be obliged to refer, at a subsequent period of our narrative; and for that reason, we dismiss it for the present.

Such, then, was the state of the Protestant Established Church for a considerable length of time before the t.i.the agitation, and also immediately preceding it; and we deemed it necessary to make the reader acquainted with both, in order that he may the better understand the nature and spirit of the almost universal a.s.sault which was, by at least one party--the Roman Catholic--so furiously made upon it. At the present period of our narrative, then, the population of the country, especially of the South and West, had arrived at that state of agitation, which, whether its object be legitimate or not, is certain, in a short time, to brutalize the public mind and debauch the public morals, by removing all the conscientious impediments which religion places against crime, and consequently all scruple in committing it. Heretofore, those vile societies of a secret nature, that disgrace the country and debase the character of her people, existed frequently under separate denominations, and for distinct objects. Now, however, they all consented to abandon these peculiar purposes, and to coalesce into one great conspiracy against the destruction of the Establishment. We do not mean to a.s.sert, however, that this general outcry against the Church, and its accompanying onslaught on her property, originated directly with the people. No such thing; the people, as they always are, and, we fear, ever will be, were mere instruments in the hands of a host of lay and clerical agitators; and no argument was left unattempted or unurged to hound them on to the destruction of the Establishment. From the Corn Exchange down to the meanest and most obscure tribunal of agitation throughout the kingdom, the virtues of pa.s.sive resistance were inculcated and preached, and the great champion of popular rights told the people publicly and repeatedly that they might not be afraid to follow his advice, for that it mattered little how oppressive or stringent any act of parliament in defence of the Established Church might be, he would undertake to drive a coach and six through the very severest of its penalties. Nor were the Catholic priesthood idle during these times of storm and commotion. At the head of them, and foremost in both ability and hatred of t.i.thes, stood the late Dr. Doyle, the celebrated J.K.L. of that day, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin; a man to whose great intellectual powers the country at large chiefly owes the settlement of that most difficult and important question. This able prelate a.s.sailed the system with a fiery vehemence that absolutely set the country in a blaze, and reduced the wealthy Establishment to a case of the most unprecedented distress. Who can forget that memorable apothegm to the Irish people on the subject? "Let your hatred of t.i.thes," he said, "be as lasting as your sense of justice."

Unfortunately it is an easy task to instruct or tempt the Irish peasant to violate the law, especially when sanctioned, in that violation, by those whose opinion and advice he takes as the standard of his conduct.

Be this as it may, the state of the country was now becoming frightful and portentous; and although there had not, as yet, been much blood shed, still there was no person acquainted with the extraordinary pains which were taken to excite the people against the payment of t.i.the, who was not able to antic.i.p.ate the terrible outburst and sanguinary slaughters which soon followed.

We have already detailed a midnight meeting of the anti-t.i.the confederacy; but so confident had the people soon become in the principle of general unanimity against the payment of this impost, that they did not hesitate to traverse the country in open day by thousands; thus setting not only law, but all the powers of the country by which it is usually carried out and supported, at complete defiance.

Threatening letters, and notices of violent death, signed with blood, and containing the form of a coffin, were sent to all such as were in any way obnoxious, or, what was the same thing, who were in any way disposed either to pay t.i.thes or exact them.

In this state matters were, when, one morning about a week after the scene we have just described in O'Driscol's office, a dialogue to the following effect took place in the proctor's immense farm-yard, between our friend Mogue Moylan and his quondam sweetheart, Letty Lenehan.

Letty, of late, that is since the morning of the peddler's conversation with Mogue, had observed that some unaccountable change had taken place in his whole manner, not only towards herself, but in his intercourse with the rest of his fellow-servants. He was for instance, much more silent that he had ever been: but although he spoke less, he appeared to think more; yet it might be observed, that whatever the subject of his thoughts was, it evidently had diffused a singular degree of serenity, and a peculiarly striking complacency through his whole manner. With respect to herself he had ascended from the lover into the patron; and although she had been amusing herself at his expense throughout their previous courtship, if it could be termed such, yet she felt no less puzzled as to the cause of such a change, and quite as anxious to ascertain it.

On the morning in question, Mogue and Jerry Joyce had been engaged in winnowing a large quant.i.ty of wheat in the barn. Jerry, whose manner was ostensibly that of a soft, simple young fellow, and whom but few looked upon as possessed of the ordinary run of common sense, was treated by Mogue, and indeed by most, but not all of his fellow servants, as one would treat a young lad who had not yet arrived at years of discretion, or maturity of judgment.

"Jerry," said Mogue, "why but you do be cortin' the girls, man alive?

That I may never sin but it's a great thing to have them fond o' one."

"Ay," replied Jerry, who was perfectly well aware of his foible, "if I had the art of sootherin' and puttin' my comedher an thim like some o'

my acquaintances; but, me! is it foolish Jerry Joyce they'd care about?

Oh, no! begor that c.o.c.k wouldn't fight."

"Your acquaintances!" exclaimed Mogue, seizing upon the term, in Jerry's reply, which he knew referred to himself, "and which of your acquaintances, now, does be sootherin' an' puttin' his comedher an'

them, eh, Jerry?"

"Oh! dear me, Mogue," replied the other, "how droll you are! As if you thought I didn't mane one Mogue Moylan that they're tearin' their caps about every day in the week."

"Tearin' their caps! arrah, who is, Jerry?"

"Why, the girls."

"The girls! Och! man, sure that's an ould story; but I declare it to you, Jerry, it isn't my fault; it's a nateral gift wid me, for I take no pains to make them fond o' me; that I may never do harm if I do."

"An' how does it, happen that they are? Sure there's Letty, now--poor Letty Lenehan--an' G.o.d help her! sure, for the last week, she appears to me to be breakin' her heart. She doesn't say af coorse, that you're the occasion of it; but doesn't every one of us know that you are? Have you been could to her, or what?

"Why thin, now, Jerry, I declare it to you that I'm heart sorry for poor Letty; but what can I do? I amn't my own man, now, do you hear that?"

"Sure you don't mane to say that you're married?"

"Not exactly married; but listen hither, Jerry--you don't know the man you're spakin' to--it's a gift that G.o.d gave me--but, you don't know the man you're spakin' to; however as for poor Letty, I'll provide for her some way--the poor affectionate crature; an' she's good-lookin' too; however, as I said, I'll do something for her some way," and here he nodded and winked with most villainous significance.

If Jerry had not fully comprehended the scoundrel's character, it is very probable that this language would have caused him to give the hypocritical villain a sound drubbing; for it must be known to our readers, that Jerry and Letty were faithfully attached to each other--a circ.u.mstance which was also known to the whole family, and which nothing could have prevented Mogue from observing but his own blind and egregious vanity.

"But what do you mane, Mogue, when you say you aren't your own man!"

"I can't tell you; but the thruth is, Jerry--poor, good-natured Jerry--that every man ought to look high, especially when he sees the regard that's for him, and especially, too, when G.o.d--blessed be his name--has gifted him as some people is gifted. There's a man hereabouts that thinks he could put my nose out o' joint. Oh! it's a great thing, Jerry, to have nice, ginteel, thin features, that won't spoil by the weather. Throth, red cheeks or a white skin in a man isn't becomin'; an'

as for larnin', Jerry, it may require a long time to take it in, but a very little hole would soon let it all out. May I never do harm but I'm glad that job's over," alluding to the employment at which they were engaged. "Oh! then, but that's a fine cast o' whate!"

"It is," replied Jerry; "but in regard to the larnin' I don't undherstand you."

"No matther for that, Jerry, I may be a good friend to you yet; ay, indeed may I--poor good-natured Jerry; an' when that time comes, if you have any scruple in axin' Misther Moylan to countenance you and befriend you, why it'll be your own fault my poor, good-natured Jerry."

"Many thanks, Misther Moylan," replied Jerry, a.s.suming a gravity which he could scarcely maintain, "remember that you don't forget your promise. I'm goin' over to get the sacks from Misther John; an' by the way, aren't you goin' out to-day to shoot wid Misther M'Carthy?"

"Well, I declare, I believe I am; I know the mountains well, an' I'm fond of seein' fun, or of hearin' of it, any way."

Jerry then departed, and Mogue, now left to himself, exclaimed in a soliloquy, "Ay, an' if I don't see it this night, I'll hear of it to-morrow, I hope. Mr. M'Carthy, you're in my way; but as I said to that poor _omadhawn_, although it took many a year to get the larnin' into that head of yours, one little hole will soon let it out again." As Mogue uttered the last words, the ear of Letty Lenehan was somewhat nearer him than he imagined. She had come to call them to breakfast, and seeing that the back-door of the barn was open, she approached it, as being nearest to her, and on peeping in, half disposed for a piece of frolic, she heard Mogue utter the soliloquy we have just repeated; but as he stood with his back towards her, he was not at all aware that she was present, or had heard him.

Immediately after breakfast, Mogue and M'Carthy set out for the mountains, the latter furnished with all the necessary equipments for the sport, and the former carrying a game-bag and refreshments; for as M'Carthy knew that it must be the last day he could devote to such amus.e.m.e.nts, he resolved to have a good day's sport, if possible.

"Now, Mogue," said his companion, "you are much better acquainted with these mountains than I am, and with those places where we may be likely to find most game. I, therefore, place myself in your hands for the day."

"Well, indeed I ought, sir, to know them," replied Mogue, "and I believe I do; and talkin' of that, you have often heard of the great robber and rapparee, Shaun Bernha?"

"I have heard of him, and of his Stables, which lie up somewhere in these mountains."

"Exactly, sir; an' it is what I was thinkin'; that we might take a look at them in the coorse of our sport to-day; in regard, especially, that there's more game about them than in any other part of the mountains."

"Very well, then, Mogue," replied his companion, "so be it; you are, as I said, my guide for the day."

"But do you know, sir, why he was called Shaun Bernha?"

"No, I can't say I do."

"It was odd enough, to be sure. Howandever, may I be happy but they say it's true! You see, sir, he was called Shaun Bernha bekaise he never had a tooth in his head; an' no more had any of his family; and yet, sir, it's said, that he could bite a piece out of a plate of sheet iron as aisily as you or I could out a cake of gingerbread."

"Well, Morgue, all that I can say to that is, that he had devilish hard gums, and stood in no fear of the toothache."

"Well, then, we'll sweep around the slebeen hills here, keepin'

Altnaveenan to our right, and Lough Mocall to our left; then, by going right ahead we'll come to his stables; and indeed they're well worth seein'."

"With all my heart, Mague, never say it again." And they accordingly proceeded at a vigorous pace to the mountains, which were now distant not more than a mile and a half from them.

In the meantime we shall leave them to pursue their game, and beg our readers to accompany us once more to the house of our friend, Fitzy O'Driscol, who, what between the dread of a.s.sa.s.sination on the one hand, and the delight of having a proper subject to justify him in communicating with the government on the other, pa.s.sed his time in alterations, now of fear, and again of his peculiar ambition to be recognized as an active and fearless magistrate by the then existing powers, that were, to such as knew the man and understood his character, perfectly ludicrous. On the morning in question, he was, as usual, seated, in his morning-gown and slippers, at the breakfast-table, reading a country paper, in which, by the way, appeared the following paragraph:--

"TURBULENT STATE OR THE COUNTRY.--We regret to say, that the state of the country is every day becoming more and more unsettled. A few days ago, whilst one of our excellent and most resolute magistrates, Fitzgerald O'Driscol, Esq., was engaged in his office, determining an important case of a.s.sault that came before him, and which he did, as he usually does, to the perfect satisfaction of the parties, he received, a threatening notice, couched in most violent language, in fact, breathing of blood and a.s.sa.s.sination! Why a gentleman of such high magisterial character as Mr. O'Driscol should have been selected as an object of popular vengeance, we do not understand. Mr. O'Driscol combines in himself all those qualities that are peculiarly suited to the discharge of his duties in such distracted times as the present. Whilst firm and intrepid, almost to a miracle, he is at the same time easy of access, impartial, and kind to his humble countrymen, to whom he has uniformly proved himself mild and indulgent, so far as justice--which by the way, he always tempers with mercy--will allow him; and in consequence of this, he is uniformly known, and deserves to be known, as the poor man's magistrate. It is true, he is known also to be a man of highly loyal and const.i.tutional principles; a warm friend to order, peace, and a resolute supporter of the laws of the land--qualities which are looked upon as crimes by the resolute and disloyal among our kind-hearted but misguided people. Of one thing, however, he would beg to apprise the mistaken individuals who have ventured to threaten him, and that is, to take care how they attempt to put their foolish threats into execution against so daring and desperate a man as Mr. O'Driscol is when provoked. He goes well armed, is a dead shot, and would feel deeply grieved at having the blood of any of his mistaken countrymen on his hands. This we say from what we know of Mr. O'Driscol, both as a man and as a magistrate. In further connection with the state of the country, we cannot think but that government, if made properly acquainted with it, would place some mild, firm, but fearless and resolute stipendiary magistrate in our neighborhood; we mean, of course, a man who is capable, by the peculiar qualities of his character, to make himself an instrument of great public good, both to the people and the government. Such a man we know; but as we are writing without either his knowledge or consent, we do not feel ourselves called upon to pursue this important subject further.

All we can say is, that the violent opposition which is now organized against t.i.thes, and which is already beginning to convulse the country, will, and even now does require, the active courage and decided abilities of such a man."

"Well, now, Catherine," said he, addressing his daughter, who sat near him, "upon my honor and conscience that was a friendly paragraph of my friend Swiggerly--extremely so, indeed. The fact is, a dinner and a good jorum is never thrown away upon honest Swiggerly; for which raison I'll ask him to dine here on Thursday next."

He then handed her the paper, pointing out the paragraph in question, which she read with something of an arch smile, and which, on her brother Fergus (who had been to Lisnagola) joining them, she handed to him.

"Fergus," said she, looking at him with an expression of character still more comic, but yet sufficiently subdued to prevent O'Driscol from observing it, "is not that paragraph very complimentary to papa?"

Fergus, who at once reciprocated the comic glance alluded to, replied rather significantly, "It is certainly very gratifying to him, Catherine."