"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.