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 passionate 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 assure 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 God’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 assassination 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 class 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 impassioned 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 assume 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, assisted 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, unassisted 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, assisted 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 masses 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 ass, 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.”
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!