“what a babe you are! but no matter; I'm glad you have notions of becoming a good sound Protestant; take my word there's nothing like it. A man that's a good sound Protestant is always a loyal fellow, and when he's drunk, drinks—to hell with the Pope.”
“Phil, don't be a fool,” said his father, who inherited many, if not all of old Deaker's opinions. “If you are about to become a Protestant, Darby, that's a very different thing from changing your religion—inasmuch as you must have one to change first. However, as you say, M'Slime's your man, and be guided by him.”
“So I intend, sir; and he has been spakin' to me about comin' forrid publicly, in regard of an intention he has of writin' a new tract consarning me, to be called the Converted Bailiff, or a Companion to the Religious Attorney; and he says, sir, that he'll get us bound up together.”
“Does he?” said Val, dryly; “strung up, I suppose he means.”
“Troth your honor's right,” replied Darby; “but my own mimory isn't what it used to be—it was strung up he said, sure enough, sir.”
“Very well,” said Val, “but now to business. Phil, my boy, you move off for a little—Darby and I have a small matter to talk over, that nobody must hear but ourselves.”
“All right,” replied Phil; “so take care of yourselves;” and accordingly left the room.
Now the truth was, that M'Clutchy, who perfectly understood the half-witted character of his son—for be it known that worthy Phil was considered by those who had the honor of his acquaintance, as anything but an oracle—did not feel himself justified in admitting the said Phil to full confidence in all his plans and speculations.
“You see now,” said he, addressing Darby sternly—“you see the opinion which I entertain of your honesty, when I trust you more than I do my son.”
“Troth I do your honor—and by the same token did I ever betray you?”
“Betray, you scoundrel! what had you to betray?” said Val indignantly, whatever I do is for the benefit of the country in general, and for Lord Cumber's property in particular: you know that.”
“Know it! doesn't the whole world know it, sir?”
“Well, then”—said Val, softening—“now to business. In the first place observe my words—listen.”
Darby said nothing, but looked at him in the attitude of deep and breathless attention.
“Whenever you happen to execute a warrant of distress—that is, when removing furniture or any other property off the premises, keep a sharp look out for any papers or parchments that happen to come in your way. It would do no harm if you should slip them quietly into your pocket and bring them to me. I say quietly, because there is a spirit abroad among the people that we must watch; but if they once suspected that we were on the look out for it, they might baffle us; these papers, you know can be returned.”
“I see, your honor,” said Darby—“there you are right, as, indeed, you always are.”
“Very well, then. Is the night dark and stormy?”
“So dark, sir, that a blind man could see it.”
Val then approached the bailiff, looked cautiously about the room—opened the door, and peeped into the hall; after which he returned, and placing about half-a-dozen written papers in his hand, whispered something to him with great earnestness and deliberation. Darby heard him with profound attention, nodded his head significantly as he spoke, and placed the point of his right hand fore-finger on the papers, as if he said, “I see—I understand—I am to do so and so with these; it's all clear—all right, and it shall be done before I sleep.”
The conversation then fell into its original channel, and Phil was summoned, in order to receive his instructions touching a ceremony which was to take place on the following day but one; which ceremony simply consisted in turning out upon the wide world, without house, or home, or shelter, about twenty three families, containing among them the young, the aged, the sick, and the dying—but this is a scene to which we must beg the reader's more particular attention.
There stood, facing the west, about two miles from Constitution Cottage, an irregular string of cabins, with here and there something that might approach the comfortable air of a middle size house. The soil on which they stood was an elevated moor, studded with rocks and small cultivated patches, which the hard hand of labor had, with toil and difficulty, worn from what might otherwise be called a cold, bleak, desert. The rocks in several instances were overgrown with underwood and shrubs of different descriptions, which were browsed upon by meagre and hungry-looking goats, the only description of cattle that the poverty of these poor people allowed them to keep, with the exception of two or three families, who were able to indulge in the luxury of a cow. In winter it had an air of shivering desolation that was enough to chill the very blood, even to think of; but in summer, the greenness of the shrubs, some of which were aromatic and fragrant, relieved the dark, depressing spirit which seemed to brood upon it. This little colony, notwithstanding the wretchedness of its appearance, was not, however, shut out from a share of human happiness. The manners of its inhabitants were primeval and simple, and if their enjoyments were few and limited, so also were their desires. God gave them the summer breeze to purify their blood, the sun of heaven to irradiate the bleakness of their mountains, the morning and evening dressed in all their beauty, and music of their mountain streams, and that of the feathered songsters, to enliven their souls with its melody. The voices of spring, of summer, of autumn, were cheerful in their ears as the voices of friends, and even winter, with all his wildness and desolation, was not without a grim complacence which they loved. They were a poor, harmless, little community, so very humble and inoffensive, as to be absolutely beneath the reach of human resentment or injustice. Alas! they were not so.
The cause of the oppression which was now about to place them in its iron grasp, was as simple as it was iniquitous. They refused to vote for Lord Cumber's brother, and were independent enough to respect the rights of conscience, in defiance of M'Clutchy's denunciations. They had voted for the gentleman who gave them employment, and who happened besides, to entertain opinions which they approved. M'Clutchy's object was to remove them from the property, in order that he might replace them with a more obedient and less conscientious class; for this was his principle of action under such circumstances.
It so happened that there lived among them a man named O'Regan, who, in point of comfort, was at the head of this little community. He was a quiet and an affectionate individual, industrious, sober, and every way well conducted. This inoffensive and virtuous man, and Iris faithful wife, had been for some time before the period we are describing, under the shadow of deep affliction. Their second child, and his little brother, together with the eldest, who for two or three years before had been at service in England, were all that had been spared to them—the rest having died young. This second boy was named Torley, and him they loved with an excess of tenderness and affection that could scarcely be blamed. The boy was handsome and manly, full of feeling, and possessed of great resolution and courage; all this, however, was ultimately of no avail in adding to the span of the poor youth's life. One day in the beginning of autumn, he overloaded himself with a log of fir which he had found in the moors; having laid it down to rest, he broke a blood-vessel in attempting to raise it to his shoulder the second time: he staggered home, related the accident as it had occurred, and laid himself down gently upon his bed. Decline then set in, and the handsome and high-spirited Torley O'Regan, lay patiently awaiting his dissolution, his languid eye dim with the shadow of its approach. From the moment it was ascertained that his death, early and unexpectedly, was known to be certain, the grief of his parents transcended the bounds of ordinary sorrow. It was indeed, a distressing thing to witness their sufferings, and to feel, in the inmost chambers of the heart, the awful wail of their desolation and despair.
Winter had now arrived in all its severity, and the very day selected for the removal of these poor people was that which fills, or was designed to fill, every Christian heart with hope, charity, affection for our kind, and the innocent enjoyment of that festive spirit which gives to the season a charm that throws the