St. Patrick's Eve. Lever Charles James

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      The very few visitors Owen and his father met with were for the most part people coming to fish the mountain-lake, who usually hired ponies in the valley for the ascent; so that when they perceived the animal coming slowly along, they scarce bestowed a second glance upon them, the old man merely remarking, “They’re three weeks too early for this water, any how;” a sentiment concurred in by his son. In less than five minutes after, the rider and his guide stood before the door.

      “Is this where Owen Connor lives?” asked the gentleman.

      “That same, yer honor,” said old Owen, uncovering his head, as he rose respectfully from his low stool.

      “And where is Owen Connor himself?”

      “‘Tis me, sir,” replied he; “that’s my name.”

      “Yes, but it can scarcely be you that I am looking for; have you a son of that name?”

      “Yes, sir, I’m young Owen,” said the young man, rising, but not without difficulty; while he steadied himself by holding the door-post.

      “So then I am all right: Tracy, lead the pony about, till I call you;” and so saying, he dismounted and entered the cabin.

      “Sit down, Owen; yes, yes – I insist upon it, and do you, also. I have come up here to-day to have a few moments’ talk with you about an occurrence that took place last week at the fair. There was a young gentleman, Mr. Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people: let me hear your account of it.”

      Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea flashed across the minds of both, that the visitor was a magistrate come to take information against the Joyces for an assault; and however gladly they would have embraced any course that promised retaliation for their injuries, the notion of recurring to the law was a degree of baseness they would have scorned to adopt.

      “I’ll take the ‘vestment’ I never seen it at all,” said the old man eagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner of cross-questioning or badgering could convert him into an informer.

      “And the little I saw,” said Owen, “they knocked out of my memory with this;” and he pointed to the half-healed gash on his forehead.

      “But you know something of how the row begun?”

      “No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair.”

      “Was young Mr. Leslie in fault – did you hear that?”

      “I never heerd that he did any thing – unagreeable,” said Owen, after hesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a word.

      “So then, I’m not likely to obtain any information from either of you.”

      They made no reply, but their looks gave as palpable a concurrence to this speech, as though they swore to its truth.

      “Well, I have another question to ask. It was you saved this young gentleman, I understand; what was your motive for doing so? when, as by your own confession, you were at a distance when the fight begun.”

      “He was my landlord’s son,” said Owen, half roughly; “I hope there is no law agin that.”

      “I sincerely trust not,” ejaculated the gentleman; “have you been long on the estate?”

      “Three generations of us now, yer honor,” said the old man.

      “And what rent do you pay?”

      “Oh, musha, we pay enough! we pay fifteen shillings an acre for the bit of callows below, near the lake, and we give ten pounds a year for the mountain – and bad luck to it for a mountain – it’s breaking my heart, trying to make something out of it.”

      “Then I suppose you’d be well pleased to exchange your farm, and take one in a better and more profitable part of the country?”

      Another suspicion here shot across the old man’s mind; and turning to Owen he said in Irish: “He wants to get the mountain for sporting over; but I’ll not lave it.”

      The gentleman repeated his question.

      “Troth, no then, yer honor; we’ve lived here so long we’ll just stay our time in it.”

      “But the rent is heavy, you say.”

      “Well, we’ll pay it, plaze God.”

      “And I’m sure it’s a strange wild place in winter.”

      “Its wholesome, any how,” was the short reply.

      “I believe I must go back again as wise as I came,” muttered the gentleman. “Come, my good old man, – and you, Owen; I want to know how I can best serve you, for what you’ve done for me: it was my son you rescued in the fair – ”

      “Are you the landlord – is yer honor Mr. Leslie?” exclaimed both as they rose from their seats, as horrified as if they had taken such a liberty before Royalty.

      “Yes, Owen; and I grieve to say, that I should cause so much surprise to any tenant, at seeing me. I ought to be better known on my property; and I hope to become so: but it grows late, and I must reach the valley before night. Tell me, are you really attached to this farm, or have I any other, out of lease at this time, you like better?”

      “I would not leave the ould spot, with yer honor’s permission, to get a demesne and a brick house; nor Owen neither.”

      “Well, then, be it so; I can only say, if you ever change your mind, you’ll find me both ready and willing to serve you; meanwhile you must pay no more rent, here.”

      “No more rent!”

      “Not a farthing; I’m sorry the favour is so slight a one, for indeed the mountain seems a bleak and profitless tract.”

      “There is not its equal for mutton – ”

      “I’m glad of it, Owen; and it only remains for me to make the shepherd something more comfortable; – well, take this; and when I next come up here, which I intend to do, to fish the lake, I hope to find you in a better house;” and he pressed a pocket-book into the old man’s hand as he said this, and left the cabin: while both Owen and his father were barely able to mutter a blessing upon him, so overwhelming and unexpected was the whole occurrence.

      SECOND ERA

      From no man’s life, perhaps, is hope more rigidly excluded than from that of the Irish peasant of a poor district. The shipwrecked mariner upon his raft, the convict in his cell, the lingering sufferer on a sick hed, may hope; but he must not.

      Daily labour, barely sufficient to produce the commonest necessaries of life, points to no period of rest or repose; year succeeds year in the same dull routine of toil and privation; nor can he look around him and see one who has risen from that life of misery, to a position of even comparative comfort.

      The whole study of his existence, the whole philosophy of his life, is, how to endure; to struggle on under poverty and sickness; in seasons of famine, in times of national calamity, to hoard up the little pittance for his landlord and the payment for his Priest; and he has nothing more to seek for. Were it our object here, it would not be difficult to pursue this theme СКАЧАТЬ