I.A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breezeOn an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,—Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,—Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.II.Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone,Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one;Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there,Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,—But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come,And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home.The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend,And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end:"It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line,I should die, not on the battle-field," said the gallant Geraldine.III.Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three;There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley;There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son;There was Richard, he the youngest born and best belovéd one.Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace,Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face;He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe,Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;—But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,"And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.IV."Lead out my steed—the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,—And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord,But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword.Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine,Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!"V."My father, thou hast truly said:—this soaring spirit swellsBeyond those dreary living tombs—yon dark monastic cells.The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom,And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom:Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war—The shout—the blow—the onset quick where serried thousands are.Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land,I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand,To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine,In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine."VI.Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days,And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise:"So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life,And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife.Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,—Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son!My harper here?—ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain;Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again:Unfurl the silken Sunburst6in the noontide's golden shine,In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!"VII.The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on,A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done.At first he listened calmly,—the strain grew bold and strong,—Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng:Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course;From his couch the Chieftain started,—"To horse!" he cried, "to horse!"And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head:One onward step—one gurgling gasp—and the Chief is of the Dead!The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine,Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!
I.A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breezeOn an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,—Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,—Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.
I.
A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breeze
On an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,—
Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,
With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,
Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;
Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;
Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,—
Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,
To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.
II.Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone,Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one;Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there,Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,—But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come,And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home.The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend,And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end:"It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line,I should die, not on the battle-field," said the gallant Geraldine.
II.
Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone,
Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one;
Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there,
Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,—
But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come,
And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home.
The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend,
And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end:
"It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line,
I should die, not on the battle-field," said the gallant Geraldine.
III.Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three;There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley;There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son;There was Richard, he the youngest born and best belovéd one.Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace,Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face;He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe,Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;—But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,"And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.
III.
Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three;
There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley;
There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son;
There was Richard, he the youngest born and best belovéd one.
Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace,
Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face;
He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe,
Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;—
But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,"
And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.
IV."Lead out my steed—the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,—And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord,But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword.Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine,Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!"
IV.
"Lead out my steed—the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,
I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,—
And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,
In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.
Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,
Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;
Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord,
But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword.
Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine,
Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!"
V."My father, thou hast truly said:—this soaring spirit swellsBeyond those dreary living tombs—yon dark monastic cells.The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom,And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom:Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war—The shout—the blow—the onset quick where serried thousands are.Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land,I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand,To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine,In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine."
V.
"My father, thou hast truly said:—this soaring spirit swells
Beyond those dreary living tombs—yon dark monastic cells.
The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom,
And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom:
Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war—
The shout—the blow—the onset quick where serried thousands are.
Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land,
I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand,
To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine,
In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine."
VI.Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days,And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise:"So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life,And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife.Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,—Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son!My harper here?—ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain;Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again:Unfurl the silken Sunburst6in the noontide's golden shine,In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!"
VI.
Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days,
And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise:
"So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life,
And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife.
Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,—
Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son!
My harper here?—ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain;
Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again:
Unfurl the silken Sunburst6in the noontide's golden shine,
In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!"
VII.The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on,A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done.At first he listened calmly,—the strain grew bold and strong,—Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng:Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course;From his couch the Chieftain started,—"To horse!" he cried, "to horse!"And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head:One onward step—one gurgling gasp—and the Chief is of the Dead!The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine,Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!
VII.
The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on,
A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done.
At first he listened calmly,—the strain grew bold and strong,—
Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng:
Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course;
From his couch the Chieftain started,—"To horse!" he cried, "to horse!"
And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head:
One onward step—one gurgling gasp—and the Chief is of the Dead!
The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine,
Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!
The year 1822 was remarkable for being what in Ireland was called "A Whiteboy Year." Rents were only paid by compulsion. Tithes were not paid at all. Wages were low. The price of food was high. The middleman system had been on the increase, year after year, until the land and people were crushed under it. The priests from the altar, and O'Connell, from the tribune and through the press, earnestly argued the massesnotto rebel, no matter how great the aggravation, how intense the despair, and the advice had great weight in most instances. Many causes combined to render the peasantry ripe for revolt.—As, on one side, there were not wanting men able and willing to act as leaders in any popular movement; so, on the other, there was no lack of Government spies to fan the flame, to cajole the peasantry into breaches of the law, and to betray those whom they thus had duped.
The discontented and disaffected were principally concentrated in my native county of Limerick. From time to time, the military force in that county had been augmented, until, at the particular period in question (1822), there were several regiments of infantry, and at least one of cavalry, on harassing duty. What between still-hunting (for the manufacture of mountain-dew was then in full operation) and man-hunting, the military had full occupation day and night. Various pretexts were used, also, to weary the military, by putting them upon a false scent, every now and then, so that the service was particularly severe and fatiguing. Added to the military array was the Constabulary force, introduced by the late Sir Robert (then Mr.) Peel, while Secretary for Ireland, the members of which, after his name, have obtained thesobriquetof "Peelers." An active and efficient body of men these Peelers were, and are, although the force, from its original establishment, has been unpopular in Ireland—probably owing to its very activity and efficiency. Be this as it may, it is undeniable that while the bulk of the Irish people, of all classes, cordially have fraternized with the soldiery, they have ever manifested a strong dislike to the police. This unfriendly feeling, too, has sometimes been fostered by many who, from their station, might be expected to entertain gratitude, and exercise courtesy, towards these protectors of their lives and property.
Whiteboyism continued to increase, notwithstanding the strong military and police force poured into the district. Detachments of infantry were quartered in almost every hamlet—the cavalry, called "here, there, and everywhere," upon true and false alarms, were dreadfully overworked. At last, as a necessary matter of protection, two or three Peelers were quartered in almost every respectable country house in certain disturbed baronies. The whole county was in a dreadful state of alarm, excitement, and activity. The newspapers, of course, were filled with reports and rumors of all kinds, and the Whiteboy doings in the South of Ireland had even the honor of being spoken of, in no very complimentary terms, in both Houses of Parliament.
These Whiteboy movements, although not confined to one part of the county Limerick, were remarked as chiefly occurring on that side which is bordered by the county Cork. In a little time, they might be said to radiate from a particular district, spreading into what, from its extent, has been called "The Yorkshire of Ireland." As they increased, more troops were called in, to subdue insurrection and enforce order. All this was in vain. A regular guerilla warfare began to prevail, chiefly for the purpose of obtaining the arms of the military and police.
It became no uncommon event for a sentry, at a country station, to be quietly picked out by the steady hand and sure aim of a Whiteboy—the shot which gave his death being at once the sole announcement and fatal evidence of the tragic deed. The service thus became so desperate that there arose an evident reluctance, on the part of the military, to continue on such alarming and perilous duty. Desertions became frequent. On the other hand, the police doggedly did their duty. Of a much higher grade than the ordinary rank and file of the army—for no man was allowed to enter or remain in the force without an excellent character and a certain degree of education—they had a high estimate of their duty, and a stubborn determination to perform it. They knew, also, that the peasantry hated them, and that even the thankless gentry, whom they protected, did not bear any affectionate regard for them.
The Rifle Brigade was on duty, in the disturbed district, at the time which I have mentioned. The officer in command was Major Eeles, an English port-drinking officer of the old school, who had fixed his own quarters at The Grove (near Ballingarry,) formerly the seat of Colonel Odell, the member for the county, and remarkable as being the father of about twenty sons, by one wife. The most fatiguing and unpleasant office which the soldiers had to perform was that of night-patrolling. The laws of that time were harsh—indeed, like all other Coercion Acts, they had been expressly framed to put down the disturbances—and provided that the mere fact of a man's being found out of his house, between sunrise and sunset, should be punishable with seven years' transportation. This severe enactment put a great check, of course, upon nocturnal predatory gatherings, but many an innocent man suffered from the harshness of the law. A strong feeling of hostility arose against the Rifle corps, for their activity in apprehending the suspected. This was greatly augmented by what, under any circumstances, might be considered an "untoward event." One of the peasantry had been met on the high road after dark, and challenged by the patrol. Not giving a satisfactory answer, his instant apprehension was ordered by the officer in command. Attempting to escape, he was in the act of jumping across a deep drain which divided the high-road from the bog, when a sergeant drew a pistol from his belt and shot him on the spot.
The unfortunate man wasnota Whiteboy. On the contrary, he had steadily resisted the solicitations of many neighbours who were. He had seen better days, and had received rather a good education. Knowing the peril of joining the illegal combinations, and daring the danger of being considered lukewarm in what was called "the cause of his country," he had kept himself aloof from proceedings, which he did not approve of, but scorned to betray. His family had been subjected, for months past, to the severe privations which poverty causes everywhere, but particularly in Ireland. His wife had been extremely ill, and on her sudden change for the worse, his affection had naturally got the worse of his personal fear, and he had ventured out, after dusk, to solicit the aid of the nearest dispensary doctor, when, challenged by the military, he sought safety in flight, and had met with his untimely fate as I have described.
Those who know anything of the peculiar customs of the South of Ireland, must be aware that the peasantry have especial delight in doing honor to the dead. To celebrate a "wake" is, with them, a social duty. They usually take that mode of testifying, in a merry mood, their grief for the departed. The unfortunate victim of military impetuosity was carried to the nearest public-house on the way-side, and when it was related how he had lost his life, "curses not loud, but deep," most unequivocally indicated the popular feeling that he was a murdered man. Nor was this feeling mitigated by the "justifiable homicide" verdict of the Coroner's jury.
Entertaining such opinions, it was not likely that his relatives and friends would solicit as a favor, at the hands of his slayers, "leave to keep the wake." They did not ask it. Perhaps they had little fear that, in the present instance, their ancient and time-honoured custom would be interfered with. Accordingly, theytookleave, and a numerous concourse of the people assembled, after dusk, on the day of the inquest, in the cabin of the deceased.
To one who loved the picturesque, the scene would have been interesting, for it contained all variety of countenance, costume, and manner. But it possessed an intenser and far deeper interest for him who had studied the human heart, its passionate throes, its indignant feelings, its wild energies, its strong convulsions, its lacerated affections. There lay the corpse, a crucifix at its head and twelve mould candles on a table at its feet. By the bedside knelt the widow—actually, by an unnatural excitement, rendered temporarily convalescent by the sharp fact that she had lost the husband of her heart. By the corpse, on the opposite side, sat their only child, a lad of few years, apparently unconscious of the extent of the calamity which thus early had orphaned him. A professional Keener (like the "hired wailing women" of Scripture) was ranged on either side of the deceased, awaiting a full audience for the similated grief, and now and then muttering fragments of their intended Lament. Around the humble apartment—for the peasant's cabin consisted of only a single room—were ranges of stools, three deep, and here and there were deal tables, on which were placed tobacco-pipes, and "the materials" for the refreshment and enjoyment which, by a strange contrast with the awful occasion which called them together, were considered indispensable. Such a thing as adryWake would indeed have been an anomaly, there and then.
The friends of the dead man dropped in stealthily, and at intervals—for there was some uncertainty whether the military would permit such an assemblage. Before long the room was crowded, all fear of being interfered with gradually vanished, and the party, albeit assembled on a melancholy occasion, soon glided into conversation, smoking, and drink.
There was no merriment, however, for the circumstances under which they met forbade it—so early in the night. Their conversation was in a hushed tone. The comparative stillness every now and then became positive when they noticed the voiceless sorrow of the poor widow, as, pale and emaciated by suffering of mind and body, she knelt by the dead, holding his clay-cold hand, and, her eyes fixed upon his comely face, now pallid with the hue of mortality, and placid in repose as that of a sleeping infant. At intervals, there rose the melancholy and eloquent wail of the Keeners' wild poetry, in the native language of the auditors, deeply impassioned, and full of the breathing indignation which stirs men's minds to such a pitch of excitement that they come forth from the listening fitted for almost any deed of daring.
The Keen told how the dead man had won the hearts of all who knew him—how he had excelled his companions in the sports of youth and the athletic exercises of manhood—how, at pattern, fair, or dance, he still maintained his superiority—how his was the open heart and liberal hand—how he had won his first love, the pride of their native village, and married her—how, when a shadow fell upon their fortunes, that loved one lightened, by sharing, the burthen, the struggle, and the grief—how, amid the desolation, her gentle smile ever made a soft sunshine in their home—how, a victim without a crime, he had fallen in the noon of life—how there remained his young boy to remember, and, it might be, one day to avenge his murder—how every man who was present would protect and sustain the widow and the orphan of him whom they had loved so well—and how, come it soon or late, a day would arrive when expiation must be made for the foul deed which had sent an innocent man to an untimely grave.
As the chief Keener chanted this Lament, in the expressive and figurative language of their native Ireland, the hearts of her auditory throbbed with deep and varying emotions—sorrow swelled into the deeper sense of injury—wild indignation flushed the cheek of manhood—and hand was clasped in hand with a fierce pressure, in well-understood pledge of sorrow for the dead, hatred for his slayers, and stern resolve of vengeance.
About ten o'clock, the door slowly opened, and a tall man, apparelled in the loose great-coat, orcoat-ca-more, which forms the principal dress of the peasantry in that district, stood for some minutes on the threshold, an interested but unobserved spectator. When he was perceived, many rose to offer him a seat, which he declined, and soon all voices joined in a common cry of "Welcome, Captain! A thousand and a hundred thousand welcomes!"
The stranger returned the salutation cordially and briefly, and advanced gravely and slowly to where the dead man lay. He gazed upon the face for some time, and then, laying his hand on that cold, pallid brow, said, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling,—"Farewell, John Sheehan! Yours has been a hard fate, but better than remains for us—to be hunted down, like wild beasts, and sent, after the mockery of a trial, from the homes of our fathers, to a far-off land, where even the slavery they doom us to is better than the troubled life we linger in, from which caprice or cruelty may hurry us in a moment. Farewell, then; but, by the bright Heaven above us, and the green fields around, I swear to know no rest until bitter vengeance be taken for this most wanton and barbarous murther."
His cheek flushed—his eyes flashed—his frame trembled with strong emotion as he sternly made this vow, and, when he ceased to speak, a deep "Amen" was murmured all around by the eager-eyed men, who hung upon his slightest word with as trusting and entire a faith as ever did the followers of the Veiled Prophet upon the mystic revelations which promised them glory upon earth, and eternal happiness in heaven! The widow, roused from the abstraction of grief by this solemn and striking incident, looked the thanks which she then had not voice to utter. When the Stranger laid his hand on the orphan's head, and said: "He shall be my care, and as I deal by him may God deal by me!" her long-repressed tears gushed forth, in a strong hysteric agony, which was not subdued until her child was placed within her earnest embrace, and kissed again and again—with the widowed mother's solacing thought, there yet remained one for whom to live.
Turning from the corpse, the Stranger took his seat among the humble but loving people in that lowly cabin. He was of large mould, with a bold, quick glance, and an air of intelligence superior to his apparent station. It was singular that his appearance among them, while it ardently awakened their respectful attention, had chilled and checked the company. After a pause, one of them ventured to hint that the first allowance of liquor had been drank out, so that "there did not remain an eggshellful to drink the health of the Captain." There was a murmur of applause at the remark. Thus encouraged, another ventured to suggest that a fresh supply be provided, at the general expense of the company—the gallantry of the men excepting the fair sex from any share in the payment. The necessary amount was speedily collected, and a supply of whiskey (which had not condescended to acknowledge the reigning dynasty by any contribution to the excise duties) was procured from the nextshebeen—an unlicensed dépôt for the sale of "mountain dew,"—and placed upon the table.
The stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and who—on the principle that "silence gives consent"—had even been supposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the hilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed—"Is it thus, and always thus, that I am to find you?—the slaves and victims of your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the man to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be kept?—it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the man who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to sleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the truest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand—the rich hope of vengeance near fulfilment—there is not a man among you, bound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not surrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to drink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless brute. Give me that liquor."
His command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the minds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the vessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop of its contents—the "fire-water" of the American aborigines—was spilled. "There," he cried, "who serves with me, must obey me. When a deed is to be done, Iwillhave obedience. When the deed is done—drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be performed, youshallbe sober."
Not a syllable of dissent—not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips of those who heard him. Not a gesture—not a look—indicated anger at what he had done.
"Mark me, my lads," he added. "I have arranged all beyond the chance of defeat. I have contrived to turn the main strength of the soldiers on a wrong scent four miles on the other side of Charleville. I have laid my plans so that we cannot be disappointed, except through some fault of our own. Let us on to Churchtown Barracks. The sergeant, by whose rash and ready hand our friend has died, remains there with a handful of his comrades. He was sent thither to escape us. Fools! as if, for those who have a wrong to avenge, any spot can be too remote. Let us seize him, and give him the doom he gave the innocent. If they resist, we can fire the barracks, and burn them in their nest. But they will never be so mad as to offer resistance to such a force as ours, when we tell that we want only that one man. If they do—their blood be upon their own heads. Who joins me? Who will follow to the cry of 'On to Churchtown?' Now is the long-desired hour of revenge. Will any lag behind?"
Every man present repeated the cry—"On to Churchtown!" Some of the women also joined in it.
The Whiteboys and their leader left the cabin. An ancient crone, almost a reputed witch, and certainly known to be by far the oldest woman in the district, hobbled after them as far as the door, and threw her shoe after them—"for luck!"
Many a "God speed them" was breathed after that company of avengers by young and fair women. What Lord Bacon has called "the wild justice of revenge," and what America recognizes in the unseen but omnipotent incarnation of Judge Lynch, was necessarily the rule of action when injured Right took arms against tyrannic Might. Is it surprising that such should be the case? If wrongdoers cannot always be rewarded, "each according unto his works," within and by the law, why should not their impunity be broken down by the rational sense of justice which abides in the minds of men?
Forth on their mission, therefore, did the Whiteboys speed. Hurrying across the bog, they reached a farm which was almost isolated amid the black waste from which it had been indifferently reclaimed. They drew muskets, pistols, and pikes from the turf-rick in which they had been concealed. Some of them brought old swords, and scythe-blades attached to pike-handles (very formidable weapons in the hands of strong, angry men), from hiding-places in the bog itself. Stealthily, and across by paths unknown to and inaccessible to the military, that wild gang, "with whom Revenge was virtue," pushed forward for the attack on Churchtown Barracks.
Stealthily and in silence the Whiteboys proceeded to the scene of intended operation. Not a word was spoken—not a sound heard, except the noise of their footsteps whenever they got on the high road. As much as possible they avoided the highway, the course which would the soonest bring them to the appointed place. It would seem as if their leader had bound them together, by some spell peculiarly their own, to yield implicit and unquestioned obedience to his imperious will. It strongly illustrated the aphorism—
"Those who think must govern those who toil."
Whoever knows how lively and mercurial is the natural temperament of the peasantry in the South of Ireland, must be aware of the difficulty of restraining them from loud-voiced talking in the open air; but now not one of that large and excited gathering spoke above his breath. Their leader commanded them to be silent, and to them his will was law.
Who was that leader? The question involves some mystery which it may be as well to unveil before proceeding with the action of this narrative.
Who, and whence was that leader? His birth would have secured him a "respectable" station in society, if his wild passions, and the strong pressure of Circumstance (that unspiritual god), had not so far
"Profaned his spirit, sank his brow,"
that the ambition which, under better auspices, might have soared to the highest aims, was now directed no farther than to establish an unstable dominion over a few wild, uncultivated peasants, who, like fire and water, might be excellent servants, but with any opportunity of domination would probably prove tyrannic masters. He who would rule the rude peasantry of Ireland, must make up his mind to be governed by them in turn, wheneverhiswishes and aims and actions fall short oftheirs. They will go with him while his desires and designs run together with their own, but they will speedily leave him behind, or forAce him with them, if they find him less eager than themselves. Even under the regular discipline of the army the same may be observed. In battle an Irish regiment cannot, or rather will not, understand any order to retreat. They repudiate all strategy which evenappearsto withdraw them from
"The triumph and the vanity,The rapture of the strife,"
and show, by the gallant impetuosity with which they plunge into the attack, that their proper action is assault. If so under the harsh restrictions of military discipline, what must it be when freed from that coercion?
The leader of the Whiteboys in 1822—the veritableCaptain Rock, whom I have introduced at the Wake of the slain John Sheehan—was no common man. His birth had been respectable, his education good, his fortune had been ample, his mind was affluent in varied and vigorous resources; he had formerly won favor and fame from the world's opinion, and few men in any country could compete with him in the personal advantages which spring from manly beauty of form and feature, activity of body, and a strength of frame which literally defied fatigue and over-exertion.
The father of John Cussen was "a gentleman of independent fortune," in Irish parlance; that is, had succeeded to a pretty good estate, and would have been in easy, if not affluent circumstances, could he have realized any thing like the nominal amount of his rent-roll. But there were two difficulties, at least. Irish estates have had a fatal facility in becoming subjected to such things as mortgages, which relentlessly absorb certain annual amounts in the shape of interest, and Irish tenants have been apt to cherish the idea that they perform their duty towards society in general, and themselves in particular, by paying as little rent as possible. Still, though Mr. Cussen's property had gradually come under the pressure of these two causes, it yielded an income sufficient for hAis moderate wants. His children had died, one by one, in the very bloom and promise of their youth, until, out of a numerous family, only one son survived.
This youth, possessing a mind more active and aspirations more ambitious than most of his class, disdained the ordinary routine of every-day life. It was not difficult to persuade his father to permit him to go into the world—the military and naval service, from its danger, being the only profession which that doting parent positively forbade him to think of. The lad, after wavering for some time, determined to become a surgeon, and proceeded to pursue his studies in Dublin.
It would be tedious to narrate into what a circle of extravagance, while thus engaged, the young man became gradually involved; it would be painful to trace his downward lapse from folly to vice. Sufficient to say that, by the time he received his diploma as a surgeon (having passed his examinations with unexpected and even distinguished success), he had contrived to involve himself so deeply that his paternal property had to be additionally mortgaged to relieve him from heavy involvements. His father, who might have repudiated the creditors' claims, admitted them, without a murmur. Eager to snatch him from the haunts and the society by which he had embarrassed his means and injured his health, and looking on the military service as a good school of discipline, even if it were not free from peril, his father overcame all personal scruples, forgave the past, and looking hopefully at the future, successfully employed his influence to obtain for him an appointment as surgeon to one of the regiments which, just then, had been ordered to Belgium, as the re-appearance of Napoleon, and his triumphant progress from Elba to Paris—his eagle "flying from steeple to steeple until it alighted on the tower of Notre Dame"—had awakened the fears and enmity of Europe, bringing once more into action
"All quality,Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war."
It was John Cussen's fortune to reach the scene of warfare in time to witness the deadly struggle at Waterloo. But it was his hap, also, to do more than witness it. He performed an act of heroism on the field, which not only gained him high and merited praise, but had powerful influence upon his future prospects.
Military discipline very properly provides that the surgeons of a regiment shall not take part in any engagement on the field. The lives of so many may depend upon the skill of even a single surgeon that it would be inconvenient, to say the best of it, if, when his aid were promptly required, during an encounter, it were found that he had allowed his ardor to carry him into the actual peril of the strife.
Cussen was sufficiently near to witness the greater part of the contest on the day of Waterloo. It was not without difficulty that his quick Irish spirit could control the almost overwhelming desire to plunge into the middle of the contest—which, on that day, had more single encounters than any since Poictiers and Agincourt. As he stood outside a tent which had been placed for the use of the medical staff, in the rear of the British position, he observed an English officer, on an unmanageable charger (bearing him along with an impetuous speed, which, having received a severe wound in the bridle-arm, he could neither control nor check), followed by a French cuirassier, who had nearly overtaken him. Another moment and the uplifted sabre would have struck the helpless man to the ground. Cussen rushed forward, literally tore the Frenchman from his saddle, by main strength, and, wresting the sword from his hand, gave him a death-wound. Quick as thought, turning from the fallen foe and bounding forward with an agility which he had acquired on his native hills, Cussen followed the swift horse, and succeeded, by a strong and overmastering grasp, in checking its speed. A In its rider, he recognized his own Colonel, whose life he had thus doubly saved, and received a grateful assurance that his service should not be forgotten.
Having dressed the Colonel's wounds, Cussen resumed his position in the rear.—But inaction was terrible to one whose spirit had been awakened to the excitement before him—for "quiet to quick bosoms is a bane." Nearer and nearer became his involuntary approach to that part of the place in which the contest was hotly proceeding. At last, unable any longer to resist the passionate impulse, he mounted on one of the many war-steeds which were wildly galloping over the battle-field, caught the eye of the officer whom he had rescued, rushed forward to join themêlée, and bravely fought side by side with him, when the "Up, Guards, and at them!" of Wellington urged on the soldiers to that last terrific charge which shook the imperial diadem from the brow of the first Napoleon.
A gallant deed, even though it violate the strict rules of military discipline, is not considered a very heinous offence by any commander. So, while his Colonel hailed John Cussen as preserver, the brief lapse of duty as a surgeon was forgiven, in consideration of his chivalry as a soldier.
The war ended. Napoleon fell. St. Helena received the imperial exile. On this lonely rock, far out in the Atlantic, the chained Prometheus suffered a punishment worse than death—Sir Hudson Lowe being the vulture which continually struck, to prey upon, his heart.
The conclusion of the war influenced the fortunes of others besides its greatest victim. The battalion in which Cussen had served was reduced, and, with many others, his occupation was gone. While yet uncertain what course to pursue, he received an invitation from his late Colonel, very urgently pressing him to visit the veteran at his country seat in Hampshire; and thither he proceeded.
Cussen, it may here be stated, was what old crones (who are good judges of such things, knowing "a hawk from a hernshaw") would simply and expressively describe as "a very personable man." He was in the spring of early manhood. He had the advantage, whateverthatmight be, of gentle blood; he had received a good education; he had distinguished himself in the greatest battle of the age; above all, he had saved the life of the gallant officer whose guest he was. What wonder, therefore, if, before he had been quite a month at Walton Hall, the bright eyes of Miss Walton beamed yet more brightly when they met his admiring glances.
The lady was young—not decidedly lovely, perhaps, but that most charming of all charming creatures, a thoroughly English beauty. She might not immediately dazzle, but she was sure always to delight. It was impossible to see and not admire her. Besides, she had been largely endowed with intellect by bounteous nature, and had also been well educated, carefully rather than brilliantly. With an undeniable dash of romance in her character, she was so pure in heart and thought, that the very novelty ofsuchpurity threw such a spell of enchAantment upon the fevered passion of John Cussen, that literally, for the first time in his life, his soul was subdued into a tenderness which contrasted strangely, but not unpleasantly, with the wild tumults—rather of sense than soul—which, in former days, he had been wont to dignify with the name of Love.
When he ascertained such to be the state of his own feelings, he became very anxious to learn whether Alice Walton was affected in like manner. Her impressions appeared to be very much as he desired, for, kissing that fair cheek, which
"Blushed at the praise of its own loveliness,"
and whispering hope to her anxious ear, he proceeded to explain to her father all that he felt—to solicit his sanction for the love which, but just confessed to each other, had suddenly been matured by that confession into a passion at once deep and ardent.
Alice Walton was an only child. What other result, then, can be anticipated than the usual one—the favorable reception of the avowal made by Cussen? Affection raises few difficulties where the happiness of the beloved is felt to be deeply involved. It is questionable whether, on that evening, a happier group could have been found anywhere within the limits of "merry England." The old soldier, pleased with the opportunity of keeping his gallant preserver with him while also securing the happiness of his daughter;—the young man exulting in his conquest, proud of the personal and mental endowments of his lady-love, and firmly resolving never to give her any cause to repent having yielded to the trusting affection which her guileless nature had formed for him;—the maiden herself, with the daydream of love making an almost visible atmosphere of joy around her heart, softly yielded to glad and genial anticipations of a happy future. Well is it that Woman's heart can thus luxuriate in imagination, for, in many cases, the romance of their love is far brighter than the reality evAer proves to be.
Some arrangements which were to be made respecting his family property, and a natural desire personally to communicate his favorable prospects to his father, required that Cussen, now an accepted suitor, should proceed to Ireland for a short time.
Imagine the parting. The endearing caresses—the gentle beseechings for full and frequent letters—the soft promises as to faithful remembrances—the whispers of that mutual affection upon which a few brief months would put the seal—and the "Farewell," which, though dewed with tears, had not very much of real sorrow in it, so sweetly did it realize the expressive lines of the poet, of the parting, though sad, which
"Brought the hope that the morrowWould bring back the blest hour of meeting again!"
Cussen arrived in Ireland just in time to see his father die, and to learn that old involvements, and the early extravagance in which himself had rioted, had reduced their estate to a nominal income. The greater part of its produce had been swallowed up by interest payable to the mortgagees, who, from time to time, had advanced money on the property. In this dilemma, Cussen did, from impulse, what, had he acted simply on calculation only, would have been the very best thing for him. Without loss of time, he frankly communicated with Colonel Walton on this unpromising condition and aspect of his affairs and prospects—assured him that, when he sued for his daughter's hand, he had not the least idea that he was so near the condition of a ruined man—that his father, when discharging the liabilities in which his early extravagance had involved him, had never breathed a syllable of the price at which they were to be swept away—that, almost beggared as he now was, he felt himself, in a worldly point of view, anything but a match for Alice—and that, while, with a breaking heart, he absolved her from the tender vows which she had made, he stilAl cherished a hope that even yet, pass a few years, he might be able to achieve a position, by the exercise of his talents, which, once again, would permit him, on a more equal footing than at present, to solicit a renewal of their betrothal. The Colonel was brief and decisive. He thanked Cussen for his frank and honourable conduct, assuring him that Alice, as well as himself, fully appreciated his motives; declared that for his daughter's sake, as well as his own, he was unwilling to relinquish the intended alliance with his preserver and friend; and liberally gave the kindest promises of such full and immediate assistance as would speedily relieve the estate from its encumbrances—should it indeed be thought expedient to retain it, the reversion of the invaluable Walton Hall property inalienably belonging to Alice.
Before, by the fulfilment of this promise, Cussen's brighter prospects could be realized, "the tenth wave of human misery swept" over his heart. There came a sad reverse. I am acquainted with all the details, but they are too melancholy to be related here. Let it be sufficient to say that Alice Walton and her father met with a sudden and tragic doom. By an accident, the origin of which was suspected, but never ascertained, their residence was consumed by fire—father and daughter perishing in the flames. The estate passed, in due course of law, to the next of kin, with whom Cussen had no acquaintance, and upon whom he had no claim. In due course of law, also, the mortgages on Cussen's own property were foreclosed. He was a ruined man.
The cup of misery overflowed. Very bitter did Cussen find the draught. Hopes blighted—the golden promise of his young manhood wholly destroyed—station utterly lost—Poverty with her feet upon his hearthstone—all that made the value of life swept away at once. Amid the maddening whirl of such contending emotions as this desolation caused, no wonder if even his strong mind and large frame boweAd beneath the shock.
Months passed by, and bodily health was in a measure restored. But the mind did not recover its elastic spring. Sunk in the torpor of despair, John Cussen was a broken man. Then came the reaction, after a time, and then he awoke to the sad reality of life. Better far had he continued unconscious or despairing. He might have been miserable, but he would have been unstained by guilt. Gradually, he found a Lethe for his sad thoughts, by passing "the Rubicon of the cup." At first, while this was being done in secret, the neighboring gentry made many efforts to arrange his affairs, liberate him from his more pressing pecuniary involvements, and give him the opportunity of realizing an adequate income by the practice of his profession. Each proffered kindness was rejected. He sat, another Timon, with his household gods shivered around him.
This could not long continue—for man cannot live without society. By degrees Cussen returned to the haunts and the companionship of man. Had he kept within the pale of his own class, perhaps all might still have been well. But a change had passed over and darkened his mind. He fancied that scorn sat upon the lip and glanced from the eye of every one more wealthy than himself, and thus Pride guided the arrow which Poverty barbed. He shunned the society of those to whom, in all save wealth, he had been equal, at the very least, and he found a consolation in the company of those who, remembering his birth (and in no place is that memory so well retained as in Ireland), would have considered him as their superior, even if, like them, he had to till the earth for a bare subsistence. Thus, by a slow but certain process of deterioration, John Cussen—once the pride of the order of fashion and wealth in his native country—gradually became the associate of the ignorant and excitable peasantry.
Mixing with these poor people,—then, as ever, dissatisfied with their condition, and eagerly anxiousA for any change which seemed to promise better days and brighter fortunes,—Cussen soon became thoroughly identified with their feelings. Hating oppression, believing that the peasantry were greatly wronged by absentee landlords, oppressive middlemen, and an exacting "Church as by law established," he allowed himself to be seduced into the secret and illegal association of the Whiteboys. The homage which they paid to his birth and education, gave him more satisfaction than, at first, he ventured to own, even to himself. His pride was soothed by finding himself yet looked up to by any class. The energy of his character returned (in part), and assuming strong and unquestioned command over the disaffected peasantry, he became one of their most powerful leaders. Quick in mental resources, superior in physical strength, his influence over his followers was very great. Entire obedience was yielded to his commands, and (as in the present instance, when he undertook to lead the attack upon Churchtown Barracks) his presence was deemed sufficient to insure the success of any enterprise, however daring. In all this, however, it is scarcely doubtful that John Cussen's actions were those of a man whose mind had lost its balance. Sorrow and suffering had touched his brain, and perhapsthiswas the vent which prevented actual insanity.
There was "method in his madness," however, for when he entered upon this wild and secret career, he took care that the movements which he personally guided should be remote from that part of the country in which he was best known. He strictly forbade any of his troops to indulge in drink, whenever their co-operation was required, and on all expeditions which he personally led (chiefly for the purpose of obtaining fire-arms from the houses of country gentlemen) he suited his attire to that of his companions, and so complete was the disguise, that none could recognize John Cussen as the dreaded Captain Rock, who scattered terror wherever he moved.
The remarkable fidelity which the Irish peasantry make it at once a matter of duty and pride to pay to their leaders against the law, was Cussen's chief protection. His secret was well kept. None of the gentry of the county had the slightest suspicion that Cussen, in whom many of them still professed to take an interest, was in any way mixed up—far less as a leader—with the Whiteboy movements which caused them so much alarm.
Such was John Cussen, whom we left leading a goodly company of Whiteboys to the attack on Churchtown Barracks, a military position of much strength and some importance.
The Whiteboys, and their leader, reached Churchtown Barracks about midnight. All was silent when they arrived, except the measured step of the sentinel. Darkness covered all things as with a pall. But Cussen knew every inch of the ground, and the darkness, instead of being an impediment, was rather auxiliary to his purpose. He posted his men in a favorable position, and, within ten minutes of their arrival, everything was ready, and every one fully instructed as to his particular line of action, and was prepared for the manner of the attack.
Churchtown Barracks, in the centre of a very disturbed district, had formerly been the residence of a private gentleman. When life and property had become insecure, afraid of the doom of Major Going, he had fled the country. Major Going, who had been not only agent to the great Courtenay estates (Lord Devon's), but also a magistrate, had made himself unpopular in both capacities. Hewouldhave the rent duly paid at the appointed day, and he sometimes went out of his way, from excess of zeal, to show his vigilance as a dispenser of justice, under the law. After many warnings, which only made him more exacting and more severe, he was assassinated. His successor, a gentleman named Hoskins, followed the same track—dignified by the name of "the path of duty,"—and shared the same doom. Not without warning, for, weeks before that doom was inflicted, he had heard even his own laborers chaunt the Whiteboy doggerel—