murmurings of discontent swell into the louderlanguage of menace; and evils, over which no protective power of humanorigin could avail, are ascribed to that class, who, forgetful of onegreat duty, are now accused of causing every calamity. If not presentto exercise the duties their position demands, their absence exaggeratesevery accusation against them; and from the very men, too, who have, bythe fact of their desertion, succeeded in obtaining the influence thatshould be theirs.
Owen felt this desertion sorely. Had Mr. Leslie been at home, he wouldat once have had recourse to him. Mr. French, the agent, lived on theproperty--but Mr. French was "a hard man," and never liked the Connors;indeed, he never forgave them for not relinquishing the mountain-farmthey held, in exchange for another he offered them, as he was anxiousto preserve the mountain for his own shooting. At the time we speak of,intemperance was an Irish vice, and one which prevailed largely. Whiskyentered into every circumstance and relation of life. It cementedfriendships and ratified contracts; it celebrated the birth of thenewly-born, it consoled the weeping relatives over the grave ofthe departed; it was a welcome and a bond of kindness, and, as thestirrup-cup, was the last pledge at parting. Men commemorated theirprosperity by drink, and none dared to face gloomy fortune without it.Owen Connor had recourse to it, as to a friend that never betrayed. Theeasy circumstances, in comparison with many others, he enjoyed, left himboth means and leisure for such a course; and few days passed withouthis paying a visit to the "shebeen-house" of the village. If the old mannoticed this new habit, his old prejudices were too strong to make himprompt in condemning it. Indeed, he rather regarded it as a naturalconsequence of their bettered fortune, that Owen should frequent theseplaces; and as he never returned actually drunk, and always brought backwith him the current rumours of the day, as gathered from newspapers andpassing gossip, his father relied on such scraps of information for hisevening's amusement over the fire.
It was somewhat later than usual that Owen was returning home one night,and the old man, anxious and uneasy at his absence, had wandered partof the way to meet him, when he saw him coming slowly forward, with thatheavy weariness of step, deep grief and pre-occupation inspire. Whenthe young man had come within speaking distance of his father, he haltedsuddenly, and looking up at him, exclaimed, "There's sorrowful news forye to-night, father!"
"I knew it! I knew it well!" said the old man, as he clasped his handsbefore him, and seemed preparing himself to bear the shock with courage."I had a dhrame of it last night; and 'tis death, wherever it is."
"You're right there. The master's dead!"
Not another word was spoken by either, as side by side they slowlyascended the mountain-path. It was only when seated at the fire-side,that Owen regained sufficient collectedness to detail the particulars hehad learned in the village. Mr. Leslie had died of the cholera atParis. The malady had just broken out in that city, and he was among itsearliest victims. The terrors which that dreadful pestilence inspired,reached every remote part of Europe, and at last, with all theaggravated horrors of its devastating career, swept across Ireland. Thesame letter which brought the tidings of Mr. Leslie's death, was thefirst intelligence of the plague. A scourge so awful needed not thefears of the ignorant to exaggerate its terrors; yet men seemed to viewith each other in their dreadful conjectures regarding it.
All the sad interest the landlord's sudden death would have occasionedunder other circumstances was merged in the fearful malady of which hedied. Men heard with almost apathy of the events that were announced aslikely to succeed, in the management of the property; and only listenedwith eagerness if the pestilence were mentioned. Already its arrival inEngland was declared; and the last lingering hope of the devotee was,that the holy island of St. Patrick might escape its ravages. Few caredto hear what a few weeks back had been welcome news--that the old agentwas to be dismissed, and a new one appointed. The speculations whichonce would have been rife enough, were now silent. There was but oneterrible topic in every heart and on every tongue--the Cholera.
The inhabitants of great cities, with wide sources of informationavailable, and free conversation with each other, can scarcely estimatethe additional degree of terror the prospect of a dreadful epidemicinspires among the dwellers in unfrequented rural districts. The cloud,not bigger than a man's hand at first, gradually expands itself, untilthe whole surface of earth is darkened by its shadow. The business oflife stands still; the care for the morrow is lost; the pronenessto indulge in the gloomiest anticipations common calamity invariablysuggests, heightens the real evil, and disease finds its victims morethan doomed at its first approach. In this state of agonising suspense,when rumours arose to be contradicted, reasserted, and again disproved,came the tidings that the Cholera was in Dublin. The same week it hadbroken out in many other places; at last the report went, that a poorman, who had gone into the market of Galway to sell his turf, was founddead on the steps of the chapel. Then, followed the whole array ofprecautionary measures, and advices, and boards of health. Then, itwas announced that the plague was raging fearfully--the hospitalscrowded--death in every street.
Terrible and appalling as these tidings were, the fearful fact neverrealised itself in the little district we speak of, until a deathoccurred in the town close by. He was a shopkeeper in Oughterarde, andknown to the whole neighbourhood. This solitary instance brought withit more of dreadful meaning than all the shock of distant calamity. Theheart-rending wail of those who listened to the news smote many morewith the cold tremour of coming death. Another case soon followed, athird, and a fourth succeeded, all fatal; and the disease was amongthem.
It is only when a malady, generally fatal, is associated with theterrors of contagion, that the measure of horror and dread flows over.When the sympathy which suffering sickness calls for is yielded in aspirit of almost despair, and the ministerings to the dying are butthe prelude to the same state, then indeed death is armed with all histerrors. No people are more remarkable for the charities of the sick-bedthan the poor Irish. It is with them less a sentiment than a religiousinstinct; and though they watched the course of the pestilence, and sawfew, if any, escape death who took it, their devotion never failed them.They practised, with such skill as they possessed, every remedy in turn.They, who trembled but an hour before at the word when spoken, faced thedanger itself with a bold heart; and, while the insidious signs of thedisease were already upon them--while their wearied limbs and clammyhands bespoke that their own hour was come, they did not desist fromtheir good offices, until past the power to render them.
It was spring-time, the season more than usually mild, the prospects ofthe year were already favourable, and all the signs of abundance rifein the land. What a contrast the scene without to that presented bythe interior of each dwelling! There, death and dismay were met with atevery step. The old man and the infant prostrated by the samestroke; the strong and vigorous youth who went forth to labour in themorning--at noon, a feeble, broken-spirited creature--at sunset, acorpse.
As the minds and temperaments of men were fashioned, so did fear operateupon them. Some, it made reckless and desperate, careless of what shouldhappen, and indifferent to every measure of precaution; some, becameparalysed with fear, and seemed unable to make an effort for safety,were it even attainable; others, exaggerating every care and caution,lived a life of unceasing terror and anxiety; while a few--they wereunfortunately a very few--summoned courage to meet the danger in aspirit of calm and resolute determination; while in their reformedhabits it might be seen how thoroughly they felt that their own hourmight be a brief one. Among these was Owen Connor. From the day themalady appeared in the neighbourhood, he never entered the public-houseof the village, but, devoting himself to the work of kindness theemergency called for, went from cabin to cabin rendering every servicein his power. The poorest depended on him for the supply of such littlecomforts as they possessed, for at every market-day he sold a sheep ora lamb to provide them; the better-off looked to him for advice andcounsel, following his directions as implicitl
y as though he were aphysician of great skill. All recognised his devotedness in their cause,and his very name was a talisman for courage in every humble cabinaround. His little ass-cart, the only wheeled vehicle that ever ascendedthe mountain where he lived, was seen each morning moving from door todoor, while Owen brought either some small purchase he was commissionedto make at Oughterarde, or left with the more humble some offering ofhis own benevolence.
"There's the salt ye bid me buy, Mary Cooney; and here's fourpence outof it,--do ye all be well, still?"
"We are, and thank ye, Owen." "The Lord keep ye so!" "How's Ned Daly?""He's off, Owen dear; his brother James is making the coffin; poor boy,he looks very weak himself this morning."
The cart moved on, and at length stopped at a small hovel built againstthe side of a clay ditch. It was a
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