Chapter II: Part I: Fardorougha, the Miser (2)

A character such as this, among a people of generous and lively feeling like the Irish, is in every state of life the object of intense and undisguised abhorrence. It was with difficulty he could succeed in engaging servants, either for domestic or agricultural purposes, and, perhaps, no consideration, except the general kindness which was felt for his wife and son, would have induced any person whatsoever to enter into his employment. Honora and Connor did what in them lay to make the dependents of the family experience as little of Fardorougha's griping tyranny as possible. Yet, with all their kind-hearted ingenuity and secret bounty, they were scarcely able to render their situation barely tolerable.

It would be difficult to find any language, no matter what pen might wield it, capable of portraying the love which Honora Donovan bore to her gentle, her beautiful, and her only son. Ah! there in that last epithet, lay the charm which wrapped her soul in him, and in all that related to his welfare. The moment she saw it was not the will of God to bless them with other offspring, her heart gathered about him with a jealous tenderness which trembled into agony at the idea of his loss.

Her love for him, then, multiplied itself into many hues, for he was in truth the prism, on which, when it fell, all the varied beauty of its colors became visible. Her heart gave not forth the music of a single instrument, but breathed the concord of sweet sounds, as heard from the blended melody of many. Fearfully different from this were the feelings of Fardorougha, on finding that he was to be the first and the last vouchsafed to their union. A single regret, however, scarcely felt, touched even him, when he reflected that if Connor were to be removed from them, their hearth must become desolate. But then came the fictitious conscience, with its nefarious calculations, to prove that, in their present circumstances, the dispensation which withheld others was a blessing to him that was given. Even Connor himself, argued the miser, will be the gainer by it, for what would my five loaves and three fishes be among so many? The pleasure, however, that is derived from the violation of natural affection is never either full or satisfactory. The gratification felt by Fardorougha, upon reflecting that no further addition was to be made to their family, resembled that which a hungry man feels who dreams he is partaking of a luxurious banquet. Avarice, it is true, like fancy, was gratified, but the enjoyment, though rich to that particular passion, left behind it a sense of unconscious remorse, which gnawed his heart with a slow and heavy pain, that operated like a smothered fire, wasting what it preys upon, in secrecy and darkness. In plainer terms, he was not happy, but so absorbed in the ruling passion--the pursuit of wealth--that he felt afraid to analyze his anxiety, or to trace to its true source the cause of his own misery.

In the mean time, his boy grew up the pride and ornament of the parish, idolized by his mother, and beloved by all who knew him. Limited and scanty was the education which his father could be prevailed upon to bestow upon him; but there was nothing that could deprive him of his natural good sense, nor of the affections which his mother's love had drawn out and cultivated. One thing was remarkable in him, which we mention with reluctance, as it places his father's character in a frightful point of view; it is this, that his love for that father was such as is rarely witnessed, even in the purest and most affectionate circles of domestic life. But let not our readers infer, either from what we have written, or from any thing we may write, that Fardorougha hated this lovely and delightful boy; on the contrary, earth contained not an object, except his money, which he loved so well. His affection for him, however, was only such as could proceed from the dregs of a defiled and perverted heart. This is not saying much, but it is saying all. What in him was parental attachment, would in another man, to such a son, be unfeeling and detestable indifference. His heart sank on contemplating the pittance he allowed for Connor's education; and no remonstrance could prevail on him to clothe the boy with common decency. Pocket-money was out of the question, as were all those considerate indulgences to youth, that blunt, when timely afforded, the edge of early anxiety to know those amusements of life, which, if not innocently gratified before passion gets strong, are apt to produce, at a later period, that giddy intoxication, which has been the destruction of thousands. When Connor, however, grew up, and began to think for himself, he could not help feeling that, from a man so absolutely devoted to wealth as his father was, to receive even the slenderest proof of affection, was in this case no common manifestation of the attachment he bore him. There was still a higher and nobler motive. He could not close his ears to the character which had gone abroad of his father, and from that principle of generosity, which induces a man, even when ignorant of the quarrel, to take the weaker side, he fought his battles, until, in the end, he began to believe them just. But the most obvious cause of the son's attachment we have not mentioned, and it is useless to travel into vain disquisitions, for that truth which may be found in the instinctive impulses of nature. He was Connor's father, and though penurious in everything that regarded even his son's common comfort, he had never uttered a harsh word to him during his life, or denied him any gratification which could be had without money. Nay, a kind word, or a kind glance, from Fardorougha, fired the son's resentment against the world which traduced him; for how could it be otherwise, when the habitual defence made by him, when arraigned for his penury, was an anxiety to provide for the future welfare and independence of his son?

Many characters in life appear difficult to be understood, but if those who wish to analyze them only consulted human nature, instead of rushing into far-fetched theories, and traced with patience the effect which interest, or habit, or inclination is apt to produce on men of a peculiar temperament, when placed in certain situations, there would be much less difficulty in avoiding those preposterous exhibitions which run into caricature, or outrage the wildest combinations that can be formed from the common elements of humanity.

Having said this much, we will beg our readers to suppose that young Connor is now twenty-two years of age, and request them, besides, to prepare for the gloom which is about to overshadow our story.

We have already stated that Fardorougha was not only an extortioner, but a usurer. Now, as some of our readers may be surprised that a man in his station of life could practise usury or even extortion to any considerable extent, we feel it necessary to inform them that there exists among Irish farmers a class of men who stand, with respect to the surrounding poor and improvident, in a position precisely analogous to that which is occupied by a Jew or moneylender among those in the higher classes who borrow, and are extravagant upon a larger scale. If, for instance, a struggling small farmer have to do with a needy landlord or an unfeeling agent, who threatens to seize or eject, if the rent be not paid to the day, perhaps this small farmer is forced to borrow from one of those rustic Jews the full amount of the gale; for this he gives him, at a valuation dictated by the lender's avarice and his own distress, the oats, or potatoes, or hay, which he is not able to dispose of in sufficient time to meet the demand that is upon him. This property, the miser draws home, and stacks or houses it until the markets are high, when he disposes of it at a price which often secures for him a profit amounting to one-third, and occasionally one-half, above the sum lent, upon which, in the meantime, interest is accumulating. For instance, if the accommodation be twenty pounds, property to that amount at a ruinous valuation is brought home by the accommodator. This perhaps sells for thirty, thirty-five, or forty pounds, so that, deducting the labor of preparing it for market, there is a gain of fifty, seventy-five, or a hundred per cent. besides, probably, ten per cent, interest, which is altogether distinct from the former. This class of persons will also take a joint bond, or joint promissory note, or, in fact, any collateral security they know to be valid, and if the contract be not fulfilled, they immediately pounce upon the guarantee. They will, in fact, as a mark of their anxiety to assist a neighbor in distress, receive a pig from a widow, or a cow from a struggling small farmer, at thirty or forty per cent, beneath its value, and claim the merit of being a friend into the bargain. Such men are bitter enemies to paper money, especially to notes issued by private bankers, which they never take in payment. It is amusing, if a person could forget the distress which occasions the scene, to observe one of these men producing an old stocking, or a long black leathern purse--or a calf-skin pocket-book with the hair on, and counting down, as if he gave out his heart's blood drop by drop, the specific sum, uttering, at the same time, a most lugubrious history of his own poverty, and assuring the poor wretch he is fleecing, that if he (the miser) gives way to his good nature, he must ultimately become the victim of his own benevolence. In no case, however, do they ever put more in the purse or stocking than is just then wanted, and sometimes they will be short a guinea or ten shillings, which they borrow from a neighbor, or remit to the unfortunate dupe in the course of the day. This they do in order to enhance the obligation, and give a distinct proof of their poverty. Let not, therefore, the gentlemen of the Minories, nor our P------s and our M------s nearer home, imagine for a moment that they engross the spirit of rapacity and extortion to themselves. To the credit of the class, however, to which they belong, such persons are not so numerous as formerly, and to the still greater honor of the peasantry be it said, the devil himself is not hated with half the detestation which is borne them. In order that the reader may understand our motive for introducing such a description as that we have now given, it will be necessary for us to request him to accompany a stout, well-set young man, named Bartle Flanagan, along a green ditch, which, planted with osiers, leads to a small meadow belonging to Fardorougha Donovan. In this meadow, his son Connor is now making hay, and on seeing Flanagan approach, he rests upon the top of his rake, and exclaims in a soliloquy:--

“God help you and yours, Bartle! If it was in my power, I take God to witness, I'd make up wid a willin' heart for all the hardship and misfortune my father brought upon you all.”

He then resumed his labor, in order that the meeting between him and Bartle might take place with less embarrassment, for he saw at once that the former was about to speak to him.

“Isn't the weather too hot, Connor, to work bareheaded? I think you ought to keep on your hat.”

“Bartle, how are you?--off or on, it's the same thing; hat or no hat, it's broilin' weather, the Lord be praised! What news, Bartle?”

“Not much, Connor, but what you know--a family that was strugglin', but honest, brought to dissolation. We're broken up; my father and mother's both livin' in a cabin they tuck from Billy Nuthy; Mary and Alick's gone to sarvice, and myself's just on my way to hire wid the last man I ought to go to--your father, that is, supposin' we can agree.”

“As heaven's above me, Bartle, there's not a man in the county this day sorrier for what has happened than myself! But the truth is, that when my father heard of Tom Grehan, that was your security, havin' gone to America, he thought every day a month till the note was due. My mother an' I did all we could, but you know his temper; 'twas no use. God knows, as I said before, I'm heart sorry for it.”

“Every one knows, Connor, that if your mother an' you had your way an' will, your father wouldn't be sich a screw as he is.”

“In the meantime, don't forget that he is my father, Bartle, an' above all things, remimber that I'll allow no man to speak disparagingly of him in my presence.”

“I believe you'll allow, Connor, that he was a scourge an' a curse to us, an' that none of us ought to like a bone in his skin.”

“It couldn't be expected you would, Bartle; but you must grant, after all, that he was only recoverin' his own. Still, when you know what my feeling is upon the business, I don't think it's generous in you to bring it up between us.”

“I could bear his harrishin' us out of house an' home,” proceeded the other, “only for one thought that still crasses in an me.”

“What is that, Bartle?--God knows I can't help feelin' for you,” he added, smote with the desolation which his father had brought upon the family.

“He lent us forty pounds,” proceeded the young man; “and when he found that Tom Grehan, our security, went to America, he came down upon us the minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned us to starve upon the world; now, I could bear that, but there's one thing----”

“That's twice you spoke about that one thing,” said Connor, somewhat sharply, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing a subject so distressing to him; “but,” he continued, in a milder tone, “tell me, Bartle, for goodness' sake, what it is, an' let us put an' end to the discoorse. I'm sure it must be unpleasant to both of us.”

“It doesn't signify,” replied the young man, in a desponding voice--“she's gone; it's all over wid me there; I'm a beggar--I'm a beggar!”

“Bartle,” said Connor, taking his hand, “you're too much downhearted; come to us, but first go to my father; I know you'll find it hard to deal with him. Never mind that; whatever he offers you, close wid him, an' take my word for it that my mother and I between us will make you up dacent wages; an' sorry I am that it's come to this wid you, poor fellow!”

Bartle's cheek grew pale as ashes; he wrung Connor's hand with all his force, and fixed an unshrinking eye on him as he replied--

“Thank you Connor, now--but I hope I'll live to thank you better yet, and if I do, you needn't thank me for any return I may make you or yours. I will close wid your father, an' take whatsomever he'll order me; for, Connor,” and he wrung his hand again--“Connor O'Donovan, I haven't a house or home this day, nor a place under God's canopy where to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father's naked cabin. Think of that, Connor, an' think if I can forget it; still,” he added, “you'll see, Connor--Connor, you'll see how I'll forgive it.”

“It's a credit to yourself to spake as you do,” replied Connor; “call this way, an' let me know what's done, an' I hope, Bartle, you an' I will have some pleasant days together.”

“Ay, an' pleasant nights, too, I hope,” replied the other: “to be sure I'll call; but if you take my advice, you'd tie a handkerchy about your head; it's mad hot, an' enough to give one a fever bareheaded.”

Having made this last observation, he loaped across a small drain that bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Fardorougha's house.

Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of a remarkably compact and athletic form. His complexion was dark, but his countenance open, and his features well set and regular. Indeed his whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing. If he ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the influence of resentment, during which his face became pale as death, nay, almost livid; and, as his brows were strong and black, the contrast between them and his complexion changed the whole expression of his countenance into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid. He was not quarrelsome, however, nor subject to any impetuous bursts of passion; his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or, at all events, so well regulated that his acquaintances looked upon him as a young fellow of a good-humored and friendly disposition. It is true, a hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found deficient in courage; but, as the circumstances referred to were rather unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous grounds, than to positive cowardice. Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the humble drama of our story.

On arriving at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner, upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few moments before returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from the ruin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so oppressively injured. The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of justice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.

When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word. The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down.

“Sit down, Bartle,” said she, “sit down, boy; an' how is all the family?”

“'Deed, can't complain,” replied Bartle, “as time goes; an' how are you, Fardorougha? although I needn't ax--you re takin' care of number one, any how.”

“I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't do it; but I'm a fool, an' ever was--sarvin' others an' ruinin' myself.”

“Bartle,” said Mrs. Donovan, “are you unwell, dear? you look as pale as death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk.”

“If he's weak,” said Fardorougha, “an' he looks weak, a drink of fresh wather 'ud be betther for him; ever an' always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner.”

“Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm obliged to you, Fardorougha, for the wather; but I'm not a bit weak; it's only the heat o' the day ails me--for sure enough it's broilin' weather.”

“'Deed it is,” replied Honora, “kill in' weather to them that has to be out undher it.”

“If it's good for nothin' else, it's good for, the hay--makin',” observed Fardorougha.

“I'm tould, Misther Donovan,” said Bartle, “that' you want a sarvint man: now, if you do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to look for one.”

“Heaven above, Bartle!” exclaimed Honora, “what do you mean? Is it one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice?”

“Not one, but all of them,” replied the other, coolly, “an' his daughters, too, Mrs. Donovan; but it's all the way o! the world. If Mr. Donovan 'll hire me I'll thank him.”

“Don't be Mistherin' me, Bartle; Misther them that has means an' substance,” returned Donovan.

“Oh, God forgive you, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his honest and humane wife. “God forgive you! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart, I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this, Fardorougha, you've brought them--Oh, Saviour o' the world!”

She fixed her eyes upon the victim of her husband's extortion, and in an instant they were filled with tears.

“What did I do,” said the latter, “but strive to recover my own? How could I afford to lose forty pounds? An' I was tould for sartin that your father knew Grehan was goin' to Ameriky when he got him to go security. Whisht, Honora, you're as foolish a woman as riz this day; haven't you your sins to cry for?”

“God knows I have, Fardorougha, an' more than my own to cry for.”

“I dare say you did hear as much,” said Bartle, quietly replying to the observation of Fardorougha respecting his father; “but you know it's a folly to talk about spilt milk. If you want a sarvint I'll hire; for, as I said a while ago, I want a place, an' except wid you I don't know where to get one.”

“If you come to me,” observed the other, “you must go to your duty, an' observe the fast days, but not the holydays.”

“Sarvints isn't obliged to obsarve them,” replied Bartle.

“But I always put it in the bargain,” returned the other.

“As to that,” said Bartle, “I don't much mind it. Sure it'll be for the good o' my sowl, any way. But what wages will you be givin'?”

“Thirty shillings every half year;--that's three pounds--sixty shillings a year. A great deal o' money. I'm sure I dunna where it's to come from.”

“It's very little for a year's hard labor,” replied Bartle, “but little as it is, Fardorougha, owin' to what has happened betwixt us, believe me, I'm right glad to take it.”

“Well, but Bartle, you know there's fifteen shillins of the ould account still due, and you must allow it out o' your wages; if you don't, it's no bargain.”

Bartle's face became livid; but he was perfectly cool;--indeed, so much so that he smiled at this last condition of Fardorougha. It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret workings of some deadly passion on the countenance, its purport could not have been mistaken.

“God knows, Fardorougha, you might let that pass--considher that you've been hard enough upon us.”

“God knows I say the same,” observed Honora. “Is it the last drop o' the heart's blood you want to squeeze out, Fardorougha?”

“The last drop! What is it but my right? Am I robbin' him? Isn't it due? Will he, or can he deny that? An' if it's due isn't it but honest in him to pay it? They're not livin' can say I ever defrauded them of a penny. I never broke a bargain; an' yet you open on me, Honora, as if I was a rogue! If I hadn't that boy below to provide for, an' settle in the world, what 'ud I care about money? It's for his sake I look afther my right.”

“I'll allow the money,” said Bartle. “Fardorougha's right; it's due, an' I'll pay him--ay will I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it if you like.”

“I wouldn't take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt. Them that's decent enough to make a present, may--for that's a horse of another color.”

“When will I come home?” inquired Bartle.

“You may stay at home now that you're here,” said the other. “An' in the mane time, go an' help Connor put that hay in lap-cocks. Anything you want to bring here you can bring afther your day's work tonight.”

“Did you ate your dinner, Bartle?” said Honora; “bekase if you didn't I'll get you something.”

“It's not to this time o' day he'd be without his dinner, I suppose,” observed his new master.

“You're very right, Fardorougha,” rejoined Bartle; “I'm thankful to you, ma'am, I did ate my dinner.”

“Well, you'll get a rake in the barn, Bartle,” said his master; “an' now tramp down to Connor, an' I'll see how you'll handle yourselves, both o' you, from this till night.”

Bartle accordingly--proceeded towards the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his custom, throwing his great coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of him, proceeded to another part of his farm.

Flanagan's step, on his way to join Connor, was slow and meditative. The kindness of the son and mother touched him; for the line between their disposition and Fardorougha's was too strong and clear to allow the slightest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life. The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose from a wish to settle his son independently in life; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apology for extortion. He took it for granted that Fardorougha spoke truth, and his resolution received a bias from the impression, which, however, his better nature determined to subdue. In this uncertain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fardorougha had taken, and as he observed his diminutive figure creeping along with his great coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up their hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and deadly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unexpectedly upon the brink of a precipice.

Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them; and the excellent young man's heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flanagan to seek for service with the very individual who had occasioned it.

“I see, Bartle,” said he, “you have agreed.”

“We have,” replied Bartle. “But if there had been any other place to be got in the parish--(an' indeed only for the state I'm in)--I wouldn't have hired myself to him for nothing, or next to nothing, as I have done.”

“Why, what did he promise?”

“Three pounds a year, an' out o' that I'm to pay him fifteen shillings that my father owes him still.”

“Close enough, Bartle, but don't be cast down; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it--an' as for the fifteen shillings I'll pay them out o' my own pocket--when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that, we'll do what I promise, go as it may.”

“It's more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets.”

“I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin' that's in my mother's heart; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word from him yet. An' if he kept me stinted in many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I can't but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may.”

This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion. His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color--it was not pale.

“I am sorry, Connor,” said he slowly, “I am sorry that I hired with your father.”

“An' I'm glad of it,” replied the other; “why should you be sorry?”

Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him.

“Why should you be sorry, Bartle?”

Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. “What's that?” said he at length. “What were you asking me?”

“You said you were sorry.”

“Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn' mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was--of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.”

“You'll be my friend if you do,” said Connor.

“I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?”

O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,

“Why, I don't know; I believe I might, once or so.”

“I _am_,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I _am_ Connor.”

“An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us?”

“No,” returned the other; “but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”----he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.”

“An' is the girl fond o' you?”

“I don't know; my mind was made up to tell her but it's past that now; I know she's wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family.”

“How do you know she's proud when you never put the subject to her?”

“I'm not sayin' she's proud, in one sinse; wid respect to herself, I believe; she's humble enough; I mane, she doesn't give herself many airs, but her people's as proud as the very sarra, an' never match below them; still, if I'd opportunities of bain' often in her company, I'd not fear to trust to a sweet tongue for comin' round her.”

“Never despair, Bartle,” said Connor; “you know the ould proverb, 'a faintheart;' however, settin' the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves--you to that side, an' me to this--we'd get this hay lapped in half the time; or do you take which side you plase.”

“It's a bargain,” said Bartle; “I don't care a trawneen; I'll stay where I am, thin, an' do you go beyant; let us hurry, too, for, if I'm not mistaken, it's too sultry to be long without rain, the sky, too, is gettin' dark.”

“I observed as much myself,” said Connor; “an' that was what made me spake.”

Both then continued their labor with redoubled energy, nor ceased for a moment until the task was executed, and the business of the day concluded.

Flanagan's observation was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appearance of the sky. From the hour of five o'clock the darkness gradually deepened, until a dead black shadow, fearfully still and solemn, wrapped the whole horizon. The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one unbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a single pile of clouds. The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs; the larks fled from the mid-heaven; and occasionally might be seen a straggling bee hurrying homewards, careless of the flowers which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him. The stillness indeed was awful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt. In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembling the pall of death, there is neither mirth nor laughter, but that individuality of apprehension, which, whilst it throws the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, yet draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safeguard against danger.

The conversation between the two young men as they returned from their labor, was short but expressive.

“Bartle,” said Connor, “are you afeard of thundher? The rason I ask,” he added, “is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet.”

“I have it from my mother,” replied Flanagan, “but at all evints such an evenin' as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake.”

I'll feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I'm not afraid. It's well for them that have a clear conscience; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God--”

“An' the thundher His voice,” added Bartle; “but why are the brute bastes an' the birds afraid, that commit no sin?”

“That's true,” said his companion; “it must be natural to be afraid, or why would they indeed?--but some people are naturally more timersome than others.”

“I intinded to go home for my other clo'es an' linen this evenin',” observed Bartle, “but I won't go out to-night.”

“I must thin,” said Connor; “an, with the blessin' o' God, will too; come what may.”

“Why, what is there to bring you out, if it's a fair question to ax?” inquired the other.

“A promise, for one thing; an' my own inclination--my own heart--that's nearer the thruth--for another. It's the first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had.”

“_Thigham, Thighum_, I undherstand,” said Flanagan; “well, I'll stay at home; but, sure it's no harm to wish you success--an' that, Connor, is more than I'll ever have where I wish for it most.”

This closed their dialogue, and both entered Fardorougha's house in silence.

Up until twilight, the darkness of the dull and heavy sky was unbroken; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose color could not be determined as that of blood or fire. By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration. Connor observed it, and very correctly anticipated the nature and consequences of its appearance; but what will not youthful love dare and overcome? With an undismayed heart he set forward on his journey, which we leave him to pursue, and beg permission, meanwhile, to transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towards the--inland part of the country.