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rolling him up and down before giving him up to justice. Afther which they all set to, and pulled him out-the dirty spalpeen, who disgraced his family by horsestealin', and then came to impose upon honest people; when they, in their innocence, believed that he was one of the boys who had helped to send a bullet through the model landlord's head—the trayter!”
The O'Neile and Lionel had approached during the latter part of the story. The latter, horrified at what he had just heard, turned to his uncle, and said
“Am I to understand, Sir, that in Ireland murder is treated as such a venial offence ? What can justify such an atrocity? In my country, such things are not allowed, I am happy to say."
“Hush, man!' speak under your breath if those are your sentiments; we may be heard. There is only this difference, my boy—that where your Englishman murders for money, an Irishman murders out of patriotism; his principles require this of him, and he can't go against them. A man has no right to have his home knocked down over his very head, and that for the mere caprice of a model-landlord agent. I am proud to say it is the only thing for which they murder a man in Ireland. Sure you never hear of the robberies, poisonings, and immoralities in this country, that take place in England and elsewhere. Here a man thinks if he is to be hanged, let it be for reform. Why, it is only within the last few years that they have ceased to execute a fellow for taking what did not belong to him; theft and murder met with the same punishment. Ah! those were terrible times—terrible times !”
“But, uncle, how is a man to defend his person and property from such injustice as we have now listened to ?"
“Simply by altering the institutions of the country, which the people hold in detestation.”
“And why, uncle ? only because they wish to make
their own laws ? and that, in my opinion, would be any thing but lawful.”
"You're mistaken there, Lionel. Give them constant employment, regular wages, and manufactures to work in; in fact, give them any honest occupation for which they will be well paid, and you will find them both willing and able to work with the best. You know that an Irishman, in any country but his own, always becomes hard-working, persevering, and prosperous. And why is it so ? you will ask. Because he finds a new field for his labour, competition to urge him forward in the race, and reward for his work; whereas, in his own unfortunate country, things remain stagnant and neglected, although Ireland is particularly an agricultural country. And this is not the case with the working classes alone; look higher, and you will see that an Irishman, if he wishes to make a career and a home, must look for it in Spain or America; for his own land has little to offer him except rebellion, oppression, and penal servitude for political offences, which, as a trueborn Irishman and a patriot, he cannot very well avoid.”
The O'Neile now thought it high time to withdraw with Lionel and his other guests, as he remarked the Argus' eyes that were riveted upon them both, as they stood apart conversing in low confidential tones. They joined the gentlemen, who were also upon the point of leaving the merry scene, whose votaries be. trayed such careless indifference as to what the morrow might have in store for them: with them the proverb was truly verified—“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
They all seemed to have few regrets, which chiefly arose from the reckless, indolent let-every-thing-takecare-of-itself manner so peculiar to the Irish character -ever ready to please, and be pleased. The only time Paddy showed any contrariety of feeling and activity of mind was when any one appealed to his patriotism ; then all the powers, all the energies of his being were aroused, and he would run through fire and water to prove his loyalty and devotedness to his country. Spite of all their tatters, there was no denying but that they were a fine, handsome, wellgrown race.
“ The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint
The visitors had taken their departure, and the family once more returned to the parlour. The O'Neile, taking the key from his pocket and unlocking the door, was the first to enter, candle in hand, when, to his astonishment, he found Geraldine stretched apparently lifeless upon the sofa. As he looked upon her inanimate form, his heart reproached him for the harsh measures he had taken against her; but he was puzzled to know what could have caused her present state. She was not subject to fainting fits; indeed, it was the first time he had ever seen her in one.
Catherine was eagerly sought for, but at first without success. When she made her
appearance, she hastened to render assistance to her cousin, and begged of those present to help her in carrying Geraldine upstairs to her room, where she could be placed upon the bed. The O'Neile carried her himself, followed by the girls and Otway, who was trying to hide the tears, which, in spite of all his endeavours, would force themselves down his face. Geraldine was his favourite sister; perhaps it was her beauty and grace that attracted him more towards her, than to the homely Mary or to the dignified Catherine. He had a great, almost a strange, passionate love for everything beautiful, both in nature and art. When a very little fellow, he would content himself with gazing at a brilliant flower, face, or picture, which in themselves were lovely; but he had an insurmountable dislike, not to say repugnance, to whatever was unseemly to the sight. Once, when scarcely more than three years of age, he happened to be standing at an open window with his nurse. An ugly old beggar suddenly appearing before him, sent him into strong convulsions; and for days afterwards he fancied he saw the figure that had so disturbed his imagination: From that time, whenever chance of accident brought any unsightly object before him, he was known to shut his eyes till it had passed out of his sight, when he would rush to Geraldine, and, looking up into her face, say—“Diny, look at Otty, and make a very bad face;" as if, upon this childish principle, he thought to convert beauty for the moment into ugliness, he would then exclaim with an approving smile—“Otty don't care when Diny's ugly."
His father, and Catherine in particular, tried to obliterate such a dangerous susceptibility from his young and impressionable mind, and they had to some extent, though not wholly, succeeded in doing so. She would often take him with her in some of her rambles to the neighbouring cabins, and then show him many an object of compassion, upon whose misshapen body and distorted face deformity and disease had set their seal; and when her little cousin turned away from them with disgust or fear, she would draw him to her, in gentle, solemn tones telling him that—“God, who had made him, had also made that poor little child so ugly; and perhaps loved him better than he did Otway, or cared for him just as much. That all things created by God were in His sight lovely—who saw them with pure eyes,—when to us they often seem repelling, because of our sinful hearts, which judge them through our eyes; and that as in heaven they would all be beautiful and bright, he must never forget this, whenever he should see an ugly, disgusting human creature.” This seemed rather paradoxical to Otway's little brain, and it often occurred to him, when gazing upon his own lovely sister Geraldine; and he wondered if God loved her less than Mary, or any other unpretending individual.
Such efforts as these upon Catherine's part to reason him out of his dislike and fear of ugliness, lessened his abhorrence of such, without weakening his admiration for the beautiful. One, indeed, would have imagined that his mother, before his birth, like the Pompeian women of old, had been surrounded by those beautiful productions of art, many of which still remain to us, in order that all her ideas and impressions might be moulded by them, and that they mght happily trans. mit themselves to the infant's mind.
The poor little boy, as he now looked upon the pale face of Geraldine, remembered how unkind he had been to her, and his heart smote him for it; he cried bitterly, calling fondly upon her name as he did so. Restoratives were applied, at first with little success, but gradually her breath came; she slowly opened her eyes and looked about her in a vacant manner; then, as she recognised her father, shut them quickly again, and sighing, said, in an entreating tone-"Don't! oh don't let it come near me !"
What does all this mean, Geraldine?” said her father, “ and what drove you out of your senses ? come, be reasonable, and don't speak in that babyish way, just like a child that one was going to threaten with a bogyman.
This rough manner of addressing her had the desired effect, for she immediately sat up, and began to relate