To a person capable of observing only human action, independently of the motives by which it is regulated, it may appear that the day which saw Connor O’Donovan consigned to a premature and shameful death, was one of unmingled happiness to Bartle Flanagan.  They know little of man’s heart, however, who could suppose this to be the case, or, who could even imagine that he was happier than those on whom his revenge and perfidy had entailed such a crushing load of misery.  It is, indeed, impossible to guess what the nature of that feeling must be which arises from the full gratification of mean and diabolic malignity.  Every action of the heart at variance with virtue and truth is forced to keep up so many minute and fearful precautions, all of which are felt to be of vast moment at the time, that we question if ever the greatest glut of vengeance produced, no matter what the occasion may have been, any satisfaction capable of counterbalancing all the contigencies and apprehensions by which the mind is distracted both before and after its preparation.  The plan and accomplishment must both be perfect in all their parts—­for if either fail only in a single point, all is lost, and the pleasure arising from them resembles the fruit which is said to grow by the banks of the Dead Sea—­it is beautiful and tempting to the eye, but bitterness and ashes to the taste.

The failing of the county treasurer, for instance, deprived Bartle Flanagan of more than one half his revenge.  He was certainly far more anxious to punish the father than the son, and were it not that he saw no other mode of effecting his vengeance on Fardorougha, than by destroying the only object on earth that he loved next to his wealth, he would have never made the innocent pay the penalty of the guilty.  As he had gone so far, however, self-preservation now made him anxious that Connor should die; as he knew his death would remove out of his way the only person in existence absolutely acquainted with his villany.  One would think, indeed, that the sentence pronounced upon his victim ought to have satisfied him on that head.  This, however, it failed to do.  That sentence contained one clause, which utterly destroyed the completeness of his design, and filled his soul with a secret apprehension either of just retribution, or some future ill which he could not shake off, and for which the reward received for Connor’s apprehension was but an ineffectual antidote.  The clause alluded to in the judge’s charge, viz.—­“the recommendation of the jury to the mercy of the Crown, in consideration of your youth, and previous good conduct, shall not be overlooked”—­sounded in his ears like some mysterious sentence that involved his own fate, and literally filled his heart with terror and dismay.  Independently of all this his villanous projects had involved him in a systematic course of guilt, which was yet far from being brought to a close.  In fact, he now found by experience how difficult it is to work out a bad action with success, and how the means, and plans, and instruments necessary to it must multiply and become so deep and complicated in guilt, that scarcely any single intellect, in the case of a person who can be reached by the laws, is equal to the task of executing a great crime against society, in a perfect manner.  If this were so, discovery would be impossible, and revenge certain.