There were other groups farther down in the scale of distress, where embarrassment and struggle told a yet more painful tale; those who came with their rent, in full to be sure, but literally racked up from their own private destitution—­who were obliged to sell the meal, or oats, or wheat, at a ruinous loss, in order to meet the inexorable demands of the merciless and tyrannical agent.  Here were all the’ external evidences of their condition legible by a single look at their persons; they also herded together, ill clad, ill fed, timid, broken down, heartless.  All these, however, had their rents—­had them full and complete in amount; now the reader may well say, this picture is, indeed, very painful, and I am glad it is closed at last.  Closed! oh, no, kind reader, it is not closed, nor could it be closed by any writer acquainted either with the subject or the country.  What are we to say of those who had not the rent, and who came there only to make that melancholy statement, and to pray for mercy?  Here was raggedness, shivering—­not merely with the cold assault of the elements—­but from the dreaded apprehension of the terrible agent—­downcast looks that spoke of keen and cutting misery—­eyes that were dead and hopeless in expression—­and occasionally, a hasty wringing of the hands, accompanied by an expression so dejected and lamentable, as makes us, when we cast our eye in imagination upon such men as Valentine M’Clutchy, cry out aloud, “where are the lightnings of the Almighty, and why are his thunderbolts asleep?” There was there the poor gray-haired old man—­the grandfather—­accompanied, perhaps, by his promising young grandsons, left fatherless and motherless to his care, and brought now in order that the agent might see with his eyes how soon he will have their aid to cultivate their little farm, and consequently, to make it pay better, he hopes.  Then the widow, tremulous with the excess of many feelings, many cares, and many bitter and indignant apprehensions.  If handsome herself, or if the mother of daughters old enough, and sufficiently attractive, for the purposes of debauchery, oh! what has she to contend with?  Poor, helpless, friendless, coming to offer her humble apology for not being able to be prepared for the day.  Alas! how may she, clutched as she is in the fangs of that man, or his scoundrel and profligate son—­how may she fight out the noble battle of religion, and virtue, and poverty, against the united influences of oppression and lust, wealth and villany.

The appearance of these different groups—­when the inclemency of the day, their sinking hearts, and downcast pale countenances, were taken into consideration—­was really a strong exponent of the greatest evil which characterizes and oppresses the country—­the unsettled state of property, and of the relative position of landlord and tenant in Ireland.