M’Clutohy could not stand this, but went down to the little squab Dasher, who joined him in a loud fit of laughter at M’Slime’s little word in season; so that the poor dismayed people had the bitter reflection to add to their other convictions, that their misery, their cares, and their sorrows, were made a mockery of by those who were actually inflicting them.

“When Darby, on whose face there was a heartless smirk of satisfaction at this opportunity of gratifying M’Clutchy, was about to enter the first cabin, there arose from the trembling creatures a loud murmur of wild and unregulated lamentation, which actually startled the bailiff’s, who looked as if they were about to be assaulted.  An old man then approached M’Clutchy, bent with age and infirmity, and whose white hair hung far down, his shoulders—­

“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, and standing before him uncovered, severe and still bitter as was the day—­“I stand here in the name of these poor creatures you see about us, to beg you, for the sake of God—­of Christ who redeemed us—­and of the Holy Spirit that gives kindness and charity to the heart—­not on this blake hill undher sich a sky, and on sich a day, to turn us out of the only shelter we have on earth!  There’s people here that will die if they’re brought outside the door.  We did not, at laist the most part of all you see before you, think you had any thought of houldin’ good your threat in such a time of cowld, and storm, and disolation.  Look at us, sir, then, have pity on us!  Make it your own case, if you can, and maybe that will bring our destitution nearer you—­and besides, sir, there’s a great number of us thought betther about votin’ with you, and surely you won’t think of puttin’ them out.”

“It’s too late now,” said M’Clutchy; “if you had promised me your votes in time, it was not my intention to have disturbed you—­at present I am acting altogether by Lord Cumber’s orders, who desires that every one refusing to vote for him shall be made an example of, and removed from the property—­O’Drive, you scoundrel, do your duty.”

At this moment there rushed forth from the again agitated crowd an old woman, whose grizzled locks had escaped from under her dowd cap, and were blown in confusion about her head; she wore a drugget gown that had once been yellow, and a deep blue petticoat of the same stuff; a circumstance, which, joined to the excitement, gave to her appearance a good deal of picturesque effect.

“Low born tyrant,” she shouted, kneeling rapidly down and holding up her clasped hands, but not in supplication—­“low born, tyrant,” she shouted, “stop;—­spawn of blasphemin’ Deaker, stop—­bastard of the notorious Kate Clank, hould your hand?  You see we know you and yours well.  You were a bad son to a bad mother, and the curse of God will pursue you and yours, for that and your other villanies.  Go back and hould your hand, I say—­and don’t dare to bring the vengeance of God upon you, for the plot