In every country whose political, commercial, or social relations, are not properly settled, or in which there exists a struggle between the principles at variance with civil order and those of enlightened progress, there will always be found a considerable portion of the population ripe and ready for violence and crime.  This is an undisputable fact, and one the more dangerous too, inasmuch as crime is usually stripped by these misguided wretches of its inherent guilt, and looked upon as a necessary instrument, or, in other words, as a means to work out an end.  It is true, the relative portion of the reckless and guilty is, in this country at least, considering its population, exceedingly small, for we all know how miserable the number of those who are at any time necessary to involve the character of a district at large, or inculpate the moral reputation of a whole country.  At the same time, we must unquestionably admit, that, if we contrast the population of the country at large, and the frequency of crime in it, joined to its character of cool and deliberate atrocity, with that of the sister countries, we must candidly acknowledge, that the conduct of the people, even taking the proportions I have mentioned into consideration, is not only without parallel in modern times, but that religion is not merely a name, but, in every sense, incapable, whether by its internal spirit or maladministration, of discharging to society those great functional duties which mankind have a right to expect from it.  But now to return.

Finnerty had joined the meeting; his wife, approaching M’Carthy, said, in a low whisper—­

“They have some argument about you, whatever it is.  However, with God’s assistance, I’ll venthur to do a thing that may be dangerous enough to myself, at any rate; but what do I care about that, if I can save an unoffendin’ fellow-creature from harm?—­Stay where you are then, till I come in again.”

She went out as she spoke, and after an? interval of about six or eight minutes again made her appearance.

“I can’t hear them plain enough,” she said, on her return, “but whatever it is, I can undherstan’ that the most of them all is against it.  In God’s name, at any rate, stay where you are—­they’re risin’ to go home, and as the night’s light they’d be sure to pounce upon you if you attempted to escape.  Whatever I can do to save you from harm here I will.”

The poor woman’s escape from detection, while performing the friendly office of listening, was indeed very narrow.  Short and hurried as her last advice to M’Carthy was, the words in which she conveyed it had scarcely been uttered, when her husband, accompanied by three persons, their faces still blackened, made his appearance.  They took seats in silence around the fire, and one of them, handing over a bottle of whiskey to Finnerty, merely nodded, as much as to say, pass that about.  Finnerty accordingly did so, and each of them drank a glass or two, after which they were silent as before.  This silence, to M’Carthy, began to wear a solemn and a fearful aspect, especially as he knew enough of the habits of the people to be aware, that in drinking whiskey is often resorted to in order to deaden their moral, perceptions, or, in other words, as a stimulant to crime.