Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas. Lever Charles James

for nothing.

      This gentleman’s character at once pointed him out as the fitting agent of vengeance on my father, and by an hour after daybreak did I present myself before him in all the consciousness of my injured state.

      Mr. Morissy’s reception of me was not over gracious.

      “Well, ye spawn of the devil,” said he, as he turned about from a small fragment of looking-glass, before which he was shaving, “what brings ye here? Bad luck to ye; the sight of ye’s made me cut myself.”

      “I’m come, sir, for a bit of advice, sir,” said I, putting my hand to my hat in salutation.

      “Assault and battery!” said he, with a grin on the side of his mouth where the soap had been shaved away.

      “Yes, sir; an aggravated case,” said I, using the phrase of the Sessions.

      “Why don’t ye apply to yer father? He’s Crown lawyer and Attorney-General; faith, he ‘s more besides, – he ‘s judge and jury too.”

      “And more than that in the present suit, sir,” says I, following up his illustration; “he’s the defendant here.”

      “What! is that his doing?”

      “Yes, sir; his own hand and mark,” said I, laughing.

      “That’s an ugly cut, and mighty near the eye! But sure, after all, you ‘re his child.”

      “Very true, sir; it’s only paternal correction; but I have something else!”

      “What’s that, Con my boy?” said he; for we were now grown very familiar.

      “It is this, sir,” said I; “this roll of papers that I found hid in the thatch, – a safe place my father used to make his strong-box.”

      “Let us see!” said Morissy, sitting down and opening the package. Many were old summonses discharged, notices to quit withdrawn, and so on; but at last he came to two papers pinned together, at sight of which he almost jumped from his chair. “Con,” says he, “describe the place you found them in.”

      I went over all the discovery again.

      “Did ye yourself see your father put in papers there?”

      “I did, sir.”

      “On more than one occasion?”

      “At least a dozen times, sir.”

      “Did ye ever remark any one else putting papers there?”

      “Never, sir! none of the neighbors ever come through the garden.”

      “And it was always at night, and in secret, he used to repair there?”

      “Always at night”

      “That’ll do, Con; that ‘ll do, my son. You’ll soon turn the tables on the old boy. You may go down to the kitchen and get your breakfast; be sure, however, that you don’t leave the house to-day. Your father mustn’t know where ye are till we’re ready for him.”

      “Is it a strong case, sir?” said I.

      “A very strong case – never a flaw in it.”

      “Is it more than a larceny, sir?” said I.

      “It is better than that.”

      “I’d rather it didn’t go too far,” said I, for I was beginning to feel afraid of what I had done.

      “Leave that to me, Con,” said Mr. Morissy, “and go down to yer breakfast.”

      I did as I was bid, and never stirred out of the house the whole day, nor for eight days after; when one morning Morissy bid me clean myself, and brush my hair, to come with him to the Court-house.

      I guessed at once what was going to happen; and now, as my head was healed, and all my bruises cured, I’d very gladly have forgiven all the affair, and gone home again with my father; but it was too late. As Mr. Morissy said, with a grin, “The law is an elegant contrivance; a child’s finger can set it in motion, but a steam engine could not hold it back afterwards!”

      The Court was very full that morning; there were five magistrates on the bench, and Mr. Ball in the middle of them. There were a great many farmers, too, for it was market-day; and numbers of the townspeople, who all knew my father, and were not sorry to see him “up.” Cregan versus Cregan stood third on the list of cases; and very little interest attached to the two that preceded it. At last it was called; and there I stood before the Bench, with five hundred pair of eyes all bent upon me; and two of them actually looking through my very brain, – for they were my father’s, as he stood at the opposite side of the table below the Bench.

      The case was called an assault, and very soon terminated; for, by my own admission, it was clear that I deserved punishment; though probably not so severely as it had been inflicted. The judge delivered a very impressive lesson to my father and myself, about our respective duties, and dismissed the case with a reproof, the greater share of which fell to me. “You may go now, sir,” said he, winding up a line peroration; “fear God and honor the king; respect your parents, and make your capitals smaller.”

      “Before your worship dismisses the witness,” said Morissy, “I wish to put a few questions to him.”

      “The case is disposed of: call the next,” said the judge, angrily.

      “I have a most important fact to disclose to your worship, – one which is of the highest importance to the due administration of justice, – one which, if suffered to lie in obscurity, will be a disgrace to the law, and a reproach to the learned Bench.”

      “Call the next case, crier,” said the judge. “Sit down, Mr. Morissy.”

      “Your worshipw may commit me; but I will be heard – ”

      “Tipstaff! take that man into – ” “When you hear of a mandamus from the King’s Bench – when you know that a case of compounding a felony – ”

      “Come away, Mr. Morissy; come quiet, sir!” said the police-sergeant.

      “What were ye saying of a mandamus?” said the judge, getting frightened at the dreaded word.

      “I was saying this, sir,” said Morissy, turning fiercely round; “that I am possessed of information which you refused to hear, and which will make the voice of the Chief Justice heard in this court, which now denies its ear to truth.”

      “Conduct yourself more becomingly, sir,” said one of the county magistrates, “and open your case.”

      Morissy, who was far more submissive to the gentry than to the chairman, at once replied in his blandest tone: —

      “Your worship, it is now more than a month since I appeared before you in the case of Noonan versus M’Quade and others, – an aggravated case of homicide; I might go further, and apply to it the most awful term the vocabulary of justice contains! Your worship will remember that on that very interesting and important case a document was missing, of such a character that the main feature of the case seemed actually to hang upon it. This was no less than the deathbed confession of Noonan, formally taken before a justice of the peace, Mr. Styles, and written with all the accurate regard to circumstances the law exacts. Mr. Styles, the magistrate who took the deposition, was killed by a fall from his horse the following week; his clerk being ill, the individual who wrote the case was Con Cregan. Your worship may bear in mind that this man, when called to the witness box, denied all knowledge of this dying confession; asserted that what he took down in writing were simply some brief and unsatisfactory notes of the affray, all to the advantage of the M’Quades, and swore that Mr. Styles, who often alluded to the document as a confession, was entirely in error, the whole substance of it being unimportant and vague; some very illegible and-ill-written notes corroborating which were produced in court as the papers in question.

      “Noonan being dead, and Mr. Styles also, the whole case rested on the evidence of Cregan; and although, your worship, the man’s character for veracity was not of that nature among the persons of his own neighborhood to – ”

      “Confine