Who can forget that memorable apothegm to the Irish people on the subject?
"Let your hatred of tithes," he said, "be as lasting as your sense of justice." Unfortunately it is an easy task to instruct or tempt the Irish peasant to violate the law, especially when sanctioned, in that violation, by those whose opinion and advice he takes as the standard of his conduct.
Be this as it may, the state of the country was now becoming frightful and portentous; and although there had not, as yet, been much blood shed, still there was no person acquainted with the extraordinary pains which were taken to excite the people against the payment of tithe, who was not able to anticipate the terrible outburst and sanguinary slaughters which soon followed.
We have already detailed a midnight meeting of the anti-tithe confederacy; but so confident had the people soon become in the principle of general unanimity against the payment of this impost, that they did not hesitate to traverse the country in open day by thousands; thus setting not only law, but all the powers of the country by which it is usually carried out and supported, at complete defiance.
Threatening letters, and notices of violent death, signed with blood, and containing the form of a coffin, were sent to all such as were in any way obnoxious, or, what was the same thing, who were in any way disposed either to pay tithes or exact them.
In this state matters were, when, one morning about a week after the scene we have just described in O'Driscol's office, a dialogue to the following effect took place in the proctor's immense farm-yard, between our friend Mogue Moylan and his quondam sweetheart, Letty Lenehan.
Letty, of late, that is since the morning of the peddler's conversation with Mogue, had observed that some unaccountable change had taken place in his whole manner, not only towards herself, but in his intercourse with the rest of his fellow-servants.

He was for instance, much more silent that he had ever been: but although he spoke less, he appeared to think more; yet it might be observed, that whatever the subject of his thoughts was, it evidently had diffused a singular degree of serenity, and a peculiarly striking complacency through his whole manner.

With respect to herself he had ascended from the lover into the patron; and although she had been amusing herself at his expense throughout their previous courtship, if it could be termed such, yet she felt no less puzzled as to the cause of such a change, and quite as anxious to ascertain it.
On the morning in question, Mogue and Jerry Joyce had been engaged in winnowing a large quantity of wheat in the barn.

Jerry, whose manner was ostensibly that of a soft, simple young fellow, and whom but few looked upon as possessed of the ordinary run of common sense, was treated by Mogue, and indeed by most, but not all of his fellow servants, as one would treat a young lad who had not yet arrived at years of discretion, or maturity of judgment.
"Jerry," said Mogue, "why but you do be cortin' the girls, man alive?
That I may never sin but it's a great thing to have them fond o' one." "Ay," replied Jerry, who was perfectly well aware of his foible, "if I had the art of sootherin' and puttin' my comedher an thim like some o' my acquaintances; but, me! is it foolish Jerry Joyce they'd care about?
Oh, no! begor that cock wouldn't fight." "Your acquaintances!" exclaimed Mogue, seizing upon the term, in Jerry's reply, which he knew referred to himself, "and which of your acquaintances, now, does be sootherin' an' puttin' his comedher an' them, eh, Jerry ?" "Oh! dear me, Mogue," replied the other, "how droll you are! As if you thought I didn't mane one Mogue Moylan that they're tearin' their caps about every day in the week." "Tearin' their caps! arrah, who is, Jerry ?" "Why, the girls." "The girls! Och! man, sure that's an ould story; but I declare it to you, Jerry, it isn't my fault; it's a nateral gift wid me, for I take no pains to make them fond o' me; that I may never do harm if I do." "An' how does it, happen that they are?
Sure there's Letty, now--poor Letty Lenehan--an' God help her! sure, for the last week, she appears to me to be breakin' her heart.

She doesn't say af coorse, that you're the occasion of it; but doesn't every one of us know that you are?
Have you been could to her, or what?
"Why thin, now, Jerry, I declare it to you that I'm heart sorry for poor Letty; but what can I do?
I amn't my own man, now, do you hear that ?" "Sure you don't mane to say that you're married ?" "Not exactly married; but listen hither, Jerry--you don't know the man you're spakin' to--it's a gift that God gave me--but, you don't know the man you're spakin' to; however as for poor Letty, I'll provide for her some way--the poor affectionate crature; an' she's good-lookin' too; however, as I said, I'll do something for her some way," and here he nodded and winked with most villainous significance.
If Jerry had not fully comprehended the scoundrel's character, it is very probable that this language would have caused him to give the hypocritical villain a sound drubbing; for it must be known to our readers, that Jerry and Letty were faithfully attached to each other--a circumstance which was also known to the whole family, and which nothing could have prevented Mogue from observing but his own blind and egregious vanity.
"But what do you mane, Mogue, when you say you aren't your own man!" "I can't tell you; but the thruth is, Jerry--poor, good-natured Jerry--that every man ought to look high, especially when he sees the regard that's for him, and especially, too, when God--blessed be his name--has gifted him as some people is gifted.