“He engaged me, and my horse and car,” said another, “and Toal Hart with his, in the same way; to draw stones from Kilrud-den; and he said that whatever we earned he'd allow us in the rint. Of coorse we were glad to bounce at it; and, indeed, he made us both believe that it was a favor he did us. So far so good; but when the rint day came, hell purshue the testher he'd allow either of us; but threatened and abused us, callin' us names till the dogs wouldn't lick our blood. The Lord conshume him for a netarnal villain!”
“That's all very well, but yait till you hear how he sarved me out,” said a poor, simple-looking creature. “It was at the gale day before the last, that I went to him wid my six guineas of rint. 'Paddy Hanlon,' says he, 'I'm glad to see you; an', Paddy, I've something in my eye for you; but don't be spakin' of it. Is that the rent?—hand it to me—an', Paddy, as this is Hurry Day with me—do like a good decent man, call down on Saturday about twelve o'clock, and I'll give you your receipt, and mention the other thing.' By coorse I went highly delighted; but the receipt he gave me was a notice to pay the same gale over agin, tellin' me besides, that of all the complatest rascals ever came acrass him I was the greatest; that he'd banish me off the estate and what not! Accordingly, I had to pay the same rint twiste. Now will any one tell me how that man can prosper by robbin' and oppressin the poor in this way? Hell scorch him!”
The next that rose was a tall, thin-looking man, with much care and sorrow in his face. “Many a happy day,” he said, “did I and mine spend under this roof; and now we may say that we hardly have a roof to cover us. Myself, and my wife, hould a cabin on' the estate of Major Richardson. My sons and daughters, instead of living comfortably at home with us, are now scattered abroad, earnin' their hard bread on other people's floors. And why? Because the Vulture's profligate son couldn't succeed in ruinin' one of my daughters; and because her brother 'Tom tould him that if ever he catched him comin' about the place again, or annoyin' his sisther, he'd split him with a spade. Afther that, they were both very friendly—father and son—and when I brought my half-year's rent—'never mind now,' said they, 'bring it home, Andy; maybe you may want it for something else that 'ud be useful to you. Buy a couple o' cows—or keep it till next rent day; we won't hurry you—you're a dacent man, and we respect you.' Well, I did put the money to other uses, when what should come down on me when the next half year's rent was due, but an Execution. He got a man of his own to swear that I was about to run away wid the rent, and go to America; and in a few days we were scattered widout a house to cover us. May the Lord reward him accordin' to his works!”
There were other unprincipled cases where Phil's profligacy was brought to bear upon the poverty and destitution of the uneducated and unprotected female; but it is not our intention to do more than to allude to them.
We now return to young O'Regan himself, who, at the conclusion, once more got a candle, and precisely in the same manner as he had done in the beginning, held it up and asked in a full firm voice, “mother, do you know your son?” And again received the same melancholy and unconscious gaze. “Now,” said he, “you've all heard an account, and a true account, of these two villains' conduct. What have they left undone? They have cheated you, robbed you, and oppressed you in every shape. They have scourged to death and transported your sons—and they have ruined your daughters, and brought them to sin and shame—sorrow and distraction. What have they left undone, I ax again? Haven't they treated yez like the dirt under their feet? hunted yez like bloodhounds, as they are—and as if ye were mad dogs? What is there that they haven't made yez suffer? Shame, sin, poverty, hardship, bloodshed, ruin, death, and madness; look there”—he added, vehemently pointing to his insane mother—“there's one proof that you see; and you've heard and know the rest. And now for their trial.”
Those blood-stirring observations were followed by a deep silence, in fact, like that of death.
“Now,” said he, pulling out a paper, “I have marked down here twelve names that I will read for you. They are to act as a jury; they are to thry them both for their lives—and then to let us hear their sentence.”
He then read over the twelve names, every man answering to his name as he called them out.
“Now,” he proceeded, “this is how you are to act; your silence will give consent to any question that is asked of you. Are you willin' that these twelve men should thry Valentine M'Clutchy and his son for their lives; and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?” To this there was a profound and ominous silence.
“Very well,” said he, “you agree to this. Now,” said he to the jurors, “find your sentence.”
The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a few minutes—when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O'Regan and said—“They're doomed.”
“To what death?”
“To be both shot.”
“Are you all satisfied with this sentence?”
Another silence as deep and ominous as before.
“Very well,” said he, “you all agree. As for the sentence, it is a just one; none of you need throuble yourselves any farther about that; you may take my word for it, that it will be carried into execution. Are you willing it should?”
For the third time an unbroken silence. “That's enough,” said he; “and now let us go quietly home.”
“It is not enough,” said a voice at the door; “let none depart without my permission, I command you;” and the words were no sooner uttered than the venerable Father Roche entered the house.
“Wretched and misguided men,” said he, to what a scene of blood and crime have I just now been an ear witness? Are you men who live under my ministry?—who have so often heard and attended to my sincere and earnest admonitions? I cannot think ye are, and yet, I see no face here that is unknown to me. Oh, think for a moment, reflect, if you can, upon what you have been doing!—planning the brutal, ungodly murder of two of your fellow creatures! And What makes the crime still more revolting, these two fellow creatures father and son. What constituted you judges over them? If they have oppressed you, and driven many of you to ruin and distress, and even to madness, yet, do you not know that there is a just God above to whom they must be accountable for the deeds done in the flesh? Are you to put yourselves in the place of the Almighty?—to snatch the sceptre of justice and judgment out of his hands, and take that awful office into your own, which belongs only to him? Are ye indeed mad, my friends? Do you not know that out of the multitude assembled here this moment there is not one of you whose life would not be justly forfeited to the law? not one. I paused at the half closed door before I entered, and was thus enabled to hear your awful, your guilty, your blasphemous proceedings. Justice belongs to God, and in mocking justice you mock the God of Justice.”
“But you don't know, Father Roche,” said O'Regan, “you couldn't imagine all the villany he and his son have been guilty of, and all they've made the people suffer.”
“I do know it too well; and these are grievances that God in his own good time will remove; but it is not for us to stain our souls with guilt in order to redress them. Now, my children, do you believe that I feel an interest in your welfare, and in your happiness hereafter? Do you believe this?”
“We do, sir; who feels for us as you do?”
“Well, then, will you give me a proof of this?”
“Name it, sir, name it.”
“I know you will,” continued the old man; “I know you will. Then, in the name of the merciful God, I implore, I entreat—and, if that will not do, then, as his servant, and the humble minister of his word and will—I command you to disavow the murderous purpose you have come to this night. Heavenly Father,” said he, looking up with all the fervor of sublime piety, “we entreat you to take from these mistaken men the wicked intention of imbruing their guilty hands in blood; teach them a clear sense of Christian duty; to love their very enemies; to forgive all injuries that may be inflicted on them; and to lead such lives as may never be disturbed by a sense of guilt or the tortures of remorse!” The tears flowed fast down his aged cheeks as he spoke, and his deep sobbings for some time prevented him from speaking. Those whom he addressed were touched, awakened, melted. He proceeded:—
“Take pity on their condition, O Lord, and in thine own good time, if it be thy will, let their unhappy lot in this life be improved! But, above, all things, soften their hearts, inspire them with good and pious purposes, and guard them from the temptations of revenge! They are my flock—they are my children—and, as such, thou knowest how I lave and feel for them!”
They were more deeply moved, more clearly awakened, and more penetratingly touched. Several sobs were heard towards the close of his prayer, and a new spirit was diffused among them.
“Now, my children,” said he, “will you obey the old man that loves you?”
“We will,” was the universal response, “we will obey you.”
“Then,” said he, “you promise in the presence of God, that you will not injure Valentine M'Clutchy and his son?”
“In the presence of God we promise,” was the unanimous reply.
“Then, my children, may the blessing of Almighty God be with you, and guard and protect you wherever you go. And now proceed home, and sleep with consciences unburthened by guilt.”
And thus were Valentine M'Clutchy and his son saved, on this occasion, by the very man whom they termed “a rebellious Popish priest.”
It was observed, however, by most of those present that Owen O'Regan availed himself of the good priest's remonstrance to disappear from the meeting—thus evading the solemn obligation to refrain from crime, into which all the rest entered.
—An Execution for Rent Forty Years ago—Gordon Harvey's Friendly Remonstrance with his Brother Orangemen.
The development, by Poll Doolin, of the diabolical plot against Mary M'Loughlin's character, so successfully carried into effect by Phil and Poll herself, took a deadly weight off Harman's heart. Mary, the following morning, little aware that full justice had been rendered her, was sitting in the parlor with her mother, who had been complaining for a day or two of indisposition, and would have admitted more fully the alarming' symptoms she felt, were it not for the declining health of her daughter. If there be one misery in life more calculated than another to wither and consume the heart, to make society odious, man to look like a blot in the creation, and the very providence of God doubtful, it is to feel one's character publicly slandered and misrepresented by the cowardly and malignant, by the skulking scoundrel and the moral assassin—to feel yourself loaded with imputations that are false, calumnious, and cruel. Mary M'Loughlin felt all this bitterly.
In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish for life had departed from her. She was now spiritless, hopeless, without an aim or object, or anything to sustain her, or to give interest to existence. Philosophy, which too often knows little about actual life, tells us that a consciousness of being innocent of the social slanders that are heaped upon an individual, is a principle that ought to support and console him. But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence is precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons the arrow that pierces him, and gives rancor to the wound.
On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother who lay reclining on a sofa, each kindly attempting to conceal from the other the illness which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the contrary, was flushed and feverish.
“I wish, my dear mother,” said she, “that you would yield to me, and go to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe.”
“It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what you used to be? But God help you, my poor child,” said she, as the tears started to her eyes, “sure it's hard for you to do so.”
“Mother,” she replied, “it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name unstained—and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not, mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh,” she added, whilst the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, “after all, I feel that nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day.”
“My dear child,” replied her mother, “we must only trust to God, who, in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends.”
Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of aversion, even to momentary sickness.
“If,” pursued the mother, “the unfortunate impression could be removed from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right.”
The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply, but for some minutes wept in great bitterness.
“Mother,” said she, after a little time, “I fear you are concealing the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think yourself, or will admit.”
“Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very feverish—I am burning.”
“Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor at once be sent for.”
“If I don't get easier soon, I will,” replied her mother, “I do not much like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness.”
At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost immediately Harman entered the parlor. It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her mother. The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely knew in what terms to address him. Mary, though much moved previous to his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her heart she did not feel. That her lover, who ought to have known her so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her many a bitter pang. On the other hand, when she looked back upon the snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit that the force of appearances made a strong case against her. For this reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life.
“You are surprised, Mary, to see me here,” said Harman; “and you, Mrs. M'Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?”
“I think it is very natural we should be, James,” replied Mrs. M'Loughlin. “I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may attribute it. Sit down.”
He did not sit, however, but exclaimed—“Good heavens, what is this? Why, Mary, I should scarcely have known you. This change is dreadful.”
Neither of the females spoke; but the daughter bestowed on him a single look—long, fixed, and sorrowful—which did more to reprove and soften him, than any language could have done. It went to his heart—it filled him with grief, repentance, remorse. For many a day and night afterwards, her image, and that look, were before him, exerting a power over his soul, which kindled his love to a height it would never otherwise have reached. He approached her.
“What reparation do I not owe you, my beloved Mary, for my base and ungenerous belief in that scoundrel's vile calumny? Such reparation, however, as I can make, I will. You are not aware that Poll Doolin has confessed and disclosed the whole infamous plot; and in a few days the calumny will be extinct. As for me, you know not what a heavy weight pressed my heart down to the uttermost depths of suffering. I have not been without other calamities—yet this, I take heaven to witness, was the only one I felt.”
There was a tone of deep feeling and earnest sincerity in his words, which could not for a moment be mistaken. His face, too, was pale, and full of care, and his person much thinner than it had been.
Mary saw all this at a glance—as did her mother. “Poor James,” said the latter, “you have had your own troubles, and severe ones, too, since we saw you last.”
“They are gone,” he replied; “I care not, and think little about them, now that Mary's character is vindicated. If I should never see her, never speak to her more, the consciousness that she is the same angelic being that I first found her to be, would sustain me under the severest and most depressing calamities of life. And God knows,” he said, “I am likely to experience them in their worst shape; but, still, I have courage now to bear up against them.”
On approaching Mary nearer, he perceived that her eyes were suffused with tears—and the sight deeply affected him. “My dear Mary,” said he, “is there not one word for me? Oh, believe me, if ever man felt deep remorse I do.”
She put her hand out to him, and almost at the same instant became insensible. In a moment he placed her, by her mother's desire, on the sofa, and rang the bell for some of the servants to attend. Indeed, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to look upon a more touching picture of sorrow and suffering than that pure-looking and beautiful girl presented as she lay there insensible; her pale but exquisite features impressed with a melancholy at once deep and tender, as was evinced by the large tear-drops that lay upon her cheeks.
“May God grant that her heart be not broken,” exclaimed her mother, “and that she be not already beyond the reach of all that our affections would hope and wish! Poor girl,” she added, “the only portion of the calamity that touched her to her heart was the reflection that you had ceased to love her!”
Mrs. M'Loughlin whilst she spoke kept her eyes fixed upon her daughter's pale but placid face; and whilst she did so, she perceived that a few large tears fell upon it, and literally mingled with those of the poor sufferer's which had been there before. She looked up and saw that Harman was deeply moved.
“Even if it should be so,” he exclaimed, “I shall be only justly punished for having; dared to doubt her.”
A servant having now entered, a little cold water was got, which, on being sprinkled over her face and applied to her lips, aided in recovering her.
“Your appearance,” said she, “and the intelligence you brought were so unexpected, and my weakness so great, that I felt myself overcome; however, I am better—I am better, now;” but whilst she uttered these words her voice grew tremulous, and they were scarcely out of her lips when she burst out into an excessive fit of weeping. For several minutes this continued, and she appeared to feel relieved; she then entered into conversation, and was able to talk with more ease and firmness than she had evinced for many a day before. It was just then that a knock came to the hall door, and in a couple of minutes about a dozen of Val's blood-hounds, selected to act as bailiffs and keepers—a task to which they were accustomed—entered the house with an Execution to seize for rent. This, at all times and under all circumstances, is a scene in which a peculiar license is given to brutality and ruffianism; but in the present case there were additional motives; with which the reader is already acquainted, for insulting this family. Not that the mere-levying of an Execution was a matter of novelty to either Mary or her mother, for of late there had unfortunately been several in the house and on their property before. These, however, were conducted with a degree of civility that intimated respect for, if not sympathy with, the feelings of a family so inoffensive, so beneficial to the neighborhood by the employment they afforded, and, in short, every way so worthy of respect.
“What is all this about?” asked Harman.
“Why,” said one of the fellows, “we're seizin' for rent: that's what it's about.”
“Rent,” observed the other, surprised, “why, it is only a few minutes since Mr. M'Loughlin told me that M'Clutchy assured him—”
“Captain M'Clutchy, sir, if you plaise.”
“Very well—Captain M'Clutchy, or Colonel M'Olutchy, if you wish, assured him that—”
“I have nothing to do with what he assured him,” replied the fellow; “my duty is to take an inventory of the furniture; beg pardon, ladies, but we must do our duty you know.”
“Let them have their way,” said Mrs. M'Loughlin, “let them have their way; I know what they are capable of. Mary, my dear, be firm—as I said before—our only trust is in God, my child.”
“I am firm, my dear mother; for, as James said, the grief of griefs has been removed from me. I can now support myself under anything—but you—indeed, James, she is battling against illness these three or four days—and will not go to bed; it is for you I now feel, mother.”
Mr. M'Loughlin and his family here entered; and truth to tell, boundless was the indignation of the honest fellow, at this most oppressive and perfidious proceeding on the part of the treacherous agent.
“Ah,” said he, “I knew it—and I said it—but let the scoundrel do his worst; I scorn him, and I defy him in the very height of his ill-gotten authority. My children,” said he, “keep yourselves cool. Let not this cowardly act of oppression and revenge disturb or provoke you. This country, as it is at present governed—and this property as it is at present managed—is no place for us to live in. Let the scoundrel then do his worst. As for us, we will follow the example of other respectable families, who, like ourselves, have been forced to seek a home in a distant country. We will emigrate to America, as soon as I can conveniently make arrangements for that purpose; for God knows I am sick of my native land, and the petty oppressors which in so many ways harass and goad the people almost to madness.”
He had no sooner uttered these words, than the fellow whose name was Hudson, whispered to one of his companions, who immediately disappeared with something like a grin of exultation on his countenance. Mrs. M'Loughlin's illness was now such as she could no longer attempt to conceal. The painful shock occasioned by this last vindictive proceeding on the part of M'Clutchy, came at a most unhappy moment. Overcome by that and her illness, she was obliged to go to bed, aided by her husband and her daughter; but before she went, it was considered necessary to get one of the ruffians, as an act of favor, to take an inventory of the furniture in her chamber, in order that her sick room might not be intruded upon afterwards.
Mary having put her sick mother to bed, returned to the parlor, from whence she was proceeding to the kitchen, to make whey with her own hands for the invalid, when in passing along the hall, Harman and her brother John met her. She was in a hurry, and was about to pass without speaking a word, when she and they were startled by the following dialogue—
“So, Bob, did you see the pale beauty in the parlor?”
“I did, she's a devilish pretty girl.”
“She is so—well, but do you know that she is one of Mr. Phil's ladies. Sure he was caught in her bed-room some time ago.”
“Certainly, every one knows that; and it appears she is breaking her heart because he won't make an honest woman of her.”
John caught his sister, whose agitation, was dreadful, and led her away; making at the same time, a signal to Harman to remain quiet until his return—a difficult task, and. Harman felt it so. In the meantime, the. following appendix was added to the dialogue already detailed—
“Why do you hould such talk under this, roof, Leeper?” asked a third voice.
The only reply given to this very natural query was a subdued cackle, evidently proceeding from the two first speakers.
“Do you both see that strong horse-pistol,” said the third voice—for in those days; an Execution was almost always levied by armed men—“by the Bible of truth, if I hear another word of such conversation from any man here while we're under this roof, I'll sink the butt of it into his skull! It's bad enough that we're here on an unpleasant duty—”
“Unpleasant! speak for yourself.”
“Silence, you ruffian—on an unpleasant-duty; but that's no reason that we should grieve the hearts and insult the feelings of a respectable family like this. The truth, or rather the blasted falsehood that was put out on the young lady is now known almost everywhere, for Poll Doolin has let out the truth.
“But didn't Misther Phil desire us to say it, so as that they might hear us.”
“Mr. Phil's a cowardly scoundrel, and nothing else; but, mark me, Phil or no Phil, keep your teeth shut on that subject.”
“Just as much or as little of that as we like, if you please, Mr. ——.”
“Very well, you know my mind—so take the consequences, that's all.”
“Here goes then,” said the ruffian, speaking in a deliberately loud voice, “it's well known that Miss M'Loughlin is Misther Phil's——”
A heavy blow, followed by a crash on the floor—a brief conflict as if with another person, another blow, and another crash followed. Harman, in a state of feeling which our readers may imagine, but which we cannot describe, pushed in the door, which, in fact, was partially open.
“What, what is this?” he asked, pretending ignorance, “is it fighting among yourselves you are? Fie, fie! Gordon Harvey, what is the matter?”
“Only a little quarrel of our own, Mr. Harman,” replied the excellent fellow. “The truth is, sir, that these men—ay, gather yourselves up, do; you ought to have known Gordon Harvey's blow, for you have often enough heard of it before now; there is no great mistake about that, you scoundrels—the truth is, Mr. Harman, that these fellows were primed with whiskey at M'Clutchy's and they gave me provoking language that I couldn't bear; it's well for them that I didn't take the butt end of that,” said he, holding up the horse-pistol in his left hand, “but you'll find ten for one that would rather have a taste of it than of this;” shutting his right—which was a perfect sledgehammer, and, when shut, certainly the more formidable weapon of the two.
The two ruffians had now gathered themselves up, and appeared to be considerably sobered by Harvey's arguments. They immediately retired to a corner of the room, where they stood with a sullen but vindictive look—cowardly and ferocious, ready to revenge on M'Loughlin's family the punishment which they had received, but durst not resent, at the hands of Harvey—unquestionably one of the most powerful and generous Orangemen that was ever known in Castle Cumber. Let us not for a moment be mistaken. The Orangemen of Ireland contained, and still contain among them, men of great generosity, courage, and humanity. This is undeniable and unquestionable; but then, it is well known that these men never took any part in the outrages perpetrated by the lower and grosser grades, unless to prevent outrage. In nothing, indeed, was the lamentable state of the Irish Church Establishment more painfully obvious than in the moral ignorance and brutal bigotry, which want of Christian instruction and enlightened education had entailed upon men, who otherwise have been a high-minded, brave, and liberal class, had they not been corrupted by the example of the very pastors—ungodly, loose, convivial, political, anything but Christian—from whom they were to expect their examples and their precepts. But to return. Harman having given a significant glance to Harvey, left the room, and the latter immediately followed him.
“Harvey,” said he, “I have overheard the whole conversation; give me your hand, for it is that of an honest man. I thank you, I thank you—do try and prevent these ruffians from insulting the family.”
“I don't think the same thing will happen a second time, Mr. Harman,” replied the gigantic Orangeman; “but, the truth is, the men are half drunk, and were made so before they came here.”
“Well, but I thank you, Harvey; deeply and from my soul, I thank you.”
“You needn't, Mr. Harman; I hate a dirty and ungenerous thing. Phil's a brother Orangeman, and my tongue is tied—no doubt I'll be expelled for knocking these two scoundrels down, but I don't care; it was too bad and too cruel, and, let the upshot be what it may, Gordon Harvey is not the man to back a scoundrelly act, no matter who does it, or who orders it.”
They shook hands cordially, and we now must leave the family for a time, to follow the course of other events that bear upon our narrative.
—A Holy Steeple Chase—A Dead Heat—Blood against Varmint—Rival Claims—A Mutual Disappointment—The Last Plea for Salvation—Non Compos Mentis
Our readers may remember that we have alluded to an Orangeman, named Bob Beatty, who had become a convert to the Church of Rome. This Beatty, on the part of the priest, was a very fair set-off against Darby O'Drive, on the part of Mr. Lucre. As they were now on the eve of the great discussion, each felt considerable gratification in having his convert ready to produce at the discussion, as a living proof of his zeal for religious truth. The principal vexation which the priest had felt, lay in the almost insuperable difficulty of keeping Bob from liquor, inasmuch as whenever he happened to take a glass too much, he always forgot his conversion, and generally drank the Glorious Memory, and all other charter toasts, from habit. It so happened, however, that a few days previous to the great Tournay, Bob became so ill in health, that there was little hope of his surviving any length of time. During this illness, he had several interviews with. Father Roche, who informed him of the near approach of death, and prepared him, as well as could readily be done, to meet it; for truth to tell, he was at all times an impracticable subject on which to produce religious impressions. Be this as it may, a day or two previous to the discussion, his wife, feeling that he was near his dissolution, and determined, if possible, that he should not die a Roman Catholic, went in hurry for Mr. Clement, who happened to be in attendance on a funeral and was consequently from home. In the meantime, his Roman Catholic neighbor, hearing that she meant to fetch the minister, naturally anxious that the man should not die a Protestant, lost no time in acquainting Father M'Cabe with his situation. Mrs. Beatty, however, finding that Mr. Clement was not to be procured, left her message with his family, and proceeded in all haste to Mr. Lucre's in order to secure his attendance.
“My good woman,” said he, “your husband, I trust, is not in such danger. Mr. Clement cannot certainly be long absent, and he will attend; I am not quite well, or I should willingly go myself.”
“Very well,” said the woman, “between you, I suppose, you will let the priest, M'Cabe have him; and then it will be said he died a Papish.”
“What's that?” inquired Mr. Lucre, with an interest which he could not conceal; “what has M'Cabe to do with him?”
“Why,”, returned the woman, “he has made him a Papish, but I want him to die a True Blue, and not shame the family.”
“I shall attend,” said Lucre; “I shall lose no time in attending. What's your husband's name?”
“Bob Beatty, sir.”
“Oh, yes, he is subject to epilepsy.”
“The same, sir.”
She then gave him directions to find the house, and left him making very earnest and rapid preparations to do what he had not done for many a long year—attend a death-bed; and truly his absence was no loss.
In the meantime, Father M'Cabe having heard an account of Bob's state, and that the minister had been sent for, was at once upon the alert, and lost not a moment in repairing to his house. So very eager, indeed, were these gentlemen, and so equal their speed, that they met at the cross-roads, one of which turned to Bob's house. In the meantime, we may as well inform our readers here, that Bob himself had, in his wife's presence, privately sent for Father Roche.
Each instantly suspected the object of the other, and determined in his own mind, if possible, to frustrate it.
“So, sir,” said the priest, “you are on your way to Bob Beatty's, who is, as you know, one of my flock. But how do you expect to get through the business, Mr. Lucre, seeing that you are so long out of practice?”
“Bob Beatty was never, properly speaking, one of your flock, Mr. M'Cabe. I must beg leave to ride forward, sir, and leave you to your Christian meditations. One interview with you is enough for any man.”
“Faith, but I love you too well to part with you so easily,” said the priest, spurring on his horse, “cheek by jowl—and a beautiful one you have—will I ride with you, my worthy epicure; and, what is more, I'll anoint Bob Beatty before your eyes.”
“And, perhaps, perform another miracle,” replied Mr. Lucre, bitterly.
“Ay will, if it be necessary,” said the priest; “but I do most solemnly assure you that by far the most brilliant miracle of modern days is to find the Rev. Phineas Lucre at a sick-bed. Depend upon it, however, if Beatty had not turned Catholic, he might die like a dog for the same Mr. Lucre.”
“I will not abstract the last shilling from his pocket for the unction of superstition, at all events.”
“Not you, faith; you'll charge him nothing I grant, and right glad am I to find that you know the value of your services. You forget, however, that my flock pay you well for doing this nothing—that is, for discharging your duty—notwithstanding.”
Both now pushed on at a rapid rate, growling at each other as they went along. On getting into the fields they increased their speed; and as the peasantry of both religions were apprised of the circumstances connected with Bob's complaint and conversion, each party cheered on their own champion.
“More power to you Father M'Cabe; give him the Latin and the Bravery!” (*Breviary)
“Success, Mr. Lucre! Push on, sir, and don't let the Popish rebel send him out of the world with a bandage on his eyes. Lay in the Bible, Mr. Lucre! Protestant and True Blue forever—hurra!”
“The true Church forever, Father M'Cabe, the jewel that you war! Give the horse the spurs, avourneen. Sowl, Paddy, but the bodagh parson has the advantage of him in the cappul. Push on, your reverence; you have the divil and the parson against you, for the one's drivin' on the other.”
“Cross the corner of the Barny Mother's meadow, Mr. Lucre, and wheel in at the garden ditch; your horse can do it, although you ride the heaviest weight. Lay on him, sir, and think of Protestant Ascendancy. King William against Popery and wooden shoes; hurra!”
“Father, achora, keep your shoulder to the wind, and touch up Parra Gastha (* Literally, Paddy Speedy) wid the spurs. A groan for the Protestant parson, father darlin'!”
“Three groans for the Popish Mass Book. Bravo, Mr. Lucre! That ditch was well cleared!”
“Devil a purtier, father jewel! Parra Gastha's a darlin', and brought you over like a bird—hurra!”
“Have you no whip, Mr. Lucre? Whip and spur, sir, or the Popish garran will be in before you. By the great Boyne, I'm afraid the charger's blown.”
“God enable you, father avilish! Blown! Why what would you expect, an' it the first visit ever the same horse made to a sick-bed' in his life; he now finds it isn't on the king's highway he is—and I'll go bail it's himself that's cursin' the same duty in his heart. Bravo, Father Pat! Parra Gastha's the boy that knows his duty—more power, Parra Gastha! Divil pursue the hair's turned on him; but, be me sowl, it wouldn't be so, if he led the life the Protestant blood did.—feedin' high, and doin' nothin'.”
“Mr. Lucre, pull out; I see you're hard up, sir, and so is your charger. Push him, sir, even if he should drop. Death and Protestantism before Popery and dishonor! Hurra, well done!”
“Ah, be me sowl, it's near the last gasp wid him and his masther, and no wondher; they're both divilish far out of their element. Faith, if they had Father M'Cabe and Parra Gastha's practice, they wouldn't be the show they are this minute. Well done both! fresh and fair, snug and dry, you do it. Hurra!”
When the two worthy gentlemen had reached Bob's house, they dismounted, each in a perspiration, and rushed to the bed of the dying man. Mr. Lucre sat, of course, at one side, and the priest at the other; Mr. Lucre seized the right hand, and the priest the left: whilst Bob looked at them both alternately, and gave a cordial squeeze to each.
“You thought, sir,” said Mr. Lucre to the priest haughtily, “that he would have died an idolater.”
Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre's hand again.
“And you thought,” replied Father M'Cabe, “that he would die a Protestant or a heretic, which is the same thing.”
Bob squeezed Father M'Cabe's hand once more.
“Gentlemen,” said Bob, “be pleased to sit down—you are both Christian ministers, I hope.”
“No,” said Father M'Cabe, “there is but one of us a Christian; Mr. Lucre here is not worthy of the name, Bob.”
Bob squeezed the priest's hand a third time.
“Beatty,” said Mr. Lucre, “this is a solemn occasion, and I'm bound to say, that the priest here is merely a representative of Antichrist. This is not a time to disguise the truth.”
Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre's hand a third time also.
“Beatty,” continued Mr. Lucre, “if you permit yourself to die a Papist, you seal your own everlasting punishment.”
“True,” said Bob.
“Bob,” said the priest, “if after the explanations of the true church which I have given you, you allow yourself to relapse into heresy, you will suffer for it during all eternity.”
“True,” said Bob.
“There is no hope for those, who, like the Papists and idolators, hew for themselves vessels that will hold no water,” said Lucre.