WAIT TILL I TELL YOU
There was no one at dinner that first evening, but Mr Armstrong, and
the family circle; and the parson certainly felt it dull enough. Fanny,
naturally, was rather silent; Lady Selina did not talk a great deal;
the countess reiterated, twenty times, the pleasure she had in seeing
him at Grey Abbey, and asked one or two questions as to the quantity of
flannel it took to make petticoats for the old women in his parish;
but, to make up the rest, Lord Cashel talked incessantly. He wished to
show every attention to his guest, and he crammed him with
ecclesiastical conversation, till Mr Armstrong felt that, poor as he
was, and much as his family wanted the sun of lordly favour, he would
not give up his little living down in Connaught, where, at any rate, he
could do as he pleased, to be domestic chaplain to Lord Cashel, with a
salary of a thousand a-year.
The next morning was worse, and the whole of the long day was
insufferable. He endeavoured to escape from his noble friend into the
demesne, where he might have explored the fox coverts, and ascertained
something of the sporting capabilities of the country; but Lord Cashel
would not leave him alone for an instant; and he had not only to endure
the earl’s tediousness, but also had to assume a demeanour which was
not at all congenial to his feelings. Lord Cashel would talk Church and
ultra-Protestantism to him, and descanted on the abominations of the
National system, and the glories of Sunday-schools. Now, Mr Armstrong
had no leaning to popery, and had nothing to say against Sunday
schools; but he had not one in his own parish, in which, by the bye, he
was the father of all the Protestant children to be found there—without
the slightest slur upon his reputation be it said. Lord Cashel totally
mistook his character, and Mr Armstrong did not know how to set him
right; and at five o’clock he went to dress, more tired than he ever
had been after hunting all day, and then riding home twelve miles on a
wet, dark night, with a lame horse.
To do honour to her guest Lady Cashel asked Mr O’Joscelyn, the rector,
together with his wife and daughters, to dine there on the second day;
and Mr Armstrong, though somewhat afraid of brother clergymen, was
delighted to hear that they were coming. Anything was better than
another _tête-à-tête_ with the ponderous earl. There were no other
neighbours near enough to Grey Abbey to be asked on so short a notice;
but the rector, his wife, and their daughters, entered the dining-room
punctually at half-past six.
The character and feelings of Mr O’Joscelyn were exactly those which
the earl had attributed to Mr Armstrong. He had been an Orangeman
[52], and was a most ultra and even furious Protestant. He was, by
principle, a charitable man to his neighbours; but he hated popery, and
he carried the feeling to such a length, that he almost hated Papists.
He had not, generally speaking, a bad opinion of human nature; but he
would not have considered his life or property safe in the hands of any
Roman Catholic. He pitied the ignorance of the heathen, the credulity
of the Mahommedan, the desolateness of the Jew, even the infidelity of
the atheist; but he execrated, abhorred, and abominated the Church of
Rome. “Anathema Maranatha [53]; get thee from me, thou child of
Satan—go out into utter darkness, thou worker of iniquity—into
everlasting lakes of fiery brimstone, thou doer of the devil’s
work—thou false prophet—thou ravenous wolf!” Such was the language of
his soul, at the sight of a priest; such would have been the language
of his tongue, had not, as he thought, evil legislators given a licence
to falsehood in his unhappy country, and rendered it impossible for a
true Churchman openly to declare the whole truth.
But though Mr O’Joscelyn did not absolutely give utterance to such
imprecations as these against the wolves who, as he thought, destroyed
the lambs of his flock,—or rather, turned his sheep into foxes,—yet he
by no means concealed his opinion, or hid his light under a bushel. He
spent his life—an eager, anxious, hard-working life, in denouncing the
scarlet woman of Babylon and all her abominations; and he did so in
season and out of season: in town and in country; in public and in
private; from his own pulpit, and at other people’s tables; in highways
and byways; both to friends—who only partly agreed with him, and to
strangers, who did not agree with him at all. He totally disregarded
the feelings of his auditors; he would make use of the same language to
persons who might in all probability be Romanists, as he did to those
whom he knew to be Protestants. He was a most zealous and
conscientious, but a most indiscreet servant of his Master. He made
many enemies, but few converts. He rarely convinced his opponents, but
often disgusted his own party. He had been a constant speaker at public
meetings; an orator at the Rotunda, and, on one occasion, at Exeter
Hall. But even his own friends, the ultra Protestants, found that he
did the cause more harm than good, and his public exhibitions had been
as much as possible discouraged. Apart from his fanatical enthusiasm,
he was a good man, of pure life, and simple habits; and rejoiced
exceedingly, that, in the midst of the laxity in religious opinions
which so generally disfigured the age, his wife and his children were
equally eager and equally zealous with himself in the service of their
Great Master.
A beneficed clergyman from the most benighted, that is, most Papistical
portion of Connaught, would be sure, thought Mr O’Joscelyn, to have a
fellow-feeling with him; to sympathise with his wailings, and to have
similar woes to communicate.
“How many Protestants have you?” said he to Mr Armstrong, in the
drawing-room, a few minutes after they had been introduced to each
other. “I had two hundred and seventy in the parish on New Year’s day;
and since that we’ve had two births, and a very proper Church of
England police-serjeant has been sent here, in place of a horrid
Papist. We’ve a great gain in Serjeant Woody, my lord.”
“In one way we certainly have, Mr O’Joscelyn,” said the earl. “I wish
all the police force were Protestants; I think they would be much more
effective. But Serjeant Carroll was a very good man; you know he was
removed from hence on his promotion.”
“I know he was, my lord—just to please the priests just because he was
a Papist. Do you think there was a single thing done, or a word said at
Petty Sessions, but what Father Flannery knew all about it?—Yes, every
word. When did the police ever take any of Father Flannery’s own
people?”
“Didn’t Serjeant Carroll take that horrible man Leary, that robbed the
old widow that lived under the bridge?” said the countess.
“True, my lady, he did,” said Mr O’Joscelyn; “but you’ll find, if you
inquire, that Leary hadn’t paid the priest his dues, nor yet his
brother. How a Protestant government can reconcile it to their
conscience—how they can sleep at night, after pandering to the priests
as they daily do, I cannot conceive. How many Protestants did you say
you have, Mr Armstrong?”
“We’re not very strong down in the West, Mr O’Joscelyn,” said the other
parson. “There are usually two or three in the Kelly’s Court pew. The
vicarage pew musters pretty well, for Mrs Armstrong and five of the
children are always there. Then there are usually two policemen, and
the clerk; though, by the bye, he doesn’t belong to the parish. I
borrowed him from Claremorris.”
Mr O’Joscelyn gave a look of horror and astonishment.
“I can, however, make a boast, which perhaps you cannot, Mr Joscelyn:
all my parishioners are usually to be seen in church, and if one is
absent I’m able to miss him.”
“It must paralyse your efforts, preaching to such a congregation,” said
the other.
“Do not disparage my congregation,” said Mr Armstrong, laughing; “they
are friendly and neighbourly, if not important in point of numbers;
and, if I wanted to fill my church, the Roman Catholics think so well
of me, that they’d flock in crowds there if I asked them; and the
priest would show them the way—for any special occasion, I mean; if the
bishop came to see me, or anything of that kind.”
Mr O’Joscelyn was struck dumb; and, indeed, he would have had no time
to answer if the power of speech had been left to him, for the servant
announced dinner.
The conversation was a little more general during dinner-time, but
after dinner the parish clergyman returned to another branch of his
favourite subject. Perhaps, he thought that Mr Armstrong was himself
not very orthodox; or, perhaps, that it was useless to enlarge on the
abominations of Babylon to a Protestant peer and a Protestant parson;
but, on this occasion, he occupied himself with the temporal iniquities
of the Roman Catholics. The trial of O’Connell and his fellow-prisoners
had come to an end, and he and they, with one exception, had just
commenced their period of imprisonment. The one exception was a
clergyman, who had been acquitted. He had in some way been connected
with Mr O’Joscelyn’s parish; and, as the parish priest and most of his
flock were hot Repealers, there was a good deal of excitement on the
occasion,—rejoicings at the priest’s acquittal, and howlings, yellings,
and murmurings at the condemnation of the others.
“We’ve fallen on frightful days, Mr Armstrong,” said Mr O’Joscelyn:
“frightful, lawless, dangerous days.”
“We must take them as we find them, Mr O’Joscelyn.”
“Doubtless, Mr Armstrong, doubtless; and I acknowledge His infinite
wisdom, who, for His own purposes, now allows sedition to rear her head
unchecked, and falsehood to sit in the high places. They are indeed
dangerous days, when the sympathy of government is always with the evil
doers, and the religion of the state is deserted by the crown.”
“Why, God bless me! Mr O’Joscelyn!—the queen hasn’t turned Papist, and
the Repealers are all in prison, or soon will be there.”
“I don’t mean the queen. I believe she is very good. I believe she is a
sincere Protestant, God bless her;” and Mr O’Joscelyn, in his loyalty,
drank a glass of port wine; “but I mean her advisers. They do not dare
protect the Protestant faith: they do not dare secure the tranquillity
of the country.”
“Are not O’Connell and the whole set under conviction at this moment?
I’m no politician myself, but the only question seems to be, whether
they haven’t gone a step too far?”
“Why did they let that priest escape them?” said Mr O’Joscelyn.
“I suppose he was not guilty;” said Mr Armstrong; “at any rate, you had
a staunch Protestant jury.”
“I tell you the priests are at the head of it all. O’Connell would be
nothing without them; he is only their creature. The truth is, the
government did not dare to frame an indictment that would really lead
to the punishment of a priest. The government is truckling to the false
hierarchy of Rome. Look at Oxford,—a Jesuitical seminary, devoted to
the secret propagation of Romish falsehood.—Go into the churches of
England, and watch their bowings, their genuflexions, their crosses and
their candles; see the demeanour of their apostate clergy; look into
their private oratories; see their red-lettered prayer-books, their
crucifixes, and images; and then, can you doubt that the most dreadful
of all prophecies is about to be accomplished?”
“But I have not been into their closets, Mr O’Joscelyn, nor yet into
their churches lately, and therefore I have not seen these things; nor
have I seen anybody who has. Have you seen crucifixes in the rooms of
Church of England clergymen? or candles on the altar-steps of English
churches?”
“God forbid that I should willingly go where such things are to be
seen; but of the fearful fact there is, unfortunately, no doubt. And
then, as to the state of the country, we have nothing round us but
anarchy and misrule: my life, Mr Armstrong, has not been safe any day
this week past.”
“Good Heaven, Mr O’Joscelyn—your life not safe! I thought you were as
quiet here, in Kildare, as we are in Mayo.”
“Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong: you know this priest, whom they
have let loose to utter more sedition?—He was coadjutor to the priest
in this parish.”
“Was he? The people are not attacking you, I suppose, because he’s let
loose?”
“Wait till I tell you. No; the people are mad because O’Connell and his
myrmidons are to be locked up; and, mingled with their fury on this
head are their insane rejoicings at the escape of this priest. They
are, therefore,—or were, till Saturday last, howling for joy and for
grief at the same time. Oh! such horrid howls, Mr Armstrong. I declare,
Mr Armstrong, I have trembled for my children this week past.”
The earl, who well knew Mr O’Joscelyn, and the nature of his
grievances, had heard all these atrocities before; and, not being very
excited by their interest, had continued sipping his claret in silence
till he began to doze; and, by the time the worthy parson had got to
the climax of his misery, the nobleman was fast asleep.
“You don’t mean that the people made any attack on the parsonage?” said
Mr Armstrong.
“Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong,” replied the other. “On Thursday
morning last they all heard that O’Connell was a convicted felon.”
“Conspirator, I believe? Mr O’Joscelyn.”
“Conspiracy is felony, Mr Armstrong—and that their priest had been let
loose. It was soon evident that no work was to be done that day. They
assembled about the roads in groups; at the chapel-door; at Priest
Flannery’s house; at the teetotal reading-room as they call it, where
the people drink cordial made of whiskey, and disturb the neighbourhood
with cracked horns; and we heard that a public demonstration was to be
made.”
“Was it a demonstration of joy or of grief?”
“Both, Mr Armstrong! it was mixed. They were to shout and dance for joy
about Father Tyrrel; and howl and curse for grief about O’Connell; and
they did shout and howl with a vengeance. All Thursday, you would have
thought that a legion of devils had been let loose into Kilcullen.”
“But did they commit any personal outrages, Mr O’Joscelyn?”
“Wait till I tell you. I soon saw how the case was going to be, and I
determined to be prepared. I armed myself, Mr Armstrong; and so did Mrs
O’Joscelyn. Mrs O’Joscelyn is a most determined woman—a woman of great
spirit; we were resolved to protect our daughters and our infants from
ill-usage, as long as God should leave us the power to do so. We both
armed ourselves with pistols, and I can assure you that, as far as
ammunition goes, we were prepared to give them a hot reception.”
“Dear me! This must have been very unpleasant to Mrs O’Joscelyn.”
“Oh, she’s a woman of great nerve, Mr Armstrong. Mary is a woman of
very great nerve. I can assure you we shall never forget that Thursday
night. About seven in the evening it got darkish, but the horrid yells
of the wild creatures had never ceased for one half-hour; and, a little
after seven, twenty different bonfires illuminated the parish. There
were bonfires on every side of us: huge masses of blazing turf were to
be seen scattered through the whole country.”
“Did they burn any thing except the turf, Mr O’Joscelyn?”
“Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong. I shall never forget that night;
we neither of us once lay down; no, not for a moment. About eight, the
children were put to bed; but with their clothes and shoes on, for
there was no knowing at what moment and in how sudden a way the poor
innocents might be called up. My daughters behaved admirably; they
remained quite quiet in the drawing-room till about eleven, when we had
evening worship, and then they retired to rest. Their mother, however,
insisted that they should not take off their petticoats or stockings.
At about one, we went to the hall-door: it was then bright
moonlight—but the flames of the surrounding turf overpowered the moon.
The whole horizon was one glare of light.”
“But were not the police about, Mr O’Joscelyn?”
“Oh, they were about, to be sure, poor men; but what could they do? The
government now licenses every outrage.”
“But what _did_ the people do?” said Mr Armstrong.
“Wait till I tell you. They remained up all night; and so did we, you
may be sure. Mary did not rise from her chair once that night without a
pistol in her hand. We heard the sounds of their voices continually,
close to the parsonage gate; we could see them in the road, from the
windows—crowds of them—men, women and children; and still they
continued shouting. The next morning they were a little more quiet, but
still the parish was disturbed: nobody was at work, and men and women
stood collected together in the roads. But as soon as it was dusk, the
shoutings and the bonfires began again; and again did I and Mrs
O’Joscelyn prepare for a night of anxious watching. We sat up all
Friday night, Mr Armstrong.”
“With the pistols again?”
“Indeed we did; and lucky for us that we did so. Had they not known
that we were prepared, I am convinced the house would have been
attacked. Our daughters sat with us this night, and we were so far used
to the state of disturbance, that we were able to have a little
supper.”
“You must have wanted that, I think.”
“Indeed we did. About four in the morning, I dropped asleep on the
sofa; but Mary never closed her eyes.”
“Did they come into the garden at all, or near the house?”
“No, they did not. And I am very thankful they refrained from doing so,
for I determined to act promptly, Mr Armstrong, and so was Mary—that
is, Mrs O’Joscelyn. We were both determined to fire, if we found our
premises invaded. Thank God the miscreants did not come within the
gate.”
“You did not suffer much, then, except the anxiety, Mr O’Joscelyn?”
“God was very merciful, and protected us; but who can feel safe, living
in such times, and among such a people? And it all springs from Rome;
the scarlet woman is now in her full power, and in her full deformity.
She was smitten down for a while, but has now risen again. For a while
the right foot of truth was on her neck; for a while she lay prostrated
before the strength of those, who by God’s grace, had prevailed against
her. But the latter prophecies which had been revealed to us, are now
about to be accomplished. It is well for those who comprehend the signs
of the coming time.”
“Suppose we join the ladies,” said the earl, awakened by the sudden
lull in Mr O’Joscelyn’s voice. “But won’t you take a glass of Madeira
first, Mr Armstrong?”
Mr Armstrong took his glass of Madeira, and then went to the ladies;
and the next morning, left Grey Abbey, for his own parish. Well;
thought he to himself, as he was driven through the park, in the earl’s
gig, I’m very glad I came here, for Frank’s sake. I’ve smoothed his way
to matrimony and a fortune. But I don’t know anything which would
induce me to stay a week at Grey Abbey. The earl is bad—nearly
unbearable; but the parson!—I’d sooner by half be a Roman myself, than
think so badly of my neighbours as he does. Many a time since has he
told in Connaught, how Mr O’Joscelyn and Mary, his wife, sat up two
nights running, armed to the teeth, to protect themselves from the
noisy Repealers of Kilcullen.
Mr Armstrong arrived safely at his parsonage, and the next morning he
rode over to Kelly’s Court. But Lord Ballindine was not there. He had
started for Grey Abbey almost immediately on receiving the two letters
which we have given, and he and his friend had passed each other on the
road.