We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular
man--and we might have added that, unless among his own clique of
bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protestants in
general. In a few days after the events of the night we have described,
Reilly, by the advice of Mr. Brown's brother, an able and distinguished
lawyer, gave up the possession of his immense farm, dwelling-house, and
offices to the landlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the farm
for Reilly's father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal
and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking,
to protect the property for the Roman Catholics, from such rapacious
scoundrels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the
greater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most
iniquitous political profligacy and oppression. For about a month after
the first night of the unsuccessful pursuit after Reilly, the
whole country was overrun with military parties, and such miserable
inefficient police as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escaped
every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert Whitecraft,
seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, resolved to glut
his vengeance on his property, since he could not arrest himself. A
description of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the
proceedings, published in the Hue-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed.
As even this failed, Sir Robert, as we said, came with a numerous party
of his myrmidons, bringing along with them a large number of horses,
carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the possession only of a
keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small
children, the other servants having fled from the danger in which
their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, however, very
deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and having dragged
out all the most valuable part of the furniture, piled it up, and had it
conveyed to his own outhouses, where it was carefully-stowed. This act,
however, excited comparatively little attention, for such outrages were
not unfrequently committed by those who had, or at least who thought
they had; the law in their own hands. It was now dusk, and the house
had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it--but the
most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no
contemptible pun. The young man's dwelling-house, and office-houses
were ignited at this moment by this man's military and other official
minions, and in about twenty minutes they were all wrapped in one red,
merciless mass of flame. The country people, on observing this fearful
conflagration, flocked from all quarters; but a cordon of outposts was
stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent the peasantry
from marking the chief actors in this nefarious outrage. Two gentlemen,
however, approached, who, having given their names, were at once
admitted to the burning premises. These were Mr. Brown, the clergyman,
and Mr. Hastings, the actual and legal proprietor of all that had been
considered Reilly's property. Both of them observed that Sir Robert was
the busiest man among them, and upon making inquiries from the party,
they were informed that they acted by his orders, and that, moreover, he
was himself the very first individual who had set fire to the
premises. The clergyman made his way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous
countenance he could read a dark and diabolical triumph.
“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” said Mr. Brown, “how conies such a wanton and
unnecessary waste of property?”
“Because, sir,” replied that gentleman, “it is the property of a popish
rebel and outlaw, and is confiscated to the State.”
“But do you possess authority for this conduct?--Are you the State?”
“In the spirit of our Protestant Constitution, certainly. I am a
loyal Protestant magistrate, and a man of rank, and will hold myself
accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there,” he added,
“who have knocked down the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put
it with pitchforks upon the lower end of the stable; it has not yet
caught the flames.”
This order was accordingly complied with, and in a few minutes the
scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the hellish spirit which
created it, had something terribly sublime in it.
Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accompanied the clergyman, the real
owner of the property, looked on with apparent indifference, but uttered
not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing
than otherwise, and passed with Mr. Brown from place to place, as if to
obtain the best points for viewing the fire.
Reilly's residence was a long, large, two-story house, deeply thatched;
the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual
appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house,
but it was a story lower, and also deeply thatched. The out-offices ran
in a long line behind the dwelling house, so that both ran parallel with
each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a narrow
one. In the meantime, the night, though dry, was dark and stormy. The
wind howled through the adjoining trees like thunder, roared along the
neighboring hills, and swept down in savage whirlwinds to the bottom of
the lowest valleys. The greater portion of the crowd who were standing
outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts grew
stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses from being
stripped or unroofed, so that very few remained to witness the rage of
the conflagration at its full height. The Irish peasantry entertain a
superstition that whenever a strong storm of wind, without rain, arises,
it has been occasioned by the necromantic spell of some guilty sorcerer,
who, first having sold himself to the devil, afterwards raises him for
some wicked purpose; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a
black cock--the one without a white hair, and the other without a
white feather--can prevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the
individual who called him up, accompanied by such terrors. In fact
the night, independently of the terrible accessory of the fire, was
indescribably awful. Thatch portions of the ribs and roofs of houses
were whirled along through the air; and the sweeping blast, in addition
to its own howlings, was burdened with the loud screamings of women and
children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attempted to make
each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest.
This was terrible indeed; but on such a night, what must not the
conflagration have been, fed by such pabulum--as Sir Robert himself
would have said--as that on which it glutted its fiery and consuming
appetite. We have said that the offices and dwelling-house ran parallel
with each other, and such was the fact. What appeared singular, and not
without the possibility of some dark supernatural causes, according
to the impressions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in
question, started, as it were, along with the fire; but the truth is,
it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at
all. In the meantime, as we said, the whole premises presented one fiery
mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted up, from time to
time, towards the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror,
of the aurora borealis. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames
that arose from the mansion, and those that leaped up from the offices,
several times met across the yard, and mingled, as if to exult in their
fearful task of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame,
so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and
effort of some powerful demon, who had made it, as it were, a fiery
arbor for his kind. The whole country was visible to an astonishing
distance, and overhead, the evening sky, into which the up-rushing
pyramids seemed to pass, looked as if it had caught the conflagration,
and was one red mass of glowing and burning copper. Around the house and
premises the eye could distinguish a pin; but the strong light was so
fearfully red that the deep tinge it communicated to the earth seemed
like blood, and made it appear as if it had been sprinkled with it.
It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive conflagration
without feeling the mind filled with imagery and comparisons, drawn
from moral and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tyrant, in the
unrestrained exercise of his power--he now has his enemy in his grip,
and hear how he exults; listen to the mirthful and crackling laughter
with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains the victory; mark
the diabolical gambols with which he sports, and the demon glee with
which he performs his capricious but frightful exultations. But the
tyrant, after all, will become exhausted--his strength and power will
fail him; he will destroy his own subjects; he will become feeble, and
when he has nothing further on which to exercise his power, he will,
like many another tyrant before him, sink, and be lost in the ruin he
has made.
Again: Would you behold Industry? Here have its terrible spirits been
appointed their tasks. Observe the energy, the activity, the persevering
fury with which they discharge their separate duties. See how that
eldest son of Apollyon, with the appetite of hell, licks into his
burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire.
What quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass from place to
place! how they run about in quest of employment! how diligently and
effectually they search every nook and corner, lest anything might
escape them! Mark the activity with which that strong fellow leaps
across, from beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A different
task has been assigned to another: he attacks the rafters of the
roof--he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over
his victim before he destroys it--bravo!--he is at it again--it gives
way--he is upon it, and about it; and now his difficulties are over--the
red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angry flakes,
in order to become a minister to its active and devouring master. See!
observe! What business--what a coil and turmoil of industry! Every
flame at work--no idle hand here--no lazy lounger reposing. No, no--the
industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up--running
down--running in all directions: now they unite together to accomplish
some general task, and again disperse themselves to perform their
individual appointments.
But hark! what comes here? Room for another element. 'Tis the windstorm,
that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers
have assisted to gain. But lo! here he comes in person; and now they
unite--or how?--Do they oppose each other? Here does the windstorm drive
back the god of fire from his victim; again the fiery god attempts to
reach it; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once,
twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict
real--this fierce battle between the elements? Alas, no; they are both
tyrants, and what is to be expected?
The wind god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of
his opponent, and gives him new courage, new vigor, and new strength.
But his inferior ministers must have a share of this dreadful repast.
Off go a thousand masses of burning material, whirling along. Off go
the; glowing timbers and rafters, on the wind, by which they are borne
in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again! Room for
the whirlwind! Here it comes, and addresses itself to yon tall and
waving pyramid; they embrace; the pyramid is twisted into the figure of
a gigantic corkscrew--round they go, rapid as thought; the thunder of
the wind supplies them with the appropriate music, and continues until;
this terrible and gigantic waltz of the elements is concluded. But now
these fearful ravagers are satisfied, because they have nothing more on
which they can glut themselves. They appear, however, to be seated. The
wind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its
former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding--their power is gone;
occasional jets of fire I come forth, but they instantly disappear. By
degrees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is visible
but smoke, and every thing is considered as over--when lo! like a great
general, who has achieved a triumphant victory, it is deemed right to;
take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts
an unexpected burst of flame--blazes for a while; looks about it, as
it were; sees that the victory is complete, and drops down into the
darkness from which it came. The conflagration is over; the wind-storm
is also appeased. Small hollow gusts, amongst the trees and elsewhere,
are now all that are heard. By degrees, even these cease; and the wind
is now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements
were comparatively quiet and still.
Mr. Brown and his friend, Mr. Hastings, having waited until they saw the
last rafter of unfortunate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black
mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they
had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who
was still there under concealment. Mr. Brown, however, went out again
and returned with some wine, which he placed upon the table.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, “this has become an awful night; the wind has
been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your
house and premises, Mr. Brown. I heard the slates falling about in great
numbers; and the inmates of the house were, as far as I could judge,
exceedingly alarmed.”
“It was a dreadful night in more senses than one,” replied Mr. Brown.
“By the by,” said Reilly, “was there not a fire somewhere in the
neighborhood, I observed through the windows a strong light flickering
and vibrating, as it were, over the whole country. What must it have
been?”
“My dear Reilly,” replied Mr. Brown, “be calm; your house and premises
are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldering ruins.”
“Oh, yes--I understand,” replied Reilly--“Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Mr. Brown; “it is too true, Reilly--you
are now houseless and homeless; and may God forgive him!”
Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and
filling himself a glass of wine, drank it off; then looking at each of
them, said, in a voice rendered hoarse by the indignation and resentment
which he felt himself compelled, out of respect for his kind friends, to
restrain, “Gentlemen,” he repeated, “what do _you_ call this”
“Malice--persecution--vengeance,” replied Mr. Brown, whose resentment
was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. “In the presence of
God, and before all the world. I would pronounce it one of the most
diabolical acts ever committed in the history of civil society. But you
have one consolation, Reilly; your money and papers are safe.”
“It is not that,” replied Reilly; “I think not of them. It is the
vindictive and persecuting spirit of that man--that monster--and the
personal motives from which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in
my heart a principle of vengeance more fearful than his. But you do not
understand me, gentlemen; I could smile at all he has done to myself
yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others,
that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that
man deserves at my hand?”
“My dear Reilly,” said the clergyman, “recollect that there is a
Providence; and that we cannot assume to ourselves the disposition
of His judgments, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Your
situation is one of great distress and almost unexampled difficulty. At
all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof; and although
I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a free conscience,
and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your
persecutor.”
“No,” said Reilly; “most assuredly not--most assuredly not; no, not for
worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep sound
and happily to-night, whilst I will lie upon a bed of thorns?”
At this moment Mrs. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was
cautiously opened by her husband.
“John,” said she, “here is a note which I was desired to give to you
without a moment's delay.”
“Thank you, my love; I will read it instantly.”.
He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the
candles and read the letter, which he handed to Mr. Hastings. Now
we have already stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the
destruction of Reilly's property, never once opened his lips. Neither
did he, from the moment they entered Reilly's room. He sat like a dumb
man, occasionally helping himself to a glass of wine. After having
perused the note he merely nodded, but said not a word; he seemed to
have lost the faculty of speech. At length Mr. Brown spoke:
“This is really too bad, my dear Reilly; here is a note signed H.F.,
which informs me that your residence, concealment, or whatever it is,
has been discovered by Sir Robert Whitecraft, and that the military are
on their way here to arrest you; you must instantly fly.”
Hastings then got up, and taking Reilly's hand, said:
“Yes, Reilly, you must escape--disguise yourself--take all shapes--since
you will not leave the country; but there is one fact I wish to impress
upon you: meddle not with--injure not--Sir Robert Whitecraft. Leave him
to me.”
“Go out by the back way,” said Mr. Brown, “and fly into the fields, lest
they should surround the house and render escape impossible. God bless
you and preserve you from the violence of your enemies!”
It is unnecessary to relate what subsequently occurred. Mr. Brown's
premises, as he had anticipated, were completely surrounded ere the
party in search of Reilly had demanded admittance. The whole house was
searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Sir
Robert Whitecraft himself was not with them, but the party were all but
intoxicated, and, were it not for the calm and unshrinking firmness
of Mr. Brown, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of
insolence.
Reilly, in the meantime, did not pass far from the house. On the
contrary, he resolved to watch from a safe place the motions of those
who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more securely, he
mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the
centre of a field adjoining a kind of back lawn that stretched from the
walled garden of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergyman's house
had two hall-doors--one in front, and the other in the rear--and as the
rooms commanded a view of the scenery behind the house, which was
much finer than that in front, on this account the back hall-door was
necessary, as it gave them a free and easy egress to the lawn we have
mentioned, from which a magnificent prospect was visible.
It was obvious that the party, though unsuccessful, had been very
accurately informed. Finding, however, that the bird had flown, several
of them galloped across the lawn--it was a cavalry party, having been
sent out for speed and passed into the field where the tree grew in
which Reilly was concealed. After a useless search, however, they
returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak.
“Well,” said one of them, “it's a dear case that the scoundrel can make
himself invisible. We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to
put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on
his side. Sir Robert has been most credibly informed that that disloyal
parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now
who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a
Protestant parson? What the deuce is keeping those fellows? I hope they
won't go too far into the country.”
“Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar,” said one
of them in a stem voice.
“And I say,” said another, with a hiccough, “that, hang me, but I think
this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is
George Johnston, and I'm not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only
Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert,
Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him.
But, by --- it was too bad to burn his house and place--and see
whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good
Protestant--show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his
schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'll tell it to Sir
Robert's face, that there's something wrong somewhere. Give me a Papish
that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I'm the boy that
will take a grip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to
be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime
except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye
on. Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated
us so, what would you say?”
“All I can say is,” replied another of them, “that I'd wish to get the
reward.”
“Curse the reward,” said Johnston, “I like fair play.”
“But how did Sir Robert come to know?” asked another, “that Reilly was
with the parson'?”
“Who the deuce here can tell that?” replied several.
“The thing was a hoax,” said Johnston, “and a cursed uncomfortable one
for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well,
boys, no trail of this cunning fox?”
“Trail!” exclaimed the others. “Gad, you might as well hunt for your
grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's
not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson
keeping him was some enemy of the parson's more than of Reilly's, I'll
go bail. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and
then to our barracks.”
Now at this period it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and
loyalty, and whose attachment to the Constitution and Government was
indicated by such acts and principles as those which we have hitherto
read in the life of Sir Robert. Whitecraft--we say, it was usual for
such as him to be allowed a small detachment of military, whose numbers
were mostly rated, according to the services he required of them, by the
zeal and activity of their employer, as well as for his protection;
and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the
neighborhood was converted into a barrack for the purpose. Such was the
case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, who, independently of
his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an eye in this
disposition of things, to his own personal Safety. He consequently, had
his little barrack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five
minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his
presence.
After these men went away, Reilly, having waited a few minutes, until he
was satisfied that they had actually, one and all of them, disappeared,
came down from the tree, and once more betook himself to the road.
Whither to go he knew not. In consequence of having received his
education abroad, his personal knowledge of the inhabitants belonging
to the neighborhood was very limited. Go somewhere, however, he must.
Accordingly, he resolved to advance, at all events, as far as he might
be able to travel before bed-time, and then resign himself to chance
for a night's shelter. One might imagine, indeed, that his position as
a wealthy Roman Catholic gentleman, suffering persecution from the tool
and scourge of a hostile government, might have calculated upon shelter
and secrecy from those belonging to his own creed. And so, indeed, in
nineteen cases out of twenty he might; but in what predicament should
he find himself if the twentieth proved treacherous? And against this he
had no guarantee. That age was peculiarly marked by the foulest personal
perfidy, precipitated into action by rapacity, ingratitude, and the
blackest ambition. The son of a Roman Catholic gentleman, for instance,
had nothing more to do than change his creed, attach himself to the
government, become a spy and informer on his family, and he ousted his
own father at once out of his hereditary property--an ungrateful and
heinous proceeding, that was too common in the time of which we write.
Then, as to the people themselves, they were, in general, steeped in
poverty and ignorance, and this is certainly not surprising when
we consider that no man durst educate them. The government rewards,
therefore, assailed them with a double temptation. In the first, the
amount of it--taking their poverty into consideration--was calculated
to grapple with and overcome their scruples; and in the next, they were
certain by their treachery to secure the protection of government for
themselves.
Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly
found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny,
and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until
morning.
He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he
entered into conversation.
“God save you, my friend.”
“God save you kindly, sir,” replied the other; “was not this an awful
night?”
“If you may say so,” returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment
forgetting himself, “well may I, my friend.”
Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by
the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was
a Catholic.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “how could it be more awful to you than to
any other man?”
“Suppose my house was blown down,” said Reilly, “and that yours was not,
would not that be cause sufficient?”
“_My_ house!” exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; “but sure you ought to
know, sir, that it's not every _man_ has a house.”
“And perhaps I do know it.”
“Wasn't that a terrible act, sir--the burning of Mr. Reilly's house and
place?”
“Who is Mr. Reilly?” asked the other.
“A Catholic gintleman, sir, that the soldiers are afther,” replied the
man.
“And perhaps it is right that they should be after him. What did he do?
The Catholics are too much in the habit of violating the law, especially
their priests, who persist in marrying Protestants and Papists together,
although they know it is a hanging matter. If they deliberately put
their necks into the noose, who can pity them?”
“It seems they do, then,” replied the man in a subdued voice; “and what
is still more strange, it very often happens that persons of their own
creed are somewhat too ready to come down wid a harsh word upon 'em.”
“Well, my friend,” responded Reilly, “let them not deserve it; let them
obey the law.”
“And are _you_, of opinion, sir,” asked the man with a significant
emphasis upon the personal pronoun which we have put in italics; “are
_you_ of opinion, sir, that obedience to the law is _always_ a security
to either _person or property?_”
The direct force of the question could not be easily parried, at least
by Reilly, to whose circumstances it applied so powerfully, and he
consequently paused for a little to shape his thoughts into the language
he wished to adopt; the man, however, proceeded:
“I wonder what Mr. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him?”
“I suppose,” replied Reilly, “he would say much as I say--that neither
innocence nor obedience is always a security under any law or any
constitution either.”
His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in
silence. Such indeed was the precarious state of the country then that,
although the stranger, from the opening words of their conversation,
suspected his companion to be no other than Willy Reilly himself, yet
he hesitated to avow the suspicions he entertained of his identity,
although he felt anxious to repose the fullest confidence in him; and
Reilly, on the other hand, though perfectly aware of the true character
of his companion, was influenced in their conversation by a similar
feeling. Distrust it could not be termed on either side, but simply the
operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of
the times, when it was extremely difficult to know the individual on
whom you could place dependence. Reilly's generous nature, however,
could bear this miserable manoeuvring no longer.
“Come, my friend,” said he, “we have been beating about the bush with
each other to no purpose; although I know not your name, yet I think I
do your profession.”
“And I would hold a wager,” replied other, “that Mr. Reilly, whose house
was burned down by a villain this night, is not a thousand miles from
me.”
“And suppose you are right?”
“Then, upon my veracity, you're safe, if I am. It would ill become my
cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my
religion.
'_Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco_.'
You see, Mr. Reilly, I couldn't make use of any other gender but the
feminine without violating prosody; for although I'm not so sharp at
my Latin as I was, still I couldn't use _ignarus_, as you see, without
fairly committing myself as a scholar; and indeed, if I went to that, it
would surely be the first time I have been mistaken for a dunce.”
The honest priest, now that the ice was broken, and conscious that he
was in safe hands, fell at once into his easy and natural manner, and
rattled away very much to the amusement of his companion. “Ah!” he
proceeded, “many a character I have been forced to assume.”
“How is that?” inquired Reilly. “How did it happen that you were forced
into such a variety of characters?”
“Why, you see, Mr. Reilly--troth and maybe I had better not be naming
you aloud; walls have ears, and so may hedges. How, you ask? Why,
you see, I'm not registered, and consequently have no permission from
government to exercise my functions.”
“Why,” said Reilly, “you labor under a mistake, my friend; the bill for
registering Catholic priests did not pass; it was lost by a majority of
two. So far make your mind easy. The consequence is, that if you labor
under no ecclesiastical censure you may exercise all the functions of
your office--that is, as well as you can, and as far as you dare.”
“Well, that same's a comfort,” said the priest; “but the report was,
and is, that we are to be registered. However, be that as it may, I have
been a perfect Proteus. The metamorphoses of Ovid were nothing to mine.
I have represented every character in society at large; to-day I've been
a farmer, and to-morrow a poor man (a mendicant), sometimes a fool--a
rare character, you know, in this world--and sometimes a tiddler, for I
play a little.”
“And which character did you prefer among them all?” asked Reilly, with
a smile which he could not repress.
“Oh, in troth, you needn't ask that, Mr. R.--hem--you needn't ask that.
The first morning I took to the fiddle I was about to give myself up to
government at once. As for my part, I'd be ashamed to tell you how sent
those that were unlucky enough to ear my music scampering across the
country.”
“And, pray, how long is that since?”
“Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me!”
“And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion?” asked
Reilly.
“Dress-why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue frieze coat,
and--movrone, oh! a striped breeches. And the worst of it was, that big
Paddy Mullin, from Mullaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle's, poor
man, where I went to take a little refreshment, ordered in something to
eat, and began to make me play for him. There was a Protestant in the
house, too, so that I couldn't tell him who I was, and I accordingly
began, and soon cleared the house of them. God bless you, sir, you could
little dream of all I went through. I was one day set in the house I was
concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool, Art
M'Kenna, I suppose I'd have swung before this.”
“How was that?” asked Reilly.
“Why, sir, one day I got the hard word that they would be into the house
where I was in a few minutes. To escape them in my own dress I knew was
impossible; and what was to be done? The poor fool, who was as true as
steel, came to my relief. 'Here,' said he, 'exchange wid me. I'll put on
your black clothes, and you'll put on my red ones'--he was dressed like
an old soldier--'then I'll take to my scrapers, an' while they are in
pursuit of me you can escape to some friend's house, where you may get
another dress. 'God knows,' said he, with a grin on him I didn't like,
'it's a poor exchange on my part. You can play the fool, and cock your
cap, without any one to ask you for authority,' says he, 'and if I only
marry a wrong couple I may be hanged. Go off now.' Well, sir, out I
walked, dressed in a red coat, military hat, white knee-breeches, and
black leggings. As I was going out I met the soldiers. 'Is the priest
inside, Art?' they asked. I pointed in a wrong direction. 'Up by
Kilclay?' I nodded. They first searched the house, however, but found
neither priest nor fool; only one of them, something sharper than the
rest, went out of the back door, and saw unfortunate Art, dressed in
black, running for the bare life. Of course they thought it was me they
had. Off they started; and a tolerable chase Art put them to. At last
he was caught, after a run across the country of about four miles;
but ne'er a word came out of his lips, till a keen fellow, on looking
closely at him, discovered the mistake. Some of them were then going to
kill the poor fool, but others interfered, and wouldn't allow him to be
touched; and many of them laughed heartily when they saw Art turned into
a clergyman, as they said. Art, however, was no coward, and threatened
to read every man of them out from the altar. 'I'll exkimnicate every
mother's son of you,' said he. 'I'm a reverend clargy; and, by the
contents of my soger's cap, I'll close the mouths on your faces, so that
a blessed pratie or a boult of fat bacon will never go down one of
your villainous throats again; and then,' he added, 'I'll sell you for
scarecrows to the Pope o' Room, who wants a dozen or two of you to sweep
out his palace.' It was then, sir, that, while I was getting out of my
red clothes, I was transformed again; but, indeed, the most of us are so
now, God help us!”
They had now arrived at a narrow part of the road, when the priest
stood.
“Mr. Reilly,” said he, “I am very tired; but, as it is, we must go on
a couple of miles further, until we reach Glen Dhu, where I think I can
promise you a night's lodging, such as it will be.”
“I am easily satisfied,” replied his companion; “it would be a soft bed
that would win me to repose on this night, at least.”
“It will certainly be a rude and a rough one,” said the priest, “and
there will be few hearts there free from care, no more than yours,
Mr. Reilly. Alas! that I should be obliged to say so in a Christian
country.”
“You say you are fatigued,” said Reilly. “Take my arm; I am strong
enough to yield you some support.”
The priest did so, and they proceeded at a slower pace, until they got
over the next two miles, when the priest stopped again.
“I must rest a little,” said he, “although we are now within a hundred
yards of our berth for the night. Do you know where you are?”
“Perfectly,” replied Reilly; “but, good mercy! sure there is neither
house nor home within two miles of us. We are in the moors, at the very
mouth of Glen Dhu.'
“Yes,” replied his companion, “and I am glad we are here.”
The poor hunted priest felt himself, indeed, very much exhausted, so
much so that, if the termination of his journey had been at a much
longer distance from thence, he would scarcely have been able to reach
it.
“God help our unhappy Church,” said he, “for she is suffering much; but
still she is suffering nobly, and with such Christian fortitude as will
make her days of trial and endurance the brightest in her annals. All
that power and persecution can direct against us is put in force a
thousand ways; but we act under the consciousness that we have God and
truth on our side, and this gives us strength and courage to suffer.
And if we fly, Mr. Reilly, and hide ourselves, it is not from any moral
cowardice we do so. It certainly is not true courage to expose our lives
wantonly and unnecessarily to the vengeance of our enemies. Read the
Old Testament and history, and you will find how many good and pious
men have sought shelter in wildernesses and caves, as we have done. The
truth is, we feel ourselves called upon, for the sake of our suffering
and neglected flocks, to remain in the country, and to afford them all
the consolation and religious support in our power, God help them.”
“I admire the justice of your sentiments,” replied Reilly, “and the
spirit in which they are--expressed. Indeed I am of opinion that if
those who foster and stimulate this detestable spirit of persecution
against you only knew how certainly and surely it defeats their purpose,
by cementing your hearts and the hearts of your flocks together, they
would not, from principles even of worldly policy, persist in it. The
man who attempted to break down the arch by heaping additional weight
upon it ultimately found that the greater the weight the stronger the
arch, and so I trust it will be with us.”
“It would seem,” said the priest, “to be an attempt to exterminate
the religion of the people by depriving them of their pastors, and
consequently of their Church, in order to bring them to the impression
that, upon the principle of any Church being better than no Church, they
may gradually be absorbed into Protestantism. This seems to be their
policy; but how can any policy, based upon such persecution, and so
grossly at variance with human liberty, ever succeed? As it is, we go
out in the dead hours of the night, when even persecution is asleep, and
administer the consolations of religion to the sick, the dying, and
the destitute. Now these stolen visits are sweeter, perhaps, and more
efficacious, than if they took place in freedom and the open day. Again,
we educate their children in the principles of their creed, during the
same lonely hours, in waste houses, where we are obliged to keep the
windows stuffed with straw, or covered with blinds of some sort, lest
a chance of discovery might ensue. Such is the life we lead--a life of
want and misery and suffering, but we complain not; on the contrary, we
submit ourselves to the will of God, and receive this severe visitation
as a chastisement intended for our good.”
The necessities of our narrative, however, compel us to leave them here
for the present; but not without a hope that they found shelter for the
night, as we trust we shall be able to show.