CHAPTER X.--Scenes that took place in the Mountain Cave

“I will not hear your apology, brother,” said the tall man with the

stern voice; “your conduct, knowing our position, and the state of this

unhappy and persecuted country, is not only indiscreet, but foolish,

indefensible, mad. Here is a young man attached--may God pardon him--to

the daughter of one of the most persecuting heretics in the kingdom.

She is beautiful, by every report that we have heard of her, even as an

angel; but reflect that she is an heiress--the inheritress of immense

property--and that, as a matter of course, the temptations are a

thousand to one against him. He will yield, I tell you, to the heretic

syren; and as a passport to her father's favor and her affection, he

will, like too many of his class, abandon the faith of his ancestors,

and become an apostate, for the sake of wealth and sensual affection.”

“I question, my lord,” replied the priest, “whether it is consistent

with Christian charity to impute motives of such heinous guilt, when we

are not in a condition to bear out our suspicions. The character of this

young gentleman as a Catholic is firm and faithful, and I will stake my

life upon his truth and attachment to our Church.”

“You know him not, father,” replied the bishop, for such he was; “I tell

you, and I speak from better information than you possess, that he is

already suspected. What has been his conduct? He has associated himself

more with Protestants than with those of his own Church; he has dined

with them, partaken of their hospitality, joined in there amusements,

slept in their houses, and been with them as a familiar friend and boon

companion. I see, father, what the result will necessarily be; first, an

apostate--next, an informer--and, lastly, a persecutor; and all for the

sake of wealth and the seductive charms of a rich heiress. I say, then,

that deep in this cold cavern shall be his grave, rather than have an

opportunity of betraying the shepherds of Christ's persecuted flock, and

of hunting them into the caverns of the earth like beasts of prey. Our

retreat here is known only to those who, for the sake of truth and their

own lives, will never disclose the knowledge of it, bound as they

are, in addition to this, by an oath of the deepest and most dreadful

solemnity--an oath the violation of which would constitute a fearful

sacrilege in the eye of God. As for these orphans, whose parents were

victims to the cruel laws that are grinding us, I have so trained and

indoctrinated them into a knowledge of their creed, and a sense of

their duty, that they are thoroughly trustworthy. On this very day I

administered to them the sacrament of confirmation. No, brother, we

cannot sacrifice the interests and welfare of our holy Church to the

safety of a single life--to the safety of a person who I foresee will be

certain to betray us.”

“My lord,” replied the priest, “I humbly admit your authority and

superior sanctity, for in what does your precious life fall short of

martyrdom but by one step to the elevation which leads to glory? I mean

the surrendering of that life for the true faith. I feel, my lord, that

in your presence I am nothing; still, in our holy Church there is the

humble as well as the exalted, and your lordship will admit that the

gradations of piety, and the dispensations of the higher and the lower

gifts, proceed not only from the wisdom of God but from the necessities

of man.”

“I do not properly understand you, father,” said the bishop in a voice

whose stern tones were mingled with something like contempt.

“I beg your lordship to hear me,” proceeded Father Maguire. “You say

that Reilly has associated more frequently with Protestants than he has

with persons of our own religion. That may be true, and I grant that it

is so; but, my lord, are you aware that he has exercised the influence

which he has possessed over them for the protection and advantage and

safety of his Catholic friends and neighbors, to the very utmost of his

ability, and frequently with success?”

“Yes; they obliged him because they calculated upon his accession to

their creed and principles.”

“My lord,” replied the priest with firmness, “I am an humble but

independent man; if humanity and generosity, exercised as I have seen

them this night, guided and directed by the spirit of peace, and of the

word of God itself, can afford your lordship a guarantee of the high and

Christian principles by which this young man's heart is actuated, then I

may with confidence recommend him to your clemency.”

“What would you say?” asked the bishop.

“My lord, he was the principal means of saving the lives of six

Protestants-heretics, I mean--from being cut off in their iniquities and

sins this night.”

“How do you mean?” replied the stern bishop; “explain yourself!”

The good priest then gave a succinct account of the circumstances with

which the reader is already acquainted; and, after having finished his

brief narrative, the unfortunate man perceived that, instead of having

rendered Reilly a service, he had strengthened the suspicions of the

prelate against him.

“So!” said the bishop, “you advance the history of this dastardly

conduct as an argument in his favor!”

As he uttered these words, his eyes, which had actually become

bloodshot, blazed again; his breath went and came strongly, and he

ground his teeth with rage.

Father Maguire, and those who were present, looked at each other with

eyes in which might be read an expression of deep sorrow and compassion.

At length a mild-looking, pale-faced man, with a clear, benignant eye,

approached him, and laying his hand in a gentle manner upon his arm,

said, “Pray, my dear lord, let me entreat your lordship to remember the

precepts of our great Master: 'Love your enemies; bless them that curse

you; do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully

use you, and persecute you.' And surely, my lord, no one knows better

than you do that this is the spirit of our religion, and that whenever

it is violated the fault is not that of the creed, but the man.”

“Under any circumstances,” said the bishop, declining to reply to this,

and placing his open hand across his forehead, as if he felt confusion

or pain--“under any circumstances, this person must take the oath of

secrecy with respect to the existence of this cave. Call him up.”

Reilly, as we have said, saw at once that an angry discussion had taken

place, and felt all but certain that he was himself involved in it. The

priest, in obedience to the wish expressed by the bishop, went down to

where he stood, and whispering to him, said:

“Salvation to me, but I had a hard battle for you. I fought, however,

like a trump. The strange, and--ahem--kind of man you are called upon to

meet now is one of our bishops--but don't you pretend to know that--he

has heard of your love for the _Cooleen Bawn_, and of her love for

you--be easy now--not a thing it will be but the meeting of two

thunderbolts between you--and he's afraid you'll be deluded by her

charms--turn apostate on our hands--and that the first thing you're

likely to do, when you get out of this subterranean palace of ours, will

be to betray its existence to the heretics. I have now put you on your

guard, so keep a sharp lookout; be mild as mother's milk. But if you 'my

lord' him, I'm dished as a traitor beyond redemption.”

Now, if the simple-hearted priest had been tempted by the enemy himself

to place these two men in a position where a battle-royal between them

was most likely to ensue, he could not have taken a more successful

course for that object. Reilly, the firm, the high-minded, the

honorable, and, though last not least, the most indignant at any

imputation against his integrity, now accompanied the priest in a state

of indignation that was nearly a match for that of the bishop.

“This is Mr. Reilly, gentlemen; a firm and an honest Catholic, who, like

ourselves, is suffering for his religion.”

“Mr. Reilly,” said the bishop, “it is good to suffer for our religion.”

“It is our duty,” replied Reilly, “when we are called upon to do so; but

for my part, I must confess, I have no relish whatsoever for the honors

of martyrdom. I would rather aid it and assist it than suffer for it.”

The bishop gave a stem look at his friends, as much as to say: “You

hear! incipient heresy and treachery at the first step.”

“He's more mad than the bishop,” thought Father Maguire; “in God's name

what will come next, I wonder? Reilly's blood, somehow, is up; and there

they are looking at each other, like a pair o' game cocks, with their

necks stretched out in a cockpit--when I was a boy I used to go to see

them--ready to dash upon one another.”

“Are you not now suffering for your religion?” asked the prelate.

“No,” replied Reilly, “it is not for the sake of my religion that I have

suffered any thing. Religion is made only a pretext for it; but it is

not, in truth, on that account that I have been persecuted.”

“Pray, then, sir, may I inquire the cause of your persecution?”

“You may,” replied Reilly, “but I shall decline to answer you. It comes

not within your jurisdiction, but is a matter altogether personal to

myself, and with which you can have no concern.”

Here a groan from the priest, which he could not suppress, was shivered

off, by a tremendous effort, into a series of broken coughs, got up

in order to conceal his alarm at the fatal progress which Reilly, he

thought, was unconsciously making to his own ruin.

“Troth,” thought he, “the soldiers were nothing at all to what this will

be. There his friends would have found the body and given him a decent

burial; but here neither friend nor fellow will know where to look for

him. I was almost the first man that took the oath to keep the existence

of this place secret from all unless those that were suffering for their

religion; and now, by denying that, he has me in the trap along with

himself.”

A second groan, shaken out of its continuity into another comical shower

of fragmental coughs, closed this dreary but silent soliloquy.

The bishop proceeded: “You have been inveigled, young man, by the charms

of a deceitful and heretical syren, for the purpose of alienating you

from the creed of your forefathers.”

“It is false,” replied Reilly; “false, if it proceeded from the lips of

the Pope himself; and if his lips uttered to me what you now have done,

I would fling the falsehood in his teeth, as I do now in yours--yes,

if my life should pay the forfeit of it. What have you to do with my

private concerns?”

Reilly's indignant and impetuous reply to the prelate struck all

who heard it with dismay, and also with horror, when they bethought

themselves of the consequences.

“You are a heretic at heart,” said the other, knitting his brows; “from

your own language you stand confessed--a heretic.”

“I know not,” replied Reilly, “by what right or authority you adopt

this ungentlemanly and illiberal conduct towards me; but so long as your

language applies only to myself and my religion, I shall answer you in a

different spirit. In the first place, then, you are grievously mistaken

in supposing me to be a heretic. I am true and faithful to nay creed,

and will live and die in it.”

Father Maguire felt relieved, and breathed more freely; a groan was

coming, but it ended in a “hem.”

“Before we proceed any farther, sir,” said this strange man, “you must

take an oath.”

“For what purpose, sir?” inquired Reilly.

“An oath of secrecy as to the existence of this place of our retreat.

There are at present here some of the--” he checked himself, as if

afraid to proceed farther. “In fact, every man who is admitted amongst

us must take the oath.”

Reilly looked at him with indignation. “Surely,” thought he to himself,

“this man must be mad; his looks are wild, and the fire of insanity

is in his eyes; if not, he is nothing less than an incarnation of

ecclesiastical bigotry and folly. The man must be mad, or worse.” At

length he addressed him.

“You doubt my integrity and my honor, then,” he replied haughtily.

“We doubt every man until he is bound by his oath.”

“You must continue to doubt me, then,” replied Reilly; “for, most

assuredly, I will not take it.”

“You must take it, sir,” said the other, “or you never leave the cavern

which covers you,” and his eyes once more blazed as he uttered the

words.

“Gentlemen,” said Reiliy, “there appear to be fifteen or sixteen of you

present: may I be permitted to ask why you suffer this unhappy man to be

at large?”

“Will you take the oath, sir?” persisted the insane bishop in a voice of

thunder--“heretic and devil, will you take the oath?”

“Unquestionably not. I will never take any oath that would imply want

of honor in myself. Cease, then, to trouble me with it. I shall not take

it.”

This last reply affected the bishop's reason so deeply that he looked

about him strangely, and exclaimed, “We are lost and betrayed. But here

are angels--I see them, and will join in their blessed society,” and as

he spoke, he rushed towards the stalactites in a manner somewhat wild

and violent, so much so, indeed, that from an apprehension of his

receiving injury in some of the dark interstices among them, they found

it necessary, for his sake, to grapple with him for a few moments.

But, alas! they had very little indeed to grapple with. The man was but

a shadow, and they found him in their hands as feeble as a child. He

made no resistance, but suffered himself to be managed precisely as they

wished. Two of the persons present took charge of him, one sitting on

each side of him. Reilly, who looked on with amazement, now strongly

blended with pity--for the malady of the unhappy ecclesiastic could

no longer be mistaken--Reilly, we say, was addressed by an

intelligent-looking individual, with some portion of the clerical

costume about him.

“Alas! sir,” said he, “it was not too much learning, but too much

persecution, that has made him mad. That and the ascetic habits of his

life have clouded or destroyed a great intellect and a good heart. He

has eaten only one sparing meal a day during the last month; and though

severe and self-denying to himself, he was, until the last week or so,

like a father, and an indulgent one, to us all.”

At this moment the pale, mild-looking clergyman, to whom we have

alluded, went over to where the bishop sat, and throwing himself upon

his bosom, burst into tears. The sorrow indeed became infectious, and in

a few minutes there were not many dry eyes around him. Father Maguire,

who was ignorant of the progressive change that had taken place in him

since his last visit to the cave, now wept like a child, and Reilly

himself experienced something that amounted to remorse, when he

reflected on the irreverent tone of voice in which he had replied to

him.

The paroxysm, however, appeared to have passed away; he was quite

feeble, but not properly collected, though calm and quiet. After a

little time he requested to be put to bed. And this leads us to the

description of another portion of the cave to which we have not yet

referred. At the upper end of the stalactite apartment, which we have

already described, there was a large projection of rock, which nearly

divided it from the other, and which discharged the office of a wall, or

partition, between the two apartments. Here there was a good fire kept,

but only during the hours of night, inasmuch as the smoke which issued

from a rent or cleft in the top of this apartment would have discovered

them by day. Through this slight chasm, which was strictly concealed,

they received provisions, water, and fuel. In fact, it would seem as if

the whole cave had been expressly designed for the purpose to which it

was then applied, or, at least for some one of a similar nature.

On entering this, Reilly found a good fire, on which was placed a large

pot with a mess in it, which emitted a very savory odor. Around

the sides, or walls of this rock, were at least a score of heather

shake-down beds, the fragrance of which was delicious. Pots, pans, and

other simple culinary articles were there, with a tolerable stock of

provisions, not omitting a good-sized keg of mountain dew, which their

secluded position, the dampness of the place, and their absence from

free air, rendered very necessary and gratifying.

“Here!” exclaimed Father Maguire, after the feeble prelate had been

assisted to this recess, “here, now, put his lordship to bed; I have

tossed it up for him in great style! I assure you, my dear friends,

it's a shakedown fit for a prince!--and better than most of the thieves

deserve. What bed of down ever had the sweet fragrance this flowery

heather sends forth? Here, my lord--easy, now--lay him down gently, just

as a mother would her sleeping child--for, indeed, he is a child,” he

whispered, “and as weak as a child; but a sound sleep will do him good,

and he'll be a new man in the morning, please God.”

Upon this rough, but wholesome and aromatic couch, the exhausted prelate

was placed, where he had not been many minutes until he fell into a

profound sleep, a fact which gratified them very much, for they assured

Reilly and the priest that he had slept but a few hours each night

during the last week, and that such slumber as he did get was feverish

and unquiet.

Our good-humored friend, however, was now cordially welcomed by these

unfortunate ecclesiastics, for such, in fact, the majority of them were.

His presence seemed to them like a ray of light from the sun. His good

humor, his excellent spirits, which nothing could repress, and his

drollery kept them alive, and nothing was so much regretted by them as

his temporary absences from time to time; for, in truth, he was their

messenger, their steward, and their newsman--in fact, the only link that

connected them with external life, and the ongoings of the world abroad.

The bed in which the bishop now slept was in a distant corner of this

inner apartment, or dormitory, as it might be termed, because the

situation was higher and drier, and consequently more healthy, as a

sleeping-place, than any other which the rude apartment afforded.

The fire on which the large pot simmered was at least a distance

of twenty-five yards from his bed, so that they could indulge in

conversation without much risk of disturbing him.

It is unnecessary to say that Reilly and his friend Father Maguire felt,

by this time, a tolerably strong relish for something in the shape of

sustenance--a relish which was exceedingly sharpened by the savory smell

sent forth throughout the apartment by the contents of whatsoever was

contained in the immense pot.

“My dear brethren,” said the priest, “let us consider this cavern as a

rich monastery; such, alas! as existed in the good days of old, when

the larder and refectory were a credit to religion and a relief to the

destitute, but which, alas!--and alas! again--we can only think of as

a--in the meantime, I can stand this no longer. If I possess judgment or

penetration in _re culinaria_, I am of opinion,” he added (stirring up

the contents of it), “that it is fit to be operated on; so, in God's

name, let us have at it.”

In a few minutes two or three immense pewter dishes were heaped with a

stew made up of mutton, bacon, hung beef, onions, and potatoes, forming

indeed a most delicious mess for any man, much less the miserable men

who were making it disappear so rapidly.

Reilly, the very picture of health, after maintaining a pace inferior

to that of none, although there were decidedly some handy workmen there,

now was forced to pull up and halt. In the meantime some slow but steady

operations went on with a perseverance that was highly creditable; and

it was now that, having a little agreeable leisure to observe and

look about him, he began to examine the extraordinary costumes of the

incongruous society in which, to his astonishment, he found himself a

party. We must, however, first account for the oddness and incongruity

of the apparent characters which they were forced to assume.

At this period the Catholics of Ireland were indeed frightfully

oppressed. A proclamation had recently been issued by the Government,

who dreaded, or pretended to dread, an insurrection--by which document

convents and monasteries were suppressed--rewards offered for the

detection and apprehension of ecclesiastics, and for the punishment of

such humane magistrates as were reluctant to enforce laws so unsparing

and oppressive. Increased rewards were also offered to spies and

informers, with whom the country unfortunately abounded. A general

disarming of all Catholics took place; domiciliary visits were made

in quest of bishops, priests, and friars, and all the chapels in the

country were shut up. Many of the clergy flew to the metropolis, where

they imagined they might be more safe, and a vast number to caverns and

mountains, in order to avoid the common danger, and especially from

a wholesome, terror of that class of men called priest-hunters.

The Catholic peasantry having discovered their clergy in these wild

retreats, flocked to them on Sundays and festivals, in order to join in

private--not public-worship, and to partake of the rites and sacraments

of their Church.

Such was the state of the country at the period when the unfortunate

men whom we are about to describe were pent up in this newly discovered

cavern.

Now, Reilly himself was perfectly acquainted with all this, and knew

very well that these unhappy men, having been frequently compelled to

put on the first disguise that came to hand, had not means, nor indeed

disposition, to change these disguises, unless at the risk of being

recognized, taken into custody, and surrendered to the mercy of the law.

When their savory meal was concluded, Father Maguire, who never forgot

any duty connected with his position--be that where it might--now went

over to the large pot, exclaiming:

“It would be too bad, my friends, to forget the creatures here that have

been so faithful and so steady to us. Poor things, I could see, by

the way they fixed their longing eyes upon us while we were doing the

handy-work at the stew, that if the matter had been left to themselves,

not a spoonful ever went into our mouths but they'd have practised the

doctrine of tithe upon. Come, darlings--here, now, is a little race

for you--every one of you seize a spoon, keep a hospitable mouth and

a supple wrist. These creatures, Mr. Reilly, are so many little brands

plucked out of the burning. They are the children of parents who

suffered for their faith, and were brought here to avoid being put into

these new traps for young Catholics, called Charter Schools, into which

the Government wishes to hook in our rising generation, under pretence

of supporting and educating them; but, in point of fact, to alienate

them from the affection of their parents and relations, and to train

them up in the State religion, poor things. At all events, they are very

handy to us here, for they slip out by turns and bring us almost every

thing we want--and not one of them ever opened his lips as to the

existence of this _spelunca_.”

The meal of the poor things was abundant, but they soon gave over, and

in a few minutes they tumbled themselves into their heather beds, and

were soon sunk in their innocent slumbers.

“Now, gentlemen, that we have eaten a better meal than we could expect

in this miserable place, thanks to the kindness of our faithful flocks,

what do you think of a sup of what's in the keg? Good eating deserves

a drop of mixture after it, to aid in carrying on the process of

digestion! Father Hennessy, what are you at?” he exclaimed, addressing

an exceedingly ill-looking man, with heavy brows and a sinister aspect.

“You forget, sir, that the management of the keg is my duty, whenever

I am here. You are the only person here who violates our regulations in

that respect. Walk back and wait till you are helped like another. Do

you call that being spiritually inclined? If so, there is not a doubt of

it but you ought to be a bishop; and if you come to that, I'll stake my

credit on it that you'll never let much wind into your stomach so long

as you can get plenty of the solids and fluids to keep it out.”

“I'm weak in the stomach,” replied Hennessy, with a sensual grin, “and

require it.”

“But I say,” replied Father Maguire, “that it would require stronger

proof than any your outward man presents to confirm the truth of that.

As for bearing a load either of the liquids or solids aforesaid, I'll

back your bit of abdomen there against those of any three of us.”

Cups and noggins, and an indescribable variety of small vessels that

were never designed for drinking, were now called into requisition, and

a moderate portion of the keg was distributed among them. Reilly, while

enjoying his cup, which as well as the others he did with a good deal of

satisfaction, could not help being amused by the comical peculiarity of

their disguises.

The sinister-looking clergyman, whom we have named Hennessy,

subsequently became a spy and informer, and, we may add, an enemy

equally formidable and treacherous to the Catholics of the time, in

consequence of having been deprived of his clerical functions by his

bishop, who could not overlook his immoral and irregular conduct. He is

mentioned by Matthew O'Connor, in his “History of the Irish Catholics,”

and consigned to infamy as one of the greatest scourges, against both

the priesthood and the people, that ever disgraced the country. But it

must be admitted that he stands out in dark relief against the great

body of the Catholic priests at that period, whose firmness, patience,

and fidelity to their trust, places them above all praise and all

suspicion. It is, however, very reasonable, that men so hunted and

persecuted should be forced, not only in defence of their own lives

and liberties, but also for the sake of their flocks, to assume such

costumes as might most effectually disguise them, so that they would be

able still, even in secret and by stealth, to administer the rites of

their religion to the poor and neglected of their own creed. Some were

dressed in common frieze, some in servants' cast-off liveries--however

they came by them--and not a few in military uniform, that served, as

it were, to mark them staunch supporters of the very Government that

persecuted them. A reverend archdeacon, somewhat comely and corpulent,

had, by some means or other, procured the garb of a recruiting sergeant,

which fitted him so admirably that the illusion was complete; and, what

bore it out still more forcibly, was the presence of a smart-looking

little friar, who kept the sergeant in countenance in the uniform of

a drummer. Mass was celebrated every day, hymns were sung, and prayers

offered up to the Almighty, that it might please him to check the flood

of persecution which had overwhelmed or scattered them. Still, in the

intervals of devotion, they indulged in that reasonable cheerfulness and

harmless mirth which were necessary to support their spirits, depressed

as they must have been by this dreadful and melancholy confinement--a

confinement where neither the light of the blessed sun, nor the fresh

breezes of heaven, nor the air we breathe, in its usual purity, could

reach them. Sir Thomas More and Sir Walter Raleigh, however, were

cheerful on the scaffold; and even here, as we have already said, many a

rustic tale and legend, peculiar to those times, went pleasantly around;

many a theological debate took place, and many a thesis was discussed,

in order to enable the unhappy men to pass away the tedious monotony of

their imprisonment in this strange lurking-place. The only man who kept

aloof and took no part in these amusing recreations was Hennessy, who

seemed moody and sullen, but who, nevertheless, was frequently detected

in making stolen visits to the barrel.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the sight was a melancholy one; and

whatever disposition Reilly felt to smile at what he saw and heard

was instantly changed on perceiving their unaffected piety, which was

evident by their manner, and a rude altar in a remote end of the cave,

which was laid out night and day for the purpose of celebrating the

ceremonies and mysteries of their Church. Before he went to his couch

of heather, however, he called Father Maguire aside, and thus addressed

him:

“I have been a good deal struck to-night, my friend, by all that I

have witnessed in this singular retreat. The poor prelate I pity; and I

regret I did not understand him sooner. His mind, I fear, is gone.”

“Why, I didn't understand him myself,” replied the priest; “because this

was the first symptom he has shown of any derangement in his intellect,

otherwise I would no more have contradicted him than I would have cut my

left hand off.”

“There is, however, a man--a clergyman here, called Hennessy; who is he,

and what has been his life?”

“Why,” replied the other, “I have heard nothing to his disadvantage. He

is a quiet, and, it is said, a pious man--and I think he is too. He

is naturally silent, and seldom takes any part in our conversation. He

says, however, that his concealment here bears hard upon him, and is

depressing his spirits every day more and more. The only thing I ever

could observe in him is what you saw yourself to-night-a slight relish

for an acquaintance with the barrel. He sometimes drains a drop--indeed,

sometimes too much--out of it, when he gets our backs turned; but then

he pleads low spirits three or four times a day--indeed, so often that,

upon my word, he'll soon have the barrel pleading the same complaint.”

“Well,” replied Reilly, after listening attentively to him, “I desire

you and your friends to watch that man closely. I know something about

him; and I tell you that if ever the laws become more lenient, the

moment this man makes his appearance his bishop will deprive him of

all spiritual jurisdiction for life. Mark me now, Father Maguire; if

he pleads any necessity for leaving this retreat and going abroad again

into the world, don't let a single individual of you remain, here one

hour after him. Provide for your safety and your shelter elsewhere as

well as you can; if not, the worst consequences may--nay, will follow.”

The priest promised to communicate this intelligence to his companions,

one by one, after which, both he and Reilly, feeling fatigued and

exhausted by what they had undergone in the course of the night, threw

themselves each upon his couch of heather, and in a few minutes not only

they, but all their companions, were sunk in deep sleep.

CHAPTEE XI.--The Squire's Dinner and his Guests.

We now return to _Cooleen Bawn_, who, after her separation from Reilly,

retired to her own room, where she indulged in a paroxysm of deep grief,

in consequence of her apprehension that she might never see him again.

She also calculated upon the certainty of being obliged to sustain a

domestic warfare with her father, as the result of having made him the

confidant of her love. In this, however, she was agreeably disappointed;

for, on meeting him the next morning, at breakfast, she was a good

deal surprised to observe that he made no allusion whatsoever to the

circumstance--if, indeed, an occasional muttering of some unintelligible

words, _sotto voce_, might not be supposed to allude to it. The truth

was, the old man found the promise he had made to Sir Robert one of such

difficulty to his testy and violent disposition, that his language, and

the restraint which he felt himself under the necessity of putting on

it, rendered his conversation rather ludicrous.

“Well, Helen,” he said, on entering the breakfast-parlor, “how did you

rest last night, my love? Rested sound--eh? But you look rather pale,

darling. (Hang the rascal!)”

“I cannot say that I slept as well as usual, sir. I felt headache.”

“Ay, headache--was it? (heartache, rather. The villain.) Well come, let

me have a cup of tea and a mouthful of that toast.”

“Will you not have some chicken, sir?”

“No, my dear--no; just what I said--a mouthful of toast, and a cup of

tea, with plenty of cream in it. Thank you, love. (A good swing for him

will be delightful. I'll go to see it.) Helen, my dear, I'm going to

give a dinner-party next week. Of course we'll have your future--hem--I

mean we'll have Sir Robert, and--let me see--who else? Why, Oxley, the

sheriff”, Mr. Brown, the parson--I wish he didn't lean so much to the

cursed Papists, though--Mr. Hastings, who is tarred with the same

stick, it is whispered. Well, who next? Lord Deilmacare, a good-natured

jackass--a fellow who would eat a jacketful of carrion, if placed before

him, with as much _gout_ as if it were venison. He went home one night,

out of this, with the parson's outside coat and shovel hat upon him, and

did not return them for two days.”

“Does this habit proceed from stupidity, papa?”

“Not at all; but from mere carelessness. The next two days he was out

with his laborers, and if a cow or pig chanced--(the villain! we'll hang

him to a certainty)--chanced, I say, to stray into the field, he would

shy the shovel hat at them, without remorse. Oh! we must have him, by

all means. But who next? Sir Jenkins Joram. Give him plenty to drink,

and he is satisfied.”

“But what are his political principles, papa?”

“They are to be found in the bottle, Helen, which is the only creed,

political or religious, to which I ever knew him to be attached; and

I tell you, girl, that if every Protestant in Ireland were as deeply

devoted to his Church as he is to the bottle, we would soon be a happy

people, uncorrupted by treacherous scoundrels, who privately harbor

Papists and foster Popery itself. (The infernal scoundrel.)”

“But, papa,” replied his daughter, with a melancholy smile, “I think I

know some persons, who, although very loud and vehement in their outcry

against Popery, have, nevertheless, on more than one or two occasions,

harbored Papists in their house, and concealed even priests, when the

minions of the law were in search of them.”

“Yes, and it is of this cursed crew of hollow Protestants that I now

speak--ahem--ay--ha--well, what the devil--hem. To be sure I--I--I--but

it doesn't signify; we can't be wise at all times. But after all, Helen

(she has me there), after all, I say, there are some good Papists, and

some good--ahem--priests, too. There now, I've got it out. However,

Helen, those foolish days are gone, and we have nothing for it now but

to hunt Popery out of the country. But to proceed as to the dinner.”

“I think Popery is suffering enough, sir, and more than enough.”

“Ho, ho,” he exclaimed with triumph, “here comes the next on my list--a

fine fellow, who will touch it up still more vigorously--I mean Captain

Smellpriest.”

“I have heard of that inhuman man,” replied Helen; “I wish you would

not ask him, papa. I am told he equals Sir Robert Whitecraft in both

cowardice and cruelty. Is not that a nickname he has got in consequence

of his activity in pursuit of the unfortunate priests?”

“It's a nickname he has given himself,” replied her father; “and he

has become so proud of it that he will allow himself to be called by no

other. He swears that if a priest gets on the windy side of him, he will

scent him as a hound would a fox. Oh! by my honor, Smellpriest must be

here. The scoundrel like Whitecraft!--eh-what am I saying? Smellpriest,

I say, first began his career as a friend to the Papists; he took large

tracts of land in their name, and even purchased a couple of estates

with their money; and in due time, according as the tide continued

to get strong against them, he thought the best plan to cover his

villany--ahem--his policy, I mean--was to come out as a fierce loyalist;

and as a mark of his repentance, he claimed the property, as the real

purchaser, and arrested those who were fools enough to trust him.”

“I think I know another gentleman of my acquaintance who holds property

in some similar trust for Papists,” observed Helen, “but who certainly

is incapable of imitating the villany of that most unprincipled man.”

“Come, come, Helen; come, my girl; tut--ahem; come, you are getting

into politics now, and that will never do. A girl like you ought to have

nothing to do with politics or religion.”

“Religion! papa.”

“Oh--hem-I don't mean exactly that. Oh, no; I except religion; a girl

may be as religious as she pleases, only she must say as little upon the

subject as possible. Come, another cup of tea, with a little more

sugar, for, I give you my honor, you did not make the last one of the

sweetest;” and so saying, he put over his cup with a grimace, which

resembled that of a man detected in a bad action, instead of a good one.

At this moment John, the butler, came in with a plate of hot toast; and,

as he was a privileged old man, he addressed his master without much

hesitation.

“That was a quare business,” he observed, using the word quare as an

equivocal one, until he should see what views of the circumstance his

master might take; “a quare business, sir, that happened to Mr. Reilly.”

“What business do you allude to, you old sinner?”

“The burning of his house and place, sir. All he has, or had, is in a

heap of ashes.”

Helen felt not for the burning, but her eyes were fixed upon the

features of the old man, as if the doom of her life depended on his

words; whilst the paper on which ee write is not whiter than were her

cheeks.

“What--what--how was it?” asked his master; “who did it?--and by whose

authority was it done?”

“Sir Robert Whitecraft and his men did it, sir.”

“Ay, but I can't conceive he had any authority for such an act.”

“Wasn't Mr. Reilly an outlaw, sir? Didn't the Red Rapparee, who is now a

good Protestant, swear insurrection against him?”

“The red devil, sirra,” replied the old squire, forgetting his animosity

to Reilly in the atrocity and oppression of the deed--“the red

devil, sirra! would that justify such a cowardly scoundrel as Sir

Robert--ugh--ugh--ugh--that went against my breath, Helen. Well, come

here, I say, you old sinner; they burned the place, you say?”

“Sir Robert and his men did, sir.”

“I'm not doubting that, you old house-leek. I know Sir Robert too

well--I know the infernal--ahem; a most excellent loyal gentleman, with

two or three fine estates, both here and in England; but he prefers

living here, for reasons best known to himself and me, and--and to

somebody else. Well, they burned Reilly out--but tell me this; did they

catch the rascal himself? eh? here's five pounds for you, if you can say

they have him safe.”

“That's rather a loose bargain, your honor,” replied the man with a

smile; “for saying it?--why, what's to prevent me from saying it, if I

wished?”

“None of your mumping, you old snapdragon; but tell me the truth, have

they secured him hard and fast?”

“No, sir, he escaped them, and as report goes they know nothing about

him, except that they haven't got him.”

Deep and speechless was the agony in which Helen sat during this short

dialogue, her eyes having never once been withdrawn from the butler's

countenance; but now that she had heard of her lover's personal safety,

a thick, smothered sob, which, if it were to kill her, she could not

repress, burst from her bosom. Unwilling that either her father or the

servant should witness the ecstasy which she could not conceal, and

feeling that another minute would disclose the delight which convulsed

her heart and frame, she arose, and, with as much composure as she could

assume, went slowly out of the room. On entering her apartment, she

signed to her maid to withdraw, after which she closed and bolted the

door, and wept bitterly. The poor girl's emotion, in fact, was of a

twofold character; she wept with joy at Reilly's escape from the

hands of his cruel and relentless enemy, and with bitter grief at the

impossibility which she thought there existed that he should ultimately

be able to keep out of the meshes which she knew Whitecraft would spread

for him. The tears, however, which she shed abundantly, in due time

relieved her, and in the course of an hour or two she was able to appear

as usual in the family.

The reader may perceive that her father, though of an abrupt and cynical

temper, was not a man naturally of a bad or unfeeling heart. Whatever

mood of temper chanced to be uppermost influenced him for the time; and

indeed it might be said that one half of his feelings were usually in a

state of conflict with the other. In matters of business he was the very

soul of integrity and honor, but in his views of public affairs he

was uncertain and inconsistent; and of course his whole life, as a

magistrate and public man, was a perpetual series of contradictions. The

consequence of all this was, that he possessed but small influence,

as arising from his personal character; but not so from his immense

property, as well as from the fact that he was father to the wealthiest

and most beautiful heiress in the province, or perhaps, so far as beauty

was concerned, in the kingdom itself.

At length the day mentioned for the dinner arrived, and, at the

appointed hour, so also did the guests. There were some ladies asked to

keep Helen in countenance, but we need scarcely say, that as the list of

them was made out by her thoughtless father, he paid, in the selection

of some of them, very little attention to her feelings. There was the

sheriff, Mr. Oxley, and his lady--the latter a compound in whom it was

difficult to determine whether pride, vulgarity, or obesity prevailed.

Where the sheriff had made his capture of her was never properly known,

as neither of them belonged originally to that neighborhood in which he

had, several years ago, purchased large property. It was said he had got

her in London; and nothing was more certain than that she issued forth

the English language clothed in an inveterate cockney accent. She was a

high moralist, and a merciless castigator of all females who manifested,

or who were supposed to manifest, even a tendency to walk out of the

line of her own peculiar theory on female conduct. Her weight might be

about eighteen stone, exclusive of an additional stone of gold chains

and bracelets, in which she moved like a walking gibbet, only with the

felon in it; and to crown all, she wore on her mountainous bosom a cameo

nearly the size of a frying-pan. Sir Jenkins Joram, who took her down to

dinner, declared, on feeling the size of the bracelets which encircled

her wrists, that he labored for a short time under the impression that

he and she were literally handcuffed together; an impression, he added,

from which he was soon relieved by the consoling reflection that it was

the sheriff himself whom the clergyman had sentenced to stand in that

pleasant predicament. Of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings we have only to

say that they were modest, sensible, unassuming women, without either

parade or pretence, such, in fact, as you will generally meet among

our well-bred and educated countrywomen. Lord Deilmacare was a widower,

without family, and not a marrying man. Indeed, when pressed upon this

subject, he was never known to deviate from the one reply.

“Why don't you marry again, my lord?--will you ever marry?”

“No, madam, I got enough of it,” a reply which, somehow, generally

checked any further inquiry on the subject. Between Lady Joram and Mrs.

Smellpriest there subsisted a singular analogy with respect to their

conjugal attachments. It was hinted that her ladyship, in those

secret but delicious moments of matrimonial felicity which make up the

sugar-candy morsels of domestic life, used to sit with Sir Jenkins for

the purpose, by judicious exercise, of easing, by convivial exercise, a

rheumatic affection which she complained of in her right arm. There is

nothing, however, so delightful as a general and loving sympathy between

husband and wife; and here it was said to exist in perfection. Mrs.

Smellpriest, on the other hand, was said to have been equally attached

to the political principles of the noble captain, and to wonder why any

clergyman should be suffered to live in the country but those of her

own Church; such delightful men, for instance, as their curate, the Rev.

Samson Strong, who was nothing more nor less than a divine bonfire in

the eyes of the Christian! world. Such was his zeal against Papists, she

said, as well as against Popery at large, that she never looked on him

without thinking that there was a priest to be burned. Indeed Captain

Smellpriest, she added, was under great obligations to him, for

no sooner had his reverence heard of a priest taking earth in the

neighborhood, than he lost no time in communicating the fact to her

husband; after which he would kindly sit with and comfort her whilst

fretting lest any mischief might befall her dear captain.

The dinner passed as all dinners usually do. They hobnobbed, of course,

and indulged in that kind of promiscuous conversation which cannot well

be reported. From a feeling of respect to Helen, no allusion was made

either to the burning of Reilly's property or to Reilly personally. The

only person who had any difficulty in avoiding the subject was the old

squire himself, who more than once found the topic upon his lips, but

with a kind of short cough he gulped it down, and got rid of it for the

time. In what manner he might treat the act itself was a matter which

excited a good deal of speculation in the minds of those who were

present. He was known to be a man who, if the whim seized him to look

upon it as a cowardly and vindictive proceeding, would by no means

scruple to express his opinions strongly against it; whilst, on

the other hand, if he measured it in connection with his daughter's

forbidden attachment to Reilly, he would, of course, as vehemently

express his approbation of the outrage. Indeed, they were induced to

conclude that this latter view of it was that which he was most likely

to take, in consequence of the following proposal, which, from any other

man, would have been an extraordinary one:

“Come, ladies, before you leave us we must have one toast; and I shall

give it in order to ascertain whether we have any fair traitresses among

us, or any who are secretly attached to Popery or Papists.”

The proposal was a cruel one, but the squire was so utterly destitute of

consideration or delicacy of feeling that we do not think he ever once

reflected upon the painful position in which it placed his daughter.

“Come,” he proceeded, “here is prosperity to Captain Smellpriest and

priest-hunting!”*

* We have been charged by an able and accomplished writer

with an incapacity of describing, with truth, any state of

Irish society above that of our peasantry; and the toast

proposed by the eccentric old squire is, we presume, the

chief ground upon which this charge is rested. We are,

however, just as well aware as our critic, that to propose

toasts before the female portion of the company leave the

dinner-table, is altogether at variance with the usages of

polite society. But we really thought we had guarded our

readers against any such, inference of our own ignorance by

the character which we had drawn of the squire, as well as

by the words with which the toast is introduced--where we

said, “from any other man would have been an extraordinary

one.” I may also refer to Mrs. Brown's reply.

“As a Christian minister,” replied Mr. Brown, “and an enemy to

persecution in every sense, but especially to that which would punish

any man for the great principle which we ourselves claim--the rights of

conscience--I decline to drink the toast;” and he turned down his glass.

“And I,” said Mr. Hastings, “as a Protestant and a Christian, refuse it

on the same principles;” and he also turned down his glass.

“But you forget, gentlemen,” proceeded the squire, “that I addressed

myself principally to the ladies.”

“But you know, sir,” replied Mrs. Brown, with a smile, “that it is

quite unusual and out of character for ladies to drink toasts at all,

especially those which involve religious or political opinions. These, I

am sure, you know too well, Mr. Folliard, are matters with which ladies

have, and ought to have, nothing to do. I also, therefore, on behalf

of our sex, decline to drink the toast; and I trust that every lady who

respects herself will turn down her glass as I do.”

Mrs. Hastings and Helen immediately followed her example, whilst at the

same time poor Helen's cheeks and neck were scarlet.

“You see, sir,” said Mr. Brown, good-humoredly, “that the sex--at least

one-half of them--are against you.”

“That's because they're Papists at heart,” replied the squire, laughing.

Helen felt eased at seeing her father's good humor, for she now knew

that the proposal of the toast was but a jest, and did not aim at any

thing calculated to distress her feelings.

“But, in the meantime,” proceeded the squire, “I am not without support.

Here is Lady Joram and Mrs. Smellpriest and Mrs. Oxley--and they are a

host in themselves--each of them willing and ready to support me.”

“I don't see,” said Lady Joram, “why a lady, any more than a gentleman,

should refuse to drink a proper toast as this is; Sir Jenkins has not

turned down his glass, and neither shall I. Come, then, Mr. Folliard,

please to fill mine; I shall drink it in a bumper.”

“And I,” said Mrs. Oxley, “always drinks my 'usband's principles. In

Lunnon, where true 'igh life is, ladies don't refuse to drink toasts. I

know that feyther, both before and after his removal to Lunnon, used

to make us all drink the ''Ard ware of Old Hingland'--by witch,”

she proceeded, correcting herself by a reproving glance from the

sheriff--“by witch he meant what he called the glorious sinews of the

country at large, lestwise in the manufacturing districts. But upon a

subject like this”--and she looked with something like disdain at those

who had turned down their glasses--“every lady as is a lady ought to

'ave no objection to hexplain her principles by drinking the toast; but

p'raps it ain't fair to press it upon some of 'em.”

“Well, then,” proceeded the squire, with a laugh that seemed to have

more than mirth in it, “are all the loyal subjects of the crown ready?

Lord Deilmacare, your glass is not filled; won't you drink it?”

“To be sure,” replied his lordship; “I have no hatred against Papists;

I get my rent by their labor; but I never wish to spoil sport--get

along--I'll do anything.”

With the exceptions already mentioned, the toast was drank immediately,

after which the ladies retired to the drawing-room.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the squire, “fill your glasses, and let us enjoy

ourselves. You have a right to be proud of your wife, Mr. Sheriff, and

you too, Sir Jenkins--for,--upon my soul, if it had been his Majesty's

health, her ladyship couldn't have honored it with a fuller bumper. And,

Smellpriest, your wife did the thing handsomely as well as the rest.

Upon my soul, you ought to be happy men, with three women so deeply

imbued with the true spirit of our glorious Constitution.”

“Ah, Mr. Folliard,” said Smellpriest, “you don't know the value of that

woman. When I return, for instance, after a hunt, the first question she

puts to me is--Well, my love, how many priests did you catch to-day? And

out comes Mr. Strong with the same question. Strong, however, between

ourselves, is a goose; he will believe any thing, and often sends me

upon a cold trail. Now, I pledge you my honor, gentlemen, that this man,

who is all zeal, has sent me out dozens of times, with the strictest

instructions as to where I'd catch my priest; but, hang me, if ever

I caught a single priest upon his instructions yet! still, although

unfortunate in this kind of sport, his heart is in the right place.

Whitecraft, my worthy brother sportsman, how does it happen that Reilly

continues to escape you?”

“Why does he continue to escape yourself, captain?” replied the baronet.

“Why,” said the other, “because I am more in the ecclesiastical line,

and, besides, he is considered to be, in an especial manner, your game.”

“I will have him yet, though,” said Whitecraft, “if he should assume as

many shapes as Proteus.”

“By the way, Whitecraft,” observed Folliard, “they tell me you burned

the unfor--you burned the scoundrel's house and offices.”

“I wish you had been present at the bonfire, sir,” replied his intended

son-in-law; “it would have done your heart good.”

“I daresay,” said the squire; “but still, what harm did his house and

place do you? I know the fellow is a Jesuit, a rebel, and an outlaw--at

least you tell me so; and you must know. But upon what authority did you

burn the rascal out?”

“As to that,” returned the baronet, “the present laws against Popery and

the general condition of the times are a sufficient justification; and

I do not think that I am likely to be brought over the coals for it; on

the contrary, I look upon myself as a man who, in burning the villain

out, have rendered a very important service to Government.”

“I regret, Sir Robert,” observed Mr. Brown, “that you should have

disgraced yourself by such an oppressive act. I know that throughout the

country your conduct to this young man is attributed to personal malice

rather than to loyalty.”

“The country may put what construction on my conduct it pleases,” he

replied, “but I know I shall never cease till I hang him.”

Mr. Hastings was a man of very few words; but he had an eye the

expression of which could not be mistaken--keen, manly, and firm. He sat

sipping his wine in silence, but turned from time to time a glance upon

the baronet, which was not only a searching one, but seemed to have

something of triumph in it.

“What do you say, Hastings?” asked Whitecraft; “can you not praise a

loyal subject, man?”

“I say nothing, Sir Robert,” he replied; “but I think occasionally.”

“Well, and what do you think occasionally?”

“Why, that the times may change.”

“Whitecraft,” said Smellpriest, “I work upon higher principles than they

say you do. I hunt priests, no doubt of it; but then I have no personal

malice against them; I proceed upon the broad and general principle of

hatred to Popery: but, at the same time, observe it is not the man but

the priest I pursue.”

“And when you hang or transport the priest, what becomes of the man?”

asked the baronet, with a diabolical sneer. “As for me, Smellpriest, I

make no such distinctions; they are unworthy of you, and I'm sorry to

hear you express them. I say, the man.”

“And I say, the priest,” replied the other.

“What do you say, my lord?” asked Mr. Folliard of the peer.

“I don't much care which,” replied his lordship; “man or priest, be it

as you can determine; only I say that when you hang the priest, I agree

with Whitecraft there, that it is all up with the man, and when you

hang the man, it is all up with the priest. By the way, Whitecraft,” he

proceeded, “how would you like to swing yourself?”

“I am sure, my lord,” replied the baronet, “you wouldn't wish to see me

hanged.”

“Well, I don't know--perhaps I might, and perhaps I might not; but

I know you would make a long corpse, and I think you would dangle

handsomely enough; you have long limbs, a long body, and half a mile of

neck; upon my soul, one would think you were made for it. Yes, I dare

say I should like to see you hanged--I am rather inclined to think I

would--it's a subject, however, on which I am perfectly indifferent; but

if ever you should be hanged, Sir Robert, I shall certainly make it a

point to see you thrown off if it were only as a mark of respect for

your humane and excellent character.”

“He would be a severe loss to the country,” observed Sir Jenkins;

“the want of his hospitality would be deeply felt by the gentry of the

neighborhood; for which reason,” he observed sarcastically, “I hope he

will be spared to us as long as his hospitality lasts.”

“In the meantime, gentlemen,” observed the sheriff, “I wish that, with

such keen noses for priests and rebels and criminals, you could come

upon the trail of the scoundrel who robbed me of three hundred and fifty

pounds.”

“Would you know him again, Mr. Sheriff?” asked Sir Robert, “and could

you describe his appearance?”

“I have been turning the matter over,” replied the sheriff, “and I

feel satisfied that I would know him if I saw him. He was dressed in a

broadcloth brown coat, light-colored breeches, and had silver buckles

in his shoes. The fellow was no common robber. Stuart--one of

your dragoons, Sir Robert, who came to my relief when it was too

late--insists, from my description of the dress, that it was Reilly.”

“Are you sure he was not dressed in black?” asked Smellpriest. “Did you

observe a beads or crucifix about him?”

“I have described the dress accurately,” replied the sheriff; “but I

am certain that it was not Reilly. On bringing the matter to my

recollection, after I had got rid of the pain and agitation, I was able

to remember that the ruffian had a coarse face and red whiskers. Now

Reilly's hair and whiskers are black.”

“It was a reverend Papist,” said Smellpriest; “one of those from

whom you had levied the fines that day, and who thought it no harm to

transfer them back again to holy Church. You know not how those rascals

can disguise themselves.”

“And you blame them, Smellpriest,” said the squire, “for disguising

themselves? Now, suppose the tables were turned upon us, that Popery got

the ascendant, and that Papists started upon the same principles against

us that we put in practice against them; suppose that Popish soldiers

were halloed on against our parsons, and all other Protestants

conspicuous for an attachment to their religion, and anxious to put down

the persecution under which we suffered; why, hang it, could you blame

the parsons, when hunted to the death, for disguising themselves? And

if you could not, how can you blame the priests? Would you have the poor

devils walk into your hands and say, 'Come, gentlemen, be good enough

to hang or transport us?' I am anxious, to secure Reilly, and either to

hang or transport him. I would say the latter, though.”

“And I the former,” observed Sir Robert.

“Well, Bob, that is as may happen; but in the meantime, I say he never

robbed the sheriff here; and if he were going to the gallows to-morrow,

I would maintain it.”

Neither the clergyman nor Mr. Hastings took much part in the

conversation; but the eye of the latter was, during the greater portion

of the evening, fixed upon the baronet, like that of a basilisk,

accompanied by a hidden meaning, which it was impossible to penetrate,

but which, nevertheless, had such an effect upon Whitecraft that he

could not help observing it.

“It would seem, Mr. Hastings,” said he, “as if you had never seen me

before. Your eye has scarcely been off me during the whole evening. It

is not pleasant, sir, nor scarcely gentlemanly.”

“You should feel proud of it, Sir Robert,” replied Hastings; “I only

admire you.”

“Well, then, I wish you would express your admiration in some other

manner than by staring at me.”

“Gadzooks, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “don't you know that a cat may

look at a king? Hastings must be a man of devilish good taste, Bob, and

you ought to thank him.”

Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings soon afterwards went upstairs, and left the

other gentlemen to their liquor, which they now began to enjoy with

a more convivial spirit. The old squire's loyalty rose to a very high

pitch, as indeed did that of his companions, all of whom entertained the

same principles, with the exception of Lord Deilmacare, whose opinions

never could be got at, for thee very sufficient reason that he did not

know them himself.

“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “help yourself, and push the

bottle; now that those two half-Papists are gone, we can breathe and

speak a little more freely. Here's our glorious Constitution, in Church

and State, and curse all priests and Papists--barring a few, that I know

to be honest.”

“I drink it, but I omit the exception,” said Sir Robert, “and I wonder,

sir, you would make any exception to such a toast.”

“I drink it,” said Smellpriest, “including the rascal priest.”

“And I drink it,” said the sheriff, “as it has been proposed.”

“What was it?” said Lord Deilmacare; “come, I drink it--it doesn't

matter. I suppose, coming from our excellent host, it must be right and

proper.”

They caroused deeply, and in proportion as the liquor affected their

brains, so did their determination to rid the squire of the rebel Reilly

form itself into an express resolution to that effect.

“Hang Reilly--hang the villain--the gallows for him--hurra!” and in this

charitable sentiment their voices all joined in a fierce and drunken

exclamation, uttered with their hands all clasped in each other with a

strong and firm grip. From one mouth alone, however, proceeded, amidst

a succession of hiccups, the word “transportation,” which, when Lord

Deilmacare heard, he changed his principle, and joined the old squire in

the same mitigation of feeling.

“I say, Deilmacare,” shouted Sir Robert, “we must hang him high and

dry.”

“Very well,” replied his lordship, “with all my heart, Sir Robert; we

must hang you high and dry.”

“But, Deilmacare,” said the squire, “we should only transport him.”

“Very good,” exclaimed his lordship, emptying a bumper; “we shall only

transport you, Sir Robert.”

“Hang him, Deilmacare!”

“Very well, hang him!”

“Transport him, I say, Deilmacare,” from the squire.

“Good again,” said his lordship; “transport him, say I.”

And on went the drunken revel, until they scarcely knew what they said.

The clergyman and Mr. Hastings, on reaching the drawing-room, found

Helen in a state of inexpressible distress. A dispute upon the

prevailing morals of all modern young Lidies had been got up by Lady

Joram and Mrs. Oxley, for the express purpose of venting their petty

malice against the girl, because they had taken it into their heads that

she paid more attention to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings than she did to

them. This dispute was tantamount to what, in the prize ring, is called

_cross_, when the fight is only a mock one, and terminates by the

voluntary defeat of one of the parties, upon a preconcerted arrangement.

“I don't agree with you, my lady; nor can I think that the morals of

young ladies in 'igh life, by witch I mean the daughters and heiresses of

wealthy squires--”

“But, my dear Mrs. Oxley,” said her ladyship, interrupting her, and

placing her hand gently upon her arm, as if to solicit her consent to

the observation she was about to make, “you know, my dear Mrs. Oxley,

that the daughter of a mere country squire can have no pretensions to

come under the definition of high life.”

“Wy not?” replied Mrs. Oxley; “the squires are often wealthier than the

haris-tocracy; and I don't at all see,” she added, “wy the daughter of

such a man should not be considered as moving in 'igh life--always, of

course, provided that she forms no disgraceful attachments to Papists

and rebels and low persons of that 'ere class. No, my lady, I don't at

all agree with you in your view of 'igh life.”

“You don't appear, madam, to entertain a sufficiently accurate estimate

of high life.

“I beg pardon, ma'am, but I think I can understand 'igh life as well as

those that don't know it better nor myself. I've seen a great deal of

'igh life. Feyther 'ad a willar at I'gate, and I'gate is known to be

the 'igh-est place about the metropolis of Lunnon--it and St. Paul's are

upon a bevel.”

“Level, perhaps, you mean, ma'am?”

“Level or bevel, it doesn't much diversify--but I prefer the bevel to

the level on all occasions. All I knows is,” she proceeded, “that it is

a shame for any young lady, as is a young lady, to take a liking to a

Papist, because we know the Papists are all rebel; and would cut our

throats, only for the protection of our generous and merciful laws.”

“I don't know what you mean by merciful laws,” observed Mrs. Brown.

“They surely cannot be such laws as oppress and persecute a portion

of the people, and give an unjust license to one class to persecute

another, and to prevent them from exercising the duties which their

religion imposes upon them.”

“Well,” said Lady Joram, “all I wish is, that the Papists were

exterminated; we should then have no apprehensions that our daughters

would disgrace themselves, by falling in love with them.”

This conversation was absolutely cruel, and the amiable Mrs. Brown, from

compassion to Helen, withdrew her into a corner of the room, and

entered into conversation with her upon a different topic, assuring her

previously that she would detail their offensive and ungenerous remarks

to her father, who, she trusted, would never see them under his roof

again, nor give them an opportunity of indulging in their vulgar

malignity a second time. Helen thanked her, and said their hints and

observations, though rude and ungenerous, gave her but little pain.

The form of language in which they were expressed, she added, and the

indefensible violation of all the laws of hospitality, blunted the

severity of what they said.

“I am not ashamed,” she said, “of my attachment to the brave and

generous young man who saved my father's life. He is of no vulgar birth,

but a highly educated and a highly accomplished gentleman--a man, in

fact, my dear Mrs. Brown, whom no woman, be her rank in life ever so

high or exalted, might blush to love. I do not blush to make the avowal

that I love him; but, unfortunately, in consequence of the existing laws

of the country, my love for him, which I will never conceal, must be a

hopeless one.”

“I regret the state of those laws, my dear Miss Folliard, as much as you

do; but still their existence puts a breach between you and Reilly, and

under those circumstances my advice to you is to overcome your affection

for him if you can. Marriage is out of the question.”

“It is not marriage I think of--for that is out of the question--but

Reilly's life and safety. If he were safe, I should feel comparatively

happy; happiness, in its full extent, I never can hope to enjoy; but

if he were only safe--if he were only safe, my dear Mrs. Brown! I know

that he is hunted like a beast of prey, and under such circumstances as

disturb and distract the country, how can he escape?”

The kind-hearted lady consoled her as well as she could; but, in fact,

her grounds for consolation were so slender that her arguments only

amounted to those general observations which, commonplace as they

are, we are in the habit of hearing from day to day. Helen was too

high-minded to shed tears, but Mrs. Brown could plainly perceive the

depth of her emotion, and feel the extent of wrhat she suffered.

We shall not detail at further length the conversation of the other

ladies--if ladies they can be called; nor that of the gentlemen, after

they entered the drawing-room. Sir Robert Whitecraft attempted to enter

into conversation with Helen, but found himself firmly and decidedly

repulsed. In point of fact, some of the gentlemen were not in a state

to grace a drawing-room, and in a short time they took their leave and

retired.

CHAPTEE XII.--Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman

--Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing.

“'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,” said Shakespeare, with

that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages; and, in fact,

Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth

of the poet's apophthegm. The man, besides, was naturally a coward; and

when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties,

and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly--the destruction of

whose property, without any authority from Government for the act, he

felt himself guilty of--the reader may understand the nature and extent

of his terrors on his way home. The distance between his own house and

that of his intended father-in-law was about three miles, and there lay

a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both

sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken. As Sir

Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some

stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been purposely placed

there. Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact

size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise. Having helped

him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infirm and alarmed

voice, who he was.

“Why, Sir Robert,” he replied, “you must know I am not a Papist, or I

wouldn't be apt to render you any assistance; I am somewhat of your own

kidney--a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale. I used to get them

for Captain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was great

risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to withdraw out of his

service; but you are a gentleman, Sir Robert, what Captain Smellpriest

is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your

man.”

“I want such a person, certainly,” replied the baronet, who, in

consequence of the badness of the road and the darkness of the night,

was obliged to walk his horse with caution. “By the way,” said he, “did

you not hear a noise behind the hedge?”

“I did,” replied the other, “but it was the noise of cattle.”

“I am not aware,” replied Sir Robert, “what the devil cattle can have to

do immediately behind the hedge. I rather think they are some of our own

species;” and as he ceased speaking the tremendous braying of a jackass

came upon their ears.

“You were right, Sir Robert,” replied his companion; “I beg pardon, I

mean that was right; you know now it was cattle.”

“What is your name?” asked Sir Robert.

“Rowland Drum, Sir Robert; and, if you will permit me, I should like to

see you safe home. I need not say that you are hated by the Papists; and

as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think

it an act of duty not to leave you.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Robert, “you are a civil person, and I will accept

your escort.”

“Whatever danger you may run, Sir Robert, I will stand by your side and

partake of it.”

“Thank you, friend,” replied Sir Robert; “there is a lonely place before

us, where a ghost is said to be seen--the ghost of a priest whom I

hunted for a long time; Smellpriest, it is said, shot him at the place

I allude to. He was disguised as a drummer, and is said to haunt the

locality where he was shot.”

“Well, I shall see you safe over the place, Sir Robert, and go home

with you afterwards, provided you will promise to give me a bed and my

supper; to-morrow we can talk on matters of business.”

“I shall certainly do so,” replied Sir Robert, “not only in consequence

of your attention to me, but of our common purpose.”

They then proceeded onwards--passed the haunted spot--without either

hearing or seeing the spectral drummer. On arriving at home, Sir Robert,

who drank privately, ordered wine for himself, and sent Rowland Drum

to the kitchen, where he was rather meagerly entertained, and was

afterwards lodged for the night in the garret.

The next morning, after breakfast, Sir Robert sent for Mr. Drum, who, on

entering the breakfast parlor, was thus addressed by his new patron:

“What's this you say your name is?”

“Rowland Drum, sir.”

“Rowland Drum! Well, now, Rowland Drum, are you well acquainted with the

priests of this diocese?”

“No man better,” replied the redoubtable Rowland. “I know most of them

by person, and have got private descriptions of them all from Captain

Smellpriest, which will be invaluable to you, Sir Robert. The fact

is--and this I mention in the strictest confidence--that Smellpriest is

suspicious of your attachment to our glorious Constitution.”

“The confounded rascal,” replied the baronet. “Did he ever burn as many

Popish houses as I have done? He has no appetite for any thing but

the pursuit and capture of priests; but I have a far more general and

unsparing practice, for I not only capture the priests, where I can, but

every lay Papist that we suspect in the country. Here, for instance. Do

you see those papers? They are blank warrants for the apprehension of

the guilty and suspected, and also protections, transmitted to me from

the Secretary of State, that I may be enabled, by his authority, to

protect such Papists as will give useful information to the Government.

Here they are, signed by the Secretary, but the blanks are left for

myself to fill up.”

“I wish we could get Reilly to come over,” said Mr. Drum.

“Oh! the infernal villain,” said the baronet, “all the protections that

ever were or could be issued from the Secretary's office would not nor

could not save him. Old Folliard and I will hang him, if there was not

another man to be hanged in the three kingdoms.”

At this moment a servant came in and said, “Sir Robert, there is a woman

her who wishes to have some private conversation with you.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the baronet.

“Faith, your honor, a sturdy and strapping wench, somewhat rough, in the

face, but of great proportions.”

Now it so happened that Mr. Drum had been sitting at the window during

this brief conversation, and at once recognized, under the disguise of

a woman, the celebrated informer, the Rev. Mr. Hennessy, a wretch whose

criminal course of life, as we said before, was so gross and reprobate

that his pious bishop deemed it his duty to suspend him from all

clerical functions.

“Sir Robert,” said Drum, “I must go up to my room and shave. My

presence, I apprehend, won't be necessary where there is a lady in

question.”

“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I know not what her business may be;

but I shall be glad to speak with you after she shall have gone.”

It was very well that Hennessy did not see Drum, whom he would at once

have recognized; but, at all events, the interview between the reprobate

priest and the baronet lasted for at least an hour.

After the Rev. Miss Hennessy had taken her departure, Mr. Drum was sent

for by the baronet, whom he still found in the breakfast parlor.

“Drum,” said he, “you have now an opportunity of essentially serving not

only me, but the Government of the country. This lady turns out to be a

Popish priest in disguise, and I have taken him into my confidence as

a guide and auxiliary. Now you have given me proofs of personal

attachment, which is certainly more than he has done as yet. I have

heard of his character as an immoral priest; and the man who could be

false to his own creed is not a man to be relied upon. He has described

to me the position of a cavern, in which are now hiding a set of

proscribed priests; but I cannot have confidence in his information, and

I wish you to go to the ravine or cavern, or whatever the devil it is,

and return to me with correct intelligence. It may be a lure to draw

me into danger, or perhaps to deprive me of my life; but, on second

thought, I think I shall get a military force, and go myself.”

“And perhaps never return, unless with your heels foremost, Sir Robert.

I tell you that this Hennessy is the most treacherous scoundrel on the

face of the earth. You do not know what he's at, but I will tell

you, for I have it from his own cousin. His object is to have you

assassinated, in order to restore himself to the good graces of the

bishop and the Catholic party, who, I must say, however, would not

countenance such a murderous act; still, Sir Robert, if you were taken

off, the man who took you off would have his name honored and exalted

throughout the country.”

“Yes, I believe you are right, Drum; they are thirsting for my blood,

but not more than I am thirsting for theirs.”

“Well, then,” said Drum, “don't trust yourself to the counsels of this

Hennessy, who, in my opinion, only wants to make a scapegoat of you.

Allow me to go to the place he mentions, for I know the ravine well, but

I never knew nor do I believe that there is a cavern at all in it,

and that is what makes me suspect the scoundrel's motives. He can have

hundreds of outlaws secretly armed, who would never suffer you to escape

with your life. The thing is an ambuscade; take my word for it, it is

nothing less. Of course you can go, yourself and your party, if you

wish. You will prevent me from running a great risk; but I am only

anxious for your safety.”

“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “you shall go upon this mission. It may

not be safe for me to do so. Try if you can make out this cavern, if

there be a cavern.”

“I will try, Sir Robert; and I will venture to say, that if it can be

made out, I will make 't out.” Rowland Drum accordingly set out upon

his mission, and having arrived at the cavern, with which he was so well

acquainted, he entered it with the usual risk. His voice, however, was

recognized, and he got instant admittance.

“My dear friends,” said he, after he had entered the inner part of it,

“you must disperse immediately. Hennessy has betrayed you, and if you

remain here twenty-four hours longer, Sir Kobert Whitecraft and a party

of military, guided, probably, by the treacherous scoundrel himself,

will be upon you. The villain had a long interview with him, and gave a

full detail of the cavern and its inmates.”

“But how did you become acquainted with Sir Kobert Whitecraft?” asked

the bishop.

“In order, my lord, to ascertain his intentions and future proceedings,”

replied Mr. Drum, “that we might guard against his treachery and

persecution. On his way home from a dinner at Squire Folliard's I met

him in a lonely part of the road, where he was thrown from his horse; I

helped him into his saddle, told him I was myself a priest-hunter,

and thus got into his confidence so far as to be able to frustrate

Hennessy's treachery, and to counteract his own designs.”

“Sir,” said the bishop sternly, “you have acted a part unworthy of a

Christian clergyman. We should not do evil that good may follow; and

you have done evil in associating yourself, in any sense and for any

purpose, with this bloodthirsty tiger and persecutor of the faithful.”

“My lord,” replied the priest, “this is not a time to enter into a

discussion on such a subject. Hennessy has betrayed us; and if you do

not disperse to other places of safety, he will himself, as I said, lead

Sir Robert Whitecraft and a military party to this very cavern, and then

may God have mercy on you all.”

“Brethren,” said the bishop, “this is, after all, possible that our

brother has, by the mercy and providence of God, through his casual

meeting with this remorseless man, been made the instrument of our

safety. As for myself, I am willing to embrace the crown of martyrdom,

and to lay down my life, if necessary, for the faith that is in me. You

all know what I have already suffered, and you know that persecution

drives a wise man mad. My children,” he added, “it is possible, and I

fear too probable, that some of us may never see each other in this life

again; but at the same time, let it be our hope and consolation that

we shall meet in a better. And for this purpose, and in order to secure

futurity of happiness, let us lead spotless and irreproachable lives,

such as will enable ur to meet the hour of death, whether it comes by

the hand of God or the persecution of man. Be faithful to the principles

of our holy religion--be faithful to truth--to moral virtue--be faithful

to God, before whose awful tribunal we must all appear, and render an

account of our lives. It would be mere wantonness to throw yourselves

into the hands of our persecutors. Reserve yourselves; for the

continuance and the sustainment of our blessed religion; but if you

should happen to fall, by the snares and devices of the enemy, into the

power of those who are striving to work our extermination, and if

they should press you to renounce your faith, upon the alternative of

banishment or death, then, I say, banishment, or death itself, sooner

than become apostates to your religion. I shall retire to a neighborhood

only a few miles distant from this, where the poor Catholic population

are without spiritual aid or consolation. I have been there before, and

I know their wants, and were it not that I was hunted and pursued with

a view to my death--to my murder, I should rather say--I would have

remained with them still. But that I considered it a duty to that

portion of the Church over which God called upon me to preside and

watch, I would not have avoided those inhuman traffickers in the blood

of God's people. Yet I am bound to say that, from the clergymen of

the Established Church, and from many Protestant magistrates, we have

received kindness, sympathy, and shelter. Their doors, their hearths,

and their hearts have been open to us, and that, too, in a truly

Christian spirit. Let us, then, render them good for good; let us pray

for their conversion, and that they may return to the right path.”

“They have acted generously and nobly,” added Reilly, “and in a truly

Christian spirit. Were it not for the shelter and protection which I

myself received from one of them, my mangled body would probably be

huddled down into some obscure grave, as a felon, and my property--which

is mine only by a necessary fiction and evasion of the law--have passed

into the hands of Sir Robert Whitecraft. I am wrong, however, in saying

that it could. Mr. Hastings, a generous and liberal Protestant, took it

in his own name for my father, but gave me a deed of assignment, placing

it as securely in my hands, and in my power, as if I were Sir Robert

Whitecraft himself; and I must add--which I do with pleasure--that the

deed in question is now in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Brown, the

amiable rector of the parish.”

“But he is a heretic,” said a red-faced little man, dressed in leather

breeches, top boots, and a huntsman's cap; _vade retro sathanas_, It is

a damnable crime to have any intercourse with them, or to receive any

protection from them: _vade retro, sathanas_.”

“If I don't mistake,” said the cook--an archdeacon, by the way--“you

yourself received protection from them, and were glad to receive it.”

“If I did receive protection from one of their heretic parsons, it was

for Christian purposes. My object was not so much to seek protection

from him as to work out his salvation by withdrawing him from his

heresy. But then the fellow was as obstinate as _sathanas_ himself,

and had Greek and Hebrew at his fingers' ends. I made several passes at

him--tried Irish, and told him it was Italian. 'Well,' said he, smiling,

'I understand Italian too;' and to my astonishment he addressed me in

the best Irish I ever heard spoken. 'Now,' said he, still smiling, 'you

perceive that I understand Italian nearly--I will not say so well--as

you do.' Now, as I am a sinner, that, I say, was ungenerous treatment.

He was perfectly irreclaimable.”

This man was, like Mr. Maguire, what has been termed a hedge-priest--a

character which, as we have already said, the poverty of the Catholic

people, during the existence of the penal laws, and the consequent want

of spiritual instruction, rendered necessary. There were no Catholic

colleges in the country, and the result was that the number of foreign

priests--by which I mean Irish priests educated in foreign colleges--was

utterly inadequate to meet the spiritual necessities of the Irish

population. Under those circumstances, men of good and virtuous

character, who understood something of the Latin tongue, were ordained

by their respective bishops, for the purpose which we have already

mentioned. But what a difference was there between those half-educated

men and the class of educated clergymen who now adorn, not only their

Church, but the literature of the country!

“Well, my dear friend,” said the bishop, “let us be thankful for the

protection which, we have received at the hands of the Protestant clergy

and of many of the Protestant laity also. We now separate, and I for one

am sensible how much this cruel persecution has strengthened the bonds

of Christian love among us, and excited our sympathy for our poor

persecuted flocks, so many of whom are now without a shepherd. I leave

you with tears--but they are tears of affection, and not of despair. I

shall endeavor to be useful wherever I may abide. Let each of you do all

the spiritual good you can--all the earthly good--all good in its most

enlarged and purest sense. But we must separate--probably, some of us,

forever; and now may the blessing of the Almighty God--of the Father,

Son, and Holy Ghost, rest upon you all, and be with you and abide in

your hearts, now and forever! Amen!”

Having pronounced these words, he covered his face with his two hands

and wept bitterly. There were indeed few dry eyes around him; they knelt

before him, kissed his ring, and prepared to take their departure out of

the cavern.

“My lord,” said Reilly, who still entertained apprehensions of the

return of his malady, “if you will permit me I shall share your fate,

whatever it may be. The poor people you allude to are not in a condition

to attend to your wants. Allow me, then, to attend and accompany you in

your retreat.”

“My dear friend,” said the bishop, clasping his hand, “you are heaping

coals of fire upon my head. I trust you will forgive me, for I knew not

what I did. I shall be glad of your companionship. I fear I still stand

in need of such a friend. Be it so, then,” he proceeded--“be it so,

my dear friend; only that I should not wish you to involve yourself in

unnecessary danger on my account.”

“Danger, my lord!” replied Reilly; “there is not an individual here

against whom personal malignity has directed the vengeance of the law

with such a bloodthirsty and vindictive spirit as against myself. Why

else am I here? No, I will accompany your lordship, and share your

fate.”

It was so determined, and they left the cavern, each to procure some

place of safety for himself.

In the meantime, Sir Robert Whitecraft, having had another interview

with Hennessy, was prevailed upon to get a military party together, and

the cunning reprobate, in order to excite the baronet's vengeance to

a still higher pitch, mentioned a circumstance which he had before

forgotten, to wit, that Reilly, his arch-enemy, was also in the cave.

“But,” said Sir Robert, who, as we have already said, was a poltroon and

a coward, “what guarantee can you give me that you are not leading me

into an ambuscade? You know that I am unpopular, and the Papists would

be delighted to have my blood; what guarantee, then, can you give me

that you, are acting by me in good faith?”

“The guarantee of my own life,” replied the other. “Let me be placed

between two of your men, and if you see any thing like an ambuscade, let

them shoot me dead on the spot.”

“Why,” replied the baronet, “that is fair; but the truth is, I have been

put on my guard against you by a person who escorted me home last night.

He rendered me some assistance when I fell from my horse, and he slept

here.”

“What is his name?” asked Hennessy.

“He told me,” replied the baronet, “that his name was Drum.”

“Could you give me a description, Sir Robert, of his person?”

Sir Robert did so.

“I declare to God, Sir Robert, you have had a narrow escape from that

man. He is one of the most bigoted priests in the kingdom. He used to

disguise himself as a drummer--for his father was in the army, and he

himself was a drummer in his boyhood; and his object in preventing you

from bringing a military party to the cavern was merely that he might

have an opportunity of giving them notice of your intentions. I now say

that if you lose an hour's time they will be gone.”

Sir Robert did not lose an hour's time. The local barracks were within

a few hundred yards of his house. A party of military were immediately

called out, and in a short time they arrived, under the guidance of

Hennessy, to the very mouth of the cavern, which he disclosed to them.

It is unnecessary to detail the particulars of the search. The soldiers

entered it one by one, but found that the birds had flown. The very

fires were burning, but not a living soul in the cave; it was completely

deserted, and nothing remained but some miserable relics of cold

provisions, with which, by the aid of fir splices, that served as

torches, they regaled themselves as far as they went.

Sir Robert Whitecraft now felt full confidence in Hennessy; but would

have given a trifle to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Rowland Drum, by

whose ingenuity he was so completely outwitted. As it was, they scoured

the country in search of the inmates of the cave, but above all things

in search of Reilly, for whose capture Whitecraft would have forgiven

every man in the cavern. The search, however, was unsuccessful; not

a man of them was caught that day, and gallant Sir Robert and his

myrmidons were obliged to return wearied and disappointed men.