--An Instance of Pure Charity---Candidates for Conversion--An
Appropriate Confidence--The Rev. Phineas Lucre and his Curate, Mr.
Clement--Rev. Father Roche and his Curate, Father M'Cabe.
Darby was opening the hall-door, when, as if struck by a new train
of thought, he again tapped at the office door, and begged pardon for
entering.
“I'm in a sweet state, sir,” said he; “and would you forgive me, now
that my heart is, full, by lookin' at such an example, if I tuck
the liberty of axin' you to kneel down and offer a Father an' Ave
an'--hem--och, what am I sayin'--an' offer up a wurd in saison for that
unfortunate blaggard, M'Clutchy--any how, it'll improve myself, and
I feel as if there was new strength put into me. Oh, the netarnal
scoundrel! To spake the way he did of sich a man--sich a scantlin of
grace--of--oh, then, do, sir; let us offer up one prayer for him, the
vagabond!”
The reader will perceive, however, by and by, that Darby's sudden and
enthusiastic principle of charity towards M'Clutchy, wanted that very
simple requisite, sincerity--a commodity, by the way, in which the
worthy bailiff never much dealt. Indeed we may say here, that the object
of his return was connected with anything but religion.
A shade of feeling, somewhat rueful, sat on M'Slime's features, until
he caught Darby's eye fixed upon him, when, after rebuking him for the
terms in which he proposed the, prayer, he knelt down, and with a most
serene smile, commenced an earnest supplication, which became still more
vehement--then louder--bewailed his lost state--deplored his keeping
aloof from the means of grace--feared that the example of his old, and
sinful, and blasphemous father, and his most profligate mother, had
rendered his heart impenetrable to all visitations of conscience or
religion--if conscience he ever had, or religion he ever heard; both of
which, he, the humble and sinful suppliant, doubted. What then was his
state? Oh! how could a charitable or truly religious heart bear to think
of it without being deeply affected”--handkerchief here applied to the
eyes, and some sobs--a nondescript sound from Darby, accompanied by
a most pathetic shaking of the sides--evidently as much affected as
M'Slime.--The prayer was then wound up in a long, heavy, dolorous
cadence, which evidently proceeded from a strong conviction that he who
prayed was laboring against all hope and expectation that the humble
“mean” then adopted would be attended by any gracious result--the voice
consequently quavered off into a most dismal sound, which seemed, as
it were, to echo back a doleful answer to their solicitations,
and accordingly Solomon rose up with a groan that could not be
misunderstood.
“You see, O'Drive,” said he, “we have received no answer--or rather
a bad one--I fear his is a hopeless case, as, indeed, that of every
reprobate and castaway is; and this distresses me.”
“Mr. M'Slime,” said Darby, “will you excuse me, sir--but the thruth
is, I never properly knew you before.” These words he uttered in a low
confidential voice, precisely such as we might suppose a man to speak
in, who, under his circumstances, had got new convictions. “I'll appear
next Sabbath, and what is better, I think in a few days I'll be able to
bring three or four more along wid me.”
“Do you think so?” said M'Slime, a good deal elated at the thought; for
the attorney was only playing his game, which certainly was not the case
with the greater number of the new reformation men, who were as sincere
in their motives as he was hypocritical in his exertions. “And what are
their names, Darby?”
“I feel, sir,” replied O'Drive, “that it's my duty as a Christian,
brought out of the land of cordage--”
“Bondage, Darby.”
“Of bondage, to do all I can for the spread o' the gospel. Their names,”
responded Darby, rubbing his elbow with a perplexed face; “don't you
think sir it would be better to wait awhile, till we'd see what could be
done with them privately?”
“No, Darby, give me their names and residences, and I will see, that
however hard the times are, they shall not at least be starved for want
of--truth.”
“Well, then,” said Darby, “first, there is Paudeen Rafferty, of
Dernascobe; Paudeen, sir, is, at the present spaking, badly given to
drink, and he swears, and fights mortially, too, the hathen; but, then,
he's in darkness, sir, yet; and you know that the greater the sinner the
greater the saint. If Paudeen was dacently convarted he'd make a mighty
fine Christian no doubt. To be sure he has two wives, along wid his love
for liquor and fightin'; but wouldn't it be a good plan to bring them
over, too, sir; the poor lost cratures, sunk, as they are, in hathenism
and vociferation?”
“Very good, I have him down, Darby; we must struggle, however, to win
him over and to induce him to give up his guilty connections. Are they
young, Darby!”
“Two of the best looking young women in the parish.”
“We must only see, then, if they can be rescued also; for that is a
duty--a pressing duty, certainly.”
“But I'm afeard, sir, it 'ud take a ship load o' Scripture to convart
the three o' them.”
“We shall try, however; nothing is to be despaired of under such
circumstances, unless I am afraid the regeneration of that unhappy man
M'Clutchy--(eyes turned up). Who next?”
“Why, you may set down Harry M'Murt, of Drinnska. Harry's an unsettled
kind of fellow, or as they call him a Rake. It would be an active
charity to convert him--and that could convert him for he has as many
twists in him as an eel--if it was only for the sake of gettin' him to
spake the truth.”
“Who else, Darby?”
“Put down Charley Casey, sir; and if you take my advice, you'll set
in at the convarsion of him while his famine lasts--otherwise, he's a
bitter idolapher as ever welted an Orangeman; but against that, he
has the stomach o' three men--and the best time to come at him wid the
gospel is the present. Bait it wid a flitch of bacon on the one side,
and a collop o' fresh meat on the other, now before the praties comes
in, and you're sure of him.”
“Any others, Dairby?--but, indeed, as far as we have gone yet, the cases
appear to me to be difficult ones. However, there is joy in heaven,
Darby, over one sinner--and surely the greater the sin the greater the
joy and the triumph. Any others?”
“Mark down Molly Crudden, sir--she would be a glorious catch if a word
in saison could fasten on her. She goes by the name of Funny Eye. The
poor woman is mother to a large family of childre, sir; and the worst of
it is, that no two o' them goies by the same name. It would be a proud
day that we could make sure of her, especially as Father Roche and Mr.
M'Cabe, his curate, were obliged to give her up, and forbid her the
parish; but Funny Eye only winks and laughs at them and the world. She's
the last, sir--but I'll be on the look out, God willin', for a few more
desperate cases to crown our victory over the dev--ahem! over Satan and
the priests.”
“Well, then, let me see you, as I said, the day after to-morrow, and in
the mean time--peace, and joy, and victory be with you!”
“The same to you, sir, and many of them! Amin--I pray the sweet queen o'
heaven this day!”
“Darby,” said M'Slime, who looked upon his mingling up religious
expressions peculiar to his class as a proof of his sincerity--“Darby,”
said he in a low, condensed, and collected voice--“I said I had the
execution of a commission to entrust to you.”
“But, sir,” said Darby, whose ears, could they have shaped themselves
according to his wishes, would have ran into points in order to hear
with more acuteness--“Sir,” said he, “I doubt I'm not worthy of such a
trust.”
“Perfectly worthy, Darby,” continued Solomon, “if I did not think so I
would not employ you--I have engaged another person to prepare, as it
were, the way for you; but the truth is, it would never do to allow that
person and the young person of whom you are going to take charge to
be seen together. Evil constructions would most assuredly be put on
innocent actions, Darby, as they often are; and for this reason it
is that I have partly changed my mind, and will entrust one-half the
commission I speak of to you.” As if, however, he feared that the very
walls might justify the old proverb by proving that they had ears,
he stood up and whispered a short, but apparently most interesting
communication to Darby, who appeared to listen to a tale that was
calculated rather to excite admiration than any other feeling. And
we have little doubt, indeed, that the tale in question was given as
illustrating the exertion of as pure an instance of Christian compassion
and benevolence as ever was manifested in the secret depths of that true
piety which shuns the light; for Darby's journey was most assuredly to
be made in the dark and still hours of the night. On opening the door
a party of three or four clients were about to knock, but having given
them admission he went away at rather a brisk, if not a hasty pace.
Darby having concluded this interview was proceeding, not exactly in the
direction of M'Clutchy's, but as the reader shall soon hear, to a very
different person, no other than the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D., Rector of
the Parish of Castle Cumber; a living at that time worth about eighteen
hundred a year.
The Rev. Phineas Lucre, then, was a portly gentleman, having a proud,
consequential air stamped upon his broad brow and purple features.
His wife was niece to a nobleman, through whose influence he had been
promoted over the head of a learned and pious curate, whose junior
Mr. Lucre had been in the ministry only about the short period of
twenty-five years. Many persons said that the curate had been badly
treated in this transaction, but those persons must have known that
he had no friends except the poor and afflicted of his parish, whose
recommendation of him to his bishop, or the minister of the day,
would have had little weight. His domestic family, too, was large, a
circumstance rather to his disadvantage; but he himself was of studious,
simple, and inexpensive habits. As for dinners he gave none, except
a few fragments of his family's scanty meal to some hungry, perhaps,
deserted children, or to a sick laborer when abandoned by his landlord
or employer, the moment he became unable to work. From the gentry of
the neighborhood he got no invitations, because he would neither
sing--dance--drink--nor countenance the profligacies of their sons--nor
flatter the pride and vanity of their wives and daughters. For these
reasons, and because he dared to preach home truths from his pulpit, he
and his unpretending children had been frequently made objects of their
ridicule and insolence. What right, then, had any one to assert that the
Rev. Mr. Clement had received injustice by the promotion over his head
of the Rev. Phineas Lucre, to the wealthy living of Castle Cumber,
when he had no plausible or just grounds beyond those to which we have
adverted, on which to rest his claim for preferment? The curate was
pious, we admit, but, then, his wife's uncle was not a lord. He was
learned, but, then, he had neither power nor the inclination to repay
his patrons--supposing him to have such, by a genius for intrigue,
or the possession of political influence. He discharged his religious
duties as well as the health of a frame worn by affliction, toil, and
poverty, permitted him; but, then, he wrote no pamphlets adapted to the
politics by which he might rise in the church. He visited the sick and
prayed with them; but he employed not his abilities in proving to the
world that the Establishment rewarded piety and learning, rather than
venal talents for state intrigue or family influence.
Far different from him was his aforenamed rector, the Rev. Phineas
Lucre. Though immeasurably inferior to his curate in learning, and
all the requisite qualifications for a minister of God, yet was he
sufficiently well read in the theology of his day, to keep up a splendid
equipage. Without piety to God, or charity to man, he possessed,
however, fervent attachment, to his church, and unconquerable devotion
to his party. If he neglected the widow and the orphan whom he could
serve, he did not neglect the great and honorable, who could serve
himself. He was inaccessible to the poor, 'tis true; but on the other
hand, what man exhibited such polished courtesy, and urbanity of manner,
to the rich and exalted. Inferiors complained that he was haughty and
insolent; yet it was well known, in the teeth of all this, that no man
ever gave more signal proofs of humility and obedience to those who
held patronage over him. It mattered little, therefore, that he had
no virtues for the sick, or poverty-stricken, in private life, when he
possessed so many excellent ones for those in whose eyes it was worth
while to be virtuous as a public man.
Mr. Lucre, possessing high political connection, and withal affecting
to be very religious, presented singular points of character for
observation. He was a great disciplinarian in theory, and rendered it
imperative on his poor overworn curate to be so in practice; but being
always engaged in the pursuit of some ecclesiastical windfall, he
consequently spent most of his time, and of his money, either in our
own metropolis or London--but principally in the latter. He did not,
however, leave either his discipline or his devotion as a public
man behind him. In Dublin, he was practical in worshipping the Lord
Lieutenant--and in London, the King; whilst his curate was only
worshipping God in the country. The result of his better sense and more
seasonable piety soon became evident, on his part, in the shape of an
appointment to a second living; and that of his curate, in obscurity,
poverty, and that useless gift, a good conscience.
We have said that Mr. Lucre was not Pious; yet we are far from saying
that he had not all the credit of piety. His name, in fact, was always
conspicuous among the most bountiful contributors to the religious
societies. Indeed he looked upon most of them as excellent auxiliaries
to the cold and scanty labors of those worldly-minded or indolent
pastors, who think, when they have furnished every family in the parish
with a Bible and a sheaf of tracts, that they have done their duty. Mr.
Lucre, consequently, bore an excellent character everywhere but among
the poor, sick, and indigent of his two large parishes; and if a
eulogium had been called for on him, he would have received an admirable
one from the societies to whose funds he contributed, from the gentry of
his respective parishes, and from the grand juries of the two counties
in which they we're situated.
What more than this could be expected? Here was ample testimony for
those who required it, to establish the zeal, efficiency, talents,
integrity, charity and piety of that worthy and useful minister of
God--the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D.
Such were a few of the virtues which belonged to this gentleman. His
claims for preferment were, indeed, peculiarly strong; and when we
mention the political influence of himself and his friends, his wife's
powerful connections, added to his able pamphlets, and the great mass
of sound information regarding the state of the country, which in the
discharge of his religious duties, he communicated from time to time to
the government of the day--we think we have said enough to satisfy our
readers that he ought not to be overlooked in the wealthy and pious
Establishment, which the Irish Church then was. Still, in fact, we
cannot stop here, for in good truth Mr. Lucre had yet stronger claims
for preferment than any we have yet mentioned. He did not stand in need
of it. In addition to a large dowry received with his wife, he possessed
a private fortune of fourteen hundred pounds per annum, with which,
joined to his two large livings, he was enabled to turn out a very
primitive and apostolic equipage, such as would have made the hearts
of the Apostles rejoice in reflecting, that so many new virtues were
to spring up in the progress of society from the lowly-religion they
established.
Such is a pretty full sketch of a large class which existed at a former
period in the Established Church of Ireland. Mr. Lucre was, besides,
what may be termed one of the first fruits of that which is called
modern sanctity or saintship, being about two-thirds of the Tory and
High Churchman, and one of the Evangelical.
In the same parish of Castle Cumber resided two other clergyman of
a different creed and character; the Rev. James Roche, the venerable
parish priest, was one of those admirable pastors whose lives are the
most touching and beautiful exponent of the Christian faith. In this
amiable man were combined all these primitive virtues which are so
suitable, and, we may add, necessary, to those who are called upon to
mingle with the cares and affections, joys and sufferings, of an humble
people. Without pride, beyond the serene simplicity which belonged to
his office, he yet possessed the power of engaging the affections and
respect of all who knew him, whether high or low. With the poor, and
those entrusted to his spiritual charge, were all his sympathies, both
as a man and a pastor. His, indeed, was no idle charge, nor idly, nor
with coldness or pride, were its duties entered upon or performed. His
little purse and small means were, less his own than the property of the
poor around him; his eye was vigilant of want and of sorrow, of crime
and frailty--and wherever the painful rebuke, the humble and the
consoling word was necessary, there stood he to I administer it. Such
was Father Roche, as the pastor of a large but poor flock, who had few
sympathies to expect, save those which this venerable man was able to
afford them. Very different from him, on the other hand, was his
curate, the Rev. Patrick M'Cabe, or M'Flail, as he was nicknamed by the
Orangemen of the parish, in consequence of a very unsacerdotal tendency
to use the horsewhip, as a last resource, especially in cases where
reason and the influence of argument failed. He was a powerful young
man, in point of physical strength, but as his temperament was hot and
choleric, the consciousness of this strength often led him, under its
impulse, in desperate cases, to a mode of reasoning, which, after
all, no man more than himself subsequently regretted. Zealous he
unquestionably was, but beyond the bounds prescribed by a spirit of
Christian moderation. I know not how it happened, but the Orangeman
hated him with an intensity of detestation, which, however, he paid back
to them tenfold. His vast strength, which had been much improved by a
strong relish for athletic exercises, at which he was unrivaled, when
joined to a naturally courageous and combative temperament, often
prompted him to manifest, in cases of self-defence, the possession
of powers which they feared to call into exercise. This disposition,
however, which, after all, was not so unnatural, he properly restrained
and kept I in subjection; but, in order to compensate for it, he
certainly did pepper them, in his polemical discourses, with a vehemence
of abuse, which, unquestionably, they deserved at his hands--and got.
With the exception of too much zeal in religious matters, his conduct
was, in every other respect, correct and proper.
To return now to Darby, whose steps have been directed, not exactly
towards Constitution Cottage, but towards the spacious glebe-house of
the Rev. Phineas Lucre, which brought him about a mile or two out of his
way. The fact is he was beginning to tire of M'Slime, who, whenever he
had occasion for his services, was certain to shear him of his fees
on the one hand precisely as M'Clutchy did on the other. The change of
agents was consequently of no advantage to him, as he had expected it
would be; for such was the rapacity of the two harpies that each of
them took as much as they could out of the unfortunate tenants, and left
Darby little to comfort himself, with the exception of what he got
by their virtuous example, an example which he was exceedingly apt to
follow, if not to exceed. For this reason he detested them both, and
consequently felt a natural anxiety to set them together by the ears
whenever he thought the proper occasion for it should arrive. Now, an
event had taken place the very day before this, which opened up to his
mind a new plan of operations altogether. This was the death of the
under gaoler of Castle Cumber. Darby began to think of this as a good
speculation, should it succeed; but alas! upon second reflection there
stood an insurmountable difficulty in his way. He was a Roman Catholic
so far as he was anything; and this being a situation of too much trust
and confidence at the period to be given to any one of that persuasion,
he knew he he could not obtain it. Well, but here again he was
fortunate, and not without the prospect of some consolation. The
extraordinary movement in the religious world, called the New
Reformation, had just then set in with a liveliness of judgment, and a
celerity of conversion among the lower classes of Roman Catholics, which
scarcely anybody could understand. The saints, however, or evangelical
party, headed by an amiable, benevolent, but somewhat credulous
nobleman, on whose property the movement first commenced, ascribed this
extraordinary conversion altogether to themselves.
The season to be sure in which it occurred was one of unprecedented
destitution and famine. Fuel was both scarce and bad--the preceding
crops had failed, and food was not only of a deleterious quality, but
scarcely to be procured at all. The winter, too, was wet and stormy, and
the deluges of rain daily and incessant. In fact, cold, and nakedness,
and hunger met together in almost every house and every cabin, with the
exception of those of the farmers alone, who, by the way, mostly held
land upon a very small scale. In this district, then, and in such a
period of calamity, and misery, and utter famine, did the movement
called the New Reformation originate.
“Sure, blood alive,” thought Darby, “now that every one's turnin',
there's no harm to have a thrial at it myself; I can become as good a
Prodestan as most o' them in four and twenty hours, and stand a chance
of the Jaolership for my pains. I'll go to Mr. Lucre, who is a gentleman
at any rate, and allow him to think he has the convartin' o' me. Well,”
he proceeded, with a chuckle, “it's one comfort, divil a much religion
I have to lose; and another, that the divil a much I have to gain in
exchange; and now,” he went on, “there's little Solomon thinks I did'nt
see him burnin' the wrong letther; but faith, Solomon, my lad, there
must be something in it that would do neither you nor M'Clutchy much
good, if it was known, or you wouldn't thry that trick--but, in the mean
time, I've secured them both.”
Now, the reader must know, that Darby's return in such a truly
charitable spirit to ask Solomon for the virtue of his prayers in behalf
of M'Clutchy, was as knavish a ruse as ever was put in practice. Solomon
had placed M'Clutchy's letter secretly under a brief, as we have said,
and Darby, who knew the identical spot and position in which M'Slime was
in the habit of praying, knew also that he would kneel with his back to
the desk on which the brief lay. It all happened precisely as he wished,
and, accordingly, while Solomon was doing the hypocrite, Darby did the
thief, and having let in those who were approaching, he came away, as we
said.
He lost not a moment after he had got to a lonely part of the road,
in putting them between two flat stones--we mean M'Clutchy's letter to
Solomon, with that gentleman's answer. There, he determined, they should
remain until after dark, when he could secure both without risk, and see
what might be done with them.
“Now,” thought he, “that I've Solomon in a double pickle--for he can't
inquire about the letter without letting it be seen that he tould a
lie, and practised a bit of knavery, any how--an' as regwdin' the other
thing, I have him fast.”
In the meantime, Father M'Cabe, who had read M'Slime's paragraph in the
Castle Cumber “True Blue,” respecting Darby's conversion, had a sharp
eye out for him, as they term it in the country. Indeed, after two or
three vain attempts to see him, the Rev. gentleman was satisfied with
sending him a gentle message of congratulation upon his change of
creed, which was significantly wound up by a slight hint, that he might,
probably, on their next meeting, give him a nice treat, but of what
particular description was not communicated. Darby having secured the
letters as described, was proceeding at a pretty quick pace towards Mr.
Lucre's, when, whom should he meet in a narrow part of the way, which
was enclosed between two immense white thorn hedges, through which any
notion of escape was impracticable--but the Rev. Father M'Cabe. He
tried every shift--looked back as if he expected some friend to follow
him--then to the right--again to the left--then stooped to examine the
ground, as if he had lost something of value or importance. At length,
finding every other trick useless, he adopted that one so common among
boys in desperate cases--we mean the attempt to make a mask of the right
shoulder in order to conceal the face. Even this failed, and he found
himself compelled to meet the fixed and stern gaze of the colossal
priest, who was on horseback, and bore in his huge right hand a whip,
that might, so gripped, have tamed a buffalo, or the centaur himself, if
he were not fabulous.
“Why--my good, honest and most religious friend, Mr. Darby O'Drive--the
odor of whose sanctity, you scoundrel, has already perfumed the whole
Parish--is it possible that Providence in kindness to me, and in pure
justice to yourself, has thrown you into my way at last.” This for the
present was accompanied only by a peculiar quivering motion of the whip,
resulting from the quick vibrations which his sense of Darby's hypocrisy
had communicated through the hand to the weapon which it held.
“God save your Reverence!” replied Darby, “an' in troth I'm glad to
see you look so well--faith it's in a glow o' health you are, may God
continue it to you! Be my sowl, it's you that can pepper the Orangemen,
any how, your Reverence--and how is Father Roche, sir--although sure
enough he's no match for you in givin' it home to the thieves.”
“Silence, you hypocritical sleeveen, don't think you'll crawl up my
wrist--as you do up M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's. Is it true that you have
become an apostate?”
Darby here attempted to work up a kind of sly significant wheedling
expression into his eye, as he stole a half timid, half confidant glance
at the priest--but it would not do--the effort was a failure, and no
wonder--for there before him sat the terrible catechist like an embodied
thunder cloud--red, lurid, and ready to explode before him--nay he could
see the very lightning playing and scintillating in his eyes, just as
it often does about the cloud before the bursting of the peal. In this
instance there was neither sympathy nor community of feeling between
them, and Darby found that no meditated exposition of pious fraud,
such as “quartering on the enemy,” or “doing the thieves,” or any other
interested ruse, had the slightest chance of being tolerated by the
uncompromising curate. The consequence was, that the rising roguery died
away from Darby's face, on which there remained nothing but a blank
and baffled expression, that gave strong assurance of his being in a
situation of great perplexity. The most timid and cowardly animals will,
however, sometimes turn upon their captors, and Darby although he
felt no disposition to bandy words with the curate, resolved,
notwithstanding, to abide by the new creed, until he should be able
to ascertain his chance of the gaolership. There was, besides, another
motive. He knew Mr. Lucre's character so well, that he determined to
pursue such a course, during his interview, as might ensure him a sound
horse-whipping; for it occurred to him that a bit of martyrdom would
make a capital opening argument during his first interview with Mr.
Lucre.
“Did you hear me, sir?” again inquired the curate, making his whip
whistle past his own right foot, just as if he had aimed it at the
stirrup--“is it true that you have turned apostate?”
“I thought you knew it, sir,” said Darby, “or if you didn't, why did you
read me out the Sunday before last from the althar?”
“Then you acknowledge it,” cried the priest, “you have the brass to
acknowledge it, have you?” And here the whip made a most ferocious sweep
in the air.
“Yes,” replied Darby, thinking by the admission to increase the
impending castigation--“yes, sir; I don't belong to your flock now--you
have no authority whatsomever over me--mind that.”
[Illustration: PAGE 216-- Oh, what a sweet convert you are]
“Haven't I indeed, Mr. Convert--oh, what a sweet convert you are--but
we'll see whether I have or not, by and by. Where are you bound for now?
To taste of Mr. Lucre's flesh pots? eh?”
“I'm bound for Mr. Lucre's, sure enough; and I hope there's no great
harm in that.”
“Oh, none in the world, my worthy neophyte, none. Mr. Lucre's argument
and Lord ----'s bacon are very powerful during this hard season. Those
that haven't a stitch to their backs are clothed--those that haven't a
morsel to eat are fed--and if they haven't a fire, they get plenty of
fuel to burn their apostate skins at; and because this heretical crew
avail themselves of the destitution of these wretches--and lure them
from their own faith by a blanket and a flitch of bacon, they call that
conversion--the new Reformation by the way, ha--ha--ha--oh, it's too
good!”
“And do you think, sir,” said Darby, “that if they had a hard or an
enlightened hoult of their own creed, that that would do it?”
The whip here described a circle, one part of whose circumference sang
within a few inches of Darby's ear--who, forgetting his relish for
martyrdom, drew back his head to avoid it.
“None of your back jaw,” said M'Cabe; “don't you know, sirra, that in
spite of this Methodist Lord and the proud parson's temptations, you
are commanded to renounce the devil, the world, and the flesh? Don't you
know that?”
“But,” replied Darby, “are we commanded to renounce the devil, the
world, and a bit o' fresh mait?”
“Ha--you snivelling scoundrel,” said the curate, “you've got their
arguments already I see--but I know how to take them out of you, before
you leave my hands.”
“Surely,” continued Darby, “you wouldn't have a naked man renounce a
warm pair o' breeches, or a good coat to his back--does the Scriptur
forbid him that?”
“You will have it,” replied the curate, who felt for the moment
astounded at Darby's, audacity, “you are determined on it; but I will
have patience with you yet, a little, till I see what brought you over,
if I can. Don't you admit, as I said, that you are commanded to renounce
the devil, the world, and the flesh--particularly the flesh, sirra, for
there's a peculiar stress laid upon that in the Greek.”
“Well, but does it go in the Greek against a flitch o' bacon and a wisp
o' greens, your reverence? Faith, beggin' your pardon, if you were to
see some o' the new convarts, how comfortable they are wid their good
frieze coats, and their new warm blankets, sittin' beside their good
fires, you'd maybe not blame them so much as you do. Your religion, sir,
only provides for the sowl; but theirs, you see, provides any how for
the body--and faith, I say, the last is a great advantage in these hard
times.”
The priest's astonishment increased at the boldness with which Darby
continued the argument, or rather, which prompted him to argue at all.
He looked at him, and gave a smile.
“Well,” said he, almost forgetting his anger--for he was by no means
deficient in a perception of the humorous--“but no matter--it will do
by and by. You villain,” said he, forced into the comic spirit of the
argument; “do you not know that it said--cursed is he who becometh an
apostate, and eateth the flesh of heretics.”
“Aitin' the flesh of heretics is forbidden, I dare say, sure enough,”
replied Darby; “an' troth it's a commandment not likely to be
broken--for dirty morsels they are, God knows; but is there anything
said against aitin' the flesh of their sheep or cows--or that forbids us
to have a touch at a good fat goose, or a turkey, or any harmless little
trifle o' the kind? Troth myself never thought, sir, that beef or mutton
was of any particular religion before.”
“Yes, sir; beef and mutton, when they're good, are Catholic--but when
they're lean, why, like a bad Christian, they're Protestant, of course,
and that's well known,” said the priest, still amused, against his will,
by Darby's arguments.
“Faith, and wid great respect, the same is but a poor argument for your
own--hem--I mane, sir, for your church; for if the best beef and mutton
be of the thrue religion, the Protestants have it all to nothing.
There, they're infallible, and no mistake. The fat o' the land, your
reverence,” said Darby, with a wink; “don't you understand? They've got
that any how.”
A slight cut of the whip across the shoulders made him jump and rub
himself, whilst the priest, struck with his utter want of principle,
exclaimed.
“You double-dealing scoundrel, how dare you wink at me, as if we felt
anything in common?”
The blow occasioned Darby's gorge to rise; for like every other knave,
when conscious of his own dishonesty, and its detection, he felt his bad
passions overpower him.
“You must,” said the priest, whose anger was now excited by his
extraordinary assurance--“you must renounce their religion, you must
renounce M'Slime and Lucre--their flitches, flannels, and friezes. You
must--”
“Beggin' your pardon,” said Darby, “I never received any of their
flitches or their flannels. I don't stand in need of them--it's an
enlightened independent convart I am.”
“Well, then,” continued the priest, “you must burn their tracts and
their treatises, their books and Bibles of every description, and return
to your own church.”
“To become acquainted,” replied Darby, “with that piece o' doctrine
in your hand there? Faith and I feel the truth o' that as it is, your
reverence; and it is yourself that can bring it home to one. But, why,
wid submission, don't you imitate Father Roche? By me sowl, I tell you
to your face, that so long; as you take your divinity from the saddler's
shop, so long you will have obedient men, but indifferent Catholics.”
“What!” replied M'Cabe, in a rage, “do you dare to use such language to
my face--a reprobate--a brazen contumacious apostate! I've had this
in for you; and now (here he gave him a round half dozen) go off to
M'Slime, and Lucre, and Lord------, and when you see them, tell them
from me, that if they don't give up perverting my flock, I'll give them
enough of their own game.”
Darby's face got pale, with a most deadly expression of rage--an
expression, indeed, so very different from that cringing, creeping one
which it usually wore, that M'Cabe, on looking at him, felt startled, if
not awed, intrepid and exasperated as he was. Darby stood and looked at
him coldly, but, at the same time, with unflinching fearlessness in the
face.
“You have done it,” he said, “and I knew you would. Now, listen to
me--are you not as aiger to make convarts as either M'Slime or Lucre?”
“You will have it again, you scoundrel,” said the curate, approaching
him with uplifted whip.
“Stand back,” said Darby, “I've jist got all I wanted--stand back, or by
all the vestments ever you wore, if your whip only touches my body,
as light as if it wouldn't bend a feather, I'll have you in heaven, or
purgatory, before you can cry 'God forgive me.'”
The other still advanced, and was about to let the whip fall, when Darby
stretched his right hand before him, holding a cocked and loaded pistol
presented to the curate's breast.
“Now,” said he, “let your whip fall if you like; but if you do, I'll
lodge this bullet,” touching the pistol with his left forefinger, “in
your heart, and your last mass is said. You blame Lucre and M'Slime for
making convarts; but ai'en't you every bit as anxious to bring over
the Protestants as they are to bring over us? Aren't you paradin' them
Sunday af'ther Sunday, and boastin' that you are takin' more from the
heretics than they are takin' from you? Wasn't your last convart Bob
Beatty, that you brought over because he had the fallin' sickness, and
you left it upon him never to enter a church door, or taste bacon; and
now you have him that was a rank Orangeman and a blood-hound six weeks
ago, a sound Catholic to-day? Why, your reverence, with regard to
convart makin' divil the laist taste o' differ I see between you on
either side, only that they are able to give betther value in this world
for the change than you are--that's all. You're surprised at seeing my
pistols, but of late I don't go any where unprovided; for, to tell you
the thruth, either as a bailiff or a convart, it's not likely I'd be
safe widout them; and I think that yourself are a very good proof of
it.”
“Very well, my good, fine, pious convart; I'll keep my eye on you. I
understand your piety.”
“And I can tell you, my good, meek, pious priest, I'll keep mine on you;
and now pass on, if you're wise--and so _bannath lath_.”
Each then passed on, pursuing his respective destination. They had
not gone far, however, when both chanced to look back at the same
moment--M'Cabe shook his whip, with a frown, at Darby, who, on the
other side, significantly touched the pocket in which he carried his
fire-arms, and nodded his head in return.
Now, it is an undeniable fact, that characters similar to that of Darby,
were too common in the country; and, indeed, it is to be regretted that
they were employed at all, inasmuch as the insolence of their conduct,
on the one hand, did nearly as much harm as the neglect of the
hard-hearted landlord himself, on the other. Be this as it may, however,
we are bound to say that Darby deserved much more at M'Cabe's hands than
either that Rev. gentleman was aware of then, or our readers now. The
truth was, that no sooner had M'Slime's paragraph touching Darby's
conversion gone abroad, than he became highly unpopular among the
Catholics of the parish. Father M'Cabe, in consequence of Darby's
conduct, and taking him as a specimen, uttered some lively prophecies,
touching' the ultimate fate of the new Reformation. He even admonished
his flock against Darby:--
“I have warned you all now,” he said, “and if after this I hear of a
single perversion, woe be unto that pervert, for it is better for his
miserable soul that he had never been born. Is there a man here base
enough to sell his birthright for a mess of Mr. Lucre's pottage? Is
there a man here, who is not too strongly imbued with a hatred of
heresy, to laugh to scorn their bribes and their Bibles. Not a man, or,
if there is, let him go out from amongst us, in order that we may know
him--that we may avoid his outgoings and his incomings--that we may flee
from him as a pestilence--a plague--a famine. No, there is none here so
base and unprincipled as all that--and I here prophesy that from this
day forth, this Reformation has got its death-blow--and that time will
prove it. Now, remember, I warn you against their arts, their bribes,
and their temptations--and if, as I said, any one of this flock shall
prove so wicked as to join them--then, I say again, better for his
unfortunate soul that he had never come into existence, than to come in
contact with this leprous and polluted heresy.”
Darby having heard--for he never went to mass--that he was denounced by
the priest, and feeling that his carrying into execution the heartless
and oppressive proceedings of M'Clutchy had, taken together, certainly
made him as unpopular a man as any individual of his contemptible
standing in life could be, resolved, in the first place, to carry arms
for his own protection, and, in the next, to take a step which he
knew would vex the curate sorely. Accordingly, he lost no time in
circulating, and having it circulated by others, that the great
Reformation Society would give, in a private way, five guineas a head
to every convert, taking them either by the individual or the family,
although the conversion of the latter, he said, was far more coveted
than even a greater number of individuals, when they were not bound by
the same ties of blood, inasmuch, as the bringing them over by families
was an outpouring of grace which could not be withstood. The consequence
was, that all the profligate and unprincipled who had cold, and
nakedness, and famine, in addition to their own utter want of all moral
feeling to stimulate them, looked upon the new Reformation and its
liberal promises as a complete windfall blown into their way by some
unexpected piece of good fortune. Five guineas a head! And all for only
going to church, and gaining for ever more the heart and affections of
the good and kind Lord ------. There was also another class, the simple
and honest poor, who had no other way of avoiding all the rigors and
privations of that terrible season, than a painful compliance with the
only principle which could rescue themselves and their children, from a
state of things worse than death itself--and which might probably have
terminated in death--we mean the principle of the new Reformation. There
was, still, a third class--which consisted of a set of thorough Irish
wags, who looked upon the whole thing as an excellent joke--and who,
while they had not a rag to their backs, nor a morsel for their mouths,
enjoyed the whole ceremony of reading their recantation, renouncing
Popery, and all that, as a capital spree while it lasted, and a thing
that ought by all means to be encouraged, until better times came.
In vain, therefore, did Father M'Cabe denounce and prophesy--in vain did
he launch all the dogmas of the church--in vain did he warn, lecture,
and threaten--Darby's private hint had gone abroad precisely a day
or two before their encounter, and the consequence was what might be
expected. Darby, in fact, overreached him, a circumstance of which, at
the period of their meeting, he was ignorant; but he had just learned
how “the word,” as it was called, had spread, in so extraordinary a
manner, maugre all his opposition a short time before they met; and our
readers need not feel surprised at the tone and temper with which, after
having heard such intelligence, he addressed Darby, nor at the treatment
which that worthy personage received at his hands. Had he known that it
was Darby's “word” which in point of fact had occasioned “the spread”
we speak of, he would have made that worthy missionary exhibit a much
greater degree of alacrity than he did.
Before Darby arrives at Mr. Lucre's, however, we must take the liberty
of anticipating him a little, in order to be present at a conversation
which occurred on this very subject between the worthy Rector and the
Rev. Mr. Clement, his curate. Mr. Clement, like the pious and excellent
Father Roche, was one of those clergymen who feel that these unbecoming
and useless exhibitions, called religious discussions, instead of
promoting a liberal or enlarged view of religion, are only calculated to
envenom the feelings, to extinguish charity, and to contract the
heart. Nay, more, there never was a discussion, they said--and we join
them--since the days of Ussher and the Jesuit, that did not terminate in
a tumult of angry and unchristian recrimination, in which all the common
courtesies of life, not to mention the professed duties of Christian
men, were trampled on, and violated without scruple. In the preparations
for the forthcoming discussion, therefore, neither of these worthy men
took any part whatsoever. The severe duties of so large a parish, the
calls of the sick, the poor, and the dying, together with the varied
phases of human misery that pressed upon their notice as they toiled
through the obscure and neglected paths of life, all in their opinion,
and, in ours, too, constituted a sufficiently ample code of duty,
without embroiling themselves in these loud and turbulent encounters.
Mr. Clement, who, on this same day, had received a message from Mr.
Lucre, found that gentleman in remarkably good spirits. He had just
received a present of a fine haunch of venison from a fox-hunting
nobleman in the neighborhood, and was gloating over it, ere its descent
into the larder, with the ruddy fire of epicurism blazing in his eyes.
“Clement,” said he, with a grave, subdued grunt of enjoyment, “come this
way--turn up the venison, Francis--eh, what say you now, Clement? Look
at the depth of the fat!--what a prime fellow that was!--see the flank
he had!--six inches on the ribs at, least! As our countryman, Goldsmith,
says, 'the lean was so white, and the fat was so ruddy.'”
Clement had often before witnessed this hot spirit of luxury, which
becomes doubly carnal and gross in a minister of God. On this occasion
he did not even smile, but replied gravely, “I am not a judge of
venison, Mr. Lucre; but, I believe you have misquoted the poet, who, I
think, says, 'the fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.'”
“Well, that's not much, Clement; but, if you were a judge, this would
both delight and astonish you. Now, Francis, I charge you, as you value
your place, your reputation, your future welfare, to be cautious
in dressing it. You know how I wish it done, and, besides, Lord
Mountmorgage, Sir Harry Beevor, Lord ------, and a few clerical friends,
are to dine with me. Come in Clement--Francis, you have heard what
I said! If that haunch is spoiled, I shall discharge you without a
character most positively, so look to it.”
When they entered the library, the table of which was covered with
religious magazines, missionary papers, and reports of religious
societies, both at home and abroad, Mr. Lucre, after throwing himself
into a rich cushioned arm-chair, motioned to his curate to take a seat.
“I have sent for you, Clement,” said he, “to have your advice and
assistance on a subject, in which, I feel confident, that as a sincere
and zealous Protestant, you will take a warm interest. You have heard of
the establishment of our New Reformation Society, of course.”
“I believe it is pretty generally known,” replied Clement.
“It is now,” replied Lucre; “but our objects are admirable. We propose
to carry controversy into all the strongholds of Popery--to enlighten
both priest and people, and, if possible, to transfer the whole Popish
population--_per satiram_--by the lump, as it were--”
“_Per saturum_, I believe,” observed Clement, bowing, “if I may take the
liberty.”
“Sati, satu--well, you may be right; my memory, Clement, retains large
passages best, and ever did--to transfer the whole Popish population
to the Established Church. It is a noble, a glorious speculation, if it
only can be accomplished. Think of the advantages it would confer upon
us! What stability would it not give the Church.”
“I cannot exactly see what peculiar stability it would give the Church,”
replied Clement, “with the exception of mere numbers alone.”
“How so--what do you mean?”
“Why, sir,” replied Clement, “if we had the numbers you speak of
to-morrow, we would be certainly worse off than we are today. They could
only pay us our tithes, and that they do as it is; if they formed a
portion, and the largest portion they would form, of our church, think
of the immense number of clergy they would require to look to their
religious wants--the number of churches and chapels of ease that must be
built--the number of livings that must be divided--nay, my dear sir, in
addition to this, you may easily see, that for every one bishop now, we
should have at least four, then, and that the incomes would diminish in
proportion. As it is now, sir, we have the tithes without the trouble of
laboring for them, but it would be a different case in your new position
of affairs.”
Mr. Lucre, who, in the heat of his zeal, had neither permitted himself
to see matters in this light, nor to perceive that Clement's arguments
concealed, under a grave aspect, something of irony and satire, looked
upon his curate with dismay--the smooth and rosy cheek got pale, as did
the whole purple face down to the third chin, each of which reminded one
of the diminished rainbows in the sky, if we may be allowed to except
that they were not so heavenly.
“Clement,” said he, “you amaze me--that is a most exceedingly clear view
of the matter. Transfer them! no such thing, it would be a most dreadful
calamity, unless church property were proportionately increased; but,
could not that be done, Clement? Yes,” said he, exulting at the idea,
as one of which he ought to feel proud, “that could and would be
done--besides I relish the multiplication of the bishoprics, under any
circumstances, and therefore we will proceed with the Reformation. At
all events, it would be a great blessing to get rid of Popery, which we
would do, if we could accomplish this glorious project.”
“I must confess, sir,” replied Mr. Clement gravely, “that I have never
been anxious for a mere change of speculative opinions in any man,
unless when accompanied by a corresponding improvement in his life and
morals. With respect to the Reformation Society, I beg leave to
observe that I think the plan for the present is unseasonable, and only
calculated to fill the kingdom with religious dissention and hatred.
The people, sir, are not prepared to have their religion taken by storm;
they are too shrewd for that; and I really think we have no just cause
to feel anxious for the conversion of those who cannot appreciate the
principles upon which they embrace our faith, as must be the case with
ninety-nine out of every hundred of them. I have ever been of opinion
that the policy pursued by England towards this country has been the
bane of its happiness. She deprived the Irish Roman Catholics of the
means of acquiring education, and then punished them for the crimes
which proceeded from their ignorance. They were a dissatisfied, a
tumultuous, and an impracticable, because they were an oppressed,
people; and where, by the way, is there a people, worthy to be named
such, who will or ought to rest contented under penal and oppressive
laws. But there was a day when they would have been grateful for the
relaxation of such laws. Oppression, however, has its traditions, and
so has revenge, and these can descend from father to son, without
education. If Roman Catholic disabilities had been removed at a proper
time, they would long since have been forgotten, but they were not, and
now they are remembered, and will be remembered. The prejudices of the
Roman Catholics, however, and their enmity towards those who oppressed
them, increased with their numbers and their knowledge. The religion of
those who kept them down was Protestant; and think you, sir, that, be
the merits of that religion what they may, these are the people to
come over in large masses, without esteem for us, reflection, or any
knowledge of its principles, and embrace the creed of the very men
whom they look upon as their oppressors. Sir, there is but one way of
converting the Irish, and it this:--Let them find the best arguments for
Protestantism in the lives of its ministers, and of all who profess it.
Let the higher Protestant clergy move more among the humbler classes
even of their own flocks--let them be found more frequently where
the Roman Catholic priest always is--at the sick-bed--in the house of
mourning, of death, and of sin--let them abandon the unbecoming pursuits
of an ungodly ambition--cast from them the crooked and dishonest
manoeuvres of political negotiation and intrigue--let them live more
humbly, and more in accordance with the gospel which they preach--let
them not set their hearts upon the church merely because it is a wealthy
corporation, calculated rather to gratify their own worldly ambition or
cupidity, than the spiritual exigencies of their own flocks--let them
not draw their revenues from the pockets of a poor people who disclaim
their faith, whilst they denounce and revile that faith as a thing not
to be tolerated. Let them do this, sir--free Protestantism from the
golden shackles which make it the slave of Mammon, that it may be able
to work--do this, and depend upon it, that it will then flourish as it
ought; but, in my humble opinion, until such a reform first takes place
with ourselves, it is idle to expect that Roman Catholics will come
over to us, unless, indeed, a few from sordid and dishonest motives--and
these we were better without. I think, therefore, that the present
Reformation Society is unseasonable and ill-advised, nor do I hesitate
to predict that the event will prove it so. In conclusion, sir, I am
sorry to say, that I've seldom seen one of those very zealous clergymen
who would not rather convert one individual from Popery than ten from
sin.”
“Why, Clement, you are a liberal!”
“I trust, sir, I am a Christian. As for liberalism, as it is generally
understood, no man scorns the cant of it more than I do. But I cannot
think that a Roman Catholic man sincerely worshipping God--even with,
many obvious errors in his forms, or, with what we consider absurdities
in his very creed--I cannot think, I say, that such a man, worshipping
the Almighty according to his knowledge, will be damned. To think so
is precisely the doctrine of exclusive salvation, with which we charge
Popery itself.”
Mr. Lucre's face, during the enunciation of these sentiments,
glowed like a furnace thrice heated--he turned up his eyes--groaned
aloud--struck the arm of his chair with his open hand--then commenced
fanning his breast, as if the act were necessary to cool that
evangelical indignation, in which there is said to be no sin.
“Clement,” said he, “this--this”--here he kept fanning down his choler
for half a minute--“this is--astonishing--awful--monstrous--monstrous
doctrine to come from the lips of a clergyman--man”--another
fanning--“of the Established Church; but what is still worse,
from--from--the lips of my curate! my curate! I'll trouble you to touch
the bell--thank you, sir. But, Mr. Clement, the circumstance of giving
utterance to such opinions, so abruptly, as if you were merely stating
some common-place fact--without evincing the slightest consideration for
me--without reflecting upon who and what I am--without remembering my
position--my influence--the purity and orthodoxy of my doctrine--the
services I have rendered to religion, and to a Protestant
government--(John, a glass of water; quickly)--you forget, sir, that I
have proved the Romish Church to be both damnable and idolatrous--that
she is without the means of salvation--that her light is out--her
candlestick removed--and that she is nothing now but darkness, and
abomination, and blasphemy. Yes, sir; knowing all this, you could openly
express such doctrines, without giving me a moment's notice, or anything
to, prepare me for such a shock!--sir, I am very much distressed
indeed; but I thank my God that this excitement--(bring it here,
John; quick:)--that this excitement is Christian excitement--Christian
excitement, Mr. Clement; for I am not, I trust, without thai zeal for
the interests of my church, of my King, and of Protestantism at large,
which becomes a man who has labored for them as I have done.”
Here, notwithstanding the excessive thirst which seemed to have fastened
on him, he put the glass to his lips; but, sooth to say, like the
widow's cruse, it seemed to have been gifted with the miraculous
property of going from his lips as full as when it came to them.
“I assure you, Mr. Lucre,” replied Clement, “in uttering my sentiments,
I most certainly had not the slightest intention of giving you offence.
I spoke calmly, and candidly, and truly, what I think and feel--and I
regret that I should have offended you so much; for I only expressed
the common charity of our religion, which hopeth all things--is slow to
condemn, and forbids us to judge, lest we be judged.”
“Clement,” said Mr. Lucre, who, to speak truth, had ascribed his
excitement--what a base, servile, dishonest, hypocritical scoundrel of
a word is that excitement--ready to adopt any meaning, to conceal any
failing, to disguise any fact, to run any lying message whatsoever at
the beck and service of falsehood or hypocrisy. If a man is drunk, in
steps excitement--Lord, sir, he was only excited, a little excited;--if
a man is in a rage, like Mr. Lucre, he is only excited, moved by
Christian excitement--out upon it!--but, like every other slavish
instrument, we must use it--had ascribed his excitement, we say, to
causes that had nothing whatsoever to do in occasioning it--the _bona
fide_ one being the indirect rebuke, to him, and the class to which
he belonged, that was contained in Clement's observations upon the
Established Church and her ecclesiastics. “Clement,” said he, “I must be
plain with you. For some time past I have really suspected the soundness
of your views--I had doubts of your orthodoxy; but out of consideration
for your large family, I did not press you for an explanation.”
“Then, sir,” replied Clement, “allow me to say, that as an orthodox
clergyman, jealous of the purity of our creed, and anxious for the
spiritual welfare of your flock, it was your duty to have done so. As
for me, I shall be at all times both ready and willing to render
an account of the faith that is in me. I neither fear nor deprecate
investigation, sir, I assure you.”
“I certainly knew not, however, that you were so far gone in
latitudinarianism, as I find, unfortunately, to be the case. I hold a
responsible--a sacred situation, as a Protestant minister, Mr. Clement,
and consequently cannot suffer such doctrine to spread through my flock.
Besides, had you taken an active part in promoting this Reformation,
as, with your learning and talents I know you could have done--I make no
allusion now to your unhappy principles--had you done so it was my fixed
intention to have increased your salary ten pounds per annum, out of my
own pocket, notwithstanding the great claims that are upon me.”
“My legal salary, I believe, Mr. Lucre, is seventy-five pounds per
annum, and the value of your benefice is one thousand four hundred. I
may say the whole duty is performed by me. Out of that one thousand four
hundred, I receive sixty; but I shall add nothing more--for indeed I
have yet several visits to make before I go home. As to my orthodoxy,
sir, you will take your own course. To my bishop I am ready to explain
my opinions; they are in accordance with the Word of God; and if for
entertaining them I am deprived of the slender support for which I
labor, as your curate, my trust in God will not be the less.”
Mr. Lucre declined any reply, but bowed very politely, and rang
the bell, to order his carriage, as a hint to Mr. Clement that the
conversation was closed. The latter bowed, bade him good morning, and
departed.
When Mr. Clement said he had some visits to make, we must, lest the
reader might suppose they are visits of ceremony, follow his steps in
order to learn the nature of these visits.
About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and
unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which
would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe. A poor
widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of
her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble,
and looking evidently ill. Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy
whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy
cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and
his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze. The child was
dying, and the tender power of a mother's love prompted her to keep him
as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that
remained of his brief existence. When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely
mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such
helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the
affliction of my own heart! Am I cut off from the piety and comfort,
which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and
fellowship! Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my
dying children! Such in similar circumstances are the questions which
the heart will ask. She could not immediately speak, but with the head
of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony,
every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction
over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.
The champion of God, however, was at his post. He advanced to the
bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in
her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven
which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he
addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart
to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow.
It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it
prudent to enforce it too strongly. The widow looked upon her boy's
face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in
the throes of death. The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim
blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother's, hands, and
the mother's bosom. He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint;
attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from
his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his
faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were
consequently unintelligible. Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow's
name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her
eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery,
upon her dying boy. Her heart--her hopes:--almost her whole being
were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had
imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human
power could give her consolation. The tears were falling fast from Mr.
Clement's cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were
over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support. At length she
exclaimed--
“Oh! Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little
children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved! Suffer him to
come to you soon. Oh! Saviour--hear a mother's prayer, for I loved him
above all, and he was our life! Core of my heart, you are striving to
tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your
tongue, and you cannot do it! I am here, my beloved sufferer--I am
here--you struggle to find my hands to tell me--to tell me--but I cannot
help you.”
“Mrs. Vincent,” said the curate, “we have reason to believe that what
appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we
imagine; strive to moderate your grief--and reflect that he will soon
be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end. His little
sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful
God will receive him into life and glory.”
“But, sir,” replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks,
“do you not see what he suffers? Look at the moisture that is on his
little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain. He thinks that I can
stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand. During his whole illness
that was still his cry--'oh, mother, take away this pain, why don't you
take away the pain!'”
Mr. Clement was a father, and an affectionate one, and this allusion
to the innocence of the little sufferer touched his heart, and he was
silent.
The widow proceeded: “there he lies, my only--only son--his departed
father's image, and I looked up to him to be one day my support, my
pride, and my happiness--but see what he is now! Oh! James, James,
wouldn't I lay down my life to save yours!”
“You look at the dark side of the picture, Mrs. Vincent,” said the
curate. “Think upon what he may escape by his early and his happy death.
You know not, but that there was crime, and sin, and affliction before
him. Consider how many parents there are now in the world, who would
feel happy that their children, who bring shame, and distress, and
misery upon them, had been taken to God in their childhood. And, surely,
there is still a God to provide for your self and your other little
ones; for remember, you have still those who have tender claims upon
your heart.”
“I know you are right, sir,” she replied “but in cases like this, nature
must have its way. Death, death, but you're cruel! Oh--blessed Father,
what is this!”
One last convulsive spasm, one low agonizing groan, accompanied by a
relaxation of the little fingers which had pressed her hands, closed the
sufferings of the widow's pride. She stooped wildly over him and pressed
him to her heart, as if by doing so she could draw his pains into her
own frame, as they Were already in her spirit; but his murmurings were
silent, and on looking closely into his countenance, she perceived that
his Redeemer had, indeed, suffered her little one to go unto him; that
all his little pains and agonies were over forever.
“His sufferings are past,” she exclaimed, “James, your sufferings are
over!” As she uttered the words, the curate was astonished by hearing
her burst out into one or two wild hysteric laughs, which happily ended
in tears.
“No more,” she continued, “you'll feel no more pain now, my precious
boy; your voice will never sound in my ears again; you'll never call
on me to say 'mother, take away my pain;' the Sunday mornin' will never
come when I will take pride in dressing you. My morning and evening kiss
will never more be given--all my heart was fixed on is gone, and I care
not now what becomes of me.”
What could the good curate do? He strove to soothe, sustain, and comfort
her, but in vain; the poor widow heard him not.
“Jenny,” said she, at length, turning to, the other sick child, “your
brother is at rest! James is at rest; he will disturb your sleep now no
more--nor will you disturb his.”
“Oh! but he couldn't help it, mammy; it was the pain that made him.”
As the child uttered these words, the widow put her hand to her heart,
gave two or three rapid sobs--her bosom heaved, and her head fell back
over a chair that was accidentally beside her. Mr. Clement caught her
in time to prevent her from falling; he placed her upright on the chair,
which he carried to, the little dresser, where he found a jug of water,
the only drink she had to give her sick children. With this he bathed
her temples and wet her lips, after which he looked upon the scene of
death and affliction by which he was surrounded.
“Gracious Father,” he exclaimed, “let, your mercy reach this most
pitiable family! Look with eyes of pity and compassion upon this
afflicted and bereaved woman! Oh, support her--she is poor and nearly
heart-broken, and the world has abandoned her! Oh, do not abandon her,
Father of all mercy, and God of all consolation!”
As he concluded, the widow recovered, and felt his tears falling upon
her face. On looking she perceived how deeply he was affected. Her lips
opened unconsciously with a blessing on him who shared in, and soothed
her sorrows--her voice was feeble, for she had not yet recovered her
strength; but the low murmur of her prayers and blessings rose like the
sounds of sweet but melancholy music to heaven, and was heard there.
Mr. Clement then went over to the bed, and with his own hands smoothed
it down for the little sick sister of the departed boy, adjusting the
bed-clothes about her as well as he could, for the other children were
too., young to do anything. He then divided the hair upon the
lifeless child's forehead--contemplated his beautiful features for a
moment--caught his little hand in his--let it fall--oh! how lifelessly!
he then shook his head, raised his eyes, and pointing to heaven,
exclaimed--
“There--Mrs. Vincent, let your hopes lie there.”
He then departed, with a promise of seeing her soon.