--Darby feels Scriptural, and was as Scripturally treated--Mr. Lucre's
Christian Disposition towards Father M'Cabe--A few Brands offer
Themselves to be Plucked from the Burning--Their Qualification, for
Conversion, as stated by Themselves.
Mr. Lucre, like almost every Protestant rector of the day, was a
magistrate, a circumstance which prevented Mr. Clement from feeling
any surprise at seeing a considerable number of persons, of both sexes,
approaching the glebe. He imagined, naturally enough, that they were
going upon law business, as it is termed--for he knew that Mr. Lucre,
during his angel visits to Castle Cumber, took much more delight in
administering the law than the gospel, unless, when ready made, in the
shape of Bibles. When Darby, also, arrived, he found a considerable
number of these persons standing among a little clump of trees in the
lawn, apparently waiting for some person to break the ice, and go in
first--a feat which each felt anxious to decline himself, whilst he
pressed it very strongly upon his neighbor. No sooner had Darby made
his appearance than a communication took place between him and them,
in which it was settled that he was to have the first interview, and
afterwards direct the conduct and motions of the rest. There was,
indeed, a dry, knowing look about him, which seemed to imply, in fact,
that they were not there without some suggestion from himself.
Darby was very well known to Mr. Lucre, for whom he had frequently acted
in the capacity of a bailiff; he accordingly entered with something like
an appearance of business, but so admirably balanced was his conduct on
this occasion, between his usual sneaking and servile manner, and
his privileges as a Christian, that it would be difficult to witness
anything so inimitably well managed as his deportment. One circumstance
was certainly strongly in his favor; Father M'Cabe had taken care to
imprint with his whip a _prima facie_ testimony of sincerity upon
his countenance, which was black, and swollen into large welts by the
exposition of doctrinal truth which he had received at that gentleman's
hands. Lucre, on seeing him, very naturally imagined he was coming
to lodge informations for some outrage committed on him either in the
discharge of his duty as bailiff, or, for having become a convert, a
fact with which he had become acquainted from the True Blue.
“Well, O'Drive,” said he, “what is the matter now? you are sadly
abused--how came this to pass?”
Darby first looked upwards, very like a man who was conscientiously
soliciting some especial grace or gift from above; his lips moved as if
in prayer, but he was otherwise motionless--at length he ceased--drew
a lone breath, and assumed the serenity of one whose prayer had
been granted. The only word he uttered that could possibly be at all
understood, was amen; which he pronounced lowly, but still distinctly,
and in as unpopish a manner as he could.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he replied, “but now my heart's aisier--I hope
I have overcome that feeling that was an me--I can now forgive him for
the sake of the spread o' the gospel, and I do.”
“What has happened your face?--you are sadly abused!”
“A small taste o' parsecution, sir, which the Lord put into Father
M'Cabe's horsewhip--heart I mane--to give me, bekaise I renounced his
hathenism, and came into the light o' thruth--may He be praised for it!”
Here followed an upturning of the eyes after the manner of M'Slime.
“Do you mean to tell me, O'Drive, that this outrage has been committed
on you by that savage priest, M'Cabe?”
“It was he left me as you see, sir--but it's good to suffer in this
world, especially for the thruth. Indeed I am proud of this face,” he
continued, blinking with a visage so comically disastrous at Mr. Lucre,
that had that gentleman had the slightest possible perception of the
ludicrous in his composition, not all the gifts and graces that ever
were poured down upon the whole staff of the Reformation Society
together, would have prevented him from laughing outright. “Of course
you are come,” pursued Lucre, “to swear information against this man?”
“I have prayed for it,” said Darby in a soliloquy, “and I feel that it
has been granted. Swear information, sir?--I'll strive and do betther
than that, I hope; I must now take my stand by the Bible, sir; that will
be the color I'll hoist while I live. In that blessed book I read these
words this mornin', 'love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do
good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you
and parsecute you.' Sir, when I read these words, I felt them slidin'
into my heart, and I couldn't help repeatin' them to myself, ever
since--and, even when Father M'Cabe was playin' his whip about my ears,
I was as hard at work prayin' for his sowl.”
This, we have no doubt, was perfectly true, only we fear that our
blessed convert forgot to state the precise nature and object of the
prayer in question, and to mention whether it was to the upper or lower
settlement he consigned the soul alluded to. This Christian spirit of
Darby's, however, was by no means in keeping with that of Mr. Lucre, who
never was of opinion, in his most charitable of moods, that the gospel
should altogether supersede the law. On this occasion, especially, he
felt an acuteness of anxiety to got the priest within his power, which
the spirit of no gospel that ever was written could repress. M'Cabe and
he had never met, or, at least, never spoke; but the priest had, since
the commencement of the new movement, sent him a number of the most
ludicrous messages, and transmitted to him, for selection, a large
assortment of the most comical and degrading epithets. Here, then,
was an opportunity of gratifying his resentment in a Christian and
constitutional spirit, and with no obstacle in his way but Darby's
inveterate piety. This, however, for the sake of truth, he hoped to
remove, or so modify, that it would not prevent him from punishing that
very disloyal and idolatrous delinquent.
“Those feelings, O'Drive, are all very good and creditable to you, and
I am delighted indeed that you entertain them--but, in the meantime, you
owe a duty to society greater than that which you owe to yourself.
This man, this priest--a huge, ferocious person I understand he is--has
latterly been going about the parish foaming and raging, and seeking
whom he can horsewhip.”
“That's thruth, sir, poor dark hathen--an', sir--jist beggin' your
pardon for one minute, half a minute, sir--you know we're desired when
an inimy strikes us upon one cheek to turn the other to him; well, as I
said, sir, I found myself very Scriptural this whole day, so when he hit
me the first welt on this cheek, I turns round the other, an' now look
at the state it's in, sir--but that's not all, sir, he tuck the hint at
once, and gave it to me on both sides, till he left me as you see me.
Still, sir, I can forgive him, and I have done it.”
“That, as I said, reflects great credit on your principles--but, in the
meantime, you can still retain these principles and prosecute him.
Your lodging informations against him does not interfere with your own
personal forgiveness of him at all--because it is in behalf of, and for
the safety of society that you come forward to prosecute now.”
Darby, who in point of fact had his course already taken, shook his head
and replied, falling back upon the form of M'Slime's language as much as
he could--
“I feel, sir,” he replied, “that I'm not permitted.”
“Permitted!” repeated the other. “What do you menu?”
“I'm not permitted from above, sir, to prosecute this man. I'm not
justified in it.”
“Quite ridiculous, O'Drive, where did you pick up this jargon of the
conventicle--but that reminds me, by the by--you are not a convert
to the Established Church. You belong to the Dissenters, and owe your
change of opinions to Mr. M'Slime.”
“If I don't belong to the Established Church now, sir,” replied Darby,
“I won't be long so.”
“Why,” inquired the other, “are you not satisfied with the denomination
of Christians you have joined?”
“M'Slime, sir, converted me--as you say--but I've great objections--and
between you and me, I, fear it's not altogether safe for any man to take
his religion from an attorney.”
A smile, as much as he could condescend to, passed over the haughty, but
dignified features of Mr. Lucre.
“O'Drive,” said he, “I did not think you possessed so much simplicity
of character as I perceive you do--but touching the prosecution of this
man--you must lodge information, forthwith. You shall bring the warrant
to Mr. M'Clutchy who will back it, and put it into the hands of those
who will lose little time in having it executed.”
“I am sorry, sir, that my conscience doesn't justify me in doin' what
you wish.”
“What do you mean by conscience, sir?” asked the other, getting warm,
“if you have a conscience you will have no scruple in punishing a man
who is an open enemy to truth, to the gospel, and to the spread of it
through a benighted land. How can you reconcile it to your conscience to
let such a man escape.”
“Simply by forgiving him, sir--by lettin' the great, big, ignorant
hathen, have the full benefit of a gospel forgiveness. That's what I
mean, sir, and surely it stands to sense that I couldn't prosecute him
wid these feelin's, barrin' I'd go against the Word.”
“O'Drive,” said Lucre, evidently mortified at Darby's obstinacy, “one of
two things is true; either you are utterly ignorant, perhaps, with every
disposition to know them, of the sanctions and obligations of religion,
or you are still a Papist at heart, and an impostor. I tell you, sir,
once more, that it is upon religious grounds that you ought to prosecute
this wild priest; because in doing so, you render a most important
service to religion and morality, both of which are outraged in his
person. You ought to know this. Again, sir, if you are a Protestant, and
have thoroughly cast Popery from your heart, you must necessarily be a
loyal man and a good subject; but if you refuse to prosecute him, you
can be neither the one nor the other, but a Papist and an impostor,
and I've done with you. If Mr. M'Clutchy knew, sir, that you refused
to prosecute a priest for such a violent outrage upon your person, I
imagine you would not long hold the situation of bailiff under him.”
Darby looked into the floor like a philosopher solving a problem.
“I see, sir,” said he, “I see--well--you have made that clear enough
sartinly; but you know, sir, how could you expect such deep raisoning
upon these subjects from a man like me. I see the duty of it now
clearly; but, when, sir, on the other hand if I prosecute him, what's to
become of me? Will you, sir, bear my funeral expenses?”
“Every penny, O'Drive,” replied the other, eagerly. “Tut,” he exclaimed,
checking himself, “I--I--I thought you meant the expenses of the
prosecution.”
“It's much the same, sir,” replied Darby, “the one will be sure to
follow the other. You know the state the country's in now, sir, and
how the people on both sides are ready to skiver one another about this
religion, and rents and tithes, and dear knows what besides. As it
is, sir,” he proceeded, “you see that I dursn't walk the road without
these,” and he produced the pistols as he spoke, “but what chance, sir,
would I have if I prosecuted a priest? Why, my life wouldn't be worth
two hours' purchase.”
Mr. Lucre himself could not help feeling and admitting the truth of
this, but as he could devise no plan to obviate the dangers alluded to,
he still scrupled not to urge the prosecution.
“Sir,” said Darby starting, as if a gleam of light had shot across his
brain, “a thought has just struck me, and I hope it was something from
above that sent it. If there was any kind of situation, sir, that
I could fill, and that would keep me in a place of safety where the
hathens couldn't get at me, everything would be right; and be the same
token, sir, now that I think of it, isn't the under gaoler-ship of
Castle Cumber vacant this minute.”
Lucre who, in fact, had set his heart on prosecuting and punishing the
priest, would have gladly made Darby governor of the best gaol in his
majesty's dominions, rather than lose this opportunity of effecting his
purpose.
“Rest contented, O'Drive,” he replied, “you shall have it--I pledge
myself that you shall have it. My influence is sufficient for much more
than so paltry a trifle as that. And now for the informations.”
“Ah, sir,” replied the other, “that wouldn't mend the matter a bit. Let
it go once abroad that I swore them, and I'd never see to-morrow night.
No, sir, if you wish him properly prosecuted,--and I think I ought to
know how to do it, too;--but if you wish him properly punished, place
me first out of harm's way--out o' the reach o' the hathens; put me into
the situation before we take a single step in the business, then I'll be
safe and can work in it to some purpose.”
“It shall be done,” said Lucre, “and I will go about it presently, but
in the mean time the matter rests as it is. If what you say is true, and
I believe it is, your own safety depends upon your silence.”
“Not a breath,” replied Darby; “and now, sir, about what brought me
here--I wanted to say that I'd wish '_to read_' upon Sunday next.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lucre.
“Why, sir, as I said, I don't like to take my religion from an
attorney--and I'm afeard, besides, that he's not altogether orthybox,
in regard that he hinted once that God was ------; but, indeed I
disremember his words, for it wasn't aisy to hould them when you got
them.”
“He, of course, is a Fatalist and Predestinarian,” said Lucre; “but
what is this you were about to say?”
“Why, sir, that I'd wish publicly to read my recompensation in your
church on Sunday next.”
“And why in my church?” asked the proud parson, who felt his vanity
touched, not by anything Darby had yet said, but by the indescribable
expression of flattery which appeared in his face.
“Why, sir,” he replied, “bekase it's given out on all hands that there's
no end to your larnin'--that it's wondherful the books you wrote--and
as for your preachin', that it 'ud make one think themselves in heaven,
hell, or purgatory, accordin as you wished.”
“Very well, O'Drive, very well indeed,” exclaimed Lucre, caught on
his weakest side by this artful compliment; “but you must forget
purgatory--however I can conceive that it was the mere force of
habit that prompted you to utter it. Well, then, you shall read your
recantation on Sunday, since you wish it--there will be about a dozen or
two others, and you had better attend early. Good-day, O'Drive!”
“Plaise your honor,” said Darby, who never could be honest to both
parties, “there's a batch o' convarts outside waitin' to see you, but
between you and me, I think you had as well be on your guard wid some o'
them, I know what they want.”
“And pray, what is that, O'Drive?”
“Why, thin, for fraid I may be doin' the crathurs injustice, sir, I
won't say; only jist take my hint, any how. Good mornin' kindly, sir!”
As Darby passed the group we have alluded to, he winked at them very
knowingly, “go up,” said he, “go up I say:--may be I didn't give yez
a lift since, and mark me, huld to the five guineas a head, and to be
provided for aftherwards. Paddy Cummins do you go up, I say--bannath
lath!”
Paddy went up, and in a few minutes a ragged, famine-wasted creature
entered with his old caubeen between his hands, and after having ducked
down his head, and shrugged his shoulders alternately, stood with an
abashed look before Mr. Lucre.
“Well, my good man, what is your business with me?”
To this the countryman prepared to reply,--first, by two or three
additional shrugs; secondly, by raising his right elbow, and pulling
up all that remained of the collar of his tattered cothamore, or great
coat, after which he gave a hem.
“Have you no tongue, my good fellow?”
A shrug--“hem--why, sir, but that was a great sarmon you praiched
on last Sunda', plaise you honor. Faitha, sir, there was mighty fine
discoorsin' in it about rail-ligion?”
“O! the sermon--did you hear it, my good man?”
“Faitha, sir, I was there sure enough, in spite o' Father M'Cabe, an'
all.”
“Sit down, my good friend, sit down--well, you attended the sermon, you
say--pray how did you like it?”
“Faitha, sir, sure nobody could dislike it bedad, sir, we're all greatly
disappointed wid the priests afther hearin' it--it was wondherful to
hear, the deep larnin' you brought forrid, sir, against them, an' our
church in gineral. Begad myself was mightily improved by it.”
“Don't swear, though--well you were improved by it, you say--pray what
is your name?”
“I'm one Paddy Cummins, sir, a shister's son of--”
“Well, Cummins, I'm very happy to hear that you were edified, and
happier still that you had sense to perceive the side upon which truth
lay.”
“Faitha, thin, your reverence, I seen that widout much throuble; but,
sure they say, sir, there's to be a power of us turnin' over to yez.”
“I hope so, Cummins--we are anxious that you should see the errors of
the creed you so ignorantly profess, and abandon them.”
“Sure enough, sir--dad, sir, your ministhers is fine men, so you
are--then you're so rich, sir, plaise your honor--they do be sayin',
sir, that the reverend gintlemen of your church have got a great deal of
money among them somehow, in regard that it 'ud be needful to help poor
crathurs that 'ud turn, and keep them from the parsecution, sir.”
“Cummins, my good friend, allow me to set you right. We never give
a penny of money to any one for the sake of bringing him over to our
church; if converts come to us it must be from conviction, not from
interest.”
“I see, sir--but sure I'm not wantin' the promise at all, your
honor--sure I know you must keep yourselves clear anyway--only the five
guineas a head that I'm tould is to be given.”
“Five guineas a head!--pray who told you so?”
“Faitha, sir, I couldn't exactly say, but every one says it. It's said
we're to get five guineas a head, sir, and be provided for afther; I
have nine o' them, sir, eight crathurs and Biddy herself--she can't
spake English, but, wid the help o' God, I could consthre it for her.
Faith, she'd make a choice Prodestan, sir, for wanst she takes a thing
into her head the devil wouldn't get it out. As for me, I don't want a
promise at all, your reverence, barrin' that if it 'ud be plaisin' to
you, jist to lay your forefinger along your nose--merely to show that
we undherstand one another--it 'ud be as good to me as the bank. The
crathur on the breast, your reverence, we'd throw in as a luck penny, or
dhuragh, and little Paddy we give at half price.”
“Did you hear all this?”
“Faitha, then, we did, sir--and sure, as you don't like to have the
thing known, I can keep my tongue atween my teeth as well as e'er a
convart livin'--an' as for Biddy, by only keepin' her from the dhrink,
she's as close as the gate of heaven to a heretic. Bedad, sir, this new
light bates everything.”
“My good friend, Cummins, I tell you I have no money to give,--neither
is there anything to be given,--for the sake of conversion--but, if
your notions of your own religion are unsettled, put yourself under Lord
------'s chaplain; and, if, in the due course of time, he thinks you
sufficiently improved to embrace our faith, you and your family may be
aided by some comforts suitable to your condition.”
Cummins' face lengthened visibly at 'an intimation which threw him so
far from his expectations; the truth being, that he calculated upon
receiving the money the moment he read his recantation. He looked at
Mr. Lucre again as significantly as he could--gave his head a scratch of
remonstrance--shrugged himself as before--rubbed his elbow--turned round
his hat slowly, examined its shape, and gave it a smarter set, after
which he gave a dry hem and prepared to speak.
“I'll hear nothing further on the subject,” said the other, “withdraw.”
Without more ado Cummins slunk out of the room, highly disappointed, but
still not without hopes from Lord ------, to whom, or his chaplain, he
resolved to apply. In the meantime he made the best of his way home to
his starving wife and children, without having communicated the result
of his visit to those who were assembled at the glebe house.
He had scarcely left the hall door when another claimant for admission
presented himself in the person of a huge, tattered fellow, with red,
stiff hair standing up like reeds through the broken crown of his hat,
which he took off on entering. This candidate for Protestantism had
neither shoe nor stocking on him, but stalked in, leaving the prints of
his colossal feet upon the hall through which he passed.
“Well, friend, what is wrong with you?--why did'nt you rub your filthy
feet, sir, before you entered the room? You have soiled all my carpet.”
“I beg your honor's parding,” said the huge fellow; “I'll soon cure
that.” Having said which he trotted up to the hearth-rug, in which,
before Lucre had time even to speak, by a wipe from each foot, he left
two immense streaks of mud, which we guess took some hard scrubbing to
remove. “Now, your honor, I hope I'll do.”
Lucre saw it was useless to remonstrate with him, and said, with more
temper than could be expected--
“Man, what's your business?”
“I come, sirra,”--this man had a habit of pronouncing sir as sirra,
which he could never overcome--“to tell your reverence to enther me down
at wanst.”
“For what purpose should I enter you down?”
“For the money, sirra; I have seven o' them, and we'll all go. You
may christen us if you wish, sirra. 'Deed I'm tould we must all be
christened over agin, an' in that case, maybe it 'ud be plaisin' to you
to stand godfather for me, yourself, your reverence.”
“What do you mean?--but I suppose I understand you.”
“I mean, sirra, to become a Protestan--I an' my family, I'm Nickey
Feasthalagh, that was in on suspicion o' the burnin' of Nugent's hay;
and by them five crasses I was as innocent of that as the child onborn,
so I was. Sure they couldn't prove an me, becoorse I came out wid flying
colors, glory be to God! Here I am now, sir, an' a right good Prodestan
I'll make when I come to understand it. An' let me whisper this, sirra,
I'll be dam useful in fairs and markets to help the Orangemen to lick
ourselves, your honor, in a skrimmage or party fight, or anything o'
that kidney.”
“I am sorry, Nick Fistula, as you say your name is--”
“Mickey, sirra.”
“Well, Nickey, or Nick, or whatever it may be, I am sorry to say that
you won't do. You are too great an ornament to your own creed ever to
shine in ours. I happen to know your character--begone.”
“Is Misthre Lucre widin?” asked a third candidate, whose wife
accompanied him--“if he is, maybe you'd tell him that one Barney Grattan
wishes to have a thrifle o' speech wid his honor.”
“Come in,” said the servant with a smile, after having acquainted his
master.
The man and his wife accordingly entered, having first wiped their feet
as they had been ordered.
“Well, my good man, what's your business.”
“Rosha, will you let his honor know what we wor spakin' about? She'll
tell you, sir.”
“Plaise your honor,” said she, “we're convarts.”
“Well,” said Mr. Lucre, “that is at least coming to the point. And pray,
my good woman, who converted you?”
“Faix, the accounts that's abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin,
that's so full of larnin', your reverance, and so rich, they say.”
“Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?”
“_Dhamnu orth a Rosha, go dhe shin dher thu?_” said the husband in
Irish; for he felt that the wife was more explicit than was necessary.
“Never heed her, sir; the crathur, your reverence, is so through other,
that she doesn't know what she's sayin', especially spakin' to so
honorable a gentleman as your reverence.”
“Then let us hear your version, or rather your conversion.”
“Myself, sir, does be thinkin' a great deal about these docthrines and
jinnyologies that people is now all runnin' upon. I can tell a story,
sir, at a wake, or an my kailee wid a, neighbor, as well as e'er a man
in the five parishes. The people say I'm very long headed all out, and
can see far into a thing. They do, indeed, plaise your reverence.”
“Very good.”
“Did you ever hear about one Fin M'Cool who was a great buffer in his
day, and how his wife put the trick upon a big bosthoon of a giant that
came down from Munster to bother Fin? Did you ever hear that, sir?”
“No; neither do I wish to hear it just now.”
“Nor the song of Beal Derg O'Donnel, sir, nor the 'Fairy River,'
nor 'the Life and Adventures of Larry Dorneen's Ass,' plaise your
reverence.”
“No--but I wish you would allow your wife to relate your business here.”
“Well, sir, the people say I'm very longheaded, and can see far into a
thing--”
“But, my good man, I care not what the people say--tell your story
briefly.”
“--An' can see far into a thing, your reverence, becaise I'm
long-headed. All longheaded people, sir, is cute, an' do you know why
they're cute, sir? No, you don't, but I'll tell you--bekaise they're
long-headed. Now, sir, what 'ud you think to turn Roman Catholic awhile
till I'd malivogue you in arguin' Scripture?--I want to prove to you,
sir, that I'm the boy that understands things.”
“What's your business with me?”
“Will you thry it, sir, and you'll see how I'll sober you to your
heart's delight.”
“What brought your husband to me, my good woman?”
“_Bhe dha husth; fag a rogarah lumsa_.”
“He's comin' to it, plaise your reverence,” said the wife.
“Well, sir, so you see, bein' given to deep ways of thinkin' o' my own,
I had many bouts at arguin' Scripthur--as every longheaded man has, of
coorse--an' yestherday meetin' wid Brian Broghan, the mealman--him that
keeps it up on the poor, sir--he challenged me, but, in three skips of
a Scotch Gray, I sacked him cleaner than one of his own meal bags, and
dusted him afterwards:--'so,' says he, misther Grattan, see what it is
to be long-headed.”
“It's worse,” observed Lucre, “to be long-winded. Come to an end, sir.”
“'Long-headed,' says he, 'an', of coorse you'll be takin' the money,'
says Brougham; 'what money?' says I. 'Why, the five guineas,' says he,
'that the Biblemen is givin' to every one that will turn wid them, he
happens to be long-headed--but otherwise, not a penny.' So, sir, myself,
you see, havin' the intention to come over long afore for fraid yez
might think it was for the money I am doin' it. But is there such a
thing, sir?”
“Not a penny, and so you may tell your friends.”
“Well, but, sir, grantin' that, still you'll acknowledge that I'm
long-headed.”
“No, only long-winded.”
“Not long-headed, then?”
“No, certainly not.”
“_Damnu orth a veehone bradagh!_ come Rosha. Not long-headed! troth it's
a poor religion to depind on--an' I'll make a show of it yet, if I'm
spared. Come, woman alive.”
Honest Barney was the last but one who was honored by a hearing, though
not the last by a score of those who expected it, and, sooth to say, the
appearance of that one threw the whole proceedings into such exquisite
ridicule, that we cannot resist the temptation of giving his claims and
arguments a place among the rest. The convert in question was no other
than our old friend _Raymond-na-hattha_, or Raymond of the hats; who,
moved by the example of others, and only possessed of a dim notion of
the cause that brought them together, came among them from that vague
motive of action which prompts almost every creature like him to make
one in a crowd, wherever it may assemble. The mind of poor Raymond
was of a very anomalous character indeed; for his memory, which was
wonderful, accumulated in one heterogeneous mass, all the incidents
in which he had ever taken any part, and these were called out of the
confusion, precisely as some chord of association happened to be struck
in any conversation which he held. For this reason he sometimes uttered
sentiments that would have come with more propriety from the lips of a
philosopher than a fool, and again fell to the level of pure idiotism,
so singular were his alternations from sense to nonsense. Lucre's
porter, himself a wag, knew perfectly well what was going forward, and,
indeed, took very considerable delight in the movement. When Raymond
presented himself, the porter, to whom he was very well known,
determined, for the joke's sake, that he should have the honor of an
interview as well as the rest. Lucre, as we said, being but seldom at
Castle Cumber, was ignorant of Raymond's person and character, and,
indeed, we may add, that he stood in a position precisely similar with
respect to almost every one of his own flock. When Raymond entered,
then, he was addressed in much the same terms as the others.
“Well, friend, what is your business?--
“John, admit no more, and let the carriage come round--are you a convert
also?”
“Yes, I am; what have you to give me?”
“A pure and peaceful religion, my friend.”
“Where is it?”
“In this book--this is the Word of God, that preacheth peace and
salvation to all.”
“Has Val M'Clutchy this book?”
“Of course he has--it is not to be supposed that so able and staunch a
friend of Protestantism, of the religion of the state, could be without
this book, or ignorant of it.”
Raymond put it tip to his nose, and after seeming to smell it, said,
with a strong shudder, “how did you do this among you? How did you do
it?--look at it--see, see, it's dripping wid blood--here's murder
on this page, there's starvation on that--there's the blood-hounds
huntin'--look, sir, look at the poor creature almost worn down, makin'
his way to hide, but he can't; they have him, they have him--see how
they drag him, as if he was, a--ay, drag, drag, he's yours now, he's
yours--whip and scourge, whip and scourge--more blood, more blood--and
this is it, this--don't you see it, sir, comin' down in drops when I
hould it up that way!”
“My good friend, you are certainly in liquor--your language is that of a
man strongly affected by drink.”
“And this is it,” Raymond proceeded; “look at this page, that's not the
one the blood is on; no, no, there's nothing here but madness. Ah!” said
he, lowering his voice to a tone of deep compassion, “sure she's mad;
they killed Hugh O'Began, and they killed the two sons, and then she
went mad.--So, you see, there it is now--on that page there's blood,
and, on this one,--with the big letter on it, there's madness. Then agin
comes the Turnin' out. How would you like to walk three long, dreary
miles, in sleet, and frost, and snow, havin' no house to go to--wid
thin breeches to your bottom, an' maybe a hole in them--widout shoe or
stockin' on your hooves--wid a couple of shiverin', half starved, sick
childre, tied by an ould praskeen to your back, an' you sinkin' wid
hunger all the time?--ay, and the tail o' your old coat blown up behind
every minute, like a sparrow before the wind!--Eh, how would you like
it?”
Lucre still stuck to the hypothesis of liquor, and accordingly went and
rang the porter's bell, who immediately appeared.
“John,” said his master, “I desire you will immediately show this man
out--he is so scandalously affected with liquor, that he knows not the
purport of his own language.”
John approached his master with a face of awful tenor:--“for God's sake,
sir,” said he, “don't say a word that might cross him, sure he's the
great madman, _Raymond-na-hattha_. Just sit still, and let him take
his own way, and he'll do no harm in life; appear to listen to him, and
he'll be like a child--but, if you go to harshness, he'd tear you, and
me, and all that's in the house, into minced meat.”
Once more did Lucre's countenance lose its accustomed hue; but, on this
occasion, it assumed the color of a duck egg, or something between a bad
white and a bad blue; “my good friend,” said he, “will you please to take
a seat--John, stay in the room.” This he said in a whisper.
“There,” proceeded Raymond, who had been busily engaged in examining the
pages of the Bible, “there is the page where that's on--the puttin' out
in the clouds and storm of heaven--there it is on that page. Look at the
ould man and the ould woman there--see them tremblin'. Don't cry--don't
cry; but they are--see the widow there wid her orphans--there's a
sick boy in that house, and a poor sick girl in that other house--see,
they're all cryin'--all cryin'--for they must go out, and on sich a day!
All that, now, is upon these two other pages, bekaise, you see, no one
page would hould all that. But see here--here's a page wid only one
side of it covered--let vis see what's on it. Oh, ay--here's the poor
craythur's childre, wid the poor father and the poor mother; but they
have the one cow to give milk to moisten their bit. Ha--ha--look again,
there she goes off to the pound! Don't cry, poor helpless crathers; but
how can you help cryin' when your poor mother's cryin'. That's a bitther
thing, too, and it's on this page--see--that--that--that's it I've
between my fingers--look at it--'how wet it is wid the poor craythur's
tears; but there's no blood here--no, no--nothing but tears. Oh,
here--see here--a page as big as the rest, bat wid nothing on it. Ay,
I know that--that's an empty farm that nobody dare take, or woe be to
them. But here--I seen him “--here he shuddered strongly--“I seen him!
His father and mother were both standing undher him--that was the worst
of all. It's in this page. He was only one-and-twenty, and the eyes he
had; but how did it happen, that although they hanged him, every one
loved him? I seen his father and the poor mother looking up to the
gallows where he stood, and then she fainted, and she then got sick,
and poor ould Brian has nobody now but himself; and all that's on this
page.” Here poor Raymond shed tears, so completely was he overpowered
by the force of his own imaginings. He again proceeded--“And the poor
white-headed son. What wouldn't the poor mother give to have his white
head to look at? but he will never waken--he will never waken more.
What's the name o' this book?” he inquired of Mr. Lucre.
“My excellent and most intelligent friend,” replied that gentleman, in
atone of meekness and humility that would have shamed an apostle; “my
most interesting friend, the name of that book in the Bible.”
“The Bible! oh yes; but am I doin' it right?” he inquired; “am I puttin'
the explanation to it as I ought? Sure they all oxplain it, and it's
only fair that Raymond should show his larnin' as well as any of them.
Let us see, then--murdher and bloodshed, hangin' and starvin', huntin',
purshuin, whippin', cowld and nakedness, hunger and sickness, death and
then madness, and then death agin, and then damnation! Did I explain
it?”
“Perfectly, my friend--nothing can do better.”
“Well, then, think of it; but these aren't my explanations--but I know
who puts them to that bad book! Don't they take all I said out of it?
They do; and, sure, don't you see the poor people's blood, and tears,
and everything upon it; sure all I said is in it. Here,” he exclaimed,
shuddering, “take it away, or may be it'll make me as wicked as the rest
of you. But, after all, maybe it's not the fault of the book, but of the
people.” It would indeed be difficult to find a more frightful comment
upon the crimes and atrocities which have been perpetrated in this
divided country, in the name, and under the character of religion, than
that which issued, with a kind of methodical incoherency, from the lips
of _Raymond-na-hattha_. When he had concluded, Mr. Lucre, having first
wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, politely asked
him if there was anything he could do for him.
“Oh, ay,” said he; “but first bring me a lump of good mate, and a quart
of portlier.”
“You shall have it, my excellent friend. John, ring the bell. You are a
very interesting person, Mr.--Mr.--
“_Raymond-na-hattha_, sir.”
“Mr. Raiment--very interesting, indeed. (Good God! am I to run the risk
of being-strangled in my own house by a madman!) Oh--here, Alick;
bring up some cold meat and a bottle of porter. Anything to make you
comfortable, my good sir.”
“I only want to see if all's right, sir,” said Raymond, “and I'll tell
you by and by.” This was followed by a look of most pitiable distress
from Lucre to his servant, John.
Raymond no sooner saw the cold beef and bread laid down, together with a
bottle of porter, than he commenced an exhibition, which first, awoke
Mr. Lucre's astonishment, next his admiration, and lastly his envy.
Raymond's performance, however, was of that rare description which loses
by too frequent practice, and is only seen to advantage when the
opportunities for exhibition are few. Three mortal pounds having at
length disappeared, together with the greater part of a quartern loaf,
and two bottles of porter, for Raymond had made bold to call for a
second, he now wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat first, and
afterwards, by way of a more delicate touch, with the gathered palm of
his hand; then, looking at Mr. Lucre, who sat perspiring with terror in
his gorgeous easy chair, our readers may judge of the ease it just then
communicated to that reverend gentleman, when he said, “It's all right
enough, sir.”
“I'm delighted to hear it,” replied Mr. Lucre, applying the _sudariolum_
once more with a very nervous and quivering hand to his forehead:
“Is there anything else in which I can serve you, my good sir?”
[Illustration: PAGE 231-- Borrow the loan of your religion]
“Yes, there is--all's right, I've now made the thrial, and it will do--I
want to borrow the loan of your religion till the new praties comes in.”
“You shall have it, my worthy sir--you shall have it, with very great
pleasure.”
“The raison why I came to you for it,” said Raymond, who, evidently in
this joke, had been put up by some one, “was bekaise I was tould that
it's as good as new with you--'seldom used lasts long,' you know--but,
such as it is, I'll borry it for--ah, there now, that's one; all right,
all right,” pointing to the fragments of the meat and bread--“I wouldn't
ax betther; so, till the praties comes in, mind I'll take care of it;
and, if I don't bring it back safe, I'll bring you a betther one in it's
place.” He then nodded familiarly to Mr. Lucre, and left the house. The
latter felt as if he breathed new life once more, but he could not so
readily pardon the man for admitting him.
“What is the reason, sir,” he asked, his face reddening, “that you
suffered that formidable madman to get into the house?”
“Why, sir,” replied the porter, “when I opened the door, he shot in like
a bolt; and, as for preventing him after that, if I had attempted it,
he'd have had me in fragments long ago. When he's not opposed, sir, or
crossed, he's quiet as a lamb, and wouldn't hurt a child; but, if he's
vexed, and won't get his own way, why ten men wouldn't stand him.”
“Take care that he shall never be admitted here again,” said his master;
“I really am quite disturbed and nervous by his conduct and language,
which are perfectly unintelligible. Indeed I am absolutely unwell--the
shock was awful, and to occur on such a day, too--I fear my appetite
will be very much affected by it--a circumstance which would be
distressing beyond belief. Stop--perhaps it is not yet too late--ask
Francis is the venison down, and, if not, desire him not to dress it
to-day--I am out of appetite, say.”
John went, and in a couple of minutes returned, “Francis says it's
down, sir, for some time,” replied the man, “and that it must be dressed
to-day, otherwise it will be spoiled.”
“And this is owing to you, you scoundrel,” said his master in a
rage, “owing to your neglect and carlessness--but there is no placing
dependence upon one of you. See, you rascal, the position in which I
am--here is a delicious haunch of venison for dinner, and now I am so
much agitated and out of order that my appetite will be quite gone, and
it will be eaten by others before my face, while I cannot touch it. For
a very trifle I would this moment discharge you from my service, and
without a character too.”
“I am very sorry, sir, but the truth--”
“Begone, you scoundrel, and leave the room, or I shall use the
horse-whip to you.”
John disappeared, and this great and zealous prop of Protestantism
walked to and fro his study, almost gnashing his teeth from the
apprehension of not having an appetite for the haunch of venison.