--A Protestant Charger, with his Precious Burthen--A Disaffected Hack
supporting a Pillar of the Church--A Political and Religious Discussion
in a Friendly Way
The Assizes had now arrived, and the Grand Panel of the county met once
more to transact their fiscal and criminal business. We omit the grand
entry of the Judges, escorted, as they were, by a large military guard,
and the _posse comitatus_ of the county, not omitting to mention a
goodly and imposing array of the gentry and squirearchy of the immediate
and surrounding districts, many of Whom were pranked out in all the
grandeur of their Orange robes. As, however, we are only yet upon our
way there, we beg you to direct your attention to two gentlemen dressed
in black, and mounted each in a peculiar and characteristic manner.
One of them is a large, bloated, but rather handsome, and decidedly
aristocratic looking man, with a vermilion face, mounted upon a splendid
charger, whose blood and action must have been trained to that kind of
subdued but elegant bearing that would seem to indicate, upon the part
of the animal, a consciousness that he too owed a duty to the Church
and Constitution, and had a just right to come within the category of
a staunch and loyal Protestant horse, as being entrusted with the
life, virtues, and dignity of no less a person than the Rev. Phineas
Lucre--all of which are now on his back assembled, as they always are,
in that reverend gentleman's precious person. Here we account at once
for the animal's cautious sobriety of step, and pride and dignity
of action, together with his devoted attachment to the Church and
Constitution by which he lived, and owing to which he wore a coat quite
as sleek, but by no means so black as his master's. The gentleman
by whom he appears to be accompanied, much--if we can judge by their
motions--against his will, seems to be quite as strongly contrasted
to him, as the rough undressed hack upon which he is mounted is to the
sanctified and aristocratic nag that is honored by bearing the Rev.
Phineas Lucre. The hack in question is, nevertheless, a stout
and desperate looking varmint, with a red vindictive eye, moving,
ill-tempered ears, and a tail that seems to be the seat of intellect,
if a person is to take its quick and furious whisking as being given
in reply to Mr. Lucre's observations, or by way of corroboration of the
truth uttered by the huge and able-bodied individual who is astride of
him. That individual is no other than the Rev. Father M'Cabe, who is
dressed in a coat and waistcoat of coarse black broadcloth, somewhat
worse for the wear, a pair of black breeches, deprived of their original
gloss, and a pair of boots well greased with honest hog's lard--the fact
being, that the wonderful discovery of Day and Martin had not then come
to light. Mr. M'Cabe has clearly an unsettled and dissatisfied seat, and
does not sit his horse with the ease and dignity of his companion. In
fact, he feels that matters are not proceeding as he could wish, neither
does the hack at all appear to bear cordiality or affection to the state
which keeps him on such short commons. They are, by no means, either of
them in a state of peace or patience with the powers that be, and when
the priest, at the conclusion of every sentence, gives the garran an
angry dash of the spurs, as much as to say, was not that observation
right, no man could mistake the venomous spirit in which the tail is
whisked, and the head shaken, in reply.
It is scarcely necessary to say that either Mr. Lucre or Mr. M'Cabe
were at all upon terms of intimacy. Mr. M'Cabe considered Mr. Lucre as a
wealthy epicure, fat and heretical; whilst Mr. Lucre looked upon Father
McCabe as vulgar and idolatrous. It was impossible, in fact, that
with such an opinion of each other, they could for a moment agree in
anything, or meet as men qualified by the virtues of their station to
discharge on any one duty in common. On the day in question, Mr. Lucre
was riding towards Castle Cumber, with the pious intention of getting
Darby O'Drive's appointment to the under jailorship confirmed. This was
one motive, but there was another still stronger, which was, to have
an interview with the leading men of the Grand Jury, for the purpose of
getting a new road run past his Glebe House, in the first place, and,
in the next, to secure a good job for himself, as a magistrate. At all
events he was proceeding towards Castle Cumber, apparently engaged in
the contemplation of some important subject, but whether it was the new
road to his glebe, or the old one to heaven, is beyond our penetration
to determine. Be this as it may, such was his abstraction, that he
noticed not the Rev. Father M'Cabe, who had ridden for some time along
with him, until that gentleman thought proper to break the ice of
ceremony, and address him.
“Sir, your most obedient,” said the priest; “excuse my freedom--I am the
Rev. Mr. M'Cabe, Catholic Curate of Castle Cumber; but as I reside in
the parish it is very possible you don't know me.”
Mr. Lucre felt much hurt at the insinuation thrown out against his long
absence from the parish and replied:--
“I do not, sir, in the least regret our want of intimacy. The character
of your ministry in the parish is such, that he who can congratulate
himself on not being acquainted with you has something to boast of.
Excuse me, sir, but I beg to assure you, that I am not at all solicitous
of the honor of your company.”
“Touching my ministry,” said the priest, “which it pleases you to
condemn, I'd have you to know, that I will teach my people how to resist
oppression so long as I am able to teach them anything. I will not allow
them to remain tame drudges under burthens that make you and such as you
as fat and proud as Lucifer.”
“I request you will be good enough, sir, to take some other way,” said
Mr. Lucre; “you are a rude and vulgar person whom I neither know nor
wish to know. The pike and torch, sir, are congenial weapons to such a
mind as yours; I do beg you will take some other way, and not continue
to annoy me any longer.”
“This way, man alive--”
“Man alive! To whom do you address such, a term?” said Mr. Lucre; “I
really have never met so very vulgar a person; I am quite sickened, upon
my honor. Man alive!! I trust I shall soon get rid of you.”
“This way, man alive,” responded the priest, “is as free to me, in spite
of corrupt jobs and grand juries, as it is to you or any other tyrant,
whether spiritual or temporal. If there are turbulence and disturbances
in this parish, it is because bad laws, unjustly administered, drive the
people, first, into poverty, and then into resistance. And, sir, you are
not to tell me, for I will not believe it, that a bad law, dishonestly
and partially administered, is not to be resisted by every legal means.”
“Do you call noon-day murder, midnight assassination, and incendiarism,
legal? Do you call schooling the people into rebellion, and
familiarizing them with crime, legal? All this may be allegiance to your
pope, but it deserves a halter from the king and laws, of England.”
“The king and laws of England, sir, have ever been more liberal of
halters to the Irish Catholics, than they have been of either common
justice or fair play. What do the Catholic people get, or have ever
got, from you and such as you, in return for the luxury which you draw,
without thanks, from their sweat and labor, but gaols, and chains, and
scourges, and halters. Hanging, and transportations, triangles, and
drumhead verdicts, are admirable means to conciliate the Catholic people
of Ireland.”
“The Catholic people of Ireland may thank you, and such red hot
intemperate men as you, for the hangings, and transportations which the
violated laws of the country justly awarded them.”
“And have you, sir, who wring the blood and sweat out of them, the
audacity to use such language to me? Did not your English kings and your
English laws make education a crime, and did you not then most
inhumanly and cruelly punish us for the offences which want of education
occasioned?”
“Yes; because you made such knowledge as you then acquired, the vehicle,
as you are doing now, of spreading abroad disaffection against Church
and State, and of disturbing the peace of the country.”
“Because, proud parson, when the people become enlightened by education,
they insist, and will insist upon their rights, and refuse to be pressed
to death by such a bloated and blood-sucking incubus as your Established
Church.”
“If this be true, then, upon your own showing, you ought to be favorable
to education among the people; but that, we know you are not. You have
no schools; and you will not suffer us, who are willing, to educate them
for you.”
“Certainly not, we have no notion to sit tamely by and see you, and such
as you, instil your own principles into our flocks. But in talking of
education, in what state, let me ask you, is your own church in this
blessed year of 1804, with all her wealth and splendor at her back? I
tell you, sir, in every district where the population is equal, we can
show two Catholic schools for your one. When you impute our poverty,
sir, as a reluctance to educate our people, you utter a libel against
the Catholic priesthood of Ireland for which you deserve to be
prosecuted in a court of justice, and nailed snugly to the pillory
afterwards.”
“Nailed snugly to the pillory! I never felt myself so much degraded as
by this conversation with you.”
“Sir, the Catholic priesthood have always been at their duty at the bed
of sickness, and sorrow, and death, among the poor and afflicted; where
you, who live by their hard and slavish labor, have never been known to
show your red nose.”
“Red nose--ha--ha--dear me, how well bred, how admirably accomplished,
and how finely polished. Red nose!”
“Faith, you did well to correct me, it is only a mulberry. Wasn't your
Irish Establishment in a blessed torpor--dying like a plethoric parson
after his venison or turtle, until ould Jack Wesley roused it? Then,
indeed, when you saw your flocks running to barns and hedges after
the black caps, and the high-cheeked disciples of sanctity and strong
dinners--you yawned, rubbed your eyes, stroked your dewlaps, and waddled
off to fight in your own defence against the long-winded invaders of
your rounds and sirloins. Where was your love of education before that
shock, my worthy Bible man? Faith, I'm peppering you!”
“Sir, if I could have anticipated such very vulgar insolence, I would
have taken some other way. Why obtrude yourself thus upon me? I trust
you have no notion of personal Violence?”
“Wesley nudged you.”
“Nudged us! I do not understand your slang at all, my good sir. Those
who are taken from the ditch to the college, and sent back from the
college with the crust of their original prejudices hardened upon them,
are not those from whom educated men are to expect refinement or good
manners.”
“From the ditch! We are taken from humble life, proud parson, to the
college; and it is better to enter college from the simplicity of
humble life, than to enter the church with the rank savor of fashionable
profligacy strong upon us. Not a bad preparation for a carnal
establishment, where every temptation is presented to glut every
passion.”
“You forget, sir, what a system of abomination your church was before
the light of the Reformation came upon her; and what a mockery of
religion she is to this day.”
“Whatever I may forget, I cannot but remember the mockery of religion
presented by your proud and bloated Bishops who roll in wealth,
indolence, and sensuality; robbing the poor, whilst they themselves go
to h--l worth hundreds of thousands. I cannot forget that your church is
a market for venal and titled slaves, who are bought by the minister of
the day to uphold his party--that it is a carcass thrown to the wolfish,
sons and brothers of the English and Irish aristocracy--and that
its bishops and dignitaries exceed in pride, violence of temper, and
insolence of deportment, any other class of persons in society. Sure
they have their chaplains to pray for them--but my soul to glory--those
that pray by proxy will go to heaven by proxy--and so they ought.
Eh--faith I'm peppering you.”
“_De te fabula narratur_. Don't you live by praying for others? What are
your masses?”
“Fabula, why, a fibula for your fabula, man alive. What is your new
fangled creed, but a fabula from the beginning?”
“And are you yourself not a hireling in every sense of the word? Do you
not make merchandise of the crimes and ignorance of your people?”
“Make merchandise! This from you who take away a tenth part of the poor
man's labor without the consciousness of even professing his creed?”
“Do you ever worship the Lord aright, or address him in any language
which the people can understand?”
“And do you ever seek salvation with half the zeal displayed when you
lay your keen nostril to the trail of a fresh benefice or a fat mitre.
Do you not, most of you, think more of your hounds and kennels, than you
do of either your churches or your flocks?”
Mr. Lucre at length pulled up his horse and fixing his eyes on Father
M'Cabe, inquired why he should have fastened upon him in so offensive a
manner; and Mr. M'Cabe pulling up the hack we spoke of, fixed a pair of
fiery orbs on him in return, and replied--
“I haven't done with you yet, my worthy parson. You needn't scowl, I
say, for if you had as many chins upon you as there are articles in
your creed, I wouldn't be prevented from bringing you to an account for
interfering with my flock.”
“Rude and wretched man, how?”
“By attempting to pervert Darby O'Drive, the bailiff, and seduce him
over to your heresies.”
“I would bring him over from his idolatry and superstition. But why do
you, sir, tamper with a man--named--named--let me see--Bob--Bob Beatty,
I think, who belongs to my congregation?”
“Simply because I wish to bring him over from a false church to the true
one.”
“It appears that because this simple person has been afflicted with
epilepsy, you have attempted, through some pious juggling or other,
to effect his cure, by enjoining him not to enter a church door or eat
swine's flesh during his life. Are you not ashamed, sir, of such ungodly
frauds as this?”
“Swine's flesh! Call it bacon, man alive, like a man. Yes, and I tell
you moreover, that I have cured him--and with a blessing shall cure him
better still, if that is any consolation to you. From being a purple
Orangeman, I have him now hard at work every day at his _Padderheen
Partha_. But I now caution you not to unsettle the religious principles
of Darby O'Drive, the bailiff.”
“Why, sir, the man has no religious opinion, nor ever had; thanks to Mr.
M'Cabe.”
“And I'm bound to say, that such a thickheaded villian in religious
matters as Bob Beatty I never met. God knows I had a sore handful of
him. So, now remember my caution, and good bye to you; I think you'll
know me again when you meet me.”
Lucre gave him a haughty scowl ere the priest turned off a bridle road,
but made no other reply--not even by inclining his head to him; but,
indeed, it was hardly to be expected that he should.
Such is the anxiety to snap up a convert in Ireland, it matters not from
what church or to what church, that Mr. Lucre lost no time in securing
the appointment of honest Darby to the office of Castle Cumber Deputy
Goaler--an appointment to which both M'Clutchy and M'Slime strongly
recommended him, not certainly from an excess of affection towards that
simple and worthy man, but from a misgiving that an important portion
of a certain correspondence in the shape of two letters was in his
possession, and that so far they were prudent in declining to provoke
his enmity.
CHAPTEK XXII.---Castle Cumber Grand Jury Room
--A Concientious Hangman--Way to a Glebe House of More Importance than
the Way to Heaven--Irish Method of Dispensing Justice--Short Debate
on the Spy System--Genealogical Memoranda--Patriotic Presentments--A
Riverless Bridge
We pass now, however, to the Grand Jury Room of the county, and truly as
a subordinate tribunal for aiding the administration of justice, it was,
at the time of which we write, one of the most anomalous exhibitions
that could be witnessed. It was a long room, about thirty-six or forty
feet in length, by thirty, with a fire-place at each end, and one or two
at the sides. Above the chimney-piece was an oil painting of William
the Third, together with a small bronze equestrian statue of the same
prince, and another of George the Third. There were some other portraits
of past and present jurors, presented by themselves or their friends.
But there was certainly one which we cannot omit, although by whom
presented, or on what occasion, we are wholly unable to inform the
reader. We are inclined to think it must have been placed there by some
satirical wag, who wished to ridicule the extent to which mere royalty
was carried in those days, and the warmth of admiration with which its
most besotted manifestations were received. The picture in question was
the portrait of a pious hangman, who was too conscientious to hang any
one but a Papist. They called him Jerry Giles; a little squat fellow,
with a face like a triangle, a broken nose, and a pair of misplaced or
ill-matched eye-brows, one of them being nearly an inch higher up the
forehead than the other. Jerry, it seems, had his own opinions, one of
which was, that there existed no law in the constitution for hanging a
Protestant. He said that if he were to hang a Protestant felon, he
would be forced to consider it in his conscience only another name for
suicide; and that, with a blessing, he would string up none but
such vile wretches as were out of the pale of the constitution, and
consequently not entitled to any political grace or salvation whatever.
And, indeed, upon the principles of the day, the portrait of Jerry was
nearly as well entitled to be hung among the grand jurors as that of any
one there.
Seated about a long table, covered with green baize, were a number of
men, with papers before them; whilst grouped in different parts of the
room were the younger persons, amusing themselves by the accidents of
the last meet--if it happened to be the hunting season--or the last
duel, or the last female victim to the corruption and profligacy of
some of those from whom, the people were to expect justice, and their
families protection. Others were whistling or humming some favorite air;
and one of them, a poet, was reading a squib which he had prepared for
the forthcoming election.
“Deaker, come here,” said the Foreman, “you are up to everything. Here
is Lucre, the parson, wants to have a presentment for a new line of road
running through his glebe, or to his glebe--for I suppose it is the same
thing.”
“Well,” replied Deaker, “and let him have it. Isn't he as well entitled
to a job as any of us? What the devil--why not put a few feathers in his
nest, man? The county has a broad back.”
“His nest is better feathered than he deserves. He has two enormous
livings, a good private fortune, and now, indeed, he must come to saddle
himself upon the county in the shape of a job.”
“He has rendered good service, Mr. Hartley,” replied another of them;
“good service to the government, sir, with every respect for your
wonderful liberality and honesty.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Hartley, sternly; “do you throw out any
imputation against my honor or my honesty?”
“Oh, Lord, no--by no means; I have no relish at all for your cold lead,
Mr. Hartley--only that I don't think you stand the best chance in the
world of being returned for Castle Cumber, sir--that is all.”
“Hartley,” asked another, with a loud laugh, “is it true that your
cousin, on bringing a message to young Phil M'Clutchy, pulled his nose,
and kicked him _a posteriore_ round the room?”
“Ask his father, Dick,” said Hartley, smiling; “I have heard he was
present, and, of course, he knows best.”
“I say, Vulture,” inquired the other, “is it true?”
“Ay,” returned old Deaker, “as true as the nose on your face. That
precious Phil, was a cowardly whelp all his life--so was his father.
D--n you, sirra; where did you get your cowardice? I'm sure it was
not from me; that is if you be mine, which is a rather problematical
circumstance; for I take it you are as likely to be the descent of some
rascally turnkey or hatchman, and be hanged to you, as mine.”
“Is it true, Val,” persisted the former querist, “that young Hartley
pulled Phil's nose?”
“We have come here for other purposes, Dick,” said Val. “Certainly Phil
did not wish to strike the young man in his own house, and had more
sense than to violate the peace in the presence of a magistrate, and
that magistrate his own father.”
“How the devil did he put his comether on M'Loughlin's pretty daughter,
Val?” asked another from a different part of the room.
“That,” said Deaker, “is the only spirited thing I ever knew him to
manage. Is it true, Val, that he was found in her bedroom?”
“It is certainly true,” replied Val, with a smile of peculiar meaning;
“and with her own consent too.”
“That's false, Val,” replied Hartley; “and you know it. That he was in
her room for a couple of minutes is true; but that he was there for
any purpose prejudicial to her honor, that is, with her own consent,
is false. The whole thing was a cowardly trick on the part of your son,
concocted by the aid of old Poll Doolin, for the purpose of injuring the
girl's reputation.”
“Ay,” said old Deaker, “I dare say you are right, Hartley, if Poll
Doolin was in it; but, d--n her, she's dangerous, even at a distance,
if all that's said of her be true. I say, Spavin”--this was a nickname
given to the Foreman, in consequence of a slight halt or lameness
for which he was remarkable--“are we not to find bills for something,
against Harman, who is about to be married to that wench.”
“What,” said Hartley, laughing, “is it on that account? I think if you
said so Deaker, you'd not be very far from the truth.”
“He murdered one of my fellows,” said M'Clutchy, “one of the staunchest
Protestants and loyalest men that ever was in the country; and, what is
more, he did it in cold blood.”
“You were not present,” said Hartley, “and consequently have no right to
attempt to prejudice the minds of the jury against him.”
“We shall find the bills for all that,” said Spavin, “the interference
of such fellows in the execution of the laws must be put a stop to.”
“You are right, Spavin,” said Sir William; “if we can't hang him, let us
send him across. He had no business to touch the hair of a blood-hound's
head. Gad, Hartley, this is pretty justice, isn't it? why didn't the
disloyal rascal stand and let himself be shot in obedience to the spirit
of the constitution, rather than molest a blood-hound. I tell you, my
good friends, that this method of managing things will bring about its
own remedy yet.”
“Oh, Sir William, you and Hartley would run well in a chaise
together--both always for the rebels.”
“Whom do you call the rebels?”
“Why the Papists, to be sure.”
“No more rebels, Moore, than you are,” replied Hartley--“I find a Papist
as good as another man, if he's as well and as fairly treated.”
“Irwin,” said a large gouty man, whose legs were wrapped in flannel, “of
course you've heard of Sir William's method of dispensing justice. Will
that too, sir, find its own remedy--eh? ha, ha, ha; d------e, it's the
most novel thing going.”
“No--how is it, Anderson?”
“Why, if two neighbors chance to fall out, or have a quarrel, and if it
happens also that they come to take the law of one another, as they
call it, what does the worthy baronet do, do you imagine? 'Well, my good
fellow,' proceeds our justice, 'you want to take the law of this man?'
“'Yes, your honor.'
“'And you want to take the law of him,' addressing the other.
“'I do, the rascal.'
“'Very well, my good friends, if you wish to get law you have come to
the wrong shop for it--we deal in nothing but justice here: so if you
prefer justice to law, you shall have it.'
“'Whichever your honor thinks is best for us.'
“'Very well, then; are you able to fight this man?'
“'Ha, ha, is it there you are, Sir William?' says the fellow,
brightening, 'able is it! ay, and willing too.'
“'And,' says the baronet, addressing the other again, 'are you a match
for him, do you think?'
“'Say no more, Sir William; only it was surely the Lord put the words
into your mouth.'
“'But,' proceeds Sir W., 'mark me, if you don't both abide by this
battle--if either of you, no matter which is beaten, shall attempt to
get law elsewhere, upon my honor and soul, I will prosecute you both.'
The justice being well furnished with a sheaf of cudgels for the
purpose, selects one for each, brings them quietly to the stable yard
where he lets them fight it out, each having first solemnly promised to
abide the result.”
“Is that true, baronet?”
“Perfectly true,” replied Sir William; “but I fear that like some of
your wise and impartial proceedings here, it will soon work its own
cure. The business has increased so damnably--this dispensation of
justice I mean--on my hands, that my stable yard resembles a fives
court rather than anything else I know. The method harmonizes with their
habits so beautifully, that if there is an angry word between them it is
only 'd--n you, are you for Sir W.?' 'Yes, you villain step out.' They
accordingly come, and as they touch their hats, I ask, well, my good
fellows, what do you want now? 'Not law Sir William, but justice--the
cudgels, plase your honor.' In the beginning I was in the habit of
making them relate the cause of quarrel first, and then fight it out
afterwards, but experience soon taught me that all this was a mere waste
of time. In general now, I pass all that by; the complainants have their
comfortable fight, as they say, and go home perfectly satisfied.”
“Here, you secretary, what the devil are you at there? Why d-----e,
it wasn't to toss half crowns with that rascal of a treasurer you came
here, sir; let us get through the business, and then you may both toss
off to the devil, where you'll go at last.”
“Why,” said the secretary, “I placed the papers all arranged in proper
order before you.”
“Yes, sir; I suppose you did; but who the devil can keep anything or
anybody in order, in such a Babel as this? Beevor, I'll thank you to
postpone the singing of your squib for the election; or take to the
street when our business is over, and give it to the crowd.”
“You be d----d, Spavin,” replied Beevor;
“I'll finish it, if the devil was at the back door.”
“Darcy,” said Deaker, addressing a thin, red-faced man beside him, “I
saw a pretty bit of goods in Castle Cumber market on Thursday.”
“Why, Deaker,” replied the other, “is it possible that with one foot
and more than half your body in the grave, and your shadow in h--l, you
sinner, you have not yet given up your profligacy.”
“Eat, drink, and be merry, Tom, for tomorrow we die; but about this
pretty bit of goods--I tried to price her, but it wouldn't do; and when
I pressed hard, what do you think of the little tit, but put herself
under the protection of old Priest Roche, and told him I had insulted
her.”
“Who is she, Deaker?” inquired a young fellow with a good deal of
libertine interest.
“Ah, Bob,” replied Deaker, laughing; “there you are, one of the holy
triad. Here, Baronet--did you ever hear what Mad Jolly-block, their
father, the drinking parson of Mount Carnal, as some one christened his
residence, said of his three sons?--and that chap there's one of them.”
“No; let us hear it.”
“'Dan,' said the father, speaking of the eldest, 'would eat the devil;
Jack,' the second, 'would drink the devil; and Bob, this chap here,
'would both eat and drink him, in the first, place, and outwit him
afterwards.' That's Bob, the youngest--he there with a lip like a
dropsical sausage. He has sent him here to pick up a little honesty, and
much loyalty.”
“And a great deal of morality,” replied Bob, laughing, “from Deaker the
virtuous.”
“No, no,” replied Deaker; “you need never leave your Reverend father's
wing for that.”
“Deaker, do you fleece the poor as much as ever?” replied Bob.
“Ah, you are another sweet Agent, as times go. Do you touch them at the
renewals as usual?”
“Egad, Bob, I was very good at that; but there's an unmatrimonial son of
mine, Val the Vulture, there, and d--me, when I look back upon my life,
and compare it with his, it's enough to make me repent of my humanity,
to think of the opportunities I have neglected.”
“Gentlemen,” observed Hartley, “it strikes me, no matter what the
multiplicity of other virtues we possess, there is somehow nothing like
a superabundance of shame among us; we appear to glory in our vices.”
“Why confound it, Hartley,” replied Deaker, “where's the use of assuming
what we do not and cannot feel? Would you have me preach honesty, who am
as d----d a rogue as there is here? Indeed, with the exception of that
whelp of mine, I believe the greatest--but that fellow's my master.”
“Nobody can quarrel with your candor, Deaker, because it's all at your
own expense,” said the treasurer.
“Egad, and here it is at yours, Gilburne; with the exception always of
myself and my son, you are the deepest rogue here--and I am very much
afraid that your securities will be of my opinion when it is too late.”
He laughed heartily at this; and then, as usual, took to whistling his
favorite tune of the Boyne Water.
Our readers may perceive that there was among them an open, hardy scorn
not only of all shame, but of the very forms of common decency and
self-respect. The feelings, the habits, the practices, the distribution
of jobs and of jobbings, the exercise of petty authority, party spirit,
and personal resentment, all went the same way, and took the same bent;
because, in point of fact, there was in this little assembly of
village tyrants, no such thing as an opposition--for three or four--were
nothing--no balance of feeling--no division of opinion--and consequently
no check upon the double profligacy of practice and principle, which
went forward under circumstances where there existed a complete sense of
security, and an utter absence of all responsibility.
“Gentlemen, we are losing a great deal of time unnecessarily,” observed
M'Clutchy, “let us first get through the business, and afterwards we
will be more at leisure for this trifling. The bills for Harman are not
yet found.”
“Not found,” replied Spavin, “why how soft you are, Val.”
“Why they are not,” reiterated Val.
“And why are they not?”
“Ask Counsellor Browbeater, the hard-faced barrister, that has the right
of Black Trot in the Castle, and he will tell you.”
“We all know that very well, Val, no thanks to your squeamishness,”
observed Deaker; “the truth is, he did not wish to let him out for a
reason he has,” he added, winking at the rest.
“Let us hear the calendar,” said Hartley, “and got through the business
as quickly as we can, secretary.”
“Is that Browbeater,” asked Sir William, “who was engaged in the spy
system a little before I returned from England--a d----d scandalous
transaction.”
“The spy system, Sir William, is a very useful one to government,”
replied Val, “and they would be devilish fools if they did not encourage
it.”
“That may be your opinion, Mr. M'Clutchy,” said Sir William, “and your
practice, for aught I know; but, permit me to say, that it is not the
opinion of a gentleman, a man of honor, nor of any honest man, however
humble.”
“I perfectly agree with you, Sir William,” said Hartley, “and I despise
the government which can stoop to such discreditable treachery, for it
is nothing else. The government that could adopt such a tool as this
Browbeater, would not scruple to violate the sanctity either of private
life or public confidence, if it suited their interest--nay, I question
whether they would not be guilty of a felony itself, and open the very
letters in the post-office, which are placed there under the sacred seal
of public faith. However, never mind; proceed with the calendar.”
“Here is the case of some of your wreckers, M'Clutchy, charged here with
illegally, maliciously, and violently pulling down several houses in
the village of Crockaniska--assaulting and maltreating the unoffending
inhabitants.”
“Halt there a moment,” said Val; “rebels, every man of the said
inhabitants, which I can prove. My men, who are remarkable for their
Protestantism and loyalty, went upon private information--”
“More of the spy system,” said Hartley, smiling.
“Mr. Hartley, you may smile, but truth is truth,” replied Val; “we had
private information that they had arms and rebellious papers, and the
latter we have got under the thatch of their cabins.”
“Private information!--still more of the spy system,” repeated Hartley,
smiling again.
“But not the arms?” asked Sir William.
“No, Sir William, not the arms; the rebels were too quick for us there.”
“Then, they expected you it seems,” observed Hartley; “and, if so, when
taking away the arms, I am anxious to know why they should have been
such fools as to leave the papers behind them.”
“I am not here to account for their conduct, sir,” replied Val, “but to
state the facts as they occurred--they may, for instance, not have had
time to bring them. It is not a month, for instance, since my fellows
in Still hunting--and talking of that, Mr. Hartley, will you allow me
to send you a couple of kegs of such stuff as is not to be had on every
hill head; I offer it from pure good will, for I really regret that
there should be any want of cordiality between our families.”
“Our families,” asked Hartley, with a look of surprise and indignation,
“our families, sir! what do you mean?”
“Oh, damn it, Hartley, don't explode; I mean nothing offensive between
us--then, dropping the families,” said Val, fawningly, for he saw the
other's nostril begin to dilate--
“And, you cowardly hound, why should you drop the families,” inquired
Deaker, taking fire; “do you forget, sirra, who your father was?”
“And do you forget, sirra,” resumed Hartley, “who your mother is?”
“Damn it,” replied Val, still with fawning good-humor, “how am I
accountable for their conduct before I had existence? I neither made
them as they were, nor as they are.”
“Then have the modesty,” said Hartley, “to forbear any allusion to them,
especially in the way of comparison.”
“For one of them, Hartley, I reply,” said Deaker, “that he is of a
better family than yourself; and don't imagine, my worthy fellow, that
however you may browbeat others, you will be permitted to bully or
browbeat me. I say, sir, there is better blood in my veins than ever ran
through yours.”
“I had no intention of bullying or browbeating any man here,” replied
Hartley, “much less one whose age and virtues must prevent him--”
“Not from meeting you like a man,” said Deaker; “old as I am, I can yet
stand my ground, or if not, d--n me, I can tie a stake to my bottom, and
you may take that as a proof that I won't run away.”
“Nobody suspects you for that,” said the other. “Out of the long
catalogue of human virtues, courage is the only one loft you, or indeed,
you ever had--unless, indeed, it be the shameless and diabolical honesty
of glorying in your own vices.”
“Why, Hartley!” replied Deaker, “you forget, that you had more vices,
and, hammers, too, in your family, and more brass, than ever I or mine
could' boast of. If the memory of that successful old tinker, your
grandfather, had not passed out of your mind, you would make no allusion
to vices or screws, and take care, my good hot-brained young fellow,
that you don't die in your family trade, and come to the pully yet.”
Hartley, who was hasty, but exceedingly good-natured, although certainly
a noted duelist, now burst out into a hearty laugh, as did most of the
rest.
“Deaker,” said he, “there is no use in being angry with you, nor in
being ashamed that my fortune was created by industry and honesty,
for both of which virtues I have reason heartily to thank my good old
grandfather, the hardware man, as you have for thanking the sire of your
father, the worthy tailor, who had the honor of being appointed one of
Peg Nicholson's knights, ha, ha, ha!”
The laughter now became general and excessive; but not one of them
enjoyed, or seemed at least, to enjoy it with more good-humor than Val;
who, indeed, was never known to exhibit any want of temper to his equals
during his life.
“Well,” said he, “ha, ha, ha! now that that breeze has blown over--about
the poteen, Hartley?”
“Thanks, Val; but no poteen, if you please.”
“Then, gentlemen,” said Val, “to resume business; I was alluding to the
seizure of a Still about a month ago near Drum Dhu, where the parties
just had time to secure the Still itself, but were forced to leave the
head and worm behind them; now, that I give as a fair illustration of
our getting the papers, and missing the arms. Besides,” said he, in a
wheedling and confidential tone, addressed to a clique of his friends,
the jobbers, whom he joined at the lower end of the room, “you are all
aware that my fellows are staunch Orangemen, every one of them, and
the government itself feels, for I have reason to know it, that it is
neither politic or prudent to check the spirit which is now abroad among
them; so far from that, I can tell you it is expected that we should
stimulate and increase it, until the times change. The bills against
these men must, therefore, be thrown out.”
“I'll agree to that,” said a leading man of his own party, “only on one
condition. There are three of my own tenants, Papists to be sure, in for
distilling poteen. Now, we must have them out, Val, for one good turn
deserves another.
“But why?” inquired Val and his friends.
“Why, simply, because the poor fellows were distilling for myself,” he
replied; “all the apparatus were mine, and I can't think of allowing
them to be transported for my own act.”
“Very well, then a bargain be it,” said Val, “so out they go.”
Whilst every man was thus working, either for his friends or against his
enemies, or not unfrequently both, Hartley, who, in point of fact, felt
always anxious to do as much good as he could, addressed Sir William:
“Have you no friends in difficulty, Sir William, or who require your
advocacy now? I see the jobbers are hard at work. Some working heaven
and earth to wreak the vengeance of law upon their enemies; others quite
as anxious to turn aside justice from their friends.”
“Eh! what's that!” said Sir William, starting up; “come, Hartley, you
are right; there are four of my tenants in for a fray--the M'Caffreys,
and the poor devils stand no chance with such a jury as they will have.
I hear them named below there--so let us join the jobbers as you say,
and see if we cannot get the Bills thrown out.”
“Very well,” said Val, as they approached him, “the M'Caffreys go to
trial.”
“Sir William, excuse me,” said Hartley; “will you allow me to interfere,
in the first instance?”
“My dear fellow, certainly, with great pleasure, and I shall aid you as
far as I can.”
“Val,” said Hartley, in that kind of familiar tone which he knew would
go far with such a man as M'Clutchy, and which was in such accordance
with his own natural good-humor--“Val, my good fellow, and the best man
of business here, by the way, notwithstanding the poteen affair, I want
you to stand my friend and also Sir William's here.”
“How is that, Hartley?”
“There are four men in from the Mountain Bar, named M'Caffrey. Now we
want to have the Bills against them ignored; and simply for a plain
reason--at this season of the year any lengthy imprisonment would ruin
them. It was a faction fight or something of that kind, and of course
there is no feeling of a religious or party nature in it. Am I not
right, Sir William?”
“Perfectly; the thing took place during my absence in England for
the last few months. Had I been at home, the matter would have been
peaceably decided in my own stable-yard.”
“Yes,” observed Val, “but it appears there was a man's life in danger.”
“Yes, but, sir, his life is now out of danger.”
“Well, but does not this,” rejoined Val in his most serious mood, “look
very like obstructing the course of justice?”
“Why, you d----d scoundrel,” said the Baronet, “what, in nineteen cases
out of twenty, is done at every assizes where matters connected
with religion or politics are concerned, that ought not to be called
obstructing the course of justice?”
“We shall return true Bills, Sir William and that is the only reply I
have to make, except to thank you for your courtesy.”
“Mr. M'Clutchy,” said Hartley, “I know your good sense and forbearance,
both of which are so creditable to you. These poor fellows will be
ruined, for both you and I know what kind of jury that is to try them.”
“An honest jury, Mr. Hartley,” said Mr, M'Clutchy, who was now beginning
to feel a little of his power--“an honest jury, Mr. Hartley.”
“I give you leave to say so, Val; but, in the meantime, I will accept
one favor from you, if you grant me two.”
“How is that sir?” asked Val.
“Send me that poteen you spoke of, and ignore the Bills against these
M'Caffreys.”
“No, sir,” replied Val, looking with his own peculiar beetle-browed
smile at Sir William, “I shall not; for by G--, we will find true Bills
against the four M'Caffreys. We might do something for humanity, Mr.
Hartley; but we are not to be made fools of before our own faces.”
“I do not understand you,” replied Hartley.
“He is nothing but a scoundrel, as I said,” returned Sir William--“that
is all; a low-born scoundrel; and it is a disgrace to see such a
fellow's name upon any Grand Jury list.”
“Hartley,” replied Spavin, “we do not wish to refuse either Sir William
or you in such a matter as this; but the fact is, M'Clutchy is right.
This is at bottom a party matter--a political matter, and you know it
is.”
“No, sir; on my own part and on Sir William's I disclaim any such
knowledge.”
“You know, Hartley, you are canvassing the county.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with these; men or their affairs?”
“What--why you know that if we ignore the Bills against them, they will
be out and ready to vote for you at the forthcoming election.”
Hartley looked at him with surprise but said nothing.
“Now,” he proceeded, “I will tell you what we will do. If you and Sir
William pledge your words, as men of honor, that you will not accept the
votes of these men, the matter you wish shall be managed.”
Sir William started to his feet.
“Great God,” said he, “is it not monstrous that an oath of secrecy
should bind us to conceal these inquiries?”
“It is monstrous, Sir William,” replied his friend; “I do believe there
is not such, a scene of shameless and hardened corruption on earth, as a
Grand Jury Room at the present day.”
This, however, they said rather aside to each other.
“No, sir,” replied Hartley to the last proposal, “neither I nor Sir
William shall enter into any such shameful compromise. I felt perfectly
satisfied of the slight chance of justice which these poor men had, and
will have from a jury so composed as theirs I know will be; and that was
the reason why I did not hesitate to try, if I could, with any effect,
save them from what I now perceive is designed for them--a political
punishment independent of crime.”
“Never mind,” said Sir William, taking him aside, “never mind, Hartley;
we will be able to defeat them yet. I shall send for the prosecuting
parties; get them to withdraw proceedings, and immediately fight it out
in my lawn or stable-yard.”
After a great deal of similar squabbling and negotiation, the gentleman
at length got through the criminal calendar for the county, and with
still more startling honesty and disinterestedness, entered upon the
transactions of its fiscal business. Beaker, whenever he took no part
in the discussions that accompanied the settlement of each question, sat
reading a newspaper to the air of the Boyne Water, which he whistled
from habit in a low manner that was scarcely audible, unless to some
one who felt anxious to derive amusement, as several did, from the
originality of the performance.
“Gentlemen,” said the secretary, “here is a list of the presentments.
The first is--For two miles and a quarter of a new road, running
from George Ganderwell's house at the Crooked Commons, out along
Pat Donnellan's little farm of the Stripe, through which it runs
longitudinally; then across Jemmy league's meadow, over the Muffin Burn,
then through widow Doran's garden, bisecting Darby M'Lorrinan's three
acre field, afterwards entering the Glebe, and passing close to the
lodge of the Rev. Phineas Lucre's avenue.”
“Is there any opposition to this?” inquired the chairman.
“Read the next,” said M'Clutchy, “and then we shall be the better able
to see.”
No. 2. “For four miles of road, commencing at the Ban Ard river, which
it crosses, running through Frank Fagan's croft, along Rogues Town, over
Tom Magill's Long-shot meadow, across the Sally Slums, up Davy Aiken's
Misery-meerin, by Parra Rakkan's haggard, up the Dumb Hill, into Lucky
Lavery's Patch, and from that right ahead to Constitution Cottage, the
residence of Valentine M'Clutchy, Esq., within two hundred yards of
which it joins the high road to Castle Cumber.”
“Now the question is,” said Val, “can both these be passed during this
term?”
“Val,” replied young Jollyblock, “if ever a man was afflicted with
modesty and disinterestedness you are he; and well becomes me the
parson, too, in his share of the job; but it's all right, gentlemen.
Work away, I Say. The Parson-magistrate, and the Agent-grand-juror have
set us an excellent example--ha---In.--ha! Deaker, drop whistling the
Boyne Water there, and see what's going on here.”
“No,” said Deaker, “there never was such air composed as the Boyne
Water; and my only request is, that I may die whistling it. Damn it,
Jollyblock, unless a man is a good Protestant he's bad for everything
else.”
“But how the devil Deaker, can you call yourself a good Protestant, when
you believe in nothing?”
“Why,” said Deaker, “I believe that a certain set of political opinions
are necessary for our safety and welfare in this world; and, I
believe, that these are to be found in the Church, and that it is good
Protestantism to abide by them, yes, and by the Church too, so long as
she teaches nothing but politics, as she does, and acts up to them.”
“And does your faith stop there?”
“How could it go farther with the lives of such men as your father and
Lucre staring me in the face? Precept, Dick, is of little value when
example is against it. For instance, where's the use of men's preaching
up piety and religion, when their own conduct is a libel upon their
doctrine? Suppose, now, there are two roads--and 'tis said there are:
No. 1, leading to an imaginary region, placed above; No. 2, to another
imaginary region, placed below--very good; the parson says to jon and to
me, do so and so, and take the No. 1 road; but, in the meantime, he does
himself the very reverse of this so and so, and takes the No. 2 road.
Now, which are we to respect most, his advice or his example?”
“Let us go on,” said Spavin, “perhaps there are others whose claims are
as modest and disinterested; we shan't say anything about being as well
founded. You secretary fellow, read away.”
“Before you go any farther,” said a droll-looking person named M'Small,
“you must pass me a bridge over Lumlay's Leap. Our party voted you about
thirty miles of roads to repair thoroughly, and you know that although
you only veneered them, we said nothing.”
“But,” replied Val, “who ever heard of a bridge without water; and I
know there's not a stream within three miles of you.”
“Never mind that,” replied M'Small, “let me have the bridge first, and
we'll see what can be done about the water afterwards. If God in his
mercy would send a wet winter next season, who knows but we might
present for a new river at the January assizes.”
“You must have it,” said Deaker, “give M'Small the bridge, and, as he
says, we'll see afterwards what can be done for a river for it.”
“M'Small,” said Hartley, “what if you'd get a presentment for a couple
of mountain water spouts; who knows but it might answer the purpose?”
“I'm afraid,” said M'Small, who, by the way, was a good deal of a
humorist, “I fear, Hartley, that the jurisdiction of the grand panel
would scarcely reach so high. In the meantime I shall think of it.”
The bridge, however, was not only passed, but built, and actually stands
to this day, an undeniable monument of the frugality and honesty of
grand jurors, and the affection which they were then capable of bearing
to each other, when their interests happened to be at stake, which was
just four times in the year.
In the meantime, the tumultuous battle of jobs in all its noise,
recrimination, and jangle of conflicting interests, and incredible
selfishness commenced. There were strong mutual objections to pass the
roads to Mr. Lucre and M'Clutehy, and a regular conflict between their
respective partisans accordingly took place. M'Clutchy's party were
absolutely shocked at the grossness and impiety of such a man as Mr.
Lucre, a person of such great wealth, an absentee, a nonresident-rector,
dipping his hand in the affairs of the county for the sake of a job.
His party, for he had a strong one, dwelt upon his rights as a civil
officer, a magistrate, and justice of quorum--upon his sterling
principles as a loyal Protestant, who had rendered very important
services to the Church and the government. It was such as he, they said,
who supported the true dignity and respectability of Protestantism, and
it would be a scandal to refuse him a road to his glebe. Deaker groaned
several times during this eulogium, and repeated his favorite text--let
us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die; but whether
its application was designed for Lucre or himself, was not very
easy--perhaps we should rather say difficult to determine.
“That is all very true,” replied Val's party; “but in the meantime,
it would be quite as creditable for him to pay some attention to the
spiritual interests of his parish, and the condition of its tottering
old church, as to be mulcting the county for a job.”
“What can you know about his church,” inquired Spavin, “who have never
been seen in it, except on last Easter Monday, when you were candidate
for the church wardenship? M'Clutehy,” he added, “we all know you are a
Protestant of your father's color; it's the best Protestantism that puts
most into your pocket.”
“And on what other principle is Lucre himself now proceeding, or has
ever proceeded?” replied Val's friends--for Val himself had always a
wholesome repugnance to personal discussion.
In fact, one would have imagined, on hearing Val's party declaiming
against the selfishness of Lucre, that they themselves entertained a
most virtuous horror against jobs and corruptions of all kinds, and
had within them an actual _bona fide_ regard for religion, in all
its purity, spiritual beauty, and truth; whilst on the contrary, the
Lucreites, who certainly had the worst cause, seemed to think that
M'Clutchy, in preferring his own corruption to that of the parson, was
guilty of a complete desertion of that sterling and mutually concessive
Protestant feeling which they considered to constitute its highest
principle, and absolutely to merge into the manifestation of something
inimical to a Protestant government.
At length it was suggested by him of the bridge, that in order to meet
the wishes of two such excellent men, and such admirable representatives
of pure Protestant virtue and spirit, it would be best to pass both
presentments on the present occasion, and drop or postpone some of the
minor ones until next term--a suggestion which was eagerly received by
both parties, inasmuch as it satisfied the rapacity of each, without
giving a victory to either. This, however, was far from terminating
either the business or the debates that arose out of the minor
conflicting interests of the jurors. A good deal of hanging fire there
was also, but given and returned in a better spirit, between. Val's
friends and Lucre's.
“Why doesn't Lucre,” said the former, “afford us a little more of his
company in the parish?”
“Ah,” replied the Lucreites, “we suppose if he gave you more of his
venison and claret, he would experience less of your opposition.”
“I really am afraid to go to church,” said Val, who, now that the storm
had passed, resumed his usual insinuating habit of light sarcasm: “I
am afraid to go, lest the crazy old church, which really, between
ourselves--I speak of course in a friendly way now--is in a most
shameful and dangerous state, should fall upon me.”
“I did not think,” said M'Small, “that you had such a strong sense of
your own deserts left, Val!--I have some hopes of you yet.”
“Ah,” said Val, “I fear that on your way to heaven, if you meet a
difficulty, you will not be likely to find a grand jury to build a
bridge for you across it.”
“I perfectly agree with you,” replied M'Small, “the face of a grand
juror will be a novel sight in that direction.”
“And in the other direction,” observed Hartley, “no bridges will be
wanted.”
“Why so?” said M'Small.
“Because,” he replied, “there will be such an absence of water as will
render them unnecessary.”
“Ay,” retorted another, “but as there will be plenty of grand jurors
we may do then as we did now, build the bridge without the water, and
trouble ourselves no further with the consequences.”
After much more conversation, partly on business, and partly on
desultory topics, the quarrellings, and bickerings, and all the noisy
enmities of that corrupt little world that is contained within--we
should rather say, that was contained within the walls of a grand jury
room, ceased; and, with the exception of one or two small matters of
no consequence, everything was settled, but not so as to give general
satisfaction; for there still remained a considerable number of
grumblers, whose objects had been either completely lost in greater
corruption, or set aside for the present.
“Here's another matter,” said Spavin, “which we had better settle at
once. A man here named O'Drive--Darby O'Drive--is to be appointed to the
under gaolership--he is strongly recommended by Mr. Lucre, as a man that
has renounced Popery.”
“That's enough, Spavin,” said Hartley, “that, I suppose, comprises all
the virtues necessary for an under gaoler, at all events.”
“You know him, M'Clutchy,” said one or two of them.
“He'll make a good under gaoler,” replied Val, “as there will be in
Europe. Appoint him, gentlemen; you will get no such man.”
“And that is just,” said Sir William aside to Hartley, “all that Val's
recommendation is good for.”
And thus closed as much as we feel necessary to describe of that
extraordinary scene--a grand jury room in the year 1804, or
thereabouts.