--A Holy Steeple Chase--A Dead Heat--Blood against Varmint--Rival
Claims--A Mutual Disappointment--The Last Plea for Salvation--_Non
Compos Mentis_
Our readers may remember that we have alluded to an Orangeman, named Bob
Beatty, who had become a convert to the Church of Rome. This Beatty, on
the part of the priest, was a very fair set-off against Darby O'Drive,
on the part of Mr. Lucre. As they were now on the eve of the great
discussion, each felt considerable gratification in having his convert
ready to produce at the discussion, as a living proof of his zeal for
religious truth. The principal vexation which the priest had felt,
lay in the almost insuperable difficulty of keeping Bob from liquor,
inasmuch as whenever he happened to take a glass too much, he always
forgot his conversion, and generally drank the Glorious Memory, and all
other charter toasts, from habit. It so happened, however, that a few
days previous to the great Tournay, Bob became so ill in health, that
there was little hope of his surviving any length of time. During this
illness, he had several interviews with. Father Roche, who informed
him of the near approach of death, and prepared him, as well as could
readily be done, to meet it; for truth to tell, he was at all times an
impracticable subject on which to produce religious impressions. Be this
as it may, a day or two previous to the discussion, his wife, feeling
that he was near his dissolution, and determined, if possible, that
he should not die a Roman Catholic, went in hurry for Mr. Clement, who
happened to be in attendance on a funeral and was consequently from
home. In the meantime, his Roman Catholic neighbor, hearing that she
meant to fetch the minister, naturally anxious that the man should not
die a Protestant, lost no time in acquainting Father M'Cabe with his
situation. Mrs. Beatty, however, finding that Mr. Clement was not to be
procured, left her message with his family, and proceeded in all haste
to Mr. Lucre's in order to secure his attendance.
“My good woman,” said he, “your husband, I trust, is not in such danger.
Mr. Clement cannot certainly be long absent, and he will attend; I am
not quite well, or I should willingly go myself.”
“Very well,” said the woman, “between you, I suppose, you will let the
priest, M'Cabe have him; and then it will be said he died a Papish.”
“What's that?” inquired Mr. Lucre, with an interest which he could not
conceal; “what has M'Cabe to do with him?”
“Why,”, returned the woman, “he has made him a Papish, but I want him to
die a True Blue, and not shame the family.”
“I shall attend,” said Lucre; “I shall lose no time in attending. What's
your husband's name?”
“Bob Beatty, sir.”
“Oh, yes, he is subject to epilepsy.”
“The same, sir.”
She then gave him directions to find the house, and left him making very
earnest and rapid preparations to do what he had not done for many a
long year--attend a death-bed; and truly his absence was no loss.
In the meantime, Father M'Cabe having heard an account of Bob's state,
and that the minister had been sent for, was at once upon the alert, and
lost not a moment in repairing to his house. So very eager, indeed,
were these gentlemen, and so equal their speed, that they met at the
cross-roads, one of which turned to Bob's house. In the meantime, we
may as well inform our readers here, that Bob himself had, in his wife's
presence, privately sent for Father Roche.
Each instantly suspected the object of the other, and determined in his
own mind, if possible, to frustrate it.
“So, sir,” said the priest, “you are on your way to Bob Beatty's, who
is, as you know, one of my flock. But how do you expect to get through
the business, Mr. Lucre, seeing that you are so long out of practice?”
“Bob Beatty was never, properly speaking, one of your flock, Mr. M'Cabe.
I must beg leave to ride forward, sir, and leave you to your Christian
meditations. One interview with you is enough for any man.”
“Faith, but I love you too well to part with you so easily,” said the
priest, spurring on his horse, “cheek by jowl--and a beautiful one you
have--will I ride with you, my worthy epicure; and, what is more, I'll
anoint Bob Beatty before your eyes.”
“And, perhaps, perform another miracle,” replied Mr. Lucre, bitterly.
“Ay will, if it be necessary,” said the priest; “but I do most solemnly
assure you that by far the most brilliant miracle of modern days is to
find the Rev. Phineas Lucre at a sick-bed. Depend upon it, however, if
Beatty had not turned Catholic, he might die like a dog for the same Mr.
Lucre.”
“I will not abstract the last shilling from his pocket for the unction
of superstition, at all events.”
“Not you, faith; you'll charge him nothing I grant, and right glad am I
to find that you know the value of your services. You forget, however,
that my flock pay you well for doing this nothing--that is, for
discharging your duty--notwithstanding.”
Both now pushed on at a rapid rate, growling at each other as they went
along. On getting into the fields they increased their speed; and as the
peasantry of both religions were apprised of the circumstances connected
with Bob's complaint and conversion, each party cheered on their own
champion.
“More power to you Father M'Cabe; give him the Latin and the Bravery!”
(*Breviary)
“Success, Mr. Lucre! Push on, sir, and don't let the Popish rebel send
him out of the world with a bandage on his eyes. Lay in the Bible, Mr.
Lucre! Protestant and True Blue forever--hurra!”
“The true Church forever, Father M'Cabe, the jewel that you war! Give
the horse the spurs, avourneen. Sowl, Paddy, but the _bodagh_ parson has
the advantage of him in the _cappul_. Push on, your reverence; you
have the divil and the parson against you, for the one's drivin' on the
other.”
“Cross the corner of the Barny Mother's meadow, Mr. Lucre, and wheel
in at the garden ditch; your horse can do it, although you ride the
heaviest weight. Lay on him, sir, and think of Protestant Ascendancy.
King William against Popery and wooden shoes; hurra!”
“Father, achora, keep your shoulder to the wind, and touch up _Parra
Gastha_ (* Literally, Paddy Speedy) wid the spurs. A groan for the
Protestant parson, father darlin'!”
“Three groans for the Popish Mass Book. Bravo, Mr. Lucre! That ditch was
well cleared!”
“Devil a purtier, father jewel! Parra Gastha's a darlin', and brought
you over like a bird--hurra!”
“Have you no whip, Mr. Lucre? Whip and spur, sir, or the Popish garran
will be in before you. By the great Boyne, I'm afraid the charger's
blown.”
“God enable you, father avilish! Blown! Why what would you expect, an'
it the first visit ever the same horse made to a sick-bed' in his life;
he now finds it isn't on the king's highway he is--and I'll go bail it's
himself that's cursin' the same duty in his heart. Bravo, Father Pat!
Parra Gastha's the boy that knows his duty--more power, Parra Gastha!
Divil pursue the hair's turned on him; but, be me sowl, it wouldn't
be so, if he led the life the Protestant blood did.--feedin' high, and
doin' nothin'.”
“Mr. Lucre, pull out; I see you're hard up, sir, and so is your charger.
Push him, sir, even if he should drop. Death and Protestantism before
Popery and dishonor! Hurra, well done!”
“Ah, be me sowl, it's near the last gasp wid him and his masther, and
no wondher; they're both divilish far out of their element. Faith, if
they had Father M'Cabe and Parra Gastha's practice, they wouldn't be the
show they are this minute. Well done both! fresh and fair, snug and dry,
you do it. Hurra!”
When the two worthy gentlemen had reached Bob's house, they dismounted,
each in a perspiration, and rushed to the bed of the dying man. Mr.
Lucre sat, of course, at one side, and the priest at the other; Mr.
Lucre seized the right hand, and the priest the left: whilst Bob looked
at them both alternately, and gave a cordial squeeze to each.
“You thought, sir,” said Mr. Lucre to the priest haughtily, “that he
would have died an idolater.”
Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre's hand again.
“And you thought,” replied Father M'Cabe, “that he would die a
Protestant or a heretic, which is the same thing.”
Bob squeezed Father M'Cabe's hand once more.
“Gentlemen,” said Bob, “be pleased to sit down--you are both Christian
ministers, I hope.”
“No,” said Father M'Cabe, “there is but one of us a Christian; Mr. Lucre
here is not worthy of the name, Bob.”
Bob squeezed the priest's hand a third time.
“Beatty,” said Mr. Lucre, “this is a solemn occasion, and I'm bound to
say, that the priest here is merely a representative of Antichrist. This
is not a time to disguise the truth.”
Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre's hand a third time also.
“Beatty,” continued Mr. Lucre, “if you permit yourself to die a Papist,
you seal your own everlasting punishment.”
“True,” said Bob.
“Bob,” said the priest, “if after the explanations of the true church
which I have given you, you allow yourself to relapse into heresy, you
will suffer for it during all eternity.”
“True,” said Bob.
“There is no hope for those, who, like the Papists and idolators, hew
for themselves vessels that will hold no water,” said Lucre.
[Illustration: PAGE 322-- “Ah, very right,” said Bob.]
“Ah, very right,” said Bob.
“There is but one Faith, one Church, and one Baptism, and that is ours,”
said the priest.
“Ah, you can do it,” said Bob, with a squeeze.
“Bob,” said the wife, “what do you mean? I don't understand you--die a
True Blue, and don't shame your friends.”
“Gentlemen,” said Bob, “I feel disposed to sleep a little. It is likely
that a few minutes' rest may strengthen my weak body, and clear my mind
for the consolations of religion, which you are both so beautifully
prepared to give me. I feel rather drowsy, so I'll close my eyes for a
few minutes, and doze a little.”
Bob closed his eyes for about four mortal hours and a half, during
which time our two worthy gentlemen sat at his bed-side with the most
exemplary patience. At length he opened his eyes, and inquired for his
daughter Fanny, who had been sent for Father Roche; to her he whispered
a few words, after which she went out, but almost immediately returned.
He looked at her inquiringly, and she answered:
“Yes, just as I expected--in a few minutes.”
“Gentlemen,” said Bob, “I am much aisier now; but I am at a loss whether
to to prepared for heaven by you, Mr. Lucre, or by Father M'Cabe.”
“Beatty,” said Lucre, “you have have access to the Bible, and
possessing, as you do, and as you must, the Scriptural knowledge, gained
from that sacred book, to die in the church which worships crucifixes
and images would leave you without hope or excuse.”
“Ah!” said Bob, “you are sound in point of doctrine. No man is more
orthodox than you.”
“Bob,” said the priest, “you know what the Council of Trent says:--
'There is but one Church, one Faith, and one Baptism'--if you die out
of that church, which is ours, woe betide you. No, Bob, there is no hope
for you if you die an apostate, Bob.”
“Ah,” said Bob, “you can send it home, Father M'Cabe.”
“Bob,” said the wife, “die a True Blue, and don't shame the family.”
“There is but a blue look up for you if you do,” said Father M'Cabe.
“Blue is the emblem of hope, and for that reason the Orange system has
adopted it as illustrative of our faith,” said Mr. Lucre.
He had scarcely uttered the words, when Father Roche entered the sick
apartment. High and haughty was the bow he received from Mr. Lucre;
whilst Father M'Cabe seemed somewhat surprised at the presence of
the reverend gentlemen. The latter looked mildly about him, wiped the
moisture from his pale forehead and said--
“Mrs. Beatty, will you indulge me with a chair? On my return home I lost
not a moment in coming here; but the walk I have had is a pretty long
one, the greater part of it being up-hill.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Beatty, “I'm not the woman to think one thing and
speak another. To be sure, I'd rather he would die a True Blue than a
Papish; but since he will die one, I'd rather have you at his side than
e'er a priest in the kingdom. If there is a Christian among them, you
are one--you are--so, Bob dear, since you're bent on it, I won't disturb
you.”
“Bring your chair near me,” said Bob; “where is your hand, my dear sir?
Give Me your hand.” Poor Bob caught Father Roche's hand in his, and
pressed it honestly and warmly.
“Bob,” said Mr. Lucre, “I don't understand this; in what creed are you
disposed to die?”
“You see, sir,” said M'Cabe, “that he _won't_ die in yours at any rate.”
“You will not die in my creed!” repeated the parson, astonished.
“No,” said Bob; “I will not.”
“You will then die in mine, of course?” said Mr. M'Cabe.
“No,” replied Bob; “I will not.”
“How is that?” said the priest.
“Explain yourself,” said Mr. Lucre.
“_I'll die a Christian_,” replied Bob. “You're both anything but what
you ought to be; and if I wasn't on my death-bed you'd hear more of it.
Here is a Christian clergyman, and under his ministry I will die.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Lucre, “I perceive, Mrs. Beatty, that the poor man's
intellect is gone; whilst his reason was sound he remained a staunch
Protestant, and as such, we shall claim him. He must be interred
according to the rights of our church, for he dies clearly _non compos
mentis_.”
Father Roche now addressed himself to Beatty, and prepared him for his
great change, as became a pious and faithful minister of the gospel.
Beatty, however, was never capable of serious impressions. Still, his
feelings were as solemn as could be expected, from a man whose natural
temperament had always inclined him to facetiousness and humor. He died
the next day, after a severe fit, from which he recovered only to linger
about half an hour in a state of stupor and insensibility.
This conflict between the priest and the parson was a kind of prelude in
its way, to the great Palaver, or discussion, which was immediately to
take place between the redoubtable champions of the rival churches.