--The Value of Public Opinion--Be not Familiar with the Great
Recent circumstances have, unfortunately, shown us the danger of
tampering with, and stimulating, the blind impulses of ignorant
prejudice and popular passion beyond that limit where the powers
of restraint cease to operate with effect. At the period which our
narrative has now reached, and for a considerable time before it, those
low rumblings which stunned and frightened the ear of civilized society,
like the ominous sounds that precede an earthquake, were now followed by
those tremblings and undulations which accompany the shock itself.
But before we describe that social condition to which we refer, it is
necessary that we should previously raise the vail a little, which time
has drawn between us and the condition of the Established Church, not
merely at that crisis, but for a long period before it. This we shall
do as briefly as possible, because we feel that it is an exceedingly
unpleasant task to contemplate a picture which presents to us points of
observation that are, from their very nature, painful to look upon--and
features so secular and carnal, that scarcely any language could
exaggerate, much less distort them.
The Established Church in Ireland, then, in its unpurged and unreformed
state, was very little else than a mere political engine for supporting
and fostering British interests and English principles in this country;
and no one, here had any great chance of preferment in it who did not
signalize himself some way in favor of British policy. The Establishment
was indeed the only bond that bound the political interests of the two
nations together. But if any person will now venture to form an opinion
of the Irish Church from her gorgeousness and immense wealth at that
period, he will unquestionably find that what ought to have been a
spiritual, pure, holy, self-denying, and zealous Church, was
neither more nor less than an overgrown, proud, idle, and indolent
Establishment, bloated by ease and indulgence, and corrupted almost to
the very core by secular and political prostitution. The state of the
Establishment was indeed equally anomalous and disgraceful. So jealous
was England, and at the same time so rapacious of its wealth, that it
was parcelled out to Englishmen without either shame or scruple,
whilst Irish piety and learning, when they did happen to be found, were
uniformly overlooked and disregarded. All the ecclesiastical offices of
dignity and emolument were bestowed upon Englishmen; upon men who lived
here with reluctance, and but seldom--who had no sympathy with the
country or its inhabitants--nay, who looked upon us, in general, with
feeling of hostility and contempt; and who, by example or precept,
rendered no earthly equivalent for the enormous sums that were drawn
from a poor and struggling people. It is idle to say that these
prodigious ecclesiastical revenues were not paid by the people, but by
the landlord, who, if the people had not paid them, would have
added them to the rent. But even so--the straggling peasant reasoned
naturally, for he felt it to be one thing to pay even a high rent to the
landlord, whose rights, as such, he acknowledged, but a very different
thing to pay forth out of his own pocket a tenth of his produce to the
pastor of a hostile creed, which had little sympathy with him, for
which he received no spiritual equivalent, and on which, besides, he was
taught to look as a gross and ungodly heresy.
But this was not the worst of it. In the discussion of this subject, it
is rather hazardous for the champion of our former Establishment to make
any allusion to the landlord at all; the fact unfortunately being, that
in the management and disposal of land, the landlords, in general, were
gifted with a very convenient forgetfulness that such a demand as tithe
was to come upon the tenant at all. The land in general was let as if it
had been tithe-free, whilst, at the same time, and in precisely the same
grasping spirit, it so happened, that wherever it was tithe-free the
rents exacted were also enormous, and seen as--supposing tithe had
not an existence--no country ever could suffer to become the basis
of valuation, or to settle down into a system. In fact, such was the
spirit, and so profligate the condition of the Established Church for a
long lapse of time, both before and after the Union, that we may lay
it down as a general principle, that everything was rewarded in it but
piety and learning.
If there were anything wanting to prove the truth and accuracy of our
statements, it would be found in the bitter and relentless spirit with
which the Established Church and her pastors were assailed, at the
period of which we write. And let it be observed here, that even then,
the Church in this country, in spirit, in learning, in zeal, and piety,
was an angel of purity compared to what she had been twenty or thirty
years before. The course of clerical education had been defined,
established, and extended; young profligates could not enter the Church,
as in the good old times, without any earthly preparation, either
in learning or morals. They were obliged to read, and thoroughly to
understand, an extensive and enlightened course of divinity--to attend
lectures and entitle themselves, both by attendance and answering, to
a certain number of certificates, without which they had no chance for
orders. In point of fact, they were forced to become serious; and
the consequences soon began to appear in the general character of the
Church. Much piety, activity, learning, and earnest labor were to be
found in it; and indeed, we may venture to say, that, with the exception
of her carnal and debasing wealth, she had been purified and reformed to
a very considerable extent, even then. Still, however, the bloated mass
of mammon hung about her, prostrating her energies, secularizing her
spirit, and, we must add, oppressing the people, out of whose pockets it
was forced to come. When the calamity, therefore, which the reader
may perceive is partly upon and impending over, the Protestant clergy,
actually occurred, it did not find them unprepared, nor without the
sympathy of many of the very people who were forced by the tyrannical
influence of party feeling to oppose them publicly. To their sufferings
and unexampled patience, however, we shall be obliged to refer, at a
subsequent period of our narrative; and for that reason, we dismiss it
for the present.
Such, then, was the state of the Protestant Established Church for
a considerable length of time before the tithe agitation, and also
immediately preceding it; and we deemed it necessary to make the reader
acquainted with both, in order that he may the better understand the
nature and spirit of the almost universal assault which was, by at least
one party--the Roman Catholic--so furiously made upon it. At the present
period of our narrative, then, the population of the country, especially
of the South and West, had arrived at that state of agitation, which,
whether its object be legitimate or not, is certain, in a short time, to
brutalize the public mind and debauch the public morals, by removing all
the conscientious impediments which religion places against crime,
and consequently all scruple in committing it. Heretofore, those vile
societies of a secret nature, that disgrace the country and debase
the character of her people, existed frequently under separate
denominations, and for distinct objects. Now, however, they all
consented to abandon these peculiar purposes, and to coalesce into one
great conspiracy against the destruction of the Establishment. We do not
mean to assert, however, that this general outcry against the Church,
and its accompanying onslaught on her property, originated directly with
the people. No such thing; the people, as they always are, and, we fear,
ever will be, were mere instruments in the hands of a host of lay and
clerical agitators; and no argument was left unattempted or unurged to
hound them on to the destruction of the Establishment. From the Corn
Exchange down to the meanest and most obscure tribunal of agitation
throughout the kingdom, the virtues of passive resistance were
inculcated and preached, and the great champion of popular rights told
the people publicly and repeatedly that they might not be afraid
to follow his advice, for that it mattered little how oppressive or
stringent any act of parliament in defence of the Established Church
might be, he would undertake to drive a coach and six through the very
severest of its penalties. Nor were the Catholic priesthood idle during
these times of storm and commotion. At the head of them, and foremost
in both ability and hatred of tithes, stood the late Dr. Doyle, the
celebrated J.K.L. of that day, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin; a man to
whose great intellectual powers the country at large chiefly owes the
settlement of that most difficult and important question. This able
prelate assailed the system with a fiery vehemence that absolutely set
the country in a blaze, and reduced the wealthy Establishment to a
case of the most unprecedented distress. Who can forget that memorable
apothegm to the Irish people on the subject? “Let your hatred of
tithes,” he said, “be as lasting as your sense of justice.”
Unfortunately it is an easy task to instruct or tempt the Irish peasant
to violate the law, especially when sanctioned, in that violation, by
those whose opinion and advice he takes as the standard of his conduct.
Be this as it may, the state of the country was now becoming frightful
and portentous; and although there had not, as yet, been much blood
shed, still there was no person acquainted with the extraordinary pains
which were taken to excite the people against the payment of tithe,
who was not able to anticipate the terrible outburst and sanguinary
slaughters which soon followed.
We have already detailed a midnight meeting of the anti-tithe
confederacy; but so confident had the people soon become in the
principle of general unanimity against the payment of this impost, that
they did not hesitate to traverse the country in open day by thousands;
thus setting not only law, but all the powers of the country by which it
is usually carried out and supported, at complete defiance.
Threatening letters, and notices of violent death, signed with blood,
and containing the form of a coffin, were sent to all such as were in
any way obnoxious, or, what was the same thing, who were in any way
disposed either to pay tithes or exact them.
In this state matters were, when, one morning about a week after the
scene we have just described in O'Driscol's office, a dialogue to the
following effect took place in the proctor's immense farm-yard, between
our friend Mogue Moylan and his quondam sweetheart, Letty Lenehan.
Letty, of late, that is since the morning of the peddler's conversation
with Mogue, had observed that some unaccountable change had taken place
in his whole manner, not only towards herself, but in his intercourse
with the rest of his fellow-servants. He was for instance, much more
silent that he had ever been: but although he spoke less, he appeared to
think more; yet it might be observed, that whatever the subject of his
thoughts was, it evidently had diffused a singular degree of serenity,
and a peculiarly striking complacency through his whole manner. With
respect to herself he had ascended from the lover into the patron; and
although she had been amusing herself at his expense throughout their
previous courtship, if it could be termed such, yet she felt no less
puzzled as to the cause of such a change, and quite as anxious to
ascertain it.
On the morning in question, Mogue and Jerry Joyce had been engaged in
winnowing a large quantity of wheat in the barn. Jerry, whose manner was
ostensibly that of a soft, simple young fellow, and whom but few looked
upon as possessed of the ordinary run of common sense, was treated by
Mogue, and indeed by most, but not all of his fellow servants, as one
would treat a young lad who had not yet arrived at years of discretion,
or maturity of judgment.
“Jerry,” said Mogue, “why but you do be cortin' the girls, man alive?
That I may never sin but it's a great thing to have them fond o' one.”
“Ay,” replied Jerry, who was perfectly well aware of his foible, “if I
had the art of sootherin' and puttin' my comedher an thim like some o'
my acquaintances; but, me! is it foolish Jerry Joyce they'd care about?
Oh, no! begor that cock wouldn't fight.”
“Your acquaintances!” exclaimed Mogue, seizing upon the term, in
Jerry's reply, which he knew referred to himself, “and which of your
acquaintances, now, does be sootherin' an' puttin' his comedher an'
them, eh, Jerry?”
“Oh! dear me, Mogue,” replied the other, “how droll you are! As if you
thought I didn't mane one Mogue Moylan that they're tearin' their caps
about every day in the week.”
“Tearin' their caps! arrah, who is, Jerry?”
“Why, the girls.”
“The girls! Och! man, sure that's an ould story; but I declare it to
you, Jerry, it isn't my fault; it's a nateral gift wid me, for I take no
pains to make them fond o' me; that I may never do harm if I do.”
“An' how does it, happen that they are? Sure there's Letty, now--poor
Letty Lenehan--an' God help her! sure, for the last week, she appears to
me to be breakin' her heart. She doesn't say af coorse, that you're the
occasion of it; but doesn't every one of us know that you are? Have you
been could to her, or what?
“Why thin, now, Jerry, I declare it to you that I'm heart sorry for poor
Letty; but what can I do? I amn't my own man, now, do you hear that?”
“Sure you don't mane to say that you're married?”
“Not exactly married; but listen hither, Jerry--you don't know the man
you're spakin' to--it's a gift that God gave me--but, you don't know the
man you're spakin' to; however as for poor Letty, I'll provide for her
some way--the poor affectionate crature; an' she's good-lookin' too;
however, as I said, I'll do something for her some way,” and here he
nodded and winked with most villainous significance.
If Jerry had not fully comprehended the scoundrel's character, it is
very probable that this language would have caused him to give the
hypocritical villain a sound drubbing; for it must be known to our
readers, that Jerry and Letty were faithfully attached to each other--a
circumstance which was also known to the whole family, and which
nothing could have prevented Mogue from observing but his own blind and
egregious vanity.
“But what do you mane, Mogue, when you say you aren't your own man!”
“I can't tell you; but the thruth is, Jerry--poor, good-natured
Jerry--that every man ought to look high, especially when he sees the
regard that's for him, and especially, too, when God--blessed be his
name--has gifted him as some people is gifted. There's a man hereabouts
that thinks he could put my nose out o' joint. Oh! it's a great thing,
Jerry, to have nice, ginteel, thin features, that won't spoil by the
weather. Throth, red cheeks or a white skin in a man isn't becomin'; an'
as for larnin', Jerry, it may require a long time to take it in, but a
very little hole would soon let it all out. May I never do harm but I'm
glad that job's over,” alluding to the employment at which they were
engaged. “Oh! then, but that's a fine cast o' whate!”
“It is,” replied Jerry; “but in regard to the larnin' I don't
undherstand you.”
“No matther for that, Jerry, I may be a good friend to you yet; ay,
indeed may I--poor good-natured Jerry; an' when that time comes, if you
have any scruple in axin' Misther Moylan to countenance you and befriend
you, why it'll be your own fault my poor, good-natured Jerry.”
“Many thanks, Misther Moylan,” replied Jerry, assuming a gravity
which he could scarcely maintain, “remember that you don't forget your
promise. I'm goin' over to get the sacks from Misther John; an' by the
way, aren't you goin' out to-day to shoot wid Misther M'Carthy?”
“Well, I declare, I believe I am; I know the mountains well, an' I'm
fond of seein' fun, or of hearin' of it, any way.”
Jerry then departed, and Mogue, now left to himself, exclaimed in
a soliloquy, “Ay, an' if I don't see it this night, I'll hear of it
to-morrow, I hope. Mr. M'Carthy, you're in my way; but as I said to that
poor _omadhawn_, although it took many a year to get the larnin' into
that head of yours, one little hole will soon let it out again.” As
Mogue uttered the last words, the ear of Letty Lenehan was somewhat
nearer him than he imagined. She had come to call them to breakfast, and
seeing that the back-door of the barn was open, she approached it, as
being nearest to her, and on peeping in, half disposed for a piece of
frolic, she heard Mogue utter the soliloquy we have just repeated; but
as he stood with his back towards her, he was not at all aware that she
was present, or had heard him.
Immediately after breakfast, Mogue and M'Carthy set out for the
mountains, the latter furnished with all the necessary equipments for
the sport, and the former carrying a game-bag and refreshments; for
as M'Carthy knew that it must be the last day he could devote to such
amusements, he resolved to have a good day's sport, if possible.
“Now, Mogue,” said his companion, “you are much better acquainted with
these mountains than I am, and with those places where we may be likely
to find most game. I, therefore, place myself in your hands for the
day.”
“Well, indeed I ought, sir, to know them,” replied Mogue, “and I believe
I do; and talkin' of that, you have often heard of the great robber and
rapparee, Shaun Bernha?”
“I have heard of him, and of his Stables, which lie up somewhere in
these mountains.”
“Exactly, sir; an' it is what I was thinkin'; that we might take a look
at them in the coorse of our sport to-day; in regard, especially, that
there's more game about them than in any other part of the mountains.”
“Very well, then, Mogue,” replied his companion, “so be it; you are, as
I said, my guide for the day.”
“But do you know, sir, why he was called Shaun Bernha?”
“No, I can't say I do.”
“It was odd enough, to be sure. Howandever, may I be happy but they say
it's true! You see, sir, he was called Shaun Bernha bekaise he never had
a tooth in his head; an' no more had any of his family; and yet, sir,
it's said, that he could bite a piece out of a plate of sheet iron as
aisily as you or I could out a cake of gingerbread.”
“Well, Morgue, all that I can say to that is, that he had devilish hard
gums, and stood in no fear of the toothache.”
“Well, then, we'll sweep around the slebeen hills here, keepin'
Altnaveenan to our right, and Lough Mocall to our left; then, by going
right ahead we'll come to his stables; and indeed they're well worth
seein'.”
“With all my heart, Mague, never say it again.” And they accordingly
proceeded at a vigorous pace to the mountains, which were now distant
not more than a mile and a half from them.
In the meantime we shall leave them to pursue their game, and beg our
readers to accompany us once more to the house of our friend, Fitzy
O'Driscol, who, what between the dread of assassination on the one
hand, and the delight of having a proper subject to justify him in
communicating with the government on the other, passed his time in
alterations, now of fear, and again of his peculiar ambition to be
recognized as an active and fearless magistrate by the then existing
powers, that were, to such as knew the man and understood his character,
perfectly ludicrous. On the morning in question, he was, as usual,
seated, in his morning-gown and slippers, at the breakfast-table,
reading a country paper, in which, by the way, appeared the following
paragraph:--
“TURBULENT STATE OR THE COUNTRY.--We regret to say, that the state of
the country is every day becoming more and more unsettled. A few
days ago, whilst one of our excellent and most resolute magistrates,
Fitzgerald O'Driscol, Esq., was engaged in his office, determining an
important case of assault that came before him, and which he did, as he
usually does, to the perfect satisfaction of the parties, he received, a
threatening notice, couched in most violent language, in fact, breathing
of blood and assassination! Why a gentleman of such high magisterial
character as Mr. O'Driscol should have been selected as an object of
popular vengeance, we do not understand. Mr. O'Driscol combines in
himself all those qualities that are peculiarly suited to the discharge
of his duties in such distracted times as the present. Whilst firm and
intrepid, almost to a miracle, he is at the same time easy of access,
impartial, and kind to his humble countrymen, to whom he has uniformly
proved himself mild and indulgent, so far as justice--which by the way,
he always tempers with mercy--will allow him; and in consequence of
this, he is uniformly known, and deserves to be known, as the poor man's
magistrate. It is true, he is known also to be a man of highly loyal and
constitutional principles; a warm friend to order, peace, and a resolute
supporter of the laws of the land--qualities which are looked upon as
crimes by the resolute and disloyal among our kind-hearted but misguided
people. Of one thing, however, he would beg to apprise the mistaken
individuals who have ventured to threaten him, and that is, to take care
how they attempt to put their foolish threats into execution against so
daring and desperate a man as Mr. O'Driscol is when provoked. He goes
well armed, is a dead shot, and would feel deeply grieved at having the
blood of any of his mistaken countrymen on his hands. This we say from
what we know of Mr. O'Driscol, both as a man and as a magistrate. In
further connection with the state of the country, we cannot think but
that government, if made properly acquainted with it, would place some
mild, firm, but fearless and resolute stipendiary magistrate in our
neighborhood; we mean, of course, a man who is capable, by the peculiar
qualities of his character, to make himself an instrument of great
public good, both to the people and the government. Such a man we know;
but as we are writing without either his knowledge or consent, we do not
feel ourselves called upon to pursue this important subject further.
All we can say is, that the violent opposition which is now organized
against tithes, and which is already beginning to convulse the country,
will, and even now does require, the active courage and decided
abilities of such a man.”
“Well, now, Catherine,” said he, addressing his daughter, who sat near
him, “upon my honor and conscience that was a friendly paragraph of my
friend Swiggerly--extremely so, indeed. The fact is, a dinner and a good
jorum is never thrown away upon honest Swiggerly; for which raison I'll
ask him to dine here on Thursday next.”
He then handed her the paper, pointing out the paragraph in question,
which she read with something of an arch smile, and which, on her
brother Fergus (who had been to Lisnagola) joining them, she handed to
him.
“Fergus,” said she, looking at him with an expression of character
still more comic, but yet sufficiently subdued to prevent O'Driscol from
observing it, “is not that paragraph very complimentary to papa?”
Fergus, who at once reciprocated the comic glance alluded to, replied
rather significantly, “It is certainly very gratifying to him,
Catherine.”
“And very creditable to Swiggerly,” added O'Driscol.
“Yes, father,” replied Fergus, “but I think he ought to preserve, if
possible, a little more originality. The substance of that paragraph has
been regularly in his paper, in one shape or other, three or four
times a year during the last couple of years. I ought to except the
introduction of the threatening notice, which certainly is a new
feature, and the only new one in it.”
“Fergus,” said the father, whilst his round, red, convivial features
became more inflamed, “you are super-critical this morning.”
“Not at all, sir; but you will excuse me for saying, that I think a man
who is seeking to ingratiate himself with the government, what is more,
to receive substantial favors from it, ought not, from principles of
self-respect, to suffer these stereotyped paragraphs to appear from
time to time. Government is not so blind, sir, but they will at once see
through the object of such paragraphs.”
“Staryrayotyped! What the devil, sir, do you mane by staryrayotype?
Do you mane to make a staryrayotype of me? That's dutiful, Mr.
Fergus--filial duty, clane and clear--and no doubt about it. But I tell
you, sir, that in spite of your staryrayotypes, it is such articles as
the able one of my friend Swiggerly that constitutes the force of public
opinion. Government! Why, sir, the government is undher more obligations
to me than I am to them. It was my activity and loyalty that was the
manes, principally, of returnin' the son of the gustus ratalorum of the
county for the borough of Addleborough. He was their own candidate; and
if that wasn't layin' them undher an obligation to me, I don't know what
was. You may say what you like, but I repate, it's a right good, thing
to have the force of public opinion in your favor.”
“Yes, of public opinion, I grant you; but surely you cannot pretend,
father, that such gross and barefaced flattery as that can be termed
public opinion?”
“And why not, sir? Upon my honor and conscience, things is come to a
pretty pass when a man--a magistrate--like me, must be lectured by his
own son! Isn't it too bad, Catherine?”
“I am no politician, you know, but I think he doesn't mean to lecture
you, papa; perhaps you ought to say to reason or remonstrate with--”
“Raison! remonstrate! And what right has he aither to raison or
remonstrate with a man--or rather a magistrate--such as I am known
by the government to be. He calls that paragraph gross and barefaced
flattery, and myself a staryrayotype! but I tell him now that it is no
flattery, nor anything at all but the downright naked thruth, and no man
ought to know that better than I do, for this good raison, that it was
myself wrote every line of it, and got Swiggerly only to correct it.”
A deep and crimson blush overspread his daughter's face on hearing this
mean and degrading admission; and Fergus, who was in the act of bringing
a bit of ham to his mouth, suddenly laid it down again, then looked
first at Catherine, then at his father, several times in succession. The
good-humored girl, however, whose merry heart and light spirits always
disposed her to look at the pleasant side of everything, suddenly
glancing at the red, indignant face with which her father, in the heat
of argument, and in order to illustrate the truth of public opinion in
this instance, had made the acknowledgment--all at once, and before
the rosy blush had departed from her beautiful face, burst out into
a ringing and merry laugh, which Fergus felt to be contagious and
irresistible. On glancing again at his father, he joined her in the
mirth, and both laughed long and heartily.
“And so, father,” proceeded Fergus, “you bring us a paragraph written by
yourself, to illustrate the value of public opinion; but believe me,
my dear father, and I mean it with all respect, these puffs, whether
written by one's self or others--these political puffs I say, like
literary ones, always do more harm than good to the object they are
intended to serve.”
“Never you mind that, Fergus, my boy, I know how to play my game,
I think; and besides, don't you know, I expect a snug-morsel from
government for yourself, my boy; yet you never consider that--not you.”
“But, my dear father, I never wish to hear a respectable man like you
acknowledge that he is playing a game at all; it reminds me of the
cringing, sycophantic, and prostitute crew of political gamblers and
manoeuvrers, by whom, not only this government, but every other, is
perpetually assailed and infested, and amongst which crew it would
grieve me to think that you should be included. As to myself, if I ever
get anything from government, it must not come to me through any of
those arrangements by which trick and management, not to say dishonesty
and conniption, are, to the shame of all parties, so frequently
rewarded. With a slight change upon Pope, I say--
“'Grant me honest place, or grant me none.'”
“Pope! What the devil do I care about his opinions? let him preach and
stick to his controversy with Father Tom--from whom he hadn't so
much to brag of--but as for you, Fergus, you are, to spake plainly, a
thorough ass. What d--d stuff you have been letting out of you! Go and
find, if you can, some purer world for yourself to live in, for, let
me tell you, you are not fit for this. There is no perfection here,
Catherine, is there?”
“Oh, yes, Papa! certainly.”
“There is--is there? Well, upon my honor and conscience, now, this is
the first time I've heard that argument used. Come, then, how do you
prove it--eh?”
“There is perfection, papa, occasionally at least, to be found
among women, and--you certainly, sir, cannot deny the truth of
this--occasionally, too, among magistrates--ha ha! ha!”
“Ah! Kate, I know you of old! Very good that--extremely good, upon my
word However, as I was saying, if you don't act and think as the world
about you acts and thinks, you had as good, as I said, get a betther one
if you can. Here, now, I see Mat Purcel coming up the avenue; and as
I want to have some private conversation with him, I must be off to
my office, where I desire you to send him to me. There's a time for
everything, they say, and a place for everything--I hope, Fergy, you and
I will have occasion, before long, to say, a place for some--ha! ha! ha!
Well, as I said, there's a place for everything! and I don't think it
would become me to spake upon official business anywhere but in my own
office. We must not only do our business properly, but look like it.”
Purcel found our pompous little man enveloped, as we have already said,
in a most fashionable morning-gown and embroidered slippers, and at the
same time busily engaged in writing.
“How do you do, Mr. Purcel?” said he; “will you excuse me for about
three minutes, till I finish this paragraph, after which I am at your
service?”
“Certainly,” said Purcel, “I'm in no hurry, Fitzy, my boy.”
“Here,” continued the other, “amuse yourself with that paper. By the
way, there's a flattering notice there of your humble servant, by our
friend Swiggerly, who certainly is a man of sound judgment and ability.”
“I won't interrupt you now,” replied the proctor; “but I will tell you
my opinion of him by and by.”
The magistrate then proceeded to finish his paragraph, as he said, by
his important manner of doing which, Purcel, who thoroughly understood
him, was much amused. He frequently paused for instance, placed his chin
in the end of his half-closed hand, somewhat like an egg in an egg-cup,
looked in a meditative mood into Purcel's face, without appearing to see
him at all; then went over to the library, which ought rather to have
been pronounced his son's than his; and after having consulted a book--a
Latin Horace, which by the way he opened at the art of poetry, of which
volume it is, we presume, unnecessary to say, he did not understand
a syllable, he returned to his desk seemingly satisfied, and wrote on
until he had concluded the passage he was composing. He read it once in
silence, then nodded his head complacently, as if satisfied with what
he had Written, after which he rubbed his hands and closing the desk
exclaimed, “D--n all governments, Mr. Purcel, and I wish to heaven there
never had been a magistrate in Ireland.”
“Why, what kind of doctrine is this, Fitzy,” exclaimed his friend,
“especially from such a loyal man and active magistrate as you are.”
“D--n loyalty too, Mr. Purcel, it's breakin' my heart and will break
it--I think I'll emigrate to America before they kill me here.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Fitzy, I was a good deal alarmed
when I heard of that ugly notice you got; but it's not every man would
have borne the thing with such courage as you did.”
“Thank you, Mister Purcel, I feel that as a compliment coming from you;
and by the way, I haven't forgotten to mention you with praise in
my correspondence with the Castle. However--ha! ha! ha! you rather
misunderstood me--I mane to say that the life is worn out of me, by our
present government--Good God! my friend, surely they ought to know that
there's plenty of magistrates in the country besides myself, that could
give them the information they want upon the state of the country, and
the steps they ought to take to tranquillize it, as well as I could; I
can't, however, get them to think so, and the consequence is that that
d--n Castle can't rub its elbow without consulting, me.”
“Well,” replied Purcel, “you are to blame yourself for it; if you were
not so loyal, and zealous, and courageous too, as you are, they would
let you alone and leave you to peace and quietness, as they do other
people.”
“Upon my honor and conscience, it's little pace or quietness they
leave me, then; but I agree with you, that the whole cause of it is
my well-known loyal principle and surprising activity in keeping down
disturbance and sedition. Widow Cleary's affair was an unlucky one for
me, and indeed, Mat, it was the activity and resolution that I displayed
in making herself and her spawn of ragged brats prisoners at the head
of the Possy Comeatus, aided by the military, that first brought me into
notice with the Castle.”
The proctor, who feared now that he had mounted his hobby, and that he
would inflict on him, as he was in the habit of doing after dinner, a
long-winded series of his magisterial exploits, reminded him that he had
expressed a wish to see him on very important business.
“I wouldn't care,” he added, “but the truth is, Fitzy, I am pressed for
want of time, as I should have been at the bishop's court, where I
have cited several of these tithe rebels long before this. What is the
business, then?”
“It is a matter, my dear Mr. Purcel--”
“Why the devil do you Mr. Purcel me?” asked the proctor, warmly. “It was
formerly Mat and Fitzy between us, and I don't see why it should not be
so still.”
“Hem--ahem--why it was, I grant, but then--not that I am at all a proud
man, Mr. Purcel--far from it, I trust--but you see--hem--the truth
is, that to a man as I am, a magistrate--trusted and--consulted by
government, and having, besides, to meet certain low prejudices against
me in the country, here, I don't think--I'm spaking of the magistrate
now, Purcel--not of the man--observe that, but the truth is--d--m the
word, for I don't think there's in the whole catalogue of names, so
vulgar a one as Fitzy--and be d--d to it.”
The proctor laughed till the tears came from his eyes, at the dignified
distress with which the great little man resented this degrading
grievance.
“Ha! ha! ha! and so,” said he, “I'm not to call you Fitzy; well, well,
so be it--but I have been so long in the habit of using it in our
conversation, that I shall, find it a difficult matter to change the
practice. But upon my conscience, Fitzy--I beg pardon, Mr. O'Driscol,
I must say--I think it great weakness in your worship, to let such a
trifle as that annoy you.”
“It may be a weakness,” said the other, “but before we go further, I
make it a personal request, that you won't use Fitzy to me, and above
all things, in the presence of strangers. I entrate and implore that you
won't.”
“Very well, then--a bargain be it--but I must insist that you never call
me Mat, or anything but Mr. Purcel, again.”
“Why, but you know you are not a magistrate, Mat.”
“Never mind, Fitzy--hem--never mind, your worship, call me whatever you
like--unless a rogue--ha! ha! ha! well, but to business--what is this
you want with me?”
“A business that, if well managed, may be a beneficial one to you and me
both.”
“Out with it, though--you know I'm in a hurry.”
“Why now,” proceeded the little man, relapsing unconsciously into a
sense of his violated dignity,--“curse me, if I'd for fifty--no, not
for a hundred, that the Castle should come to know that I was addressed
as Fitzy.”
The proctor's mirth was again renewed, but after a moment or two, the
serious part of the conversation was resumed by the magistrate.
“Your son John, the other morning,” he proceeded, in a low
and confidential tone, “hinted to me that you had partly
discovered--hem--ahem--a very important circumstance--in short, that you
had partly, if not altogether, discovered a--a conspiracy.”
The proctor stared at him with unaffected surprise, which, by the way,
did not escape the magistrate's notice. “A conspiracy!” he added, “and
did John tell you this?”
“Why, not exactly,” replied O'Driscol, fearing that the young man, as
we have already hinted, had been indiscreet, and consequently wished
to keep him as much out of blame as possible; “not exactly, my dear
Mat--hem--my dear Mr. Purcel, but you know that I am rather sharp--a
penetratin' fellow in my way, or I would not be of the commission
to-day--he seemed merely to drop the expression accidentally only.”
“I pledge my honor to you,” replied the proctor, who at once saw through
the hoax that his son had played off upon him, “that the young rascal
had no authority from me for mentioning a single syllable about it.”
“Well, but, I trust, my dear Ma--Mr; Purcel, that you are not angry with
him, especially for having mentioned it to me at any rate.”
“Why, my dear friend,” said the other, “if the time were come, you are
the first man to whom I would disclose the circumstance, but the fact
simply is, that it is not ripe yet.”
“Even so; you will have no objection, I trust, to let me know something
of the nature of it--even now.”
“It is impossible!” replied the proctor, “quite out of my power; if I
breathe a syllable about it, the whole matter must be blown before the
proper time, and then--”
“Well, and what then?--proceed.”
“Why, neither you nor I would be one moment safe; and in that case, it
is much more prudent that you should not know it--God forbid that I,
above all men, should be the person to involve you in risk and danger.
Your own ardor and excessive loyalty expose you--to dangers enough, and
too many.”
“You promise, however, when the proper time comes, to make me acquainted
with it?”
“Certainly, when the proper time comes; and if the thing ripen at all,
you shall hear of it.”
“But listen,” asked O'Driscol, licking his lips as a man would when
thinking of a good dinner; “is the matter you allude to a real, actual,
bona-fide conspiracy?”
“An actual live conspiracy,” replied the proctor; “and as soon as it has
reached maturity, and is full grown, you shall have all the honors of
the discovery.”
“That will do, Mat--hem, that will do my dear friend. I shall have the
Castle dancing with delight--and whisper--but this is honorable between
ourselves--any advantages that may result from this affair, you shall
partake of. The Castle and I understand one another, and depend upon it,
your name shall be mentioned with all the honor and importance due to
it.”
“This, then, was what you wanted with me?”
“It was, and upon my honor and conscience, you and yours, and I
and mine, will have cause to rejoice in it. Government, my dear
Mat--ahem--is a generous benefactor, and aided by it we shall work
wonders. We shall, I trust, all be provided for--your sons and my own
fool--M'Carthy, too, we shall not forget.
“All that will be very pleasant, I acknowledge,” replied the proctor,
dryly, “and in the meantime good-by, and may God spare both you and me
long life and happiness--until then, and as long after it as we may wish
for.”
Our friend M'Carthy, who was little aware of the liberal provision which
the benevolence of his friend had in contemplation for him, was in the
meantime likely to be provided for in a very different manner, and upon
principles very much at variance with those of that political gentleman
yclept the Castle, an impersonation which it would be exceedingly
difficult to define.