There were many reasons for this. In the first place, there existed an apprehension of the yeomanry and cavalry, who had on more than one occasion surprised meetings of this description before. 'Tis true they had sentinels placed—but the sentinels themselves had been made prisoners of by parties of yeomen and blood-hounds, who had come in colored clothes, in twos and threes, like the Ribbon men themselves. There were other motives, however, for the stillness which prevailed—motives which, when we consider them, invest the whole proceedings with something that is calculated to fill the mind with apprehension and fear. Here were men unquestionably assembled for illegal purposes—for the perpetration of crime—for the shedding of human blood. But in what light did they view this terrible determination? Simply as a redress of grievances; as the only means left them of doing that for themselves which the laws refused to do for them. They keenly and bitterly felt the scourge of the oppressor, who, under the sanction, and in the name of those laws which ought to have protected them, left scarcely anything undone to drive them to desperation; and now finding that the law existed only for their punishment, they resolved to legislate for themselves, and retaliate on their oppressor. There is an awful lesson in all this; for it is certainly a frightful thing to see law and justice so partially and iniquitously administered as to disorganize society, and to make men look upon murder as an act of justice, and the shedding of blood as a moral triumph, if not a moral virtue. When, therefore, the very little conversation which took place among them, and that little in so low a tone, is placed in connection with the dark and deadly object of their meeting, it is no wonder that one cannot help feeling strangely and fearfully on contemplating it.

About twelve o'clock they were all assembled but one individual, whom they appeared to expect, and for whom they looked out eagerly. Indeed they all came to a unanimous resolution of doing nothing that pertained to the business of the night until he should come. For this purpose they had not to wait long. A little past twelve a tall and powerful young man entered, leading by the hand poor insane Mary O'Regan—his pitiable and unconscious mother. He had heard of the death of his brother, during the cruel scene at Drum Dhu, and of the other inhuman outrage which had driven her mad. He had come from a remote part of England with the single, fixed, and irrevocable purpose of wreaking vengeance on the head of him who had brought madness, desolation, and death upon his family.

On his entering, there was a slight low murmur of approbation, but the appearance of his mother caused it to die away. This, however, was almost immediately succeeded by another of a very different character—one in which there was a blending of many feelings—compassion, rage, revenge. The first thing the young man did was to take a candle in his hand, and hold it first close to his mother, so as that she might be distinctly seen, and afterward, near to his own face, in order that she might have a clear and equally distinct view of him. "Mother," said he, then, in a full voice, "do you know your son?" Her eye was upon him as he spoke, but it was vacant; there appeared no trace of recognition or meaning in it.

"You all see that miserable sight," said he—"there my mother stands, and doesn't know who it is that is spaking to her. There she stands, blasted and destroyed by the oppressor. You all see this heart-breaking sight with your own eyes, and you all know who did it."

'Tis singular how closely virtue and crime are allied! The very sympathy excited by this touching and melancholy spectacle—the very tenderness of the compassion that was felt for the mother and son, hardened the heart in a different sense, and stimulated them to vengeance.

"Now," said the young man, whose name was Owen, "let them that have been oppressed and harassed by this Vulture, state their grievances, one at a time."

An old man near sixty rose up, and after two or three attempts to speak, was overpowered by his feelings, and burst into tears. "Poor Jemmy Devlin!" they exclaimed, "may God pity you!"

"Spake for Jemmy, some of you, as the poor man isn't able to spake for himself."

"Why, the case was this," said a neighbor of the poor man's. "Jemmy's son, Peter, was abused by Phil, the boy, because he didn't pay him duty-work, and neglect his own harvest. He told Peter that he was a Popish rebel and would be hanged. Peter told him to his teeth that he was a liar, and that he couldn't be good, havin' the father's bastard dhrop in him. That was very well, but one night in about a month afterwards, the house was surrounded by the bloodhounds, poor Peter's clo'es searched, and some Ribbon papers found in them; they also got, or pretended to get, other papers in the thatch of the house. The boy was dragged out of his bed, sent to goal, tried, found guilty on the evidence of the bloodhounds, and sentenced to be flogged three times; but never was flogged a third time, for he died on the fourth day after the second flogging; and so, bein' an only son—indeed all the child the poor couple had—the old man is now childless and distracted, God help him!"

"Very well," exclaimed Owen bitterly—"very well—who next?"

A man named M'Mahon rose up,—"The curse of the Almighty God may for ever rest upon him!" he exclaimed. "He transported my two brave sons, because they were White-boys; and if they were, who made them Whiteboys but himself and his cruelty? I will never see my darling sons' faces again, but if I die without settlin' accounts wid him, may I never know happiness here or hereafter!"

The usual murmur of commiseration followed this.

"Well," said Owen, "whose turn comes next?"

About a dozen of those who had been turned out of Drum Dhu now stood up.

"We were turned out," said one of them, who acted as spokesman, "on one of the bittherest days that God ever sent on the earth; out of shame, I believe, because your brother and ould Mary Casey died, he let us back for a few days, but after that we had to flit. Some of the houses he had pulled down, and then he had to build them again for his voters. Oh, if it was only known what we suffered!"

"And why did he turn you out?"

"Why, because we didn't promise to vote as he wished."

"He took my crop," said another, "at his own valuation, drew it home, and stacked it until the markets rose. I know what he got beyond the rent," proceeded the man, "but divil a rap ever the villain gave me back of the surplus, but put it in his pocket—and now I and my family are starving."

"Ay, and," said another, "he took five firkins of as good butter from me as ever was made by hand, and at his own price, too. What could I do?—he said it was as a friend he did it; but if I objected to it, he said he must only seize. May the divil seize him, at any rate, as he will, the villain, I trust in God! He got to my own knowledge, thirteen pence a pound for it, and all he allowed me for it was eight pence halfpenny. May the devil run an auger through him, or baste his sowl wid it, this night; for of all the villains that ever cursed an estate, he's the greatest—barrin' the scoundrel that employs him."

A poor but decent-looking man rose up. "I could bear," said he, "his cheating, or his defrauding me out of my right—I could bear that, although it's bad enough too; but when I think of the shame and disgrace his son brought upon my innocent girl, undher his father's roof, where she was at sarvice—may God curse him this night! My child—my child—when I think of what she was, and what she is, sure the thought of it is enough to drive me distracted, and to break my heart. Are we to live undher sich men? Ought we to allow sich villains to tramp us undher their feet? When I spoke to his blasted son about ruinin' my child—'My good fellow,' says he, 'if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head, I will trot you off the estate—I will send you to graze somewhere else. It's d—d proud you ought to feel for your daughter having a child by the like o' me;'—for that's the way—they first injure us, and kick us about as they plaise, and then laugh at and insult us."

Another man got up. "You all know," said he, "that I hould fourteen acres in the townland of Augha-Winchal; and when Jerry Grogan went to America last spring, I offered for his farm of twelve acres, that lay into my own, marchin it. I offered him the rent he axed, which indeed was too much at any rate—but it lay so snug to me, that I could take more out of it than another. 'You shall have the farm, Frank,' said he; 'but if you do, there must be ten pounds of an Imput.'* Well and good, I paid him the ten pounds, and Paddy Gormly, of Aughadarragh, gave him another Input for the same farm; and yet, hell bellis the villain, he gave it to neither of us, but to one of his own Blood-hounds, who gave him twenty for it. But that wasn't all—when I axed him for my money, he laughs in iny face, and says, 'Is 'it jokin' you are? Keep yourself quiet,' says he, 'or may be I'll make it a black joke to you.' Hell re-save him!"

* Imput—a douceur—or, in other words, a bribe to the agent, on entering upon a farm.

"He engaged me, and my horse and car," said another, "and Toal Hart with his, in the same way; to draw stones from Kilrud-den; and he said that whatever we earned he'd allow us in the rint. Of coorse we were glad to bounce at it; and, indeed, he made us both believe that it was a favor he did us. So far so good; but when the rint day came, hell purshue the testher he'd allow either of us; but threatened and abused us, callin' us names till the dogs wouldn't lick our blood. The Lord conshume him for a netarnal villain!"

"That's all very well, but yait till you hear how he sarved me out," said a poor, simple-looking creature. "It was at the gale day before the last, that I went to him wid my six guineas of rint. 'Paddy Hanlon,' says he, 'I'm glad to see you; an', Paddy, I've something in my eye for you; but don't be spakin' of it. Is that the rent?—hand it to me—an', Paddy, as this is Hurry Day with me—do like a good decent man, call down on Saturday about twelve o'clock, and I'll give you your receipt, and mention the other thing.' By coorse I went highly delighted; but the receipt he gave me was a notice to pay the same gale over agin, tellin' me besides, that of all the complatest rascals ever came acrass him I was the greatest; that he'd banish me off the estate and what not! Accordingly, I had to pay the same rint twiste. Now will any one tell me how that man can prosper by robbin' and oppressin the poor in this way? Hell scorch him!"

The next that rose was a tall, thin-looking man, with much care and sorrow in his face. "Many a happy day," he said, "did I and mine spend under this roof; and now we may say that we hardly have a roof to cover us. Myself, and my wife, hould a cabin on' the estate of Major Richardson. My sons and daughters, instead of living comfortably at home with us, are now scattered abroad, earnin' their hard bread on other people's floors. And why? Because the Vulture's profligate son couldn't succeed in ruinin' one of my daughters; and because her brother 'Tom tould him that if ever he catched him comin' about the place again, or annoyin' his sisther, he'd split him with a spade. Afther that, they were both very friendly—father and son—and when I brought my half-year's rent—'never mind now,' said they, 'bring it home, Andy; maybe you may want it for something else that 'ud be useful to you. Buy a couple o' cows—or keep it till next rent day; we won't hurry you—you're a dacent man, and we respect you.' Well, I did put the money to other uses, when what should come down on me when the next half year's rent was due, but an Execution. He got a man of his own to swear that I was about to run away wid the rent, and go to America; and in a few days we were scattered widout a house to cover us. May the Lord reward him accordin' to his works!"

There were other unprincipled cases where Phil's profligacy was brought to bear upon the poverty and destitution of the uneducated and unprotected female; but it is not our intention to do more than to allude to them.

We now return to young O'Regan himself, who, at the conclusion, once more got a candle, and precisely in the same manner as he had done in the beginning, held it up and asked in a full firm voice, "mother, do you know your son?" And again received the same melancholy and unconscious gaze. "Now," said he, "you've all heard an account, and a true account, of these two villains' conduct. What have they left undone? They have cheated you, robbed you, and oppressed you in every shape. They have scourged to death and transported your sons—and they have ruined your daughters, and brought them to sin and shame—sorrow and distraction. What have they left undone, I ax again? Haven't they treated yez like the dirt under their feet? hunted yez like bloodhounds, as they are—and as if ye were mad dogs? What is there that they haven't made yez suffer? Shame, sin, poverty, hardship, bloodshed, ruin, death, and madness; look there"—he added, vehemently pointing to his insane mother—"there's one proof that you see; and you've heard and know the rest. And now for their trial."

Those blood-stirring observations were followed by a deep silence, in fact, like that of death.

"Now," said he, pulling out a paper, "I have marked down here twelve names that I will read for you. They are to act as a jury; they are to thry them both for their lives—and then to let us hear their sentence."

He then read over the twelve names, every man answering to his name as he called them out.

"Now," he proceeded, "this is how you are to act; your silence will give consent to any question that is asked of you. Are you willin' that these twelve men should thry Valentine M'Clutchy and his son for their lives; and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?" To this there was a profound and ominous silence.

"Very well," said he, "you agree to this. Now," said he to the jurors, "find your sentence."

The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a few minutes—when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O'Regan and said—"They're doomed."

"To what death?"

"To be both shot."

"Are you all satisfied with this sentence?"

Another silence as deep and ominous as before.

"Very well," said he, "you all agree. As for the sentence, it is a just one; none of you need throuble yourselves any farther about that; you may take my word for it, that it will be carried into execution. Are you willing it should?"

For the third time an unbroken silence. "That's enough," said he; "and now let us go quietly home."

"It is not enough," said a voice at the door; "let none depart without my permission, I command you;" and the words were no sooner uttered than the venerable Father Roche entered the house.

"Wretched and misguided men," said he, to what a scene of blood and crime have I just now been an ear witness? Are you men who live under my ministry?—who have so often heard and attended to my sincere and earnest admonitions? I cannot think ye are, and yet, I see no face here that is unknown to me. Oh, think for a moment, reflect, if you can, upon what you have been doing!—planning the brutal, ungodly murder of two of your fellow creatures! And What makes the crime still more revolting, these two fellow creatures father and son. What constituted you judges over them? If they have oppressed you, and driven many of you to ruin and distress, and even to madness, yet, do you not know that there is a just God above to whom they must be accountable for the deeds done in the flesh? Are you to put yourselves in the place of the Almighty?—to snatch the sceptre of justice and judgment out of his hands, and take that awful office into your own, which belongs only to him? Are ye indeed mad, my friends? Do you not know that out of the multitude assembled here this moment there is not one of you whose life would not be justly forfeited to the law? not one. I paused at the half closed door before I entered, and was thus enabled to hear your awful, your guilty, your blasphemous proceedings. Justice belongs to God, and in mocking justice you mock the God of Justice."

"But you don't know, Father Roche," said O'Regan, "you couldn't imagine all the villany he and his son have been guilty of, and all they've made the people suffer."

"I do know it too well; and these are grievances that God in his own good time will remove; but it is not for us to stain our souls with guilt in order to redress them. Now, my children, do you believe that I feel an interest in your welfare, and in your happiness hereafter? Do you believe this?"

"We do, sir; who feels for us as you do?"

"Well, then, will you give me a proof of this?"

"Name it, sir, name it."

"I know you will," continued the old man; "I know you will. Then, in the name of the merciful God, I implore, I entreat—and, if that will not do, then, as his servant, and the humble minister of his word and will—I command you to disavow the murderous purpose you have come to this night. Heavenly Father," said he, looking up with all the fervor of sublime piety, "we entreat you to take from these mistaken men the wicked intention of imbruing their guilty hands in blood; teach them a clear sense of Christian duty; to love their very enemies; to forgive all injuries that may be inflicted on them; and to lead such lives as may never be disturbed by a sense of guilt or the tortures of remorse!" The tears flowed fast down his aged cheeks as he spoke, and his deep sobbings for some time prevented him from speaking. Those whom he addressed were touched, awakened, melted. He proceeded:—

"Take pity on their condition, O Lord, and in thine own good time, if it be thy will, let their unhappy lot in this life be improved! But, above, all things, soften their hearts, inspire them with good and pious purposes, and guard them from the temptations of revenge! They are my flock—they are my children—and, as such, thou knowest how I lave and feel for them!"

They were more deeply moved, more clearly awakened, and more penetratingly touched. Several sobs were heard towards the close of his prayer, and a new spirit was diffused among them.

"Now, my children," said he, "will you obey the old man that loves you?"

"We will," was the universal response, "we will obey you."

"Then," said he, "you promise in the presence of God, that you will not injure Valentine M'Clutchy and his son?"

"In the presence of God we promise," was the unanimous reply.

"Then, my children, may the blessing of Almighty God be with you, and guard and protect you wherever you go. And now proceed home, and sleep with consciences unburthened by guilt."

And thus were Valentine M'Clutchy and his son saved, on this occasion, by the very man whom they termed "a rebellious Popish priest."

It was observed, however, by most of those present that Owen O'Regan availed himself of the good priest's remonstrance to disappear from the meeting—thus evading the solemn obligation to refrain from crime, into which all the rest entered.



CHAPTER XXVI.—Harman's Interview with Mary M'Loughlin

—An Execution for Rent Forty Years ago—Gordon Harvey's Friendly Remonstrance with his Brother Orangemen.

The development, by Poll Doolin, of the diabolical plot against Mary M'Loughlin's character, so successfully carried into effect by Phil and Poll herself, took a deadly weight off Harman's heart. Mary, the following morning, little aware that full justice had been rendered her, was sitting in the parlor with her mother, who had been complaining for a day or two of indisposition, and would have admitted more fully the alarming' symptoms she felt, were it not for the declining health of her daughter. If there be one misery in life more calculated than another to wither and consume the heart, to make society odious, man to look like a blot in the creation, and the very providence of God doubtful, it is to feel one's character publicly slandered and misrepresented by the cowardly and malignant, by the skulking scoundrel and the moral assassin—to feel yourself loaded with imputations that are false, calumnious, and cruel. Mary M'Loughlin felt all this bitterly.

In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish for life had departed from her. She was now spiritless, hopeless, without an aim or object, or anything to sustain her, or to give interest to existence. Philosophy, which too often knows little about actual life, tells us that a consciousness of being innocent of the social slanders that are heaped upon an individual, is a principle that ought to support and console him. But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence is precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons the arrow that pierces him, and gives rancor to the wound.

On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother who lay reclining on a sofa, each kindly attempting to conceal from the other the illness which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the contrary, was flushed and feverish.

"I wish, my dear mother," said she, "that you would yield to me, and go to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe."

"It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what you used to be? But God help you, my poor child," said she, as the tears started to her eyes, "sure it's hard for you to do so."

"Mother," she replied, "it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name unstained—and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not, mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh," she added, whilst the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, "after all, I feel that nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day."

"My dear child," replied her mother, "we must only trust to God, who, in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends."

Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of aversion, even to momentary sickness.

"If," pursued the mother, "the unfortunate impression could be removed from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right."

The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply, but for some minutes wept in great bitterness.

"Mother," said she, after a little time, "I fear you are concealing the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think yourself, or will admit."

"Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very feverish—I am burning."

"Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor at once be sent for."

"If I don't get easier soon, I will," replied her mother, "I do not much like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness."

At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost immediately Harman entered the parlor. It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her mother. The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely knew in what terms to address him. Mary, though much moved previous to his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her heart she did not feel. That her lover, who ought to have known her so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her many a bitter pang. On the other hand, when she looked back upon the snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit that the force of appearances made a strong case against her. For this reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life.

"You are surprised, Mary, to see me here," said Harman; "and you, Mrs. M'Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?"

"I think it is very natural we should be, James," replied Mrs. M'Loughlin. "I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may attribute it. Sit down."

He did not sit, however, but exclaimed—"Good heavens, what is this? Why, Mary, I should scarcely have known you. This change is dreadful."

Neither of the females spoke; but the daughter bestowed on him a single look—long, fixed, and sorrowful—which did more to reprove and soften him, than any language could have done. It went to his heart—it filled him with grief, repentance, remorse. For many a day and night afterwards, her image, and that look, were before him, exerting a power over his soul, which kindled his love to a height it would never otherwise have reached. He approached her.

"What reparation do I not owe you, my beloved Mary, for my base and ungenerous belief in that scoundrel's vile calumny? Such reparation, however, as I can make, I will. You are not aware that Poll Doolin has confessed and disclosed the whole infamous plot; and in a few days the calumny will be extinct. As for me, you know not what a heavy weight pressed my heart down to the uttermost depths of suffering. I have not been without other calamities—yet this, I take heaven to witness, was the only one I felt."

There was a tone of deep feeling and earnest sincerity in his words, which could not for a moment be mistaken. His face, too, was pale, and full of care, and his person much thinner than it had been.

Mary saw all this at a glance—as did her mother. "Poor James," said the latter, "you have had your own troubles, and severe ones, too, since we saw you last."

"They are gone," he replied; "I care not, and think little about them, now that Mary's character is vindicated. If I should never see her, never speak to her more, the consciousness that she is the same angelic being that I first found her to be, would sustain me under the severest and most depressing calamities of life. And God knows," he said, "I am likely to experience them in their worst shape; but, still, I have courage now to bear up against them."

On approaching Mary nearer, he perceived that her eyes were suffused with tears—and the sight deeply affected him. "My dear Mary," said he, "is there not one word for me? Oh, believe me, if ever man felt deep remorse I do."

She put her hand out to him, and almost at the same instant became insensible. In a moment he placed her, by her mother's desire, on the sofa, and rang the bell for some of the servants to attend. Indeed, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to look upon a more touching picture of sorrow and suffering than that pure-looking and beautiful girl presented as she lay there insensible; her pale but exquisite features impressed with a melancholy at once deep and tender, as was evinced by the large tear-drops that lay upon her cheeks.

"May God grant that her heart be not broken," exclaimed her mother, "and that she be not already beyond the reach of all that our affections would hope and wish! Poor girl," she added, "the only portion of the calamity that touched her to her heart was the reflection that you had ceased to love her!"

Mrs. M'Loughlin whilst she spoke kept her eyes fixed upon her daughter's pale but placid face; and whilst she did so, she perceived that a few large tears fell upon it, and literally mingled with those of the poor sufferer's which had been there before. She looked up and saw that Harman was deeply moved.

"Even if it should be so," he exclaimed, "I shall be only justly punished for having; dared to doubt her."

A servant having now entered, a little cold water was got, which, on being sprinkled over her face and applied to her lips, aided in recovering her.

"Your appearance," said she, "and the intelligence you brought were so unexpected, and my weakness so great, that I felt myself overcome; however, I am better—I am better, now;" but whilst she uttered these words her voice grew tremulous, and they were scarcely out of her lips when she burst out into an excessive fit of weeping. For several minutes this continued, and she appeared to feel relieved; she then entered into conversation, and was able to talk with more ease and firmness than she had evinced for many a day before. It was just then that a knock came to the hall door, and in a couple of minutes about a dozen of Val's blood-hounds, selected to act as bailiffs and keepers—a task to which they were accustomed—entered the house with an Execution to seize for rent. This, at all times and under all circumstances, is a scene in which a peculiar license is given to brutality and ruffianism; but in the present case there were additional motives; with which the reader is already acquainted, for insulting this family. Not that the mere-levying of an Execution was a matter of novelty to either Mary or her mother, for of late there had unfortunately been several in the house and on their property before. These, however, were conducted with a degree of civility that intimated respect for, if not sympathy with, the feelings of a family so inoffensive, so beneficial to the neighborhood by the employment they afforded, and, in short, every way so worthy of respect.

"What is all this about?" asked Harman.

"Why," said one of the fellows, "we're seizin' for rent: that's what it's about."

"Rent," observed the other, surprised, "why, it is only a few minutes since Mr. M'Loughlin told me that M'Clutchy assured him—"

"Captain M'Clutchy, sir, if you plaise."

"Very well—Captain M'Clutchy, or Colonel M'Olutchy, if you wish, assured him that—"

"I have nothing to do with what he assured him," replied the fellow; "my duty is to take an inventory of the furniture; beg pardon, ladies, but we must do our duty you know."

"Let them have their way," said Mrs. M'Loughlin, "let them have their way; I know what they are capable of. Mary, my dear, be firm—as I said before—our only trust is in God, my child."

"I am firm, my dear mother; for, as James said, the grief of griefs has been removed from me. I can now support myself under anything—but you—indeed, James, she is battling against illness these three or four days—and will not go to bed; it is for you I now feel, mother."

Mr. M'Loughlin and his family here entered; and truth to tell, boundless was the indignation of the honest fellow, at this most oppressive and perfidious proceeding on the part of the treacherous agent.

"Ah," said he, "I knew it—and I said it—but let the scoundrel do his worst; I scorn him, and I defy him in the very height of his ill-gotten authority. My children," said he, "keep yourselves cool. Let not this cowardly act of oppression and revenge disturb or provoke you. This country, as it is at present governed—and this property as it is at present managed—is no place for us to live in. Let the scoundrel then do his worst. As for us, we will follow the example of other respectable families, who, like ourselves, have been forced to seek a home in a distant country. We will emigrate to America, as soon as I can conveniently make arrangements for that purpose; for God knows I am sick of my native land, and the petty oppressors which in so many ways harass and goad the people almost to madness."

He had no sooner uttered these words, than the fellow whose name was Hudson, whispered to one of his companions, who immediately disappeared with something like a grin of exultation on his countenance. Mrs. M'Loughlin's illness was now such as she could no longer attempt to conceal. The painful shock occasioned by this last vindictive proceeding on the part of M'Clutchy, came at a most unhappy moment. Overcome by that and her illness, she was obliged to go to bed, aided by her husband and her daughter; but before she went, it was considered necessary to get one of the ruffians, as an act of favor, to take an inventory of the furniture in her chamber, in order that her sick room might not be intruded upon afterwards.

Mary having put her sick mother to bed, returned to the parlor, from whence she was proceeding to the kitchen, to make whey with her own hands for the invalid, when in passing along the hall, Harman and her brother John met her. She was in a hurry, and was about to pass without speaking a word, when she and they were startled by the following dialogue—

"So, Bob, did you see the pale beauty in the parlor?"

"I did, she's a devilish pretty girl."

"She is so—well, but do you know that she is one of Mr. Phil's ladies. Sure he was caught in her bed-room some time ago."

"Certainly, every one knows that; and it appears she is breaking her heart because he won't make an honest woman of her."

John caught his sister, whose agitation, was dreadful, and led her away; making at the same time, a signal to Harman to remain quiet until his return—a difficult task, and. Harman felt it so. In the meantime, the. following appendix was added to the dialogue already detailed—

"Why do you hould such talk under this, roof, Leeper?" asked a third voice.

The only reply given to this very natural query was a subdued cackle, evidently proceeding from the two first speakers.

"Do you both see that strong horse-pistol," said the third voice—for in those days; an Execution was almost always levied by armed men—"by the Bible of truth, if I hear another word of such conversation from any man here while we're under this roof, I'll sink the butt of it into his skull! It's bad enough that we're here on an unpleasant duty—"

"Unpleasant! speak for yourself."

"Silence, you ruffian—on an unpleasant-duty; but that's no reason that we should grieve the hearts and insult the feelings of a respectable family like this. The truth, or rather the blasted falsehood that was put out on the young lady is now known almost everywhere, for Poll Doolin has let out the truth.

"But didn't Misther Phil desire us to say it, so as that they might hear us."

"Mr. Phil's a cowardly scoundrel, and nothing else; but, mark me, Phil or no Phil, keep your teeth shut on that subject."

"Just as much or as little of that as we like, if you please, Mr. ——."

"Very well, you know my mind—so take the consequences, that's all."

"Here goes then," said the ruffian, speaking in a deliberately loud voice, "it's well known that Miss M'Loughlin is Misther Phil's——"

A heavy blow, followed by a crash on the floor—a brief conflict as if with another person, another blow, and another crash followed. Harman, in a state of feeling which our readers may imagine, but which we cannot describe, pushed in the door, which, in fact, was partially open.

"What, what is this?" he asked, pretending ignorance, "is it fighting among yourselves you are? Fie, fie! Gordon Harvey, what is the matter?"

"Only a little quarrel of our own, Mr. Harman," replied the excellent fellow. "The truth is, sir, that these men—ay, gather yourselves up, do; you ought to have known Gordon Harvey's blow, for you have often enough heard of it before now; there is no great mistake about that, you scoundrels—the truth is, Mr. Harman, that these fellows were primed with whiskey at M'Clutchy's and they gave me provoking language that I couldn't bear; it's well for them that I didn't take the butt end of that," said he, holding up the horse-pistol in his left hand, "but you'll find ten for one that would rather have a taste of it than of this;" shutting his right—which was a perfect sledgehammer, and, when shut, certainly the more formidable weapon of the two.

The two ruffians had now gathered themselves up, and appeared to be considerably sobered by Harvey's arguments. They immediately retired to a corner of the room, where they stood with a sullen but vindictive look—cowardly and ferocious, ready to revenge on M'Loughlin's family the punishment which they had received, but durst not resent, at the hands of Harvey—unquestionably one of the most powerful and generous Orangemen that was ever known in Castle Cumber. Let us not for a moment be mistaken. The Orangemen of Ireland contained, and still contain among them, men of great generosity, courage, and humanity. This is undeniable and unquestionable; but then, it is well known that these men never took any part in the outrages perpetrated by the lower and grosser grades, unless to prevent outrage. In nothing, indeed, was the lamentable state of the Irish Church Establishment more painfully obvious than in the moral ignorance and brutal bigotry, which want of Christian instruction and enlightened education had entailed upon men, who otherwise have been a high-minded, brave, and liberal class, had they not been corrupted by the example of the very pastors—ungodly, loose, convivial, political, anything but Christian—from whom they were to expect their examples and their precepts. But to return. Harman having given a significant glance to Harvey, left the room, and the latter immediately followed him.

"Harvey," said he, "I have overheard the whole conversation; give me your hand, for it is that of an honest man. I thank you, I thank you—do try and prevent these ruffians from insulting the family."

"I don't think the same thing will happen a second time, Mr. Harman," replied the gigantic Orangeman; "but, the truth is, the men are half drunk, and were made so before they came here."

"Well, but I thank you, Harvey; deeply and from my soul, I thank you."

"You needn't, Mr. Harman; I hate a dirty and ungenerous thing. Phil's a brother Orangeman, and my tongue is tied—no doubt I'll be expelled for knocking these two scoundrels down, but I don't care; it was too bad and too cruel, and, let the upshot be what it may, Gordon Harvey is not the man to back a scoundrelly act, no matter who does it, or who orders it."

They shook hands cordially, and we now must leave the family for a time, to follow the course of other events that bear upon our narrative.



CHAPTER XXVII.—Bob Beatty's Last Illness

—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.



"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.



CHAPTER XXVIII.—Darby is a Spiritual Ganymede

—Preparations for the Great Discussion, which we do not give—Extraordinary Hope of a Modern Miracle—Solomon like an Angel looking into the Gospel.

On the morning of the appointed day, the walls of Castle Cumber were duly covered with placards containing the points to be discussed, and the names of the speakers on both sides of the question. The roads leading to the scene of controversy were thronged with people of all classes. Private jaunting cars, gigs, and carriages of every description, rolled rapidly along. Clergymen of every creed, various as they are, moved through the streets with eager and hurried pace, each reverend countenance marked by an anxious expression arising from the interest its possessor felt in the result of the controversy. People, in fact, of all ranks and religions, were assembled to hear the leading men on each side defend their own creeds, and assail those of their enemies. The professional men relinquished, for the day, their other engagements and avocations, in order to be present; and invalids, who had not been long out of their sick rooms, tottered down, wrapped in cloaks, to hear this great display of learning and eloquence. Early on the preceding morning, the Catholic Clergy, though without the sanction of their Bishops, formally signified to the committee of the society, their intention of meeting them man to man on the platform. Before the door was open to the crowd at large, the opposing clergymen and the more select friends on both sides were admitted by a private entrance. The gallery was set aside for ladies, who, in Ireland, and we believe everywhere else, form an immense majority at religious meetings.

When the house was thronged to suffocation, none but a man intimately acquainted with the two-fold character of the audience, could observe much more within it, than the sea of heads with which it was studded. The Protestant party looked on with a less devoted, but freer aspect; not, however, without an evident feeling and pride in the number and character of their champions. A strong dash of enthusiasm might be seen in many fair eyes among the females, who whispered to each other an occasional observation concerning their respective favorites; and then turned upon the divine champions, smiles that seemed to have been kindled by the sweet influences of love and piety. Among the Roman Catholic party there was an expression of wonder created by the novelty of the scene; of keen observation, evinced by the incessant rolling of their clear Milesian eyes from one party to another, together with something like pity and contempt for the infatuated Biblemen, as they called them, who could so madly rush upon the sharp theological spears of their own beloved clergymen. Dismay, or doubt, or apprehension of any kind, were altogether out of the question, as was evident from the proud look, the elated eye, and the confident demeanor by which each of them might be distinguished. Here and there, you might notice an able-bodied, coarse-faced Methodist Preacher, with lips like sausages, sombre visage, closely cropped hair, trimmed across his face, sighing from time to time, and, with eyes half closed, offering up a silent prayer for victory over the Scarlet Lady; or, perhaps, thinking of the fat ham and chicken, that were to constitute that day's dinner, as was not improbable, if the natural meaning were to be attached to the savory spirit with which, from time to time, he licked, or rather sucked at, his own lips. He and his class, many of whom, however, are excellent men, sat at a distance from the platform, not presuming to mingle with persons who consider them as having no title to the clerical character, except such as they conveniently bestow on each other. Not so the Presbyterian Clergymen who were present. They mingled with their brethren of the Establishment, from whom they differed only in a less easy and gentlemanly deportment, but yielded to them neither in kindness of intellect, firmness, nor the cool adroitness of men well read, and quite as well experienced in public speaking. At the skirt of the platform sat the unassuming Mr. Clement, a calm spectator of the proceedings; and in the capacity of messenger appeared. Darby O'Drive, dressed in black—he had not yet entered upon the duties of his new office—busily engaged in bringing in, and distributing oranges and other cooling fruit, to those of the Protestant party who were to address the meeting. High aloft, in the most conspicuous situation on the platform, sat Solomon M'Slime, breathing of piety, purity, and humility. He held a gilt Bible in his hands, in order to follow the parties in their scriptural quotations, and to satisfy himself of their accuracy, as well as that he might fall upon some blessed text, capable of enlarging his privileges. There was in his countenance a serene happiness, a sweet benignity, a radiance of divine triumph, partly arising from the consciousness of his own inward state, and partly from the glorious development of scriptural truth which would soon be witnessed, to the utter discomfiture of Popery and the Man of Sin. For some time before the business of the day commenced, each party was busily engaged in private conferences; in marking passages for reference, arranging notes, and fixing piles of books in the most convenient position. Mr. Lucre was in full pomp, exceedingly busy, directing, assisting, and tending their wants, with a proud courtesy, and a suavity of manner, which no man could better assume. The deportment and manners of the Roman Catholic clergy were strongly marked, and exceedingly well defined; especially in determination of character and vigor of expression. In a word, they were firm, resolute, and energetic. Among the latter, the busiest by far, and the most zealous was Father M'Cabe, who assumed among his own party much the same position that Mr. Lucre did among his. He was, no doubt of it, in great glee, and searched out for Mr. Lucre's eye, in order to have a friendly glance with him, before the play commenced. Lucre perceived this, and avoided him as much as he could; but, in fact, the thing was impossible. At length he caught the haughty parson's eye, and exclaimed with a comical grin, which was irresistible—

"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Lucre; who knows, but we may make a Christian of you yet. You know that we, as Catholics, maintain that the power of working miracles is in the Church still; and that, certainly, would prove it."

Mr. Lucre bowed, and smiled contemptuously, but made no reply.

When the chairman was appointed, and the regulations by which the meeting was to be guided, read and assented to by both parties, the melee commenced; and, indeed, we are bound to say, that a melancholy comment upon Christian charity it was. It is not our intention to give anything like a report of this celebrated discussion, inasmuch, as two reports, each the genuine and authentic one, and each most egregiously contradictory of the other, have been for several years before the public, who, consequently, have a far better right to understand the business than we do, who are at this distant date merely the remote historian.

We may be permitted to say, however, that the consequences of this great discussion were such as are necessarily produced by every exhibition of the kind. For a considerable time afterwards nothing was heard between Catholic and Protestant but fierce polemics, and all the trite and wordy arguments that are to be found in the mouths of ignorant and prejudiced men on both sides. The social harmony of the district was disturbed, and that friendly intercourse which should subsist between neighbors, was either suspended or destroyed. A fierce spirit of exacerbation and jealousy was created, and men looked Upon each other with bitterness and resentment; whilst to complete the absurdity, neither party could boast of a single convert to attest the glory of the triumph which each claimed.

At this period, the character of the Castle Cumber yeomanry corps, or as they were called, M'Clutchy's Blood-hounds, was unquestionably in such infamous odor with all but bigots, in consequence of their violence when upon duty, that a few of the more mild and benevolent gentry of the neighborhood, came to the determination of forming a corps composed of men not remarkable for the extraordinary and exclusive loyalty which put itself forth in so many offensive and oppressive forms. Deaker's Dashers were by no means of such rancid bigotry as M'Clutchy's men, although they were, heaven knows, much worse than they ought to have been.

Their most unjustifiable excesses, however, Were committed in his absence, and without his orders; for it is due to Deaker himself to say, that, although a staunch political Protestant and infidel, he never countenanced violence against those who differed from him in creed. Deaker's creed was a very peculiar one, and partook of the comic profligacy which marked his whole life. He believed, for instance, that Protestantism was necessary, but could not for the life of him understand the nature or tendency of religion. As he himself said, the three great Protestant principles and objects of his life were—to drink the "Glorious Memory "—"To hell with the Pope"—merely because he was not a Protestant—and to "die whistling the Boyne Water." If he could accomplish these successfully, he thought he had discharged his duty to his king and country, and done all that could be fairly expected from an honest and loyal Protestant. And, indeed, little, if anything else, in a religious way, was expected from him, or from any other person, at the period of which we write.

Be this, however, as it may, the formation of a new corps of cavalry was determined on, and by unanimous consent, the conduct of the matter in all its departments was entrusted to Mr. Hartley, the gentleman already mentioned, as selected to contest the county against Lord Cumber or his brother, for it had not yet been decided on between them, as to which of them should stand. Lord Cumber expected an Earldom for his virtues, with a seat in the house of Lords, and should these honors reach him in time, then his brother, the Hon. Richard Topertoe, should be put in nomination. In point of fact, matters between the two parties were fast drawing to a crisis, and it was also in some degree to balance interests with Lord Cumber, and neutralize the influence of the Irish government, that Hartley and his friends deemed it advisible to have a cavalry corps at their disposal. The day of the dissolution of parliament was now known, and it naturally became necessary that each candidate should be found at his post.

It was at this very period that a circumstance occurred, which, although of apparently small importance, was nevertheless productive of an incident that will form the catastrophe of our chronicles. Our readers cannot forget the warm language which passed between the man Sharpe and our exquisite friend, Philip M'Clutchy, on their way from Deaker's. Now, it is due to this man to say, that, on looking back at the outrage which occurred in O'Regan's cottage, and reflecting upon the melancholy consequences it produced—not forgetting the heart-rending insanity of O'Regan's wife—he felt deep regret, amounting almost to remorse, for the part which he bore in it. Independently of this, however, the conduct of Phil and his father, in their military capacity over the corps, was made up of such tyrranical insolence at one time, and of such contemptible meanness at another, that the men began to feel disgusted with such sickening alternations of swaggering authority, and base, calculating policy. Many of them, consequently, were heartily tired of their officers, and had already begun to think of withdrawing altogether from the corps, unless there were some change for the better made in it. Now, at this precise state of feeling, with regard to both circumstances, had Sharpe arrived, when he met his lieutenant on the day when that gallant gentleman signalized himself by horsewhipping his grandmother. Phil's threat had determined him to return to the Dashers, but, on hearing a day or two afterwards, that Hartley was about to raise a new corps, composed of well-conducted and orderly men, he resolved not only to offer himself to that gentleman, but to induce all who were moderate among the "hounds," and, indeed, they were not many, to accompany him. This alarmed M'Clutchy very much, because on Lord Cumber's arrival to canvass the county, it would look as if his Lordship's interests had been neglected; and he feared, too, that the withdrawing of the men from his corps might lead to investigations which were strongly to be deprecated. After a day or two's inquiries, therefore, and finding that from eighteen to twenty of his youngest and most respectable yeomanry had not only returned him their arms and appointments, but actually held themselves ready to be enrolled in the Annagh Corps—for so Hartley's was termed—he sat down and wrote the following letter to Lord Cumber:—

"Constitution Cottage, June—

"My Lord:

"Circumstances affecting your Lordship's personal and political interests have recently occurred here, and are even now occurring, which render it my painful duty to communicate with you on the subject without loss of time. I am sorry to say that the conduct of Mr. Hartley, your well known opponent for the county, is not that which becomes a high-minded man. The Cavalry Corps of which your Lordship is Colonel, and which, by the way, has rendered good service in the firm discharge of their duty, has been very much damaged by the extraordinary conduct which that gentleman is pursuing. The fact is, that he has taken it into his head, aided and assisted of course by his friends and political supporters, to raise a corps of Yeomanry Cavalry as it were, in opposition to ours; and this, no doubt, he has a right to do; although I am quite certain, at the same time, that it is done with a view to secure either the support, or at least the neutrality of government; which neutrality would, as your Lordship knows, be a heavy blow to us. However, as I said, he has as good a right as we have to raise his corps; but I do not think he is justified in writing private circulars, or in tampering with the men of our corps, many of whom he has already seduced from their duty, and lured over with honeyed words and large promises to the body he is raising. The fact is, my Lord, if our men were not so devotedly attached to my son and myself as they are, Hartley's unjustifiable interference would leave the corps a mere skeleton. As it is, he has taken eighteen of our very best men from us; by best, I allude only to youth and physical energy, for I need scarcely say, that all the staunch and loyal fellows remain with us. I am sorry to add that Mr. Hickman, as I predicted he would, is vigorously supporting your opponent; and there is a scoundrel here who is often closeted with him—a rascally painter named Easel, quem ego—you see I have a little of my Latin still, my Lord. The fellow—this wild goose, Easel, I mean—says he has come to the neighborhood to take sketches; but if I don't mistake much I shall ere long put him in a condition to sketch the Bay of Sidney. I have already reported him to government, and, indeed, I have every reason to suppose he is a Popish Agent, sent here to sow the seeds of treason and disaffection among the people. Nothing else can account for the dreadful progress which Whiteboyism has made upon your Lordship's property, where it is much more outrageous and turbulent than in any other district that I am acquainted with. I have also to acquaint you, my Lord, that even if I were disposed to keep M'Loughlin and Harman on the property—that is, granting that I were sufficiently treacherous to your interest to do so, it is now out of my power. Their own dishonesty has at length fallen upon their heads. They are bankrupts, and not now in a condition to pay a renewal fine for their leases; but I am happy to inform your Lordship, that my son Phil, and Mr. M'Slime, have each offered five hundred pounds for their respective holdings—a tender which I might in vain expect from any other quarter and which I cannot conscientiously refuse.

"Harman was acquitted for the murder of Harpur—in consequence, it is thought, of a treacherous scoundrel, named Sharpe, who was once one of our corps, having taken a bribe to give evidence in his favor. This same Sharpe is to be a sergeant in Hartley's corps; and, when I say that, Hartley and Harman are and have been on very intimate terms, I think it shows how the wind blows between them, at all events. I have been receiving rent yesterday and to-day, and cannot but regret the desperate state to which things have been brought. There is no gettin' in money, and the only consolation I feel is, that I have honestly and conscientiously discharged my duty. I have cleared a great number of our enemies from the property, but, unfortunately, such is the state of things here, that there is the greater number of the holdings still unoccupied, other tenants that we could depend on being afraid to enter upon them, in consequence of the spirit of intimidation that is abroad. This M'Loughlin is certainly a most consummate swindler: he was unable to pay his rent, and I sent in an execution yesterday; but, as every one knows, fourteen days must elapse before the public auction of property takes place. Judge of my surprise then, when, short as was the time, an affidavit has been made before me, that he and his family have come to the determination of emigrating to America, and, I suppose, by the aid of a midnight mob to take away all that is valuable of their property by force. I consequently must remove it at once, as the law, under such circumstances, empowers me to do—for I cannot sit by and suffer your lordship' to be robbed, in addition to being both misrepresented and maligned by these men and their families. Granting the full force, however, of this unpleasant intelligence, still I do not think it necessary that you should at present leave the circles of polished and fashionable life in which you move, to bury yourself here among a set of malignant barbarians, who would scruple very little to slit your lordship's weasand, or to shoot you from behind a hedge.

"I am in correspondence with Counsellor Browbeater, at the Castle, who, in addition to the glorious privilege of being, as he deserves to be, free of the Back Trot there, is besides a creature after my own heart. We are both engaged in attempting to bring the Spy System to that state of perfection which we trust may place it on a level with that fine old institution, so unjustly abused, called the Inquisition. Browbeater is, indeed, an exceedingly useful man to the present government, and does all that in him lies, I mean out of his own beat, to prevent them from running into financial extravagance. For instance, it was only the other day that he prevented a literary man with a large family from getting a pension from the Premier, who, between you and me, my lord, is no great shake; and this was done in a manner that entitles him to a very lasting remembrance indeed. The principle upon which he executed this interesting and beautiful piece of treachery—for treachery of this kind, my lord, is in the catalogue of public virtues—was well worthy of imitation by every man emulous of office; it was that of professing to be a friend to the literary man, whilst he acted the spy upon his private life, and misrepresented him to the Minister. Oh, you do not know, my lord, how the heart of such a man as I am, warms to the author of this manly act of private treachery and public virtue, and I cannot help agreeing with my friend M'Slime, who, when he heard it, exclaimed with tears of admiration in his eyes, 'it is beautiful—verily the virtuous iniquity of it refreshes me! May that mild, meek, and most gentlemanly Christian, Mr. Browbeater, be rewarded for it! And may the day never come when he shall require to tread in the footsteps of the devil!' Indeed, my lord, I cannot help crying amen to this, and adding, that the remembrance of his virtues may descend and reflect honor on his posterity, as, I have no doubt, they will do. How few like him could transfuse the spirit of the Tipperary assassin into the moral principles of the Castle, for useful purpose? I beg to inclose, your lordship, Mr. Hartley's circular, which, I think, contains an indirect reflection on certain existing bodies of a similar nature, and is therefore, in my opinion, very offensive to us; I also enclose you others which he has written to several of your tenants, who are already members of your own corps,

"I have the honor to be, &c, &c, "Val M'Clutchy."

The following is the circular alluded to above—

"Sir: As a proposal to raise an additional yeomanry corps of respectable cavalry in Castle Cumber and its vicinity is about to be submitted to the Lord Lieutenant, in order to receive his approbation, your presence is requested at Sam Company's Castle Cumber Arms, at twelve o'clock on Friday next, when it is proposed to name officers, and adopt such further measures as may appear most conducive to the embodiment of the corps with expedition and effect.

"I am, sir, "Your humble servant, "Henry Hartley."

To his letter Val received the following reply—

"Belgrave Square.

"Dear Sir: I received your letter, and perfectly agree with you as to the offensive nature of Mr. Hartley's circular, many of which I have had in my possession for some time past. With respect to him, I have only to say, that he and I have agreed to arrange that matter between us, as soon as I reach Castle Cumber. I am sorry that any of my tenants should deserve the character which M'Loughlin and his partner have received at your hand; I dare say, however, that if they did not deserve it they would not get it. The arrangements for their removal, of course I leave as I hitherto have left everything within the sphere of your duty, to your own sense of honesty and justice. Do not, however, take harsh or sudden steps. In the meantime lose not a moment in remitting the needful.

"Yours, &c, "Cumber."

It is not at all likely that Lord Cumber would ever have noticed Hartley's circular, or troubled himself about the formation of the new corps in the slightest degree were it not for the malignity of M'Clutchy, who not only hated the whole family of the Hartleys from the same principle on which a knave hates an honest man, but in remembrance of that gentleman's cousin having, in his office, and in his own presence, kicked his son Phil and pulled his nose. When enclosing the circular, therefore, to his lordship, he underlined the word "respectable," by which it was made to appear deliberately offensive. Whether it was used with the design of reflecting upon the licentious violence of the blood-hounds, we pretend not to say, but we can safely affirm that the word in the original document was never underlined by Hartley. Lord Cumber, like his old father, was no coward, and the consequence was, that having once conceived the belief that the offensive term in the circular was levelled at his own corps—although he had never even seen it—he, on the receipt of M'Clutchy's letter, came to the determination of writing to Hartley upon the subject.

Lord Cumber to Henry Hartley, Esq.:—

"Sir: I have just perused a circular written by you, calling a meeting at the Castle Cumber Arms, with the object of forming what you are pleased to term, a yeomanry corps of respectable cavalry. Now you are perfectly at liberty to bestow whatever epithets you wish upon your new corps, provided these epithets contain no unfair insinuation against existing corps. I think, therefore, that whilst others have been for some time already formed in the neighborhood, your use of the term respectable was, to say the least of it, unhandsome. I also perceive that you have written to some of my tenants, who are already enrolled in the Castle Cumber corps, and am informed that several of my men have already given up their arms and clothing, on account of an application from you to join your corps. I presume, sir, you did not know that these persons belonged to the Castle Cumber troops, for, however anxious in the cause you may be, I need not point out to you a very obvious fact—to wit—that weakening a corps already embodied only tends to defeat the purpose for which it was designed. I take it, therefore, for granted, that no gentleman, however great his influence, would ask any soldier to desert his colors, and I am sure you will tell those men that they ought to remain in the body in which they were enrolled, and in which enrollment their names have been returned to the war office. In conclusion, I think that the tenant who does not reserve to himself the power of serving the landlord under whom he derives the whole of his property, is, in my opinion, both ungrateful and unprincipled: and he who solicits him to resign that essential reservation is, I think, extremely indelicate.

"I am, &c, Cumber."

To this Mr. Hartley sent the following:—

"My Lord: I cannot at all recognize the tyrannical principle you lay down in your definition of the relations between landlord and tenant. I deny that a tenant necessarily owes any such slavish and serf-like duty to his landlord as you advocate; and I am of opinion, that the landlord who enforces, or attempts to enforce such a duty, is stretching his privileges beyond their proper limits. I do not understand that any of your lordship's tenantry have been solicited to join our new corps. I have signed circular letters for my own tenantry, and if any of them have reached yours, it has been without either my consent or knowledge.

"I have the honor to be, "My lord, &c, "Henry Hartley."

Lord Cumber to Henry Hartley, Esq.:—

"Sir: I beg to inquire whether you apply the word tyrannical to me?

"I have the honor, &c, "Cumber."

Henry Hartley, Esq., to the Eight Hon. Lord Cumber:—

"My Lord: I think if you had read my last communication with due attention, you might have perceived that I applied the term which seems to offend you, to your principles, rather than to yourself. So long as your lordship continues, however, to advocate such a principle, so long shall I associate it with the epithet in question.

"I have the honor, &c, "Henry Hartley."

Lord Cumber to Henry Hartley, Esq.:—

"Sir: Your letter merely contains a distinction without a difference. So long as I identify my principles with myself, or myself with my principles, so long shall I look upon any offence offered to the one as offered to the other. The principle, therefore, which you brand with the insulting epithet tyrannical, is one which I hold, and ever shall hold; because I believe it to be just and not tyrannical. I await your explanation, and trust it may be satisfactory.

"I have the honor to be, &c, "Cumber."

Henry Hartley, Esq., to the Eight Hon. Lord Cumber:—

"My Lord: I am not anxious to have a quarrel with you, and I believe you will admit that the courage neither of myself nor any one of my family was never called in question. I really regret that any serious misunderstanding should arise between us, from this mere play upon words. I trust, therefore, to your Lordship's good sense, and good feeling, not to press me on this occasion.

"I have the honor, &c, "Henry Hartley."

Lord Cumber to Henry Hartley, Esq.:—

"Sir: I never doubted your courage until now. I have only to say, that I beg an answer to my last letter.

"I have the honor, &c, "Cumber."

Henry Hartley, Esq., to Lord Cumber:—

"My Lord: Your Lordship will find it in my last but one.

"I have the honor, &c, &c, "Henry Hartley."

Lord Cumber to Henry Hartley, Esq.:—

"Sir: I beg to say that I shall be in Castle Cumber within a fortnight from this date, and that you shall have early and instant notice of my arrival.

"I remain, &c, "Cumber."

Henry Hartley, Esq., to Lord Cumber:—

"And I, my Lord, shall be ready to meet you either there or anywhere else,

"And have the honor, &c, "Henry Hartley."

In the meantime, and whilst this correspondence was going forward, the political reeling about Castle Cumber rose rapidly between the adherents and friends of each. M'Clutchy called a meeting of Lord Cumber's friends and his own, which was held in the public rooms of Castle Cumber. The following is the report taken from the columns of the "True Blue: "—

"At a special meeting of the committee of the Castle Cumber cavalry, held in that town on Monday, the 15th March, 18—, Lieutenant Philip M'Clutchy in the chair.

"Captain Valentine M'Clutchy having communicated to certain of the Castle Cumber corps a circular letter, as well as committee to the effect that Henry Hartley, Esq., having directed private letters, influencing them to withdraw therefrom, and join a troop which he is now about raising, and that in consequence of these steps on his part, several of the Castle Cumber troopers had deserted, and were enrolled in the new corps:—

"And Captain M'Clutchy having laid before the said Committee a copy of a letter which he had drawn up to be sent to Henry Hartley, Esq., and the Committee, having taken the same into their most serious consideration:—

"It was unanimously resolved—That any attempt to induce the defection of any members enrolled in such corps, even to join another corps, is highly injurious to the Institution at large, inasmuch, as it holds out a pernicious example of desertion, and above all, is calculated to excite a jealous electioneering spirit, and create enmity between the yeomanry troops, whose utility and value to the country depend on unanimity and mutual good will.