Mary paused for some time, and appeared very much distressed. I fear, thought she, it is selfish in me to think of my own feelings, or to have a moment's hesitation in sacrificing them to his safety. It is certainly a disgusting task to meet this man; but what ought I not to do, consistent with conscious rectitude of motive, to save my dear Harman's life, for I fear the circumstances come to that.

"Well, then, Poll, if I meet this man, mark me, it is solely for the purpose of striving to save Mr. Harman's life; and observe, because Mr. M'Clutchy is ungenerous enough to make my meeting him the condition of his interference."

"That," said Poll, "is for yourself to consider; but surely you would be a strange girl, if you refused to meet him for such a purpose. That would be a quare way of showing your love to Mr. Harman."

"I shall meet him, then," said Mary, "at the stile behind the garden; and may God direct and protect me in what I purpose!"

Poll gave no amen, to this, as it might be supposed she would have done, but simply said—

"I'm glad, Miss M'Loughlin, that you're doin' what you are doin'. It'll be a comfort maybe to yourself to reflect on it hereafther. Good night, Miss."

Mary bade her good night, and after closing the shutters of her room which she had come to do, retired; and with an anxious heart returned to the parlor.

M'Loughlin's family consisted of three sons and but one daughter, Mary, with whom our readers are already acquainted. The eldest, James, was a fine young man of twenty-three; the second, Tom, was younger than Mary, who then was entering her twenty-first; and the youngest, called Brian, after his father, was only eighteen. The honest fellow's brow was clouded with a deep expression of melancholy, and he sat for some time silent after Mary's return to the parlor. At length he said in a kind of soliloquy—

"I wish, Raymond-na-hattha, you had been behind the Slievbeen Mountains that bitter morning you came for James Harman!"

"If he had," said Tom, "poor James wouldn't be where he is to-night."

"But I hope, father," said Mary, in a voice which though it trembled a little, yet expressed a certain portion of confidence—"I hope as it was an accident, that there will not be any serious risk."

"I would be sorry to take any hope out of your heart that's in it, Mary; but, still, I can't forget that Val the Vulture's his bitterest enemy—and we all know what he's capable of doing. His son, too, graceful Phil, is still worse against him than the father, especially ever since Harman pulled his nose for what he said of Mary here. Did I ever mention it to you?"

"No, sir," replied Mary, coloring without exactly knowing why, "you never did."

"I was present," said young Brian, "but it wasn't so much for what he said, for he got afraid, but the way he looked."

"The scoundrel," said James, indignantly, "well Brian—"

"'Twas at the Ball Alley," proceeded the young fellow, "in Castle Cumber; Mary was passing homewards, and Phil was speaking to long Tom Sharpe, father to one of the blood-hounds. 'That's a purty girl,' said Sharpe, 'who is she?' 'Oh,' says Phil, 'an acquaintance of mine—but I can say no more honor bright,' and he winked one of his squinting eyes as he spoke. James Harman who was standing behind him stepped forward, 'but I can say more,' said he, 'she's daughter to Brian M'Loughlin, and no acquaintance of yours—and what is more, never will be; ay, and what is more,' said James, 'here's a proof of it;' and as he spoke he pulled Phil's proboscis, and then wiped his fingers in his purty face. 'Now, you cowardly scoundrel,' he added, 'let that teach you not to speak of any respectable female in such a tone, or to claim an acquaintance where you have it not.'"

"Never mind, my good fellow," said Phil, "I'll make you smoke for this."

"You know where I'm to be found," said James, "and your remedy too; but you haven't the spirit to take it like a man—and so I leave you with the white feather in your cap."

This anecdote for various reasons distressed Mary beyond relief. It increased her detestation of young M'Clutchy to the highest possible pitch, and rendered the very thought of him doubly odious to her heart. Her understanding became bewildered, and for a while she knew not what she said or did. Taking a candle and attempting to conceal her agitation, she withdrew again to her own room, where she sat for nearly half an hour endeavoring to shape her tumultuous thoughts into something of clearness and order.

M'Loughlin's brow, however, after her departure, still remained clouded. "Misfortunes they say," said he, "never come single; here is our lease out, and we will not get a renewal notwithstanding the fine we offered—and to mend the matter some good friend has spread a report that the firm of M'Loughlin and Harman is unsafe. Our creditors are coming down upon us fast—but it's the way of the world, every one striving to keep himself safe. If these men were not set upon us by some coward in the dark there would be neither loss nor risk to them nor to us; but if they press on us out of the usual course, I fear we won't be able to stand it. Then poor Harman, too! heighonee!" After some further conversation, in which it was clear that M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's manoeuvres had begun to develop themselves, Mary rejoined them. Her countenance on her return was evidently more composed, and impressed with a more decided, perhaps we should say, determined character. She had made her mind up. M'Clutchy, junior, was no doubt one of the most detastable of men, but as she knew that she hated him, and felt a perfect consciousness of all that was truthful, and pure, and cautious in herself, she came once more to the resolution of sacrificing her own disgust to the noble object of saving her lover. Besides, it was by no means an unreasonable hope on her part; for such was the state of party and political feeling at the time, that wiser and more experienced heads would have calculated rightly, and calculated as she did.

"Father," said she, on returning to the parlor, "don't be cast down too much about Harman—I think, considering everything, that his case is far from being hopeless. There is Father Roche—as for poor Mary O'Regan, in consequence of her insanity, she unfortunately can be of no use—and one of the blood-hounds are against the two others. Now, two to two, is surely strong evidence in his favor."

She did not, however, make the slightest allusion to the grounds on which she actually did rest her hope—that is to say, on Phil's influence over his father.

M'Loughlin was glad to see that her spirits were so much more improved than they had been; and so far from uttering anything calculated, to depress them, he appeared to feel much more easy in his mind than before—and, perhaps, actually did so.

"Well," said he to his wife, who was a woman of few words but deep feeling; "Kathleen, will you see that we get a glass of punch—the boys and I; there can be no harm surely in drinking a ———; but it's time enough to drink it when we see the liquor before us. Mary, avourneen, as you are activer than your mother, will you undertake that duty?—do, avillish machree."

In a few minutes Mary quietly but actively had the decanter, sugar, and hot water before them; and Brian, having mixed a tumbler for himself, and shoved the materials over to his two eldest boys, resumed the conversation.

"Come, boys; are you mixed?"

"All ready, sir."

"Well, here's that James Harman may triumph over his enemies!"

This was drank, we need not say, with an anxious and sincere heart.

"Do you know now," said M'Loughlin, "that I think there's a very great difference between little M'Slime, and that Vulture of hell, M'Clutchy. The little fellow came riding past to-day, and seeing me in the field, he beckoned to me:—

"'I hope,' says he, 'that certain reports, which I was sorry to hear of, are unfounded?'

"'What reports, Mr. M'Slime?' says I to him.

"'Why,' said he, 'it is not out of idle curiosity that I make the inquiry, but I trust from better and more Christian motives;' and, upon my conscience, the little fellow turned up his eyes towards heaven, in a way that would shame Father Roche himself. Faith, if there wasn't truth there, I don't know where you could get it. 'The reports I speak of,' says he, 'touch the solvency of your firm.'

"'Able to pay fifty shillings in a pound,' said I, not willing to encourage the outcry.

"'I'm delighted to hear it,' says generous little Solomon; 'but all I have to say is, that if it had been otherwise, or should it actually be otherwise, so far as a few hundred pounds go, you may draw upon a man—a sinner—a frail mortal and an unworthy—named Solomon M'Slime. This,' he went on, 'is not mere worldly friendship, Mr. M'Loughlin, that promises much until the necessity arrives, and then do all such promises flee as it were into the wilderness. No, my friend,' says the warm-hearted little saint, 'no my friend, these offers are founded not on my own strength, so to say, but upon those blessed precepts, Mr. M'Loughlin, which teach us to love our neighbors as ourselves—and to do unto others even as we wish they should do unto us.' He squeezed my hand, and whispered in my ear—'As far as three hundred pounds go, should you require it, rely on me; but harkee,' says he, 'and now,'—well, here's his health—'and now,' says he, 'and now,'—oh! I knew he was in earnest—'and now,' says he, 'one word with you—I trust—I hope, I may say, that I am a Christian man, who would not speak aught against my neighbor; but this, out of a principle of Christian kindness, I will say;—beware of Valentine M'Clutchy. It is known there!' said he, pointing his finger, and turning up his eyes to heaven—'it is known there from what motives I speak this. I am glad I saw thee—peace be with thee—farewell, and do not despise or overlook my services, or my poor sinful offers.'"

"Now," said the simple-minded but upright and unsuspicious man, "I do say that was no every-day offer. I would be glad to hear M'Clutchy make such an offer to any man—for which reason here's little Solomon's health once more, and long life to him!"



CHAPTER X.—A Dutiful Grandson and a Respectable Grandmother

—Military Dialogue —Disobedience of Orders—Solomon's Candor—A Confidential Communication—Solomon Dances the Swaggering jig—Honest Correspondence—Darby's Motion of Spiritual Things—Two Religions Better than One—Darby's Love of Truth.

We believe our readers may understand, that although we have ourselves taken the liberty of insinuating that little Solomon, as M'Loughlin called him, was not precisely—but we beg pardon, it is time enough to speak of that yet. All we have to say in the mean time is, that Solomon's character, up to the period we speak of, was not merely spotless, but a burning and a shining light in the eyes of all the saints and sinners of the religious world, not only in Castle Cumber, but in the metropolis itself. Solomon was an Elder of his congregation, in which Sabbath after Sabbath he took his usual prominent part as collector—raised the psalms—sang loudest—and whenever the minister alluded to the mercy that was extended to sinners, Solomon's groan of humility—of sympathy with the frail, and of despair for the impenitent; his groan, we say, under these varied intimations of Gospel truth, was more than a sermon in itself. It not only proclaimed to the whole congregation that he was a sinner, but that he felt for sinners—rejoiced in their repentance, which he often did in a nondescript scream, between a groan and a cackle of holy joy, that alarmed the congregation; but also wept for their hardness of heart, when he imagined that it was likely to terminate in final reprobation, with such a pathetic fervency, that on many such occasions some of those who sat beside him were obliged to whisper—"Brother M'Slime, you are too much overcome—too piously excited—do not allow yourself to exhibit such an excess of Christian sympathy, or there will be many instances among the weaker vessels of relapses and backslidings, from not understanding that it is more for others thou art feeling than for thyself."

Solomon then took his hands from before his face, wiped his eyes with his handkerchief on which they had been embedded, and with a serene and rather heavenly countenance looked up to the preacher, then closing his eyes as if in a state of ethereal enjoyment, he clasped his hands with a sweet smile, twirling his thumbs and bowing his head, as the speaker closed every paragraph of the discourse.

These observations account very plainly for the opinions touching Solomon which were expressed by M'Loughlin. Solomon was at this time an unadulterated saint—a professor—in fact one of the elect who had cast his anchor sure. But as the proverb gays, time will tell.

That night M'Loughlin and his family retired to bed for the first time overshadowed, as it were, by a gloomy presentiment of some change, which disturbed and depressed their hearts. They slept, however, in peace and tranquillity, free from those snake-like pangs which coil themselves around guilt, and deaden its tendencies to remorse, whilst they envenom its baser and blacker purposes.

M'Slime himself at this crisis was beginning privately to feel some of the very natural consequences of his own oft acknowledged frailty. Phil, who had just left Constitution Cottage a few minutes before Darby's arrival, had not seen him that morning. The day before he had called upon his grandfather, who told him out of the pallor window to "go to h—-; you may call tomorrow, you cowardly whelp, if you wish to see me—but in the meantime," he added as before, "go where I desired you."

Phil, who possessed a great deal of his father's selfishness and also of his low cunning, but none at all of his ability, turned back indignantly and rode home again. He had not passed more than about a hundred yards from the avenue out into the highway, when he met Sharpe, one of the heroes of the cabin.

We shall not detail their conversation, which, of course, embraced many of the circumstances connected with their duties, excepting a few interjectional imprecations which Phil in an occasional parenthesis dutifully bestowed upon his grandfather.

"So, Sharpe, the fool Rimon made such a devil of a fight (the infernal old scoundrel)—and took the gun."

"Why, Captain Phil, if he hasn't the strength of ten men, I'll never manoeuvre on parade while I live—he's a bloody rascal."

"(A double distilled old scoundrel, and I wish the devil had him,)—he's a bad bird, Sharpe, fool and all as he is, there's no doubt of that. What did the priest do?"

"Why, your honor, I can't say that he took much part in it, barrin' once that he went between us and the woman."

"He had no right to do that—(the blaspheming old vagabond,)—none at all, Sharpe, and he ought to be prosecuted."

"He ought, Captain, and will, I hope."

"But then, Shaj-pe, if we swing Harman it will be enough, for Harman—(he'll fiz for it, and that soon I hope)—is another bad bird."

"Oh, devil a worse, Captain, but even if he escapes us now, we'll manage him yet."

They now came to a turn in the road, and found themselves at a bridge, a little beyond which two roads met. On approaching, they observed an old woman sitting on a large stone that lay a little beyond the arch. She was meagrely and poorly dressed, had no cap on, her gray locks were only bound by a red ribbon that encircled her head, but did not confine her hair, which floated in large masses about her shoulders, a circumstance that added to the startling vehemence of character that appeared in her face, and gave to her whole person an expression which could not be overlooked. When they had come up to where she sat, and were about to pass without further notice, she started up, and with steps surprisingly rapid, and full of energy, seized upon. Phil's bridle.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I saw you going, and I see you coming, but you cannot tell me that he is dead. No, the death damp of his blaspheming carcase is not yet on the air, because if it was," and she turned her nose against the wind, like a hound, "I would snuff it. No, no; he is not gone, but he will soon go, and what a catalogue of crimes will follow after him! The man's conscience is a gaol where every thought and wish of his guilty life and godless heart is a felon; and the blackest calendar that ever was spread before God was his. Oh! I wonder do the chains in his conscience rattle? they do, but his ears are deaf, and he doesn't hear them; but he will, and feel them too, yet."

Phil, who had got alarmed at the extraordinary energy of her manner, as well as of her language, said, "what do you want, and who are you speaking of?"

"Who am I speaking of? who should I be speaking of but of old Deaker, the blasphemer?—and who am I speaking to but the son of the ungodly villain who threatened to horsewhip the mother that bore him. Do you know me now?"

"Let go my bridle," exclaimed Phil, "let go my bridle, you old faggot, or upon my honor and soul I'll give you a cut of my whip."

"No," she replied, no whit daunted, "no, I'm near my eightieth year. I'm old, and wrinkled, and gray—my memory forgets everything now but my own crimes, and the crimes of those that are still worse than myself—old I am, and wicked, and unrepenting—but I shall yet live to pour the curses that rise out of an ill-spent life into his dying oar, until his very soul will feel the scorches of perdition before its everlasting tortures come upon it in hell. I am old," she proceeded, "but I will yet live to see the son that cursed his mother, and threatened to raise his sacrilegious hand against her that bore him, laid down like a tree, rooted up and lopped—lying like a rotten log, without sap, without strength, and only fit to be cut up and cast into the fire. I am old," she replied, "but I shall live to see out the guilty race of you all."

"Go to the devil, you croaking old vagabond," exclaimed Phil, raising his whip, and letting it fall upon her almost naked shoulders, with a force as unmanly, as it was cruel, and impious, and shocking.

She uttered a scream of anguish, and writhed several times, until her eyes became filled with tears. "My cup is not full yet," she exclaimed, sobbing, "neither is yours, but it soon will be, you knew me well when you gave that blow; but go now, and see how you'll prosper after it."

Sharpe, even Sharpe, felt shocked at the cowardly spirit which could inflict such an outrage upon old age, under any circumstances; but much less under those which even he understood so well.

"Captain," said he, "if it was only for the credit of the Castle Cumber cavalry, I'm sorry that you gave that blow; those men on the other side of the road there were looking at you, and you may take my word it will spread."

"How dare you speak to me in that style?" asked Phil in a rage, and availing himself of his authority over him, "what is it your business, Sharpe? Sharpe, you're a scoundrel, for speaking to me in this style—damn my honor and blood, but you are. What do you know about that old vagabond?"

"Captain," said Sharpe, who was a sturdy fellow in his way, "I'm no scoundrel; and I do know that you have just horsewhipped your notorious ould grandmother."

"Fall back," said Phil, "and consider yourself arrested."

"Arrest and be hanged," replied Sharpe, "I don't care a fig about you—I was in Deaker's corps this many a year, and if you attempt to come the officer over me, let me tell you you're mistaken. We're not on duty now, my buck, and you have no more authority over me than you have over the devil—me a scoundrel! my good fellow, I know who is the scoundrel."

"My good fellow! Damn my honor and blood, do you apply that to me?"

"No, I don't," said Sharpe, "for you're a cursed bad fellow, and no gentleman—didn't Harman pull your nose in Castle Cumber, and you wanted the courage then that you had for your ould grandmother—me, a scoundrel!"

"I'll tell you what, Sharpe; is this respect, sir, to your commanding officer? Sharpe I'll mark you out for this."

"Don't you know," replied Sharpe, "that two of us c&n play at that game; you had better keep yourself quiet, if you're wise—a man that's in the habit of getting his nose pulled should be very inoffensive."

"Very well," said gallant Phil, "I'll say no more, but—" He then put spurs to handsome Harry, and rode off, full of vengeance against Sharpe, and of indignation at the contumelious reception he experienced at the hands of his grandfather.

Val's letter to M'Slime was, as our readers know, anything but an index to the state of regard in which he held that worthy gentleman. As we said, however, that ground was beginning to break a little under his feet, in spite of all his unction and Christian charity, we shall, while Darby is on his way to deliver his letter, take that opportunity of detailing a conversation between honest Solomon and Poll Doolin, upon one or two topics connected with our tale.

"Sam," said Solomon to his clerk, "you were not present with us at prayer this morning! You know we do not join in family worship until you come; and it is but our duty to take an interest in your spiritual welfare. In the meantime, I should regret, for your own sake, that anything in the shape of a falling away from your opportunities should appear in you. I speak now as your friend, Sam, not as your master—nay, rather as your brother, Sam—as a man who is not without his own lapses and infirmities, but who still trusts—though not by his own strength—that he may be looked upon, in some faint degree, as an example of what a man, wrestling with the cares and trials of life, ought at, least, to strive to be. To Him be the praise!"

"I certainly overslept myself this morning, sir—that is the truth."

"Yes, Sam; sloth is one of the disguises under which the enemy often assails and overcomes us. But to business, Sam. There is an old woman in Castle Cumber, whose name I scarcely remember. She goes dressed in faded black, and has a son, to whom, for wise purposes of course, it pleased Him to deny a full measure of ordinary sense?"

"Poll Doolin, sir, the old child-cadger, and her foolish son, Raymond of the hats."

"Don't say foolish, Sam; don't say foolish—we know not well what the true difference between wisdom and folly is, nor how much wisdom is manifested in the peculiar state of this person. We know not, indeed, whether what we blindly, perhaps, term folly, may not be a gift to be thankful for. You know the Word says, that the wisdom of man is foolishness before God. Our duty therefore is, to be thankful and humble."

"Well, sir; but about Poll Doolin, the child-cadger?"

"Child-cadger! that is a term I don't understand, Sam."

"Why, sir, it means a woman who carries—"

"Sam, hold; if it be associated with human frailty, it is best left unspoken. The woman, however, be she what she may—and I know not what she is—but that she is a responsible being—a partaker of our common nature, and is entitled to our sympathy. She is, I understand, in some difficulty, out of which, it seems, professional advice may help to take her. I expect her, therefore, about this time; and will you, Samuel, just stand at that window, and when you see her approach the house, do just, quietly, and without noise, open the hall door. Something has occurred to discompose the Christian tone which usually prevails in our household; and poor Susanna is going. But, at all events, Sam, you are aware, it is said, that we ought not to let our left hand know what our right hand doeth."

"I know the text, sir, well; it ends with—'and he that giveth in secret, will reward thee openly.'"

"He—hem—ahem! yes it does so end; heigho! I feel, Sam, slightly depressed in spirit, as it were, and moved, as if somewhat of my usual support were withdrawn from me."

"Here she is, sir," said Sam.

"Very well, Sam; please to let her in as quietly as may be, and then take this declaration to the back office, and copy it as soon as you can—it is of importance. We should always endeavor to render services to our fellow creatures."

In the mean time, Sam very softly opened the hall door, and the next moment Poll entered.

Solomon, as usual, was certainly seated at his office, and held his features composed and serious to a degree; still, in spite of everything he could do, there was an expression half of embarrassment, and half of the very slightest perceptible tendency to a waggish simile, we can scarcely call it—but, whatever it might be, there it certainly was, betraying to Poll, in spite of all his efforts, that there was still the least tincture imaginable of human frailty associated with such a vast mass of sanctity.

Polly, when she entered, took a seat, and loosening the strings of her bonnet, raised it a little, and without uttering a word sat silently looking in M'Slime's face, with a very comic and significant expression on her own.

"No, Polly," said he, with a serious smile, "no, you are mistaken indeed—frail we all are, I grant you; but in this case am acting for another. No, no, Polly—I trust those days of vanity are gone."

"Well, then, what else am I to do? I sent the reports abroad about M'Loughlin and Harman's being about to break; and of M'Loughlin I'll soon have my revenge, by the way—I and somebody else have the train laid for it."

"Polly, it was from no unchristian spirit of ill-will to them—for I trust that of such a spirit I am incapable—but to prevent them, by an unjust act, from injuring, perhaps from ruining others. That is my motive; but, at the same time, the whole matter is understood to be strictly confidential between you and me."

"Don't you know, Mr. M'Slime, that when there was an occasion for trustin' me, I didn't betray you to the world?"

"No—you did not; and it is for that reason that I trust you now."

"Ay, and you may, too; honor bright is my motive. You remember the day you passed Darby O'Drive and me, on our way to M'Clutchy's? Did I pretend to know you then?"

"You acted then, Poll, with great and commendable discretion, which you will please to remember I did not overlook."

"No," said Poll, "you behaved decently enough."

"But observe me now, Poll; if this report concerning the firm of M'Loughlin and Harman should by any possibility be traced to us, or rather to yourself, and that you should be pressed to disclose it, which, of course, you could not be; but if a weak moment should ever come—it is best then to speak the truth, and put the saddle as they rather profanely say, upon Valentine M'Clutchy, the right horse here."

"Upon M'Clutchy! why bad as he is, he never opened his lips to me on this subject."

"But he did to me, Poll, because it was from him I first heard the suggestion; so that in point of truth and justice, you are bound by your own conscience, or you ought at least—to lay it at his door—and that now you understand better"—he smiled a little as he uttered these words—"But why don't you get a better bonnet, that one is very shabby?"

"It's aisier said than done," replied Poll, "the poor must always look poor, and will too."

"There then, are ten shillings, Poll; bestow them on that, or on any other purpose you prefer."

"Thank you, Mr. M'Slime, troth in the little job I did for you at our first acquaintance I found you—any way not worse than another. Well, but you can't desave me now—I see it in your eye—you have something else to say to me."

"Oh, nothing to signify. Merely a serious young person would wish to remove for change of air to some quiet nook until health—which, indeed, is the chiefest of temporal blessings, might be recovered."

"Man or woman?"

"A serious young woman, Poll."

"I see, I see, Mr. M'Slime; I know nothing more about it."

"Poll, listen—I shall no longer withhold confidence from you in this matter—unfortunately a member, indeed, I may say, two of our congregation have had a woeful fall. He ranks very high in it, and this is an act of the greater Christian friendship in me, inasmuch as in undertaking the management of this for him, I certainly run great risks of suffering in my own reputation. I cannot name him, for that would be a breach of confidence in me, but you are called upon to perform the duty required, and through me he shall compensate you for your trouble."

"Very well," replied Poll, "it must be done—and I can tell him whoever he is, that he could not come to any one that understands such matters betther."

"Good morning, Poll! Let me hear from you as soon as you can. Peace be with thee! but Poll, remember one thing, Harman and the M'Loughlins are going to America." Poll nodded significantly, but made no reply.

The moment she had gone, which she did by the aid of Solomon himself, who opened and closed the hall door after her, with a quietness of manner that seemed to communicate oil to the hinges themselves, he touched the bell, and in due time Susanna looked in.

"You rang, sir," said she.

"That arrangement is made;" said he, "so far all is well, or nearly so—go now." Susanna immediately withdrew, the few words he said seeming to have diffused sunshine into a face which appeared doubly serious.

When she was gone, Solomon laid his head down upon the desk before him, and remained in that position for some time. At length without at all raising it he began to play his knuckles against the lid, with a degree of alacrity which would not have disgraced the activity of a sleight-of-hand man. He at last rose, drew a long breath, and wore a very smiling face; but this was not all—O sanctity! O religion! Instead of going to his Bible, as one would imagine he ought to have done, instead of even taking up a psalm-book, and indulging in a spiritual song, he absolutely commenced whistling the Swaggering Jig, which he accompanied with as nimble a foot, and in as good time as if he had been a dancing-master all his life.

"Ah," said he, "I could have done it once, and would like to do it still, only for this wicked and censorious world." A knock from Darby O'Drive recalled him to a perception of his gifts, and when Darby entered he looked calm and serious as usual. Little could Darby have imagined, although perfectly aware of M'Slime's knavery, that the pious little man had just concluded "a short exercise," in performing the Swaggering Jig. As it was, however, he found him in a state which might either be termed a religious meditation, or an intense application to business—a Bible being on the one hand, and a brief on the other; but to which of the two he had devoted himself, neither Darby, nor indeed any one else, could guess. There, however, he sat, a kind of holy link between the law and the gospel.

When Darby entered, and delivered the letter, M'Slime on receiving it exclaimed, "Ah, from my excellent friend, M'Clutchy. Sit down, Darby, sit down, and whilst I am casting my eye over this note, do now, in order that we may make the most of our opportunities, do, I say, Darby, just read a chapter in this—" handing him over the Bible as he spoke. In the meantime he read as follows:—

"Strictly confidential.

"My Dear M'Slime:

"In order that the thing may be done as much in the shape and form of a matter of business as possible, don't you think it would be well for you, as Harman's lease has expired, to send me a regular written proposal for it—which proposal I may be able to show in justification of myself, should anything unfavorable turn up afterwards. Harman's offer was just double yours, but that is burnt; of course you will also burn this when you have read it. Your offer of assistance to M'Loughlin was well thought of; and even if we never, I mean you, should be paid, you are still a gainer by two hundred pounds. Each has offered a thousand a piece to have the leases renewed at the present rent; you give five hundred, very good suppose you lose three—that is, suppose M'Loughlin is driven, as, please God, he shall be, to allow you to accept a bill for three hundred—don't you see that you are still two hundred in pocket; no, I am wrong, not two but seven hundred. You can therefore well afford to lose three by the transaction, although, as I have said, it is not, in point of fact, losing three, but gaining seven, or at least five. Phil has also sent me a written proposal, which I will keep, but M'Loughlin's is gone the way of Harman's, as a matter of prudence. As for the private consideration between us, that is only to be glanced at. I give you my honor that Phil has tendered me two hundred, which I will not take, of course, either from you or him until the premises are cleared of the present tenants, This must be done very soon, and, I think it is much to be wished that Harman, who is a choleric scoundrel, should be put out of the way, if possible, If he is transported it will save us a good deal of annoyance. I should regret a meeting between him and Phil very much. Phil tells me that he once pulled his, Harman's, nose, and it is very natural that he should bear him a grudge for it. There is half a year's rent due this day, and the term mentioned in the notice to quit, expires next week. So far, then, all is right; we have them in our power, and can proceed safely. Parliament will, it is well ascertained, be certainly dissolved about the end of May next, so that we must work double tides to bring in his Lordship. There is a devilish spirit abroad, however, which will occasion us much trouble; but I cannot agree with you about renewing the leases, notwithstanding. It is just doing by those who are obstinate and ill-disposed, precisely as we ought; that is, holding a whip over their heads, and assuring them that we shall let it fall with rigor, unless they are agreeable as they ought. The Hon. Richard Topertoe is in London, but, between you and me, it matters little where he is; you may judge of what an intermeddling fool he must be, when he had the presumption to urge his Lordship to come to his native land, and live on his estate. This d——d Ribbonism and outrage, in spite of all our efforts, are still increasing; I think, however, that I shall be able to make a pounce some of these days. I have my spies at work, and let me tell you, that talk as they may, about its treachery and rascality, the spy system is an admirable one; in fact, it is like a two-edged sword, and cuts both ways, just as you wish. If, for instance, you cannot find Ribbonism made to your hand, you may make it—that is, you can corrupt first, and betray afterwards; which, at critical moments is unquestionably (I say this between ourselves) a decided advantage. By the by, my dear Solomon, the force of religion must be singularly strong and impressive in your life and conduct, when you have been able so wholesomely to influence that rascal bailiff of ours, Darby O'Drive. I have seldom, indeed, never witnessed so striking a change as you have produced in him; to tell you the truth, I felt a little chagrined and jealous about it; but as he owes us a kind of divided allegiance, I must rest contented.

"Believe me to be, my dear M'Slime, "Yours affectionately and faithfully, "Val M'Clutchy, J.P."

To this, while Darby was tooth and nail at the Bible, Solomon wrote the following reply—

"My Dear M'Clutchy:

"I have just read your letter of this date, and agree with you in the necessity and propriety of my sending you a written proposal which you can show at a future time, in order to justify yourself should it be necessary so to do. I also need not say that your conduct in destroying the proposals of M'Loughlin and Harman was equally creditable to your head and heart. Prudence and discretion, my dear Val, are not virtues of every day occurrence, and as to giving the preference to a Christian friend, I do not see how a man as you are, with a strong sense of religion, could without injuring your conscience avoid it. What is it after all, my dear friend, but a spoiling of the Egyptians, as holy Moses did, when about to lead the children of Israel from bondage. In that case it was what may be termed in these our days a description of justifiable theft, such as many professors of the word do, in matters of business, feel themselves warranted even now in imitating. It requires, however, to be done carefully, and within the freedom of the perfect law; but, by no means, with a worldly or secular spirit, otherwise it will be deprived of that unction which renders the act a gracious exemplification of our Christian privileges, instead of a departure from rectitude, which it would be if committed by an ungodly person. These are distinctions, my dear friend, which I grant you is not permitted to many to make—only, indeed, I may humbly and fearfully say to such as have by long wrestling with the spirit been able to see truth, when the inward eye has been purged from the grossness of passion, for which to Him be praise and power. Amen! I herewith enclose you the proposal formally made, and will be ready to hand over the two hundred Christian manifestations of my gratitude at the proper season. As to Lord Cumber being a loser by the transaction, such a loss must have been, we are bound to hope, shaped out for him as a punishment inflicted for gracious purposes. It is true he is ignorant of it, and I trust he shall remain so; but then we know that many a blessing comes to us in deep disguise, and that many a dispensation which we look upon as a favor from above, is far from being so. If, then, it be true that this thing is vouchsafed to him as a hidden blessing, let us be thankful that we have been selected as the unworthy means through whom he is made to receive it; or if it comes to him as a punishment, still it is our duty to reflect that we are merely the instruments through whose frailties, or virtues, as the case may be, he is visited, and that from the beginning this and many other acts which a blind unenlightened world might censure, were ordained for us, in order that the perfect scheme of Providence might be fulfilled.

"With respect to the spy system, I do agree with you fully. Many things must be done in secret, which the perversity of the world will not bear to hear of without committing sin. For instance, my dear Val, in sowing your crop of loyalty, so to speak, it might not, perhaps, be wrong—I am speaking, now observe, with reference to the cunning of the serpent, which you know we are enjoined to have, and if to have, of course to use when necessary; it might not, perhaps, be wrong I say, to cast a tare or two, if only for the purpose of employing our friends and fellow creatures to pull them, out again. It is as it were, giving the idle employment, and enabling ourselves in the mean time to gather an abundant harvest into our own garners.

"With respect to Darby, I trust, that if my unworthy example and earnest precept have been successful in rescuing him from the bonds of error and sin—but what is still more dangerous, from the damnable thrall of Popery—it is not for me to vainly extol myself therefor. His conversion, however, will, I trust, be edifying to that interesting, but neglected class, the bailiffs of Ireland. With reference to them, I am engaged during the very few leisure hours that I can steal—so to speak—from my professional employment, in writing a second tract especially for their improvement. It will be appropriately called, The Bailiff's Beacon or a Strengthener for tender Consciences, By their friend and brother Christian, Solomon M'Slime, Attorney at Law.

"Verily, my lines have been made to fall in pleasant places. On yesterday, I had the satisfaction to be appointed soul agent to the Religious Cosmopolitan Assurance Association, being a branch of the Grand Junction Spiritual Railway Society for travellers to a better world. The salary is liberal, but the appointment—especially to a man of sincere principles—is full of care and responsibility. Allow me, my dear Val, to recommend you and your friends to purchase shares in the Spiritual Railway Society—it is under Him the safest of all associations yet established. The arrangements are admirably adapted for the projects in view. All the seats are delightfully soft, and as somnolent as church pews, to which they bear a close resemblance. The machine men, and all those appointed to situations on the line, are mostly in orders; but belong to different denominations. The scheme originated in Oxford, and has spread rapidly throughout the length and breadth of the land. Several of the stokers are bishops, and the reverend feeders discharge their respective duties with singular effect. It is hoped besides, that it may, under divine guidance, be the glorious means of bringing Popery within the influence of truth, whilst its enemies—for it has enemies—as who has not—its enemies assert that whether it shall take in Popery, or Popery take in it, is a matter very difficult to be determined.

"They are also exceedingly expert at tract writing, which they perform, if I may say so, without boasting or vanity, very much in my own spirit. Poor Susanna is ailing—I mean a serious young person in our family who tended our little olive branches and understood my habits. She is leaving us, and I shall miss her, for I am one of those persons, my dear friend, who have a heart for—and I trust I may say, that can sympathize with—my fellow creatures, however humble. Do you remember that I once availed myself of a Christian privilege, to mention between us the subject of family prayer?

"I remain, my dear M'Clutchy, with, may I hope, a few of the graces of my calling—an earnest wrestler against sin,

"Solomon M'Slime."

"Now, Darby," said he, having folded the letter enclosing his tender for Harman's farm, and handed, it to him, "now, that so much is despatched, I trust we may have a word or two upon a subject of still higher importance. How do you feel in a spiritual way?—Are your views as clear as ever?—are you supported—I mean inwardly, for that is the only true support after all?"

"Thrath, Mr. M'Slime, I'm afeard to spake, sir, for fraid I'd say either more or less than the truth."

"That is a good sign, Darby, but you must avoid profane swearing, which is a habit you contracted when in the bonds of iniquity; but you must reform it—or rather, grace will be given you to reform it."

"I hope so," replied Darby, "and that I'll still get a clearer knowledge of the truth, plaise Goodness."

Darby, as he uttered these words, would have given a trifle to have had M'Clutchy to look at. Little did Solomon suspect the truth to which his convert alluded.

"May it in charity be granted!" exclaimed Solomon, slightly twitching up his eyebrows. "But, Darby, will you be properly prepared on next Sabbath (D.V.) to bear strong testimony against error and idolatry?"

"Why, I'll do my best, sir," replied Darby, "and you know the best can do no more."

"Well, but you can faithfully say that you are utterly free from every taint of Popery."

"Faith, sir, I don't know that that would be altogether prudent. Did you never hear of the ould proverb, sir—not to throw out the dirty water till you get in the clane—I'm not sure that I have a sufficient grip of the new light yet," said Darby, falling unconsciously into his usual style of conversation, "but, I hope that by next Sunday, I'll be able to shine;—an', be me sowl, if I don't, sir, it'll be none o' my fawt—divil resave the purtier convert in Europe than I'll make when I come to know a little about it."

"Darby," said Solomon, impatiently, "this is really very trying to one so anxious for your spiritual welfare as I am. This awful swearing—I really fear that some of your light has been withdrawn since our last interview."

"Not at all unlikely," replied Darby; "but wid great submission, don't you think, sir, that two religions is betther than one?"

"How do you mean by adverting to such an impossibility?"

"Why, sir, suppose I kept the ould one, and joined this new reformation to it, wouldn't I have two chances instead o' one?"

"Darby," said Solomon, "avoid, or rather Pray that you may be enabled to avoid the enemy; for I fear he is leading you into a darker error. I tell you—I say unto you—that you would be much better to have no religion than the Popish. You have reminded me of one proverb, suffer me to remind you of another; do you not know, to speak in a worldly figure, that an empty house is better than a bad tenant? why, I looked on you with pride, with a kind of and joy as one wilom I had wrestled for, and won from the enemy; but I fear you are elapsing."

"I hope in God sir," very gravely, "that you and he won't have to toss up for me; for I feel myself sometimes one thing, and sometimes the other."

"Ah!" replied Solomon, "I fear I must give you up, and in that case it will not be in my power to employ you in a very confidential matter, the management of which I imagined I could have entrusted to you. That, however, cannot be now, as no one not amply provided with strong religious dispositions, could be relied on in it."

Darby, who, in fact, was playing M'Slime precisely as a skilful fisherman does his fish; who, in order to induce him the more eagerly to swallow the bait, pretends to withdraw it from his jaws, by which means it is certain to be gulped down, and the fish caught.

"Ah, sir," replied Darby, "I'm greatly afeared that every person like me must struggle with great temptations."

"That is an excellent observation," said Solomon; "and I do suppose, that since this desirable change took place in your heart, you must have been woefully beset."

"Never suffered so much in my life," replied the other. "Now there's your two beautiful tracts, and may I never die in sin—I hope, sir, there's no great harm in that oath?

"No great harm but you had better omit it, however—it smacks of sin and superstition."

"Well, sir—may I never—I beg pardon—but any how, the truth is, that ever since I tuck to readin' them, I feel myself gettin' as dishonest as if the devil—"

"Do not name him so, Darby—it is profane; say the enemy, or Satan, or the tempter."

"As if the whole three o' them, then, war at my elbow. Why, for the last three or four days, I may say, they have cleared me out as clane of honesty as the black boy himself, and it is worse I am gettin'. Now, sir, it stands to sense, that that's temptation."

"Unquestionably; and my great hope and consolation is, that you yourself are conscious of it. All you have to do now, is to pray unceasingly—wrestle in prayer, and you will ultimately triumph. Sing spiritual songs, too; read my tracts with attention; and, in short, if you resist the dev—hem—Satan, they will flee from you. Give that letter to Mr. M'Clutchy, and let me see you on the day after to-morrow—like a giant refreshed with new strength."

"Well, now," said Darby, assuming a more serious look—"do you know, sir, that I think your words have put new strength into me. Somehow I feel as if there was a load removed from me. May the mother of heaven—hem—I do, sir; and now, as a proof of it, I wouldn't feel justified, sir, in leaving you, widout sayin' a word or two about the same M'Clutchy, who, between you and me—but I hope it won't go farther, sir?"

"I don't think it would be permitted to me to betray confidence—I humbly think so. Be not afraid, but speak."

"Why, sir, he has got a dirty trick of speakin' disrespectfully of you behind your back."

"Human weakness, Darby! poor profligate man! Proceed, what does he say?"

"Why, sir, if it 'ud be agreeable to you, I'd rather not be goin' over it."

"We should know our friends from our enemies, O'Drive; but I forgive him, and shall earnestly pray for him this night. What did he say?"

"Why he said, sir—verily, thin, I'm ashamed to say it."

"Did he speak only of myself?" inquired Solomon, with something like a slight, but repressed appearance of alarm.

"Oh, of nobody else, sir. Well, then, he said, sir—but sure I'm only repatin' his wicked words—he said, sir, that if you were cut up into the size of snipe shot, there would be as much roguery in the least grain of you, as would corrupt a nation of pickpockets."

"Poor man! I forgive him. Do you not see me smile, Darby?"

"I do, indeed, sir."

"Well, that is a smile of forgiveness—of pure Christian forgiveness—free from the slightest taint of human infirmity. I am given to feel this delightful state of mind at the present moment—may He be praised!—proceed."

"It is a blessed state, sir, and as you can bear it—and as I can trust you, what I could not him—I will go on:—" he said, "besides, sir, that your example had made the ould boy himself a worse boy now than he had ever been before he ever knew you I—that in temptin' you, he got new dodges of wickedness that he was never up to till he met you, and that he's now receivin' lessons from you in the shape of a convartin' parson."

"Ah! well!—I see, I see—that is an unchristian allusion to my recent intercourse with the Rev. Phineas Lucre, the respected and highly connected rector of Castle Cumber, and his nephew, the Rev. Boanerges Frothwell, both of whom take a deep interest in the New Reformation movement which is now so graciously advancing. However, I shall pray for that man this night."

"Sir, I feel much relieved; I'm a changed man widin these few minutes, I may say—but what, afther all, is aquil to a good example? I feel, sir, as if a strong hatred of idolaphry was comin' an me."

"Idolatry, you mean, Darby?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I mean."

"Where is that letter of Mr. M'Clutchy's—oh, I have it. Well, Darby," said M'Slime, quietly changing it for another, "here it is; now, do you see how I commit that letter to the flames?" placing M'Clutchy's under the side of a brief; "and even as the flames die away before your eyes, so dies away—not my resentment, Darby, for none do I entertain against him—but the memory of his offensive expressions."

"Sir," said Darby, "this is wonderful! I often heard of religion and forgiveness of injuries, but antil this day I never saw them in their thrue colors. The day after to-morrow I'm to call, sir?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Well, sir, may the Holy Virgin this day—och, indeed I do not know what I'm sayin' sir—Religion! well if that's not religion what is or can be? Good mornin' sir."

"Good morning, Darby, and remember my advice—pray, sing, wrestle—peace be with you!"



CHAPTER XI.—Darby and Solomon at Prayer

—An Instance of Pure Charity—-Candidates for Conversion—An Appropriate Confidence—The Rev. Phineas Lucre and his Curate, Mr. Clement—Rev. Father Roche and his Curate, Father M'Cabe.

Darby was opening the hall-door, when, as if struck by a new train of thought, he again tapped at the office door, and begged pardon for entering.

"I'm in a sweet state, sir," said he; "and would you forgive me, now that my heart is, full, by lookin' at such an example, if I tuck the liberty of axin' you to kneel down and offer a Father an' Ave an'—hem—och, what am I sayin'—an' offer up a wurd in saison for that unfortunate blaggard, M'Clutchy—any how, it'll improve myself, and I feel as if there was new strength put into me. Oh, the netarnal scoundrel! To spake the way he did of sich a man—sich a scantlin of grace—of—oh, then, do, sir; let us offer up one prayer for him, the vagabond!"

The reader will perceive, however, by and by, that Darby's sudden and enthusiastic principle of charity towards M'Clutchy, wanted that very simple requisite, sincerity—a commodity, by the way, in which the worthy bailiff never much dealt. Indeed we may say here, that the object of his return was connected with anything but religion.

A shade of feeling, somewhat rueful, sat on M'Slime's features, until he caught Darby's eye fixed upon him, when, after rebuking him for the terms in which he proposed the, prayer, he knelt down, and with a most serene smile, commenced an earnest supplication, which became still more vehement—then louder—bewailed his lost state—deplored his keeping aloof from the means of grace—feared that the example of his old, and sinful, and blasphemous father, and his most profligate mother, had rendered his heart impenetrable to all visitations of conscience or religion—if conscience he ever had, or religion he ever heard; both of which, he, the humble and sinful suppliant, doubted. What then was his state? Oh! how could a charitable or truly religious heart bear to think of it without being deeply affected"—handkerchief here applied to the eyes, and some sobs—a nondescript sound from Darby, accompanied by a most pathetic shaking of the sides—evidently as much affected as M'Slime.—The prayer was then wound up in a long, heavy, dolorous cadence, which evidently proceeded from a strong conviction that he who prayed was laboring against all hope and expectation that the humble "mean" then adopted would be attended by any gracious result—the voice consequently quavered off into a most dismal sound, which seemed, as it were, to echo back a doleful answer to their solicitations, and accordingly Solomon rose up with a groan that could not be misunderstood.

"You see, O'Drive," said he, "we have received no answer—or rather a bad one—I fear his is a hopeless case, as, indeed, that of every reprobate and castaway is; and this distresses me."

"Mr. M'Slime," said Darby, "will you excuse me, sir—but the thruth is, I never properly knew you before." These words he uttered in a low confidential voice, precisely such as we might suppose a man to speak in, who, under his circumstances, had got new convictions. "I'll appear next Sabbath, and what is better, I think in a few days I'll be able to bring three or four more along wid me."

"Do you think so?" said M'Slime, a good deal elated at the thought; for the attorney was only playing his game, which certainly was not the case with the greater number of the new reformation men, who were as sincere in their motives as he was hypocritical in his exertions. "And what are their names, Darby?"

"I feel, sir," replied O'Drive, "that it's my duty as a Christian, brought out of the land of cordage—"

"Bondage, Darby."

"Of bondage, to do all I can for the spread o' the gospel. Their names," responded Darby, rubbing his elbow with a perplexed face; "don't you think sir it would be better to wait awhile, till we'd see what could be done with them privately?"

"No, Darby, give me their names and residences, and I will see, that however hard the times are, they shall not at least be starved for want of—truth."

"Well, then," said Darby, "first, there is Paudeen Rafferty, of Dernascobe; Paudeen, sir, is, at the present spaking, badly given to drink, and he swears, and fights mortially, too, the hathen; but, then, he's in darkness, sir, yet; and you know that the greater the sinner the greater the saint. If Paudeen was dacently convarted he'd make a mighty fine Christian no doubt. To be sure he has two wives, along wid his love for liquor and fightin'; but wouldn't it be a good plan to bring them over, too, sir; the poor lost cratures, sunk, as they are, in hathenism and vociferation?"

"Very good, I have him down, Darby; we must struggle, however, to win him over and to induce him to give up his guilty connections. Are they young, Darby!"

"Two of the best looking young women in the parish."

"We must only see, then, if they can be rescued also; for that is a duty—a pressing duty, certainly."

"But I'm afeard, sir, it 'ud take a ship load o' Scripture to convart the three o' them."

"We shall try, however; nothing is to be despaired of under such circumstances, unless I am afraid the regeneration of that unhappy man M'Clutchy—(eyes turned up). Who next?"

"Why, you may set down Harry M'Murt, of Drinnska. Harry's an unsettled kind of fellow, or as they call him a Rake. It would be an active charity to convert him—and that could convert him for he has as many twists in him as an eel—if it was only for the sake of gettin' him to spake the truth."

"Who else, Darby?"

"Put down Charley Casey, sir; and if you take my advice, you'll set in at the convarsion of him while his famine lasts—otherwise, he's a bitter idolapher as ever welted an Orangeman; but against that, he has the stomach o' three men—and the best time to come at him wid the gospel is the present. Bait it wid a flitch of bacon on the one side, and a collop o' fresh meat on the other, now before the praties comes in, and you're sure of him."

"Any others, Dairby?—but, indeed, as far as we have gone yet, the cases appear to me to be difficult ones. However, there is joy in heaven, Darby, over one sinner—and surely the greater the sin the greater the joy and the triumph. Any others?"

"Mark down Molly Crudden, sir—she would be a glorious catch if a word in saison could fasten on her. She goes by the name of Funny Eye. The poor woman is mother to a large family of childre, sir; and the worst of it is, that no two o' them goies by the same name. It would be a proud day that we could make sure of her, especially as Father Roche and Mr. M'Cabe, his curate, were obliged to give her up, and forbid her the parish; but Funny Eye only winks and laughs at them and the world. She's the last, sir—but I'll be on the look out, God willin', for a few more desperate cases to crown our victory over the dev—ahem! over Satan and the priests."

"Well, then, let me see you, as I said, the day after to-morrow, and in the mean time—peace, and joy, and victory be with you!"

"The same to you, sir, and many of them! Amin—I pray the sweet queen o' heaven this day!"

"Darby," said M'Slime, who looked upon his mingling up religious expressions peculiar to his class as a proof of his sincerity—"Darby," said he in a low, condensed, and collected voice—"I said I had the execution of a commission to entrust to you."

"But, sir," said Darby, whose ears, could they have shaped themselves according to his wishes, would have ran into points in order to hear with more acuteness—"Sir," said he, "I doubt I'm not worthy of such a trust."

"Perfectly worthy, Darby," continued Solomon, "if I did not think so I would not employ you—I have engaged another person to prepare, as it were, the way for you; but the truth is, it would never do to allow that person and the young person of whom you are going to take charge to be seen together. Evil constructions would most assuredly be put on innocent actions, Darby, as they often are; and for this reason it is that I have partly changed my mind, and will entrust one-half the commission I speak of to you." As if, however, he feared that the very walls might justify the old proverb by proving that they had ears, he stood up and whispered a short, but apparently most interesting communication to Darby, who appeared to listen to a tale that was calculated rather to excite admiration than any other feeling. And we have little doubt, indeed, that the tale in question was given as illustrating the exertion of as pure an instance of Christian compassion and benevolence as ever was manifested in the secret depths of that true piety which shuns the light; for Darby's journey was most assuredly to be made in the dark and still hours of the night. On opening the door a party of three or four clients were about to knock, but having given them admission he went away at rather a brisk, if not a hasty pace.

Darby having concluded this interview was proceeding, not exactly in the direction of M'Clutchy's, but as the reader shall soon hear, to a very different person, no other than the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D., Rector of the Parish of Castle Cumber; a living at that time worth about eighteen hundred a year.

The Rev. Phineas Lucre, then, was a portly gentleman, having a proud, consequential air stamped upon his broad brow and purple features. His wife was niece to a nobleman, through whose influence he had been promoted over the head of a learned and pious curate, whose junior Mr. Lucre had been in the ministry only about the short period of twenty-five years. Many persons said that the curate had been badly treated in this transaction, but those persons must have known that he had no friends except the poor and afflicted of his parish, whose recommendation of him to his bishop, or the minister of the day, would have had little weight. His domestic family, too, was large, a circumstance rather to his disadvantage; but he himself was of studious, simple, and inexpensive habits. As for dinners he gave none, except a few fragments of his family's scanty meal to some hungry, perhaps, deserted children, or to a sick laborer when abandoned by his landlord or employer, the moment he became unable to work. From the gentry of the neighborhood he got no invitations, because he would neither sing—dance—drink—nor countenance the profligacies of their sons—nor flatter the pride and vanity of their wives and daughters. For these reasons, and because he dared to preach home truths from his pulpit, he and his unpretending children had been frequently made objects of their ridicule and insolence. What right, then, had any one to assert that the Rev. Mr. Clement had received injustice by the promotion over his head of the Rev. Phineas Lucre, to the wealthy living of Castle Cumber, when he had no plausible or just grounds beyond those to which we have adverted, on which to rest his claim for preferment? The curate was pious, we admit, but, then, his wife's uncle was not a lord. He was learned, but, then, he had neither power nor the inclination to repay his patrons—supposing him to have such, by a genius for intrigue, or the possession of political influence. He discharged his religious duties as well as the health of a frame worn by affliction, toil, and poverty, permitted him; but, then, he wrote no pamphlets adapted to the politics by which he might rise in the church. He visited the sick and prayed with them; but he employed not his abilities in proving to the world that the Establishment rewarded piety and learning, rather than venal talents for state intrigue or family influence.

Far different from him was his aforenamed rector, the Rev. Phineas Lucre. Though immeasurably inferior to his curate in learning, and all the requisite qualifications for a minister of God, yet was he sufficiently well read in the theology of his day, to keep up a splendid equipage. Without piety to God, or charity to man, he possessed, however, fervent attachment, to his church, and unconquerable devotion to his party. If he neglected the widow and the orphan whom he could serve, he did not neglect the great and honorable, who could serve himself. He was inaccessible to the poor, 'tis true; but on the other hand, what man exhibited such polished courtesy, and urbanity of manner, to the rich and exalted. Inferiors complained that he was haughty and insolent; yet it was well known, in the teeth of all this, that no man ever gave more signal proofs of humility and obedience to those who held patronage over him. It mattered little, therefore, that he had no virtues for the sick, or poverty-stricken, in private life, when he possessed so many excellent ones for those in whose eyes it was worth while to be virtuous as a public man.

Mr. Lucre, possessing high political connection, and withal affecting to be very religious, presented singular points of character for observation. He was a great disciplinarian in theory, and rendered it imperative on his poor overworn curate to be so in practice; but being always engaged in the pursuit of some ecclesiastical windfall, he consequently spent most of his time, and of his money, either in our own metropolis or London—but principally in the latter. He did not, however, leave either his discipline or his devotion as a public man behind him. In Dublin, he was practical in worshipping the Lord Lieutenant—and in London, the King; whilst his curate was only worshipping God in the country. The result of his better sense and more seasonable piety soon became evident, on his part, in the shape of an appointment to a second living; and that of his curate, in obscurity, poverty, and that useless gift, a good conscience.

We have said that Mr. Lucre was not Pious; yet we are far from saying that he had not all the credit of piety. His name, in fact, was always conspicuous among the most bountiful contributors to the religious societies. Indeed he looked upon most of them as excellent auxiliaries to the cold and scanty labors of those worldly-minded or indolent pastors, who think, when they have furnished every family in the parish with a Bible and a sheaf of tracts, that they have done their duty. Mr. Lucre, consequently, bore an excellent character everywhere but among the poor, sick, and indigent of his two large parishes; and if a eulogium had been called for on him, he would have received an admirable one from the societies to whose funds he contributed, from the gentry of his respective parishes, and from the grand juries of the two counties in which they we're situated.

What more than this could be expected? Here was ample testimony for those who required it, to establish the zeal, efficiency, talents, integrity, charity and piety of that worthy and useful minister of God—the Rev. Phineas Lucre, D.D.

Such were a few of the virtues which belonged to this gentleman. His claims for preferment were, indeed, peculiarly strong; and when we mention the political influence of himself and his friends, his wife's powerful connections, added to his able pamphlets, and the great mass of sound information regarding the state of the country, which in the discharge of his religious duties, he communicated from time to time to the government of the day—we think we have said enough to satisfy our readers that he ought not to be overlooked in the wealthy and pious Establishment, which the Irish Church then was. Still, in fact, we cannot stop here, for in good truth Mr. Lucre had yet stronger claims for preferment than any we have yet mentioned. He did not stand in need of it. In addition to a large dowry received with his wife, he possessed a private fortune of fourteen hundred pounds per annum, with which, joined to his two large livings, he was enabled to turn out a very primitive and apostolic equipage, such as would have made the hearts of the Apostles rejoice in reflecting, that so many new virtues were to spring up in the progress of society from the lowly-religion they established.

Such is a pretty full sketch of a large class which existed at a former period in the Established Church of Ireland. Mr. Lucre was, besides, what may be termed one of the first fruits of that which is called modern sanctity or saintship, being about two-thirds of the Tory and High Churchman, and one of the Evangelical.

In the same parish of Castle Cumber resided two other clergyman of a different creed and character; the Rev. James Roche, the venerable parish priest, was one of those admirable pastors whose lives are the most touching and beautiful exponent of the Christian faith. In this amiable man were combined all these primitive virtues which are so suitable, and, we may add, necessary, to those who are called upon to mingle with the cares and affections, joys and sufferings, of an humble people. Without pride, beyond the serene simplicity which belonged to his office, he yet possessed the power of engaging the affections and respect of all who knew him, whether high or low. With the poor, and those entrusted to his spiritual charge, were all his sympathies, both as a man and a pastor. His, indeed, was no idle charge, nor idly, nor with coldness or pride, were its duties entered upon or performed. His little purse and small means were, less his own than the property of the poor around him; his eye was vigilant of want and of sorrow, of crime and frailty—and wherever the painful rebuke, the humble and the consoling word was necessary, there stood he to I administer it. Such was Father Roche, as the pastor of a large but poor flock, who had few sympathies to expect, save those which this venerable man was able to afford them. Very different from him, on the other hand, was his curate, the Rev. Patrick M'Cabe, or M'Flail, as he was nicknamed by the Orangemen of the parish, in consequence of a very unsacerdotal tendency to use the horsewhip, as a last resource, especially in cases where reason and the influence of argument failed. He was a powerful young man, in point of physical strength, but as his temperament was hot and choleric, the consciousness of this strength often led him, under its impulse, in desperate cases, to a mode of reasoning, which, after all, no man more than himself subsequently regretted. Zealous he unquestionably was, but beyond the bounds prescribed by a spirit of Christian moderation. I know not how it happened, but the Orangeman hated him with an intensity of detestation, which, however, he paid back to them tenfold. His vast strength, which had been much improved by a strong relish for athletic exercises, at which he was unrivaled, when joined to a naturally courageous and combative temperament, often prompted him to manifest, in cases of self-defence, the possession of powers which they feared to call into exercise. This disposition, however, which, after all, was not so unnatural, he properly restrained and kept I in subjection; but, in order to compensate for it, he certainly did pepper them, in his polemical discourses, with a vehemence of abuse, which, unquestionably, they deserved at his hands—and got. With the exception of too much zeal in religious matters, his conduct was, in every other respect, correct and proper.

To return now to Darby, whose steps have been directed, not exactly towards Constitution Cottage, but towards the spacious glebe-house of the Rev. Phineas Lucre, which brought him about a mile or two out of his way. The fact is he was beginning to tire of M'Slime, who, whenever he had occasion for his services, was certain to shear him of his fees on the one hand precisely as M'Clutchy did on the other. The change of agents was consequently of no advantage to him, as he had expected it would be; for such was the rapacity of the two harpies that each of them took as much as they could out of the unfortunate tenants, and left Darby little to comfort himself, with the exception of what he got by their virtuous example, an example which he was exceedingly apt to follow, if not to exceed. For this reason he detested them both, and consequently felt a natural anxiety to set them together by the ears whenever he thought the proper occasion for it should arrive. Now, an event had taken place the very day before this, which opened up to his mind a new plan of operations altogether. This was the death of the under gaoler of Castle Cumber. Darby began to think of this as a good speculation, should it succeed; but alas! upon second reflection there stood an insurmountable difficulty in his way. He was a Roman Catholic so far as he was anything; and this being a situation of too much trust and confidence at the period to be given to any one of that persuasion, he knew he he could not obtain it. Well, but here again he was fortunate, and not without the prospect of some consolation. The extraordinary movement in the religious world, called the New Reformation, had just then set in with a liveliness of judgment, and a celerity of conversion among the lower classes of Roman Catholics, which scarcely anybody could understand. The saints, however, or evangelical party, headed by an amiable, benevolent, but somewhat credulous nobleman, on whose property the movement first commenced, ascribed this extraordinary conversion altogether to themselves.

The season to be sure in which it occurred was one of unprecedented destitution and famine. Fuel was both scarce and bad—the preceding crops had failed, and food was not only of a deleterious quality, but scarcely to be procured at all. The winter, too, was wet and stormy, and the deluges of rain daily and incessant. In fact, cold, and nakedness, and hunger met together in almost every house and every cabin, with the exception of those of the farmers alone, who, by the way, mostly held land upon a very small scale. In this district, then, and in such a period of calamity, and misery, and utter famine, did the movement called the New Reformation originate.

"Sure, blood alive," thought Darby, "now that every one's turnin', there's no harm to have a thrial at it myself; I can become as good a Prodestan as most o' them in four and twenty hours, and stand a chance of the Jaolership for my pains. I'll go to Mr. Lucre, who is a gentleman at any rate, and allow him to think he has the convartin' o' me. Well," he proceeded, with a chuckle, "it's one comfort, divil a much religion I have to lose; and another, that the divil a much I have to gain in exchange; and now," he went on, "there's little Solomon thinks I did'nt see him burnin' the wrong letther; but faith, Solomon, my lad, there must be something in it that would do neither you nor M'Clutchy much good, if it was known, or you wouldn't thry that trick—but, in the mean time, I've secured them both."

Now, the reader must know, that Darby's return in such a truly charitable spirit to ask Solomon for the virtue of his prayers in behalf of M'Clutchy, was as knavish a ruse as ever was put in practice. Solomon had placed M'Clutchy's letter secretly under a brief, as we have said, and Darby, who knew the identical spot and position in which M'Slime was in the habit of praying, knew also that he would kneel with his back to the desk on which the brief lay. It all happened precisely as he wished, and, accordingly, while Solomon was doing the hypocrite, Darby did the thief, and having let in those who were approaching, he came away, as we said.

He lost not a moment after he had got to a lonely part of the road, in putting them between two flat stones—we mean M'Clutchy's letter to Solomon, with that gentleman's answer. There, he determined, they should remain until after dark, when he could secure both without risk, and see what might be done with them.

"Now," thought he, "that I've Solomon in a double pickle—for he can't inquire about the letter without letting it be seen that he tould a lie, and practised a bit of knavery, any how—an' as regwdin' the other thing, I have him fast."

In the meantime, Father M'Cabe, who had read M'Slime's paragraph in the Castle Cumber "True Blue," respecting Darby's conversion, had a sharp eye out for him, as they term it in the country. Indeed, after two or three vain attempts to see him, the Rev. gentleman was satisfied with sending him a gentle message of congratulation upon his change of creed, which was significantly wound up by a slight hint, that he might, probably, on their next meeting, give him a nice treat, but of what particular description was not communicated. Darby having secured the letters as described, was proceeding at a pretty quick pace towards Mr. Lucre's, when, whom should he meet in a narrow part of the way, which was enclosed between two immense white thorn hedges, through which any notion of escape was impracticable—but the Rev. Father M'Cabe. He tried every shift—looked back as if he expected some friend to follow him—then to the right—again to the left—then stooped to examine the ground, as if he had lost something of value or importance. At length, finding every other trick useless, he adopted that one so common among boys in desperate cases—we mean the attempt to make a mask of the right shoulder in order to conceal the face. Even this failed, and he found himself compelled to meet the fixed and stern gaze of the colossal priest, who was on horseback, and bore in his huge right hand a whip, that might, so gripped, have tamed a buffalo, or the centaur himself, if he were not fabulous.

"Why—my good, honest and most religious friend, Mr. Darby O'Drive—the odor of whose sanctity, you scoundrel, has already perfumed the whole Parish—is it possible that Providence in kindness to me, and in pure justice to yourself, has thrown you into my way at last." This for the present was accompanied only by a peculiar quivering motion of the whip, resulting from the quick vibrations which his sense of Darby's hypocrisy had communicated through the hand to the weapon which it held.

"God save your Reverence!" replied Darby, "an' in troth I'm glad to see you look so well—faith it's in a glow o' health you are, may God continue it to you! Be my sowl, it's you that can pepper the Orangemen, any how, your Reverence—and how is Father Roche, sir—although sure enough he's no match for you in givin' it home to the thieves."

"Silence, you hypocritical sleeveen, don't think you'll crawl up my wrist—as you do up M'Clutchy's and M'Slime's. Is it true that you have become an apostate?"

Darby here attempted to work up a kind of sly significant wheedling expression into his eye, as he stole a half timid, half confidant glance at the priest—but it would not do—the effort was a failure, and no wonder—for there before him sat the terrible catechist like an embodied thunder cloud—red, lurid, and ready to explode before him—nay he could see the very lightning playing and scintillating in his eyes, just as it often does about the cloud before the bursting of the peal. In this instance there was neither sympathy nor community of feeling between them, and Darby found that no meditated exposition of pious fraud, such as "quartering on the enemy," or "doing the thieves," or any other interested ruse, had the slightest chance of being tolerated by the uncompromising curate. The consequence was, that the rising roguery died away from Darby's face, on which there remained nothing but a blank and baffled expression, that gave strong assurance of his being in a situation of great perplexity. The most timid and cowardly animals will, however, sometimes turn upon their captors, and Darby although he felt no disposition to bandy words with the curate, resolved, notwithstanding, to abide by the new creed, until he should be able to ascertain his chance of the gaolership. There was, besides, another motive. He knew Mr. Lucre's character so well, that he determined to pursue such a course, during his interview, as might ensure him a sound horse-whipping; for it occurred to him that a bit of martyrdom would make a capital opening argument during his first interview with Mr. Lucre.

"Did you hear me, sir?" again inquired the curate, making his whip whistle past his own right foot, just as if he had aimed it at the stirrup—"is it true that you have turned apostate?"

"I thought you knew it, sir," said Darby, "or if you didn't, why did you read me out the Sunday before last from the althar?"

"Then you acknowledge it," cried the priest, "you have the brass to acknowledge it, have you?" And here the whip made a most ferocious sweep in the air.

"Yes," replied Darby, thinking by the admission to increase the impending castigation—"yes, sir; I don't belong to your flock now—you have no authority whatsomever over me—mind that."



"Haven't I indeed, Mr. Convert—oh, what a sweet convert you are—but we'll see whether I have or not, by and by. Where are you bound for now? To taste of Mr. Lucre's flesh pots? eh?"

"I'm bound for Mr. Lucre's, sure enough; and I hope there's no great harm in that."

"Oh, none in the world, my worthy neophyte, none. Mr. Lucre's argument and Lord ——'s bacon are very powerful during this hard season. Those that haven't a stitch to their backs are clothed—those that haven't a morsel to eat are fed—and if they haven't a fire, they get plenty of fuel to burn their apostate skins at; and because this heretical crew avail themselves of the destitution of these wretches—and lure them from their own faith by a blanket and a flitch of bacon, they call that conversion—the new Reformation by the way, ha—ha—ha—oh, it's too good!"

"And do you think, sir," said Darby, "that if they had a hard or an enlightened hoult of their own creed, that that would do it?"

The whip here described a circle, one part of whose circumference sang within a few inches of Darby's ear—who, forgetting his relish for martyrdom, drew back his head to avoid it.

"None of your back jaw," said M'Cabe; "don't you know, sirra, that in spite of this Methodist Lord and the proud parson's temptations, you are commanded to renounce the devil, the world, and the flesh? Don't you know that?"

"But," replied Darby, "are we commanded to renounce the devil, the world, and a bit o' fresh mait?"

"Ha—you snivelling scoundrel," said the curate, "you've got their arguments already I see—but I know how to take them out of you, before you leave my hands."

"Surely," continued Darby, "you wouldn't have a naked man renounce a warm pair o' breeches, or a good coat to his back—does the Scriptur forbid him that?"

"You will have it," replied the curate, who felt for the moment astounded at Darby's, audacity, "you are determined on it; but I will have patience with you yet, a little, till I see what brought you over, if I can. Don't you admit, as I said, that you are commanded to renounce the devil, the world, and the flesh—particularly the flesh, sirra, for there's a peculiar stress laid upon that in the Greek."

"Well, but does it go in the Greek against a flitch o' bacon and a wisp o' greens, your reverence? Faith, beggin' your pardon, if you were to see some o' the new convarts, how comfortable they are wid their good frieze coats, and their new warm blankets, sittin' beside their good fires, you'd maybe not blame them so much as you do. Your religion, sir, only provides for the sowl; but theirs, you see, provides any how for the body—and faith, I say, the last is a great advantage in these hard times."

The priest's astonishment increased at the boldness with which Darby continued the argument, or rather, which prompted him to argue at all. He looked at him, and gave a smile.

"Well," said he, almost forgetting his anger—for he was by no means deficient in a perception of the humorous—"but no matter—it will do by and by. You villain," said he, forced into the comic spirit of the argument; "do you not know that it said—cursed is he who becometh an apostate, and eateth the flesh of heretics."

"Aitin' the flesh of heretics is forbidden, I dare say, sure enough," replied Darby; "an' troth it's a commandment not likely to be broken—for dirty morsels they are, God knows; but is there anything said against aitin' the flesh of their sheep or cows—or that forbids us to have a touch at a good fat goose, or a turkey, or any harmless little trifle o' the kind? Troth myself never thought, sir, that beef or mutton was of any particular religion before."

"Yes, sir; beef and mutton, when they're good, are Catholic—but when they're lean, why, like a bad Christian, they're Protestant, of course, and that's well known," said the priest, still amused, against his will, by Darby's arguments.

"Faith, and wid great respect, the same is but a poor argument for your own—hem—I mane, sir, for your church; for if the best beef and mutton be of the thrue religion, the Protestants have it all to nothing. There, they're infallible, and no mistake. The fat o' the land, your reverence," said Darby, with a wink; "don't you understand? They've got that any how."

A slight cut of the whip across the shoulders made him jump and rub himself, whilst the priest, struck with his utter want of principle, exclaimed.

"You double-dealing scoundrel, how dare you wink at me, as if we felt anything in common?"

The blow occasioned Darby's gorge to rise; for like every other knave, when conscious of his own dishonesty, and its detection, he felt his bad passions overpower him.

"You must," said the priest, whose anger was now excited by his extraordinary assurance—"you must renounce their religion, you must renounce M'Slime and Lucre—their flitches, flannels, and friezes. You must—"

"Beggin' your pardon," said Darby, "I never received any of their flitches or their flannels. I don't stand in need of them—it's an enlightened independent convart I am."

"Well, then," continued the priest, "you must burn their tracts and their treatises, their books and Bibles of every description, and return to your own church."

"To become acquainted," replied Darby, "with that piece o' doctrine in your hand there? Faith and I feel the truth o' that as it is, your reverence; and it is yourself that can bring it home to one. But, why, wid submission, don't you imitate Father Roche? By me sowl, I tell you to your face, that so long; as you take your divinity from the saddler's shop, so long you will have obedient men, but indifferent Catholics."

"What!" replied M'Cabe, in a rage, "do you dare to use such language to my face—a reprobate—a brazen contumacious apostate! I've had this in for you; and now (here he gave him a round half dozen) go off to M'Slime, and Lucre, and Lord———, and when you see them, tell them from me, that if they don't give up perverting my flock, I'll give them enough of their own game."

Darby's face got pale, with a most deadly expression of rage—an expression, indeed, so very different from that cringing, creeping one which it usually wore, that M'Cabe, on looking at him, felt startled, if not awed, intrepid and exasperated as he was. Darby stood and looked at him coldly, but, at the same time, with unflinching fearlessness in the face.

"You have done it," he said, "and I knew you would. Now, listen to me—are you not as aiger to make convarts as either M'Slime or Lucre?"

"You will have it again, you scoundrel," said the curate, approaching him with uplifted whip.

"Stand back," said Darby, "I've jist got all I wanted—stand back, or by all the vestments ever you wore, if your whip only touches my body, as light as if it wouldn't bend a feather, I'll have you in heaven, or purgatory, before you can cry 'God forgive me.'"

The other still advanced, and was about to let the whip fall, when Darby stretched his right hand before him, holding a cocked and loaded pistol presented to the curate's breast.

"Now," said he, "let your whip fall if you like; but if you do, I'll lodge this bullet," touching the pistol with his left forefinger, "in your heart, and your last mass is said. You blame Lucre and M'Slime for making convarts; but ai'en't you every bit as anxious to bring over the Protestants as they are to bring over us? Aren't you paradin' them Sunday af'ther Sunday, and boastin' that you are takin' more from the heretics than they are takin' from you? Wasn't your last convart Bob Beatty, that you brought over because he had the fallin' sickness, and you left it upon him never to enter a church door, or taste bacon; and now you have him that was a rank Orangeman and a blood-hound six weeks ago, a sound Catholic to-day? Why, your reverence, with regard to convart makin' divil the laist taste o' differ I see between you on either side, only that they are able to give betther value in this world for the change than you are—that's all. You're surprised at seeing my pistols, but of late I don't go any where unprovided; for, to tell you the thruth, either as a bailiff or a convart, it's not likely I'd be safe widout them; and I think that yourself are a very good proof of it."

"Very well, my good, fine, pious convart; I'll keep my eye on you. I understand your piety."

"And I can tell you, my good, meek, pious priest, I'll keep mine on you; and now pass on, if you're wise—and so bannath lath."

Each then passed on, pursuing his respective destination. They had not gone far, however, when both chanced to look back at the same moment—M'Cabe shook his whip, with a frown, at Darby, who, on the other side, significantly touched the pocket in which he carried his fire-arms, and nodded his head in return.

Now, it is an undeniable fact, that characters similar to that of Darby, were too common in the country; and, indeed, it is to be regretted that they were employed at all, inasmuch as the insolence of their conduct, on the one hand, did nearly as much harm as the neglect of the hard-hearted landlord himself, on the other. Be this as it may, however, we are bound to say that Darby deserved much more at M'Cabe's hands than either that Rev. gentleman was aware of then, or our readers now. The truth was, that no sooner had M'Slime's paragraph touching Darby's conversion gone abroad, than he became highly unpopular among the Catholics of the parish. Father M'Cabe, in consequence of Darby's conduct, and taking him as a specimen, uttered some lively prophecies, touching' the ultimate fate of the new Reformation. He even admonished his flock against Darby:—

"I have warned you all now," he said, "and if after this I hear of a single perversion, woe be unto that pervert, for it is better for his miserable soul that he had never been born. Is there a man here base enough to sell his birthright for a mess of Mr. Lucre's pottage? Is there a man here, who is not too strongly imbued with a hatred of heresy, to laugh to scorn their bribes and their Bibles. Not a man, or, if there is, let him go out from amongst us, in order that we may know him—that we may avoid his outgoings and his incomings—that we may flee from him as a pestilence—a plague—a famine. No, there is none here so base and unprincipled as all that—and I here prophesy that from this day forth, this Reformation has got its death-blow—and that time will prove it. Now, remember, I warn you against their arts, their bribes, and their temptations—and if, as I said, any one of this flock shall prove so wicked as to join them—then, I say again, better for his unfortunate soul that he had never come into existence, than to come in contact with this leprous and polluted heresy."

Darby having heard—for he never went to mass—that he was denounced by the priest, and feeling that his carrying into execution the heartless and oppressive proceedings of M'Clutchy had, taken together, certainly made him as unpopular a man as any individual of his contemptible standing in life could be, resolved, in the first place, to carry arms for his own protection, and, in the next, to take a step which he knew would vex the curate sorely. Accordingly, he lost no time in circulating, and having it circulated by others, that the great Reformation Society would give, in a private way, five guineas a head to every convert, taking them either by the individual or the family, although the conversion of the latter, he said, was far more coveted than even a greater number of individuals, when they were not bound by the same ties of blood, inasmuch, as the bringing them over by families was an outpouring of grace which could not be withstood. The consequence was, that all the profligate and unprincipled who had cold, and nakedness, and famine, in addition to their own utter want of all moral feeling to stimulate them, looked upon the new Reformation and its liberal promises as a complete windfall blown into their way by some unexpected piece of good fortune. Five guineas a head! And all for only going to church, and gaining for ever more the heart and affections of the good and kind Lord ———. There was also another class, the simple and honest poor, who had no other way of avoiding all the rigors and privations of that terrible season, than a painful compliance with the only principle which could rescue themselves and their children, from a state of things worse than death itself—and which might probably have terminated in death—we mean the principle of the new Reformation. There was, still, a third class—which consisted of a set of thorough Irish wags, who looked upon the whole thing as an excellent joke—and who, while they had not a rag to their backs, nor a morsel for their mouths, enjoyed the whole ceremony of reading their recantation, renouncing Popery, and all that, as a capital spree while it lasted, and a thing that ought by all means to be encouraged, until better times came.