In vain, therefore, did Father M'Cabe denounce and prophesy—in vain did he launch all the dogmas of the church—in vain did he warn, lecture, and threaten—Darby's private hint had gone abroad precisely a day or two before their encounter, and the consequence was what might be expected. Darby, in fact, overreached him, a circumstance of which, at the period of their meeting, he was ignorant; but he had just learned how "the word," as it was called, had spread, in so extraordinary a manner, maugre all his opposition a short time before they met; and our readers need not feel surprised at the tone and temper with which, after having heard such intelligence, he addressed Darby, nor at the treatment which that worthy personage received at his hands. Had he known that it was Darby's "word" which in point of fact had occasioned "the spread" we speak of, he would have made that worthy missionary exhibit a much greater degree of alacrity than he did.

Before Darby arrives at Mr. Lucre's, however, we must take the liberty of anticipating him a little, in order to be present at a conversation which occurred on this very subject between the worthy Rector and the Rev. Mr. Clement, his curate. Mr. Clement, like the pious and excellent Father Roche, was one of those clergymen who feel that these unbecoming and useless exhibitions, called religious discussions, instead of promoting a liberal or enlarged view of religion, are only calculated to envenom the feelings, to extinguish charity, and to contract the heart. Nay, more, there never was a discussion, they said—and we join them—since the days of Ussher and the Jesuit, that did not terminate in a tumult of angry and unchristian recrimination, in which all the common courtesies of life, not to mention the professed duties of Christian men, were trampled on, and violated without scruple. In the preparations for the forthcoming discussion, therefore, neither of these worthy men took any part whatsoever. The severe duties of so large a parish, the calls of the sick, the poor, and the dying, together with the varied phases of human misery that pressed upon their notice as they toiled through the obscure and neglected paths of life, all in their opinion, and, in ours, too, constituted a sufficiently ample code of duty, without embroiling themselves in these loud and turbulent encounters.

Mr. Clement, who, on this same day, had received a message from Mr. Lucre, found that gentleman in remarkably good spirits. He had just received a present of a fine haunch of venison from a fox-hunting nobleman in the neighborhood, and was gloating over it, ere its descent into the larder, with the ruddy fire of epicurism blazing in his eyes. "Clement," said he, with a grave, subdued grunt of enjoyment, "come this way—turn up the venison, Francis—eh, what say you now, Clement? Look at the depth of the fat!—what a prime fellow that was!—see the flank he had!—six inches on the ribs at, least! As our countryman, Goldsmith, says, 'the lean was so white, and the fat was so ruddy.'"

Clement had often before witnessed this hot spirit of luxury, which becomes doubly carnal and gross in a minister of God. On this occasion he did not even smile, but replied gravely, "I am not a judge of venison, Mr. Lucre; but, I believe you have misquoted the poet, who, I think, says, 'the fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.'"

"Well, that's not much, Clement; but, if you were a judge, this would both delight and astonish you. Now, Francis, I charge you, as you value your place, your reputation, your future welfare, to be cautious in dressing it. You know how I wish it done, and, besides, Lord Mountmorgage, Sir Harry Beevor, Lord ———, and a few clerical friends, are to dine with me. Come in Clement—Francis, you have heard what I said! If that haunch is spoiled, I shall discharge you without a character most positively, so look to it."

When they entered the library, the table of which was covered with religious magazines, missionary papers, and reports of religious societies, both at home and abroad, Mr. Lucre, after throwing himself into a rich cushioned arm-chair, motioned to his curate to take a seat.

"I have sent for you, Clement," said he, "to have your advice and assistance on a subject, in which, I feel confident, that as a sincere and zealous Protestant, you will take a warm interest. You have heard of the establishment of our New Reformation Society, of course."

"I believe it is pretty generally known," replied Clement.

"It is now," replied Lucre; "but our objects are admirable. We propose to carry controversy into all the strongholds of Popery—to enlighten both priest and people, and, if possible, to transfer the whole Popish population—per satiram—by the lump, as it were—"

"Per saturum, I believe," observed Clement, bowing, "if I may take the liberty."

"Sati, satu—well, you may be right; my memory, Clement, retains large passages best, and ever did—to transfer the whole Popish population to the Established Church. It is a noble, a glorious speculation, if it only can be accomplished. Think of the advantages it would confer upon us! What stability would it not give the Church."

"I cannot exactly see what peculiar stability it would give the Church," replied Clement, "with the exception of mere numbers alone."

"How so—what do you mean?"

"Why, sir," replied Clement, "if we had the numbers you speak of to-morrow, we would be certainly worse off than we are today. They could only pay us our tithes, and that they do as it is; if they formed a portion, and the largest portion they would form, of our church, think of the immense number of clergy they would require to look to their religious wants—the number of churches and chapels of ease that must be built—the number of livings that must be divided—nay, my dear sir, in addition to this, you may easily see, that for every one bishop now, we should have at least four, then, and that the incomes would diminish in proportion. As it is now, sir, we have the tithes without the trouble of laboring for them, but it would be a different case in your new position of affairs."

Mr. Lucre, who, in the heat of his zeal, had neither permitted himself to see matters in this light, nor to perceive that Clement's arguments concealed, under a grave aspect, something of irony and satire, looked upon his curate with dismay—the smooth and rosy cheek got pale, as did the whole purple face down to the third chin, each of which reminded one of the diminished rainbows in the sky, if we may be allowed to except that they were not so heavenly.

"Clement," said he, "you amaze me—that is a most exceedingly clear view of the matter. Transfer them! no such thing, it would be a most dreadful calamity, unless church property were proportionately increased; but, could not that be done, Clement? Yes," said he, exulting at the idea, as one of which he ought to feel proud, "that could and would be done—besides I relish the multiplication of the bishoprics, under any circumstances, and therefore we will proceed with the Reformation. At all events, it would be a great blessing to get rid of Popery, which we would do, if we could accomplish this glorious project."

"I must confess, sir," replied Mr. Clement gravely, "that I have never been anxious for a mere change of speculative opinions in any man, unless when accompanied by a corresponding improvement in his life and morals. With respect to the Reformation Society, I beg leave to observe that I think the plan for the present is unseasonable, and only calculated to fill the kingdom with religious dissention and hatred. The people, sir, are not prepared to have their religion taken by storm; they are too shrewd for that; and I really think we have no just cause to feel anxious for the conversion of those who cannot appreciate the principles upon which they embrace our faith, as must be the case with ninety-nine out of every hundred of them. I have ever been of opinion that the policy pursued by England towards this country has been the bane of its happiness. She deprived the Irish Roman Catholics of the means of acquiring education, and then punished them for the crimes which proceeded from their ignorance. They were a dissatisfied, a tumultuous, and an impracticable, because they were an oppressed, people; and where, by the way, is there a people, worthy to be named such, who will or ought to rest contented under penal and oppressive laws. But there was a day when they would have been grateful for the relaxation of such laws. Oppression, however, has its traditions, and so has revenge, and these can descend from father to son, without education. If Roman Catholic disabilities had been removed at a proper time, they would long since have been forgotten, but they were not, and now they are remembered, and will be remembered. The prejudices of the Roman Catholics, however, and their enmity towards those who oppressed them, increased with their numbers and their knowledge. The religion of those who kept them down was Protestant; and think you, sir, that, be the merits of that religion what they may, these are the people to come over in large masses, without esteem for us, reflection, or any knowledge of its principles, and embrace the creed of the very men whom they look upon as their oppressors. Sir, there is but one way of converting the Irish, and it this:—Let them find the best arguments for Protestantism in the lives of its ministers, and of all who profess it. Let the higher Protestant clergy move more among the humbler classes even of their own flocks—let them be found more frequently where the Roman Catholic priest always is—at the sick-bed—in the house of mourning, of death, and of sin—let them abandon the unbecoming pursuits of an ungodly ambition—cast from them the crooked and dishonest manoeuvres of political negotiation and intrigue—let them live more humbly, and more in accordance with the gospel which they preach—let them not set their hearts upon the church merely because it is a wealthy corporation, calculated rather to gratify their own worldly ambition or cupidity, than the spiritual exigencies of their own flocks—let them not draw their revenues from the pockets of a poor people who disclaim their faith, whilst they denounce and revile that faith as a thing not to be tolerated. Let them do this, sir—free Protestantism from the golden shackles which make it the slave of Mammon, that it may be able to work—do this, and depend upon it, that it will then flourish as it ought; but, in my humble opinion, until such a reform first takes place with ourselves, it is idle to expect that Roman Catholics will come over to us, unless, indeed, a few from sordid and dishonest motives—and these we were better without. I think, therefore, that the present Reformation Society is unseasonable and ill-advised, nor do I hesitate to predict that the event will prove it so. In conclusion, sir, I am sorry to say, that I've seldom seen one of those very zealous clergymen who would not rather convert one individual from Popery than ten from sin."

"Why, Clement, you are a liberal!"

"I trust, sir, I am a Christian. As for liberalism, as it is generally understood, no man scorns the cant of it more than I do. But I cannot think that a Roman Catholic man sincerely worshipping God—even with, many obvious errors in his forms, or, with what we consider absurdities in his very creed—I cannot think, I say, that such a man, worshipping the Almighty according to his knowledge, will be damned. To think so is precisely the doctrine of exclusive salvation, with which we charge Popery itself."

Mr. Lucre's face, during the enunciation of these sentiments, glowed like a furnace thrice heated—he turned up his eyes—groaned aloud—struck the arm of his chair with his open hand—then commenced fanning his breast, as if the act were necessary to cool that evangelical indignation, in which there is said to be no sin.

"Clement," said he, "this—this"—here he kept fanning down his choler for half a minute—"this is—astonishing—awful—monstrous—monstrous doctrine to come from the lips of a clergyman—man"—another fanning—"of the Established Church; but what is still worse, from—from—the lips of my curate! my curate! I'll trouble you to touch the bell—thank you, sir. But, Mr. Clement, the circumstance of giving utterance to such opinions, so abruptly, as if you were merely stating some common-place fact—without evincing the slightest consideration for me—without reflecting upon who and what I am—without remembering my position—my influence—the purity and orthodoxy of my doctrine—the services I have rendered to religion, and to a Protestant government—(John, a glass of water; quickly)—you forget, sir, that I have proved the Romish Church to be both damnable and idolatrous—that she is without the means of salvation—that her light is out—her candlestick removed—and that she is nothing now but darkness, and abomination, and blasphemy. Yes, sir; knowing all this, you could openly express such doctrines, without giving me a moment's notice, or anything to, prepare me for such a shock!—sir, I am very much distressed indeed; but I thank my God that this excitement—(bring it here, John; quick:)—that this excitement is Christian excitement—Christian excitement, Mr. Clement; for I am not, I trust, without thai zeal for the interests of my church, of my King, and of Protestantism at large, which becomes a man who has labored for them as I have done."

Here, notwithstanding the excessive thirst which seemed to have fastened on him, he put the glass to his lips; but, sooth to say, like the widow's cruse, it seemed to have been gifted with the miraculous property of going from his lips as full as when it came to them.

"I assure you, Mr. Lucre," replied Clement, "in uttering my sentiments, I most certainly had not the slightest intention of giving you offence. I spoke calmly, and candidly, and truly, what I think and feel—and I regret that I should have offended you so much; for I only expressed the common charity of our religion, which hopeth all things—is slow to condemn, and forbids us to judge, lest we be judged."

"Clement," said Mr. Lucre, who, to speak truth, had ascribed his excitement—what a base, servile, dishonest, hypocritical scoundrel of a word is that excitement—ready to adopt any meaning, to conceal any failing, to disguise any fact, to run any lying message whatsoever at the beck and service of falsehood or hypocrisy. If a man is drunk, in steps excitement—Lord, sir, he was only excited, a little excited;—if a man is in a rage, like Mr. Lucre, he is only excited, moved by Christian excitement—out upon it!—but, like every other slavish instrument, we must use it—had ascribed his excitement, we say, to causes that had nothing whatsoever to do in occasioning it—the bona fide one being the indirect rebuke, to him, and the class to which he belonged, that was contained in Clement's observations upon the Established Church and her ecclesiastics. "Clement," said he, "I must be plain with you. For some time past I have really suspected the soundness of your views—I had doubts of your orthodoxy; but out of consideration for your large family, I did not press you for an explanation."

"Then, sir," replied Clement, "allow me to say, that as an orthodox clergyman, jealous of the purity of our creed, and anxious for the spiritual welfare of your flock, it was your duty to have done so. As for me, I shall be at all times both ready and willing to render an account of the faith that is in me. I neither fear nor deprecate investigation, sir, I assure you."

"I certainly knew not, however, that you were so far gone in latitudinarianism, as I find, unfortunately, to be the case. I hold a responsible—a sacred situation, as a Protestant minister, Mr. Clement, and consequently cannot suffer such doctrine to spread through my flock. Besides, had you taken an active part in promoting this Reformation, as, with your learning and talents I know you could have done—I make no allusion now to your unhappy principles—had you done so it was my fixed intention to have increased your salary ten pounds per annum, out of my own pocket, notwithstanding the great claims that are upon me."

"My legal salary, I believe, Mr. Lucre, is seventy-five pounds per annum, and the value of your benefice is one thousand four hundred. I may say the whole duty is performed by me. Out of that one thousand four hundred, I receive sixty; but I shall add nothing more—for indeed I have yet several visits to make before I go home. As to my orthodoxy, sir, you will take your own course. To my bishop I am ready to explain my opinions; they are in accordance with the Word of God; and if for entertaining them I am deprived of the slender support for which I labor, as your curate, my trust in God will not be the less."

Mr. Lucre declined any reply, but bowed very politely, and rang the bell, to order his carriage, as a hint to Mr. Clement that the conversation was closed. The latter bowed, bade him good morning, and departed.

When Mr. Clement said he had some visits to make, we must, lest the reader might suppose they are visits of ceremony, follow his steps in order to learn the nature of these visits.

About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe. A poor widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble, and looking evidently ill. Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze. The child was dying, and the tender power of a mother's love prompted her to keep him as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that remained of his brief existence. When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the affliction of my own heart! Am I cut off from the piety and comfort, which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and fellowship! Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my dying children! Such in similar circumstances are the questions which the heart will ask. She could not immediately speak, but with the head of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony, every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.

The champion of God, however, was at his post. He advanced to the bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow. It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it prudent to enforce it too strongly. The widow looked upon her boy's face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in the throes of death. The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother's, hands, and the mother's bosom. He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint; attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were consequently unintelligible. Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow's name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery, upon her dying boy. Her heart—her hopes:—almost her whole being were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human power could give her consolation. The tears were falling fast from Mr. Clement's cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support. At length she exclaimed—

"Oh! Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved! Suffer him to come to you soon. Oh! Saviour—hear a mother's prayer, for I loved him above all, and he was our life! Core of my heart, you are striving to tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your tongue, and you cannot do it! I am here, my beloved sufferer—I am here—you struggle to find my hands to tell me—to tell me—but I cannot help you."

"Mrs. Vincent," said the curate, "we have reason to believe that what appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we imagine; strive to moderate your grief—and reflect that he will soon be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end. His little sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful God will receive him into life and glory."

"But, sir," replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks, "do you not see what he suffers? Look at the moisture that is on his little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain. He thinks that I can stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand. During his whole illness that was still his cry—'oh, mother, take away this pain, why don't you take away the pain!'"

Mr. Clement was a father, and an affectionate one, and this allusion to the innocence of the little sufferer touched his heart, and he was silent.

The widow proceeded: "there he lies, my only—only son—his departed father's image, and I looked up to him to be one day my support, my pride, and my happiness—but see what he is now! Oh! James, James, wouldn't I lay down my life to save yours!"

"You look at the dark side of the picture, Mrs. Vincent," said the curate. "Think upon what he may escape by his early and his happy death. You know not, but that there was crime, and sin, and affliction before him. Consider how many parents there are now in the world, who would feel happy that their children, who bring shame, and distress, and misery upon them, had been taken to God in their childhood. And, surely, there is still a God to provide for your self and your other little ones; for remember, you have still those who have tender claims upon your heart."

"I know you are right, sir," she replied "but in cases like this, nature must have its way. Death, death, but you're cruel! Oh—blessed Father, what is this!"

One last convulsive spasm, one low agonizing groan, accompanied by a relaxation of the little fingers which had pressed her hands, closed the sufferings of the widow's pride. She stooped wildly over him and pressed him to her heart, as if by doing so she could draw his pains into her own frame, as they Were already in her spirit; but his murmurings were silent, and on looking closely into his countenance, she perceived that his Redeemer had, indeed, suffered her little one to go unto him; that all his little pains and agonies were over forever.

"His sufferings are past," she exclaimed, "James, your sufferings are over!" As she uttered the words, the curate was astonished by hearing her burst out into one or two wild hysteric laughs, which happily ended in tears.

"No more," she continued, "you'll feel no more pain now, my precious boy; your voice will never sound in my ears again; you'll never call on me to say 'mother, take away my pain;' the Sunday mornin' will never come when I will take pride in dressing you. My morning and evening kiss will never more be given—all my heart was fixed on is gone, and I care not now what becomes of me."

What could the good curate do? He strove to soothe, sustain, and comfort her, but in vain; the poor widow heard him not.

"Jenny," said she, at length, turning to, the other sick child, "your brother is at rest! James is at rest; he will disturb your sleep now no more—nor will you disturb his."

"Oh! but he couldn't help it, mammy; it was the pain that made him."

As the child uttered these words, the widow put her hand to her heart, gave two or three rapid sobs—her bosom heaved, and her head fell back over a chair that was accidentally beside her. Mr. Clement caught her in time to prevent her from falling; he placed her upright on the chair, which he carried to, the little dresser, where he found a jug of water, the only drink she had to give her sick children. With this he bathed her temples and wet her lips, after which he looked upon the scene of death and affliction by which he was surrounded.

"Gracious Father," he exclaimed, "let, your mercy reach this most pitiable family! Look with eyes of pity and compassion upon this afflicted and bereaved woman! Oh, support her—she is poor and nearly heart-broken, and the world has abandoned her! Oh, do not abandon her, Father of all mercy, and God of all consolation!"

As he concluded, the widow recovered, and felt his tears falling upon her face. On looking she perceived how deeply he was affected. Her lips opened unconsciously with a blessing on him who shared in, and soothed her sorrows—her voice was feeble, for she had not yet recovered her strength; but the low murmur of her prayers and blessings rose like the sounds of sweet but melancholy music to heaven, and was heard there.

Mr. Clement then went over to the bed, and with his own hands smoothed it down for the little sick sister of the departed boy, adjusting the bed-clothes about her as well as he could, for the other children were too., young to do anything. He then divided the hair upon the lifeless child's forehead—contemplated his beautiful features for a moment—caught his little hand in his—let it fall—oh! how lifelessly! he then shook his head, raised his eyes, and pointing to heaven, exclaimed—

"There—Mrs. Vincent, let your hopes lie there."

He then departed, with a promise of seeing her soon.



CHAPTER XII.—Interview between Darby and Mr. Lucre

—Darby feels Scriptural, and was as Scripturally treated—Mr. Lucre's Christian Disposition towards Father M'Cabe—A few Brands offer Themselves to be Plucked from the Burning—Their Qualification, for Conversion, as stated by Themselves.

Mr. Lucre, like almost every Protestant rector of the day, was a magistrate, a circumstance which prevented Mr. Clement from feeling any surprise at seeing a considerable number of persons, of both sexes, approaching the glebe. He imagined, naturally enough, that they were going upon law business, as it is termed—for he knew that Mr. Lucre, during his angel visits to Castle Cumber, took much more delight in administering the law than the gospel, unless, when ready made, in the shape of Bibles. When Darby, also, arrived, he found a considerable number of these persons standing among a little clump of trees in the lawn, apparently waiting for some person to break the ice, and go in first—a feat which each felt anxious to decline himself, whilst he pressed it very strongly upon his neighbor. No sooner had Darby made his appearance than a communication took place between him and them, in which it was settled that he was to have the first interview, and afterwards direct the conduct and motions of the rest. There was, indeed, a dry, knowing look about him, which seemed to imply, in fact, that they were not there without some suggestion from himself.

Darby was very well known to Mr. Lucre, for whom he had frequently acted in the capacity of a bailiff; he accordingly entered with something like an appearance of business, but so admirably balanced was his conduct on this occasion, between his usual sneaking and servile manner, and his privileges as a Christian, that it would be difficult to witness anything so inimitably well managed as his deportment. One circumstance was certainly strongly in his favor; Father M'Cabe had taken care to imprint with his whip a prima facie testimony of sincerity upon his countenance, which was black, and swollen into large welts by the exposition of doctrinal truth which he had received at that gentleman's hands. Lucre, on seeing him, very naturally imagined he was coming to lodge informations for some outrage committed on him either in the discharge of his duty as bailiff, or, for having become a convert, a fact with which he had become acquainted from the True Blue.

"Well, O'Drive," said he, "what is the matter now? you are sadly abused—how came this to pass?"

Darby first looked upwards, very like a man who was conscientiously soliciting some especial grace or gift from above; his lips moved as if in prayer, but he was otherwise motionless—at length he ceased—drew a lone breath, and assumed the serenity of one whose prayer had been granted. The only word he uttered that could possibly be at all understood, was amen; which he pronounced lowly, but still distinctly, and in as unpopish a manner as he could.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied, "but now my heart's aisier—I hope I have overcome that feeling that was an me—I can now forgive him for the sake of the spread o' the gospel, and I do."

"What has happened your face?—you are sadly abused!"

"A small taste o' parsecution, sir, which the Lord put into Father M'Cabe's horsewhip—heart I mane—to give me, bekaise I renounced his hathenism, and came into the light o' thruth—may He be praised for it!" Here followed an upturning of the eyes after the manner of M'Slime.

"Do you mean to tell me, O'Drive, that this outrage has been committed on you by that savage priest, M'Cabe?"

"It was he left me as you see, sir—but it's good to suffer in this world, especially for the thruth. Indeed I am proud of this face," he continued, blinking with a visage so comically disastrous at Mr. Lucre, that had that gentleman had the slightest possible perception of the ludicrous in his composition, not all the gifts and graces that ever were poured down upon the whole staff of the Reformation Society together, would have prevented him from laughing outright. "Of course you are come," pursued Lucre, "to swear information against this man?"

"I have prayed for it," said Darby in a soliloquy, "and I feel that it has been granted. Swear information, sir?—I'll strive and do betther than that, I hope; I must now take my stand by the Bible, sir; that will be the color I'll hoist while I live. In that blessed book I read these words this mornin', 'love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and parsecute you.' Sir, when I read these words, I felt them slidin' into my heart, and I couldn't help repeatin' them to myself, ever since—and, even when Father M'Cabe was playin' his whip about my ears, I was as hard at work prayin' for his sowl."

This, we have no doubt, was perfectly true, only we fear that our blessed convert forgot to state the precise nature and object of the prayer in question, and to mention whether it was to the upper or lower settlement he consigned the soul alluded to. This Christian spirit of Darby's, however, was by no means in keeping with that of Mr. Lucre, who never was of opinion, in his most charitable of moods, that the gospel should altogether supersede the law. On this occasion, especially, he felt an acuteness of anxiety to got the priest within his power, which the spirit of no gospel that ever was written could repress. M'Cabe and he had never met, or, at least, never spoke; but the priest had, since the commencement of the new movement, sent him a number of the most ludicrous messages, and transmitted to him, for selection, a large assortment of the most comical and degrading epithets. Here, then, was an opportunity of gratifying his resentment in a Christian and constitutional spirit, and with no obstacle in his way but Darby's inveterate piety. This, however, for the sake of truth, he hoped to remove, or so modify, that it would not prevent him from punishing that very disloyal and idolatrous delinquent.

"Those feelings, O'Drive, are all very good and creditable to you, and I am delighted indeed that you entertain them—but, in the meantime, you owe a duty to society greater than that which you owe to yourself. This man, this priest—a huge, ferocious person I understand he is—has latterly been going about the parish foaming and raging, and seeking whom he can horsewhip."

"That's thruth, sir, poor dark hathen—an', sir—jist beggin' your pardon for one minute, half a minute, sir—you know we're desired when an inimy strikes us upon one cheek to turn the other to him; well, as I said, sir, I found myself very Scriptural this whole day, so when he hit me the first welt on this cheek, I turns round the other, an' now look at the state it's in, sir—but that's not all, sir, he tuck the hint at once, and gave it to me on both sides, till he left me as you see me. Still, sir, I can forgive him, and I have done it."

"That, as I said, reflects great credit on your principles—but, in the meantime, you can still retain these principles and prosecute him. Your lodging informations against him does not interfere with your own personal forgiveness of him at all—because it is in behalf of, and for the safety of society that you come forward to prosecute now."

Darby, who in point of fact had his course already taken, shook his head and replied, falling back upon the form of M'Slime's language as much as he could—

"I feel, sir," he replied, "that I'm not permitted."

"Permitted!" repeated the other. "What do you menu?"

"I'm not permitted from above, sir, to prosecute this man. I'm not justified in it."

"Quite ridiculous, O'Drive, where did you pick up this jargon of the conventicle—but that reminds me, by the by—you are not a convert to the Established Church. You belong to the Dissenters, and owe your change of opinions to Mr. M'Slime."

"If I don't belong to the Established Church now, sir," replied Darby, "I won't be long so."

"Why," inquired the other, "are you not satisfied with the denomination of Christians you have joined?"

"M'Slime, sir, converted me—as you say—but I've great objections—and between you and me, I, fear it's not altogether safe for any man to take his religion from an attorney."

A smile, as much as he could condescend to, passed over the haughty, but dignified features of Mr. Lucre.

"O'Drive," said he, "I did not think you possessed so much simplicity of character as I perceive you do—but touching the prosecution of this man—you must lodge information, forthwith. You shall bring the warrant to Mr. M'Clutchy who will back it, and put it into the hands of those who will lose little time in having it executed."

"I am sorry, sir, that my conscience doesn't justify me in doin' what you wish."

"What do you mean by conscience, sir?" asked the other, getting warm, "if you have a conscience you will have no scruple in punishing a man who is an open enemy to truth, to the gospel, and to the spread of it through a benighted land. How can you reconcile it to your conscience to let such a man escape."

"Simply by forgiving him, sir—by lettin' the great, big, ignorant hathen, have the full benefit of a gospel forgiveness. That's what I mean, sir, and surely it stands to sense that I couldn't prosecute him wid these feelin's, barrin' I'd go against the Word."

"O'Drive," said Lucre, evidently mortified at Darby's obstinacy, "one of two things is true; either you are utterly ignorant, perhaps, with every disposition to know them, of the sanctions and obligations of religion, or you are still a Papist at heart, and an impostor. I tell you, sir, once more, that it is upon religious grounds that you ought to prosecute this wild priest; because in doing so, you render a most important service to religion and morality, both of which are outraged in his person. You ought to know this. Again, sir, if you are a Protestant, and have thoroughly cast Popery from your heart, you must necessarily be a loyal man and a good subject; but if you refuse to prosecute him, you can be neither the one nor the other, but a Papist and an impostor, and I've done with you. If Mr. M'Clutchy knew, sir, that you refused to prosecute a priest for such a violent outrage upon your person, I imagine you would not long hold the situation of bailiff under him."

Darby looked into the floor like a philosopher solving a problem. "I see, sir," said he, "I see—well—you have made that clear enough sartinly; but you know, sir, how could you expect such deep raisoning upon these subjects from a man like me. I see the duty of it now clearly; but, when, sir, on the other hand if I prosecute him, what's to become of me? Will you, sir, bear my funeral expenses?"

"Every penny, O'Drive," replied the other, eagerly. "Tut," he exclaimed, checking himself, "I—I—I thought you meant the expenses of the prosecution."

"It's much the same, sir," replied Darby, "the one will be sure to follow the other. You know the state the country's in now, sir, and how the people on both sides are ready to skiver one another about this religion, and rents and tithes, and dear knows what besides. As it is, sir," he proceeded, "you see that I dursn't walk the road without these," and he produced the pistols as he spoke, "but what chance, sir, would I have if I prosecuted a priest? Why, my life wouldn't be worth two hours' purchase."

Mr. Lucre himself could not help feeling and admitting the truth of this, but as he could devise no plan to obviate the dangers alluded to, he still scrupled not to urge the prosecution.

"Sir," said Darby starting, as if a gleam of light had shot across his brain, "a thought has just struck me, and I hope it was something from above that sent it. If there was any kind of situation, sir, that I could fill, and that would keep me in a place of safety where the hathens couldn't get at me, everything would be right; and be the same token, sir, now that I think of it, isn't the under gaoler-ship of Castle Cumber vacant this minute."

Lucre who, in fact, had set his heart on prosecuting and punishing the priest, would have gladly made Darby governor of the best gaol in his majesty's dominions, rather than lose this opportunity of effecting his purpose.

"Rest contented, O'Drive," he replied, "you shall have it—I pledge myself that you shall have it. My influence is sufficient for much more than so paltry a trifle as that. And now for the informations."

"Ah, sir," replied the other, "that wouldn't mend the matter a bit. Let it go once abroad that I swore them, and I'd never see to-morrow night. No, sir, if you wish him properly prosecuted,—and I think I ought to know how to do it, too;—but if you wish him properly punished, place me first out of harm's way—out o' the reach o' the hathens; put me into the situation before we take a single step in the business, then I'll be safe and can work in it to some purpose."

"It shall be done," said Lucre, "and I will go about it presently, but in the mean time the matter rests as it is. If what you say is true, and I believe it is, your own safety depends upon your silence."

"Not a breath," replied Darby; "and now, sir, about what brought me here—I wanted to say that I'd wish 'to read' upon Sunday next."

"What do you mean?" asked Lucre.

"Why, sir, as I said, I don't like to take my religion from an attorney—and I'm afeard, besides, that he's not altogether orthybox, in regard that he hinted once that God was ———; but, indeed I disremember his words, for it wasn't aisy to hould them when you got them."

"He, of course, is a Fatalist and Predestinarian," said Lucre; "but what is this you were about to say?"

"Why, sir, that I'd wish publicly to read my recompensation in your church on Sunday next."

"And why in my church?" asked the proud parson, who felt his vanity touched, not by anything Darby had yet said, but by the indescribable expression of flattery which appeared in his face.

"Why, sir," he replied, "bekase it's given out on all hands that there's no end to your larnin'—that it's wondherful the books you wrote—and as for your preachin', that it 'ud make one think themselves in heaven, hell, or purgatory, accordin as you wished."

"Very well, O'Drive, very well indeed," exclaimed Lucre, caught on his weakest side by this artful compliment; "but you must forget purgatory—however I can conceive that it was the mere force of habit that prompted you to utter it. Well, then, you shall read your recantation on Sunday, since you wish it—there will be about a dozen or two others, and you had better attend early. Good-day, O'Drive!"

"Plaise your honor," said Darby, who never could be honest to both parties, "there's a batch o' convarts outside waitin' to see you, but between you and me, I think you had as well be on your guard wid some o' them, I know what they want."

"And pray, what is that, O'Drive?"

"Why, thin, for fraid I may be doin' the crathurs injustice, sir, I won't say; only jist take my hint, any how. Good mornin' kindly, sir!"

As Darby passed the group we have alluded to, he winked at them very knowingly, "go up," said he, "go up I say:—may be I didn't give yez a lift since, and mark me, huld to the five guineas a head, and to be provided for aftherwards. Paddy Cummins do you go up, I say—bannath lath!"

Paddy went up, and in a few minutes a ragged, famine-wasted creature entered with his old caubeen between his hands, and after having ducked down his head, and shrugged his shoulders alternately, stood with an abashed look before Mr. Lucre.

"Well, my good man, what is your business with me?"

To this the countryman prepared to reply,—first, by two or three additional shrugs; secondly, by raising his right elbow, and pulling up all that remained of the collar of his tattered cothamore, or great coat, after which he gave a hem.

"Have you no tongue, my good fellow?"

A shrug—"hem—why, sir, but that was a great sarmon you praiched on last Sunda', plaise you honor. Faitha, sir, there was mighty fine discoorsin' in it about rail-ligion?"

"O! the sermon—did you hear it, my good man?"

"Faitha, sir, I was there sure enough, in spite o' Father M'Cabe, an' all."

"Sit down, my good friend, sit down—well, you attended the sermon, you say—pray how did you like it?"

"Faitha, sir, sure nobody could dislike it bedad, sir, we're all greatly disappointed wid the priests afther hearin' it—it was wondherful to hear, the deep larnin' you brought forrid, sir, against them, an' our church in gineral. Begad myself was mightily improved by it."

"Don't swear, though—well you were improved by it, you say—pray what is your name?"

"I'm one Paddy Cummins, sir, a shister's son of—"

"Well, Cummins, I'm very happy to hear that you were edified, and happier still that you had sense to perceive the side upon which truth lay."

"Faitha, thin, your reverence, I seen that widout much throuble; but, sure they say, sir, there's to be a power of us turnin' over to yez."

"I hope so, Cummins—we are anxious that you should see the errors of the creed you so ignorantly profess, and abandon them."

"Sure enough, sir—dad, sir, your ministhers is fine men, so you are—then you're so rich, sir, plaise your honor—they do be sayin', sir, that the reverend gintlemen of your church have got a great deal of money among them somehow, in regard that it 'ud be needful to help poor crathurs that 'ud turn, and keep them from the parsecution, sir."

"Cummins, my good friend, allow me to set you right. We never give a penny of money to any one for the sake of bringing him over to our church; if converts come to us it must be from conviction, not from interest."

"I see, sir—but sure I'm not wantin' the promise at all, your honor—sure I know you must keep yourselves clear anyway—only the five guineas a head that I'm tould is to be given."

"Five guineas a head!—pray who told you so?"

"Faitha, sir, I couldn't exactly say, but every one says it. It's said we're to get five guineas a head, sir, and be provided for afther; I have nine o' them, sir, eight crathurs and Biddy herself—she can't spake English, but, wid the help o' God, I could consthre it for her. Faith, she'd make a choice Prodestan, sir, for wanst she takes a thing into her head the devil wouldn't get it out. As for me, I don't want a promise at all, your reverence, barrin' that if it 'ud be plaisin' to you, jist to lay your forefinger along your nose—merely to show that we undherstand one another—it 'ud be as good to me as the bank. The crathur on the breast, your reverence, we'd throw in as a luck penny, or dhuragh, and little Paddy we give at half price."

"Did you hear all this?"

"Faitha, then, we did, sir—and sure, as you don't like to have the thing known, I can keep my tongue atween my teeth as well as e'er a convart livin'—an' as for Biddy, by only keepin' her from the dhrink, she's as close as the gate of heaven to a heretic. Bedad, sir, this new light bates everything."

"My good friend, Cummins, I tell you I have no money to give,—neither is there anything to be given,—for the sake of conversion—but, if your notions of your own religion are unsettled, put yourself under Lord ———'s chaplain; and, if, in the due course of time, he thinks you sufficiently improved to embrace our faith, you and your family may be aided by some comforts suitable to your condition."

Cummins' face lengthened visibly at 'an intimation which threw him so far from his expectations; the truth being, that he calculated upon receiving the money the moment he read his recantation. He looked at Mr. Lucre again as significantly as he could—gave his head a scratch of remonstrance—shrugged himself as before—rubbed his elbow—turned round his hat slowly, examined its shape, and gave it a smarter set, after which he gave a dry hem and prepared to speak.

"I'll hear nothing further on the subject," said the other, "withdraw."

Without more ado Cummins slunk out of the room, highly disappointed, but still not without hopes from Lord ———, to whom, or his chaplain, he resolved to apply. In the meantime he made the best of his way home to his starving wife and children, without having communicated the result of his visit to those who were assembled at the glebe house.

He had scarcely left the hall door when another claimant for admission presented himself in the person of a huge, tattered fellow, with red, stiff hair standing up like reeds through the broken crown of his hat, which he took off on entering. This candidate for Protestantism had neither shoe nor stocking on him, but stalked in, leaving the prints of his colossal feet upon the hall through which he passed.

"Well, friend, what is wrong with you?—why did'nt you rub your filthy feet, sir, before you entered the room? You have soiled all my carpet."

"I beg your honor's parding," said the huge fellow; "I'll soon cure that." Having said which he trotted up to the hearth-rug, in which, before Lucre had time even to speak, by a wipe from each foot, he left two immense streaks of mud, which we guess took some hard scrubbing to remove. "Now, your honor, I hope I'll do."

Lucre saw it was useless to remonstrate with him, and said, with more temper than could be expected—

"Man, what's your business?"

"I come, sirra,"—this man had a habit of pronouncing sir as sirra, which he could never overcome—"to tell your reverence to enther me down at wanst."

"For what purpose should I enter you down?"

"For the money, sirra; I have seven o' them, and we'll all go. You may christen us if you wish, sirra. 'Deed I'm tould we must all be christened over agin, an' in that case, maybe it 'ud be plaisin' to you to stand godfather for me, yourself, your reverence."

"What do you mean?—but I suppose I understand you."

"I mean, sirra, to become a Protestan—I an' my family, I'm Nickey Feasthalagh, that was in on suspicion o' the burnin' of Nugent's hay; and by them five crasses I was as innocent of that as the child onborn, so I was. Sure they couldn't prove an me, becoorse I came out wid flying colors, glory be to God! Here I am now, sir, an' a right good Prodestan I'll make when I come to understand it. An' let me whisper this, sirra, I'll be dam useful in fairs and markets to help the Orangemen to lick ourselves, your honor, in a skrimmage or party fight, or anything o' that kidney."

"I am sorry, Nick Fistula, as you say your name is—"

"Mickey, sirra."

"Well, Nickey, or Nick, or whatever it may be, I am sorry to say that you won't do. You are too great an ornament to your own creed ever to shine in ours. I happen to know your character—begone."

"Is Misthre Lucre widin?" asked a third candidate, whose wife accompanied him—"if he is, maybe you'd tell him that one Barney Grattan wishes to have a thrifle o' speech wid his honor."

"Come in," said the servant with a smile, after having acquainted his master.

The man and his wife accordingly entered, having first wiped their feet as they had been ordered.

"Well, my good man, what's your business."

"Rosha, will you let his honor know what we wor spakin' about? She'll tell you, sir."

"Plaise your honor," said she, "we're convarts."

"Well," said Mr. Lucre, "that is at least coming to the point. And pray, my good woman, who converted you?"

"Faix, the accounts that's abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin, that's so full of larnin', your reverance, and so rich, they say."

"Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?"

"Dhamnu orth a Rosha, go dhe shin dher thu?" said the husband in Irish; for he felt that the wife was more explicit than was necessary. "Never heed her, sir; the crathur, your reverence, is so through other, that she doesn't know what she's sayin', especially spakin' to so honorable a gentleman as your reverence."

"Then let us hear your version, or rather your conversion."

"Myself, sir, does be thinkin' a great deal about these docthrines and jinnyologies that people is now all runnin' upon. I can tell a story, sir, at a wake, or an my kailee wid a, neighbor, as well as e'er a man in the five parishes. The people say I'm very long headed all out, and can see far into a thing. They do, indeed, plaise your reverence."

"Very good."

"Did you ever hear about one Fin M'Cool who was a great buffer in his day, and how his wife put the trick upon a big bosthoon of a giant that came down from Munster to bother Fin? Did you ever hear that, sir?"

"No; neither do I wish to hear it just now."

"Nor the song of Beal Derg O'Donnel, sir, nor the 'Fairy River,' nor 'the Life and Adventures of Larry Dorneen's Ass,' plaise your reverence."

"No—but I wish you would allow your wife to relate your business here."

"Well, sir, the people say I'm very longheaded, and can see far into a thing—"

"But, my good man, I care not what the people say—tell your story briefly."

"—An' can see far into a thing, your reverence, becaise I'm long-headed. All longheaded people, sir, is cute, an' do you know why they're cute, sir? No, you don't, but I'll tell you—bekaise they're long-headed. Now, sir, what 'ud you think to turn Roman Catholic awhile till I'd malivogue you in arguin' Scripture?—I want to prove to you, sir, that I'm the boy that understands things."

"What's your business with me?"

"Will you thry it, sir, and you'll see how I'll sober you to your heart's delight."

"What brought your husband to me, my good woman?"

"Bhe dha husth; fag a rogarah lumsa."

"He's comin' to it, plaise your reverence," said the wife.

"Well, sir, so you see, bein' given to deep ways of thinkin' o' my own, I had many bouts at arguin' Scripthur—as every longheaded man has, of coorse—an' yestherday meetin' wid Brian Broghan, the mealman—him that keeps it up on the poor, sir—he challenged me, but, in three skips of a Scotch Gray, I sacked him cleaner than one of his own meal bags, and dusted him afterwards:—'so,' says he, misther Grattan, see what it is to be long-headed."

"It's worse," observed Lucre, "to be long-winded. Come to an end, sir."

"'Long-headed,' says he, 'an', of coorse you'll be takin' the money,' says Brougham; 'what money?' says I. 'Why, the five guineas,' says he, 'that the Biblemen is givin' to every one that will turn wid them, he happens to be long-headed—but otherwise, not a penny.' So, sir, myself, you see, havin' the intention to come over long afore for fraid yez might think it was for the money I am doin' it. But is there such a thing, sir?"

"Not a penny, and so you may tell your friends."

"Well, but, sir, grantin' that, still you'll acknowledge that I'm long-headed."

"No, only long-winded."

"Not long-headed, then?"

"No, certainly not."

"Damnu orth a veehone bradagh! come Rosha. Not long-headed! troth it's a poor religion to depind on—an' I'll make a show of it yet, if I'm spared. Come, woman alive."

Honest Barney was the last but one who was honored by a hearing, though not the last by a score of those who expected it, and, sooth to say, the appearance of that one threw the whole proceedings into such exquisite ridicule, that we cannot resist the temptation of giving his claims and arguments a place among the rest. The convert in question was no other than our old friend Raymond-na-hattha, or Raymond of the hats; who, moved by the example of others, and only possessed of a dim notion of the cause that brought them together, came among them from that vague motive of action which prompts almost every creature like him to make one in a crowd, wherever it may assemble. The mind of poor Raymond was of a very anomalous character indeed; for his memory, which was wonderful, accumulated in one heterogeneous mass, all the incidents in which he had ever taken any part, and these were called out of the confusion, precisely as some chord of association happened to be struck in any conversation which he held. For this reason he sometimes uttered sentiments that would have come with more propriety from the lips of a philosopher than a fool, and again fell to the level of pure idiotism, so singular were his alternations from sense to nonsense. Lucre's porter, himself a wag, knew perfectly well what was going forward, and, indeed, took very considerable delight in the movement. When Raymond presented himself, the porter, to whom he was very well known, determined, for the joke's sake, that he should have the honor of an interview as well as the rest. Lucre, as we said, being but seldom at Castle Cumber, was ignorant of Raymond's person and character, and, indeed, we may add, that he stood in a position precisely similar with respect to almost every one of his own flock. When Raymond entered, then, he was addressed in much the same terms as the others.

"Well, friend, what is your business?—

"John, admit no more, and let the carriage come round—are you a convert also?"

"Yes, I am; what have you to give me?"

"A pure and peaceful religion, my friend."

"Where is it?"

"In this book—this is the Word of God, that preacheth peace and salvation to all."

"Has Val M'Clutchy this book?"

"Of course he has—it is not to be supposed that so able and staunch a friend of Protestantism, of the religion of the state, could be without this book, or ignorant of it."

Raymond put it tip to his nose, and after seeming to smell it, said, with a strong shudder, "how did you do this among you? How did you do it?—look at it—see, see, it's dripping wid blood—here's murder on this page, there's starvation on that—there's the blood-hounds huntin'—look, sir, look at the poor creature almost worn down, makin' his way to hide, but he can't; they have him, they have him—see how they drag him, as if he was, a—ay, drag, drag, he's yours now, he's yours—whip and scourge, whip and scourge—more blood, more blood—and this is it, this—don't you see it, sir, comin' down in drops when I hould it up that way!"

"My good friend, you are certainly in liquor—your language is that of a man strongly affected by drink."

"And this is it," Raymond proceeded; "look at this page, that's not the one the blood is on; no, no, there's nothing here but madness. Ah!" said he, lowering his voice to a tone of deep compassion, "sure she's mad; they killed Hugh O'Began, and they killed the two sons, and then she went mad.—So, you see, there it is now—on that page there's blood, and, on this one,—with the big letter on it, there's madness. Then agin comes the Turnin' out. How would you like to walk three long, dreary miles, in sleet, and frost, and snow, havin' no house to go to—wid thin breeches to your bottom, an' maybe a hole in them—widout shoe or stockin' on your hooves—wid a couple of shiverin', half starved, sick childre, tied by an ould praskeen to your back, an' you sinkin' wid hunger all the time?—ay, and the tail o' your old coat blown up behind every minute, like a sparrow before the wind!—Eh, how would you like it?"

Lucre still stuck to the hypothesis of liquor, and accordingly went and rang the porter's bell, who immediately appeared.

"John," said his master, "I desire you will immediately show this man out—he is so scandalously affected with liquor, that he knows not the purport of his own language."

John approached his master with a face of awful tenor:—"for God's sake, sir," said he, "don't say a word that might cross him, sure he's the great madman, Raymond-na-hattha. Just sit still, and let him take his own way, and he'll do no harm in life; appear to listen to him, and he'll be like a child—but, if you go to harshness, he'd tear you, and me, and all that's in the house, into minced meat."

Once more did Lucre's countenance lose its accustomed hue; but, on this occasion, it assumed the color of a duck egg, or something between a bad white and a bad blue; "my good friend," said he, "will you please to take a seat—John, stay in the room." This he said in a whisper.

"There," proceeded Raymond, who had been busily engaged in examining the pages of the Bible, "there is the page where that's on—the puttin' out in the clouds and storm of heaven—there it is on that page. Look at the ould man and the ould woman there—see them tremblin'. Don't cry—don't cry; but they are—see the widow there wid her orphans—there's a sick boy in that house, and a poor sick girl in that other house—see, they're all cryin'—all cryin'—for they must go out, and on sich a day! All that, now, is upon these two other pages, bekaise, you see, no one page would hould all that. But see here—here's a page wid only one side of it covered—let vis see what's on it. Oh, ay—here's the poor craythur's childre, wid the poor father and the poor mother; but they have the one cow to give milk to moisten their bit. Ha—ha—look again, there she goes off to the pound! Don't cry, poor helpless crathers; but how can you help cryin' when your poor mother's cryin'. That's a bitther thing, too, and it's on this page—see—that—that—that's it I've between my fingers—look at it—'how wet it is wid the poor craythur's tears; but there's no blood here—no, no—nothing but tears. Oh, here—see here—a page as big as the rest, bat wid nothing on it. Ay, I know that—that's an empty farm that nobody dare take, or woe be to them. But here—I seen him "—here he shuddered strongly—"I seen him! His father and mother were both standing undher him—that was the worst of all. It's in this page. He was only one-and-twenty, and the eyes he had; but how did it happen, that although they hanged him, every one loved him? I seen his father and the poor mother looking up to the gallows where he stood, and then she fainted, and she then got sick, and poor ould Brian has nobody now but himself; and all that's on this page." Here poor Raymond shed tears, so completely was he overpowered by the force of his own imaginings. He again proceeded—"And the poor white-headed son. What wouldn't the poor mother give to have his white head to look at? but he will never waken—he will never waken more. What's the name o' this book?" he inquired of Mr. Lucre.

"My excellent and most intelligent friend," replied that gentleman, in atone of meekness and humility that would have shamed an apostle; "my most interesting friend, the name of that book in the Bible."

"The Bible! oh yes; but am I doin' it right?" he inquired; "am I puttin' the explanation to it as I ought? Sure they all oxplain it, and it's only fair that Raymond should show his larnin' as well as any of them. Let us see, then—murdher and bloodshed, hangin' and starvin', huntin', purshuin, whippin', cowld and nakedness, hunger and sickness, death and then madness, and then death agin, and then damnation! Did I explain it?"

"Perfectly, my friend—nothing can do better."

"Well, then, think of it; but these aren't my explanations—but I know who puts them to that bad book! Don't they take all I said out of it? They do; and, sure, don't you see the poor people's blood, and tears, and everything upon it; sure all I said is in it. Here," he exclaimed, shuddering, "take it away, or may be it'll make me as wicked as the rest of you. But, after all, maybe it's not the fault of the book, but of the people." It would indeed be difficult to find a more frightful comment upon the crimes and atrocities which have been perpetrated in this divided country, in the name, and under the character of religion, than that which issued, with a kind of methodical incoherency, from the lips of Raymond-na-hattha. When he had concluded, Mr. Lucre, having first wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, politely asked him if there was anything he could do for him.

"Oh, ay," said he; "but first bring me a lump of good mate, and a quart of portlier."

"You shall have it, my excellent friend. John, ring the bell. You are a very interesting person, Mr.—Mr.—

"Raymond-na-hattha, sir."

"Mr. Raiment—very interesting, indeed. (Good God! am I to run the risk of being-strangled in my own house by a madman!) Oh—here, Alick; bring up some cold meat and a bottle of porter. Anything to make you comfortable, my good sir."

"I only want to see if all's right, sir," said Raymond, "and I'll tell you by and by." This was followed by a look of most pitiable distress from Lucre to his servant, John.

Raymond no sooner saw the cold beef and bread laid down, together with a bottle of porter, than he commenced an exhibition, which first, awoke Mr. Lucre's astonishment, next his admiration, and lastly his envy. Raymond's performance, however, was of that rare description which loses by too frequent practice, and is only seen to advantage when the opportunities for exhibition are few. Three mortal pounds having at length disappeared, together with the greater part of a quartern loaf, and two bottles of porter, for Raymond had made bold to call for a second, he now wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat first, and afterwards, by way of a more delicate touch, with the gathered palm of his hand; then, looking at Mr. Lucre, who sat perspiring with terror in his gorgeous easy chair, our readers may judge of the ease it just then communicated to that reverend gentleman, when he said, "It's all right enough, sir."

"I'm delighted to hear it," replied Mr. Lucre, applying the sudariolum once more with a very nervous and quivering hand to his forehead:

"Is there anything else in which I can serve you, my good sir?"



"Yes, there is—all's right, I've now made the thrial, and it will do—I want to borrow the loan of your religion till the new praties comes in."

"You shall have it, my worthy sir—you shall have it, with very great pleasure."

"The raison why I came to you for it," said Raymond, who, evidently in this joke, had been put up by some one, "was bekaise I was tould that it's as good as new with you—'seldom used lasts long,' you know—but, such as it is, I'll borry it for—ah, there now, that's one; all right, all right," pointing to the fragments of the meat and bread—"I wouldn't ax betther; so, till the praties comes in, mind I'll take care of it; and, if I don't bring it back safe, I'll bring you a betther one in it's place." He then nodded familiarly to Mr. Lucre, and left the house. The latter felt as if he breathed new life once more, but he could not so readily pardon the man for admitting him.

"What is the reason, sir," he asked, his face reddening, "that you suffered that formidable madman to get into the house?"

"Why, sir," replied the porter, "when I opened the door, he shot in like a bolt; and, as for preventing him after that, if I had attempted it, he'd have had me in fragments long ago. When he's not opposed, sir, or crossed, he's quiet as a lamb, and wouldn't hurt a child; but, if he's vexed, and won't get his own way, why ten men wouldn't stand him."

"Take care that he shall never be admitted here again," said his master; "I really am quite disturbed and nervous by his conduct and language, which are perfectly unintelligible. Indeed I am absolutely unwell—the shock was awful, and to occur on such a day, too—I fear my appetite will be very much affected by it—a circumstance which would be distressing beyond belief. Stop—perhaps it is not yet too late—ask Francis is the venison down, and, if not, desire him not to dress it to-day—I am out of appetite, say."

John went, and in a couple of minutes returned, "Francis says it's down, sir, for some time," replied the man, "and that it must be dressed to-day, otherwise it will be spoiled."

"And this is owing to you, you scoundrel," said his master in a rage, "owing to your neglect and carlessness—but there is no placing dependence upon one of you. See, you rascal, the position in which I am—here is a delicious haunch of venison for dinner, and now I am so much agitated and out of order that my appetite will be quite gone, and it will be eaten by others before my face, while I cannot touch it. For a very trifle I would this moment discharge you from my service, and without a character too."

"I am very sorry, sir, but the truth—"

"Begone, you scoundrel, and leave the room, or I shall use the horse-whip to you."

John disappeared, and this great and zealous prop of Protestantism walked to and fro his study, almost gnashing his teeth from the apprehension of not having an appetite for the haunch of venison.



CHAPTER XIII.—Darby's Brief Retirement from Public Life.

—A Controversial Discussion, together with the Virtues it Produced

Our readers may recollect that Darby in his pleasant dialogue with Father M'Cabe, alluded to a man named Bob Beatty, as a person afflicted with epilepsy. It was then reported that the priest had miraculously cured him of that complaint; but, whether he had or not, one thing, at least, was certain, that he became a Roman Catholic, and went regularly to mass. He had been, in fact, exceedingly notorious for his violence as an Orangeman, and was what the people then termed a blood-hound, and the son of a man who had earned an unenviable reputation as a Tory hunter; which means a person who devoted the whole energies of his life, and brought all the rancour of a religious hatred to the task of pursuing and capturing such unfortunate Catholics as came within grasp of penal laws. Beatty, like all converts, the moment he embraced the Roman Catholic creed, became a most outrageous opponent to the principles of Protestantism. Every Orangeman and Protestant must be damned, and it stood to reason they should, for didn't they oppose the Pope? Bob, then, was an especial protege of Father M'Cabe's, who, on his part, had very little to complain of his convert, unless it might be the difficulty of overcoming a habit of strong swearing which had brought itself so closely into his conversation, that he must either remain altogether silent, or let fly the oaths. Another slight weakness, which was rather annoying to the priest too, consisted in a habit Bob had, when any way affected with liquor, of drinking in the very fervor of his new-born zeal, that celebrated old toast, "to hell with the Pope!" These, however, were but mere specks, and would be removed in time, by inducing better habits. Now, it so happened, that on the day in question, Bob was wending his way to Father M'Cabe's, to communicate some matter connected with his religious feelings, and to ask his advice and opinion.

"How confoundedly blind the world is," thought Bob, "not to see that Popery—" he never called it anything else—"is the true faith! Curse me but Priest M'Cabe is a famous fellow!—Zounds, what an Orangeman he would make!—he's just the cut for it, an' it's a thousand pities he's not one—but!—what the hell am I sayin?' They say he's cross and ill-tempered, but I deny it—isn't he patient, except when in a passion? and never in a passion unless when provoked; what the d—l more would they have? I know I let fly an oath myself of an odd time (every third word, good reader), but, then, sure the faith is never injured by the vessel that contains it. Begad, but I'm sorry for my father, though, for, as there's no salvation out o' Popery, the devil of it is, that he's lost beyond purchase."

In such eccentric speculations did Bob amuse himself, until, in consequence of the rapid pace at which he went, he overtook a fellow-traveller, who turned out to be no other than our friend Darby O'Drive. There was, in fact, considering the peculiar character of these two converts, something irresistibly comic in this encounter. Bob knew little or nothing of the Roman Catholic creed; and, as for Darby, we need not say that he was thoroughly ignorant of Protestantism. Yet, nothing could be more certain—if one could judge by the fierce controversial cock of Bob's hat, and the sneering contemptuous expression of Darby's face, that a hard battle, touching the safest way of salvation, was about to be fought between them.

Bob, indeed, had of late been anxious to meet Darby, in order, as he said, to make him "show the cloven foot, the rascal;" but Darby's ire against the priest was now up; and besides, he reflected that a display of some kind would recommend him to the Reformationists, especially, he hoped, to Mr. Lucre, who, he was resolved, should hear it. The two converts looked at each other with no charitable aspect. Darby was about to speak, but Bob, who thought there was not a moment to be lost, gave him a controversial facer before he had time to utter a word:—"How many articles in your church?"



"How many articles in my church! There's one bad one in your church more than ought to be in it, since they got you:—but can you tell me how many sins cry to heaven for vengeance on you, you poor lost hathen?"

"Don't hathen me, you had betther; but answer my question, you rascally heretic."

"Heretic inagh! oh, thin, is it from a barefaced idolather like you that we hear heretic called to us! Faith, it's come to a purty time o' day wid us!"

"You're a blessed convart not to know the Forty-nine articles of your fat establishment!"

"And I'll hould a wager that you don't know this minute how many saikerments in your idolathry. Oh, what a swaggerin' Catholic you are, you poor hair-brained blackguard!"

"I believe you found some convincin' texts in the big purse of the Bible blackguards—do you smell that, Darby?"

"You have a full purse, they say, but, by the time Father M'Cabe takes the price of your trangressions out of it—as he won't fail to do—take my word for it, it'll be as lank as a stocking without a leg in it—do you smell that, Bob ahagur?"

"Where was your church before the Reformation?"

"Where was your face before it was washed?"

"Do you know the four pillars that your Church rests upon? because if you don't, I'LL tell you—it was Harry the aigth, Martin Luther, the Law, and the Devil. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Ah, what a purty boy you are, and what a deludin' face you've got."

"So the priest's doin' you—he's the man can pluck a fat goose, Bob."

"Don't talk of pluckin' geese—you have taken some feathers out o' the Bible blades, to all accounts. How do you expect to be saved by joining an open heresy?"

"Whisht, you hathen, that has taken to idolathry bekase Father M'Cabe made an ass of you by a thrick that every one knows. But I tell you to your brazen face, that you'll be worse yet than ever you were."

"You disgraced your family by turnin' apostate, and we know what for. Little Solomon, the greatest rogue unhanged, gave you the only grace you got or ever will get."

"Why, you poor turncoat, isn't the whole country laughin' at you, and none more than your own friends. The great fightin' Orangeman and blood-hound turned voteen!—oh, are we alive afther that!"

"The blaggard bailiff and swindler turned swadler, hopin' to get a fatter cut from the Bible blades, oh!"

"Have you your bades about you? if you have, I'll throuble you to give us a touch of your Padareen Partha. Orange Bob at his Padareen Partha! ha, ha, ha."

"You know much about Protestantism. Blow me, but it's a sin to see such a knavish scoundrel professing it."

"It's a greater sin, you Orange omad-hawn, to see the likes o' you disgracin' the bades an' the blessed religion you tuck an you."

"You were no disgrace, then, to the one you left; but you are a burnin' scandal to the one you joined, and they ought to kick you out of it."

In fact, both converts, in the bitterness of their hatred, were beginning to forget the new characters they had to support, and to glide back unconsciously, or we should rather say, by the force of conscience, to their original creeds.

"If Father M'Cabe was wise he'd send you to the heretics again."

"If the Protestants regarded their own character, and the decency of their religion, they'd send you back to your cursed Popery again."

"It's no beef atin' creed, anyway," said Darby, who had, without knowing it, become once more a staunch Papist, "ours isn't."

"It's one of knavery and roguery," replied Bob, "sure devil a thing one of you knows only to believe in your Pope."

"You had betther not abuse the Pope," said Darby, "for fraid I'd give you a touch o' your ould complaint, the fallin' sickness, you know, wid my fist."

"Two could play at that game, Darby, and I say, to hell with him—and the priests are all knaves and rogues, every one of them."

"Are they, faith," said Darby, "here's an answer for that, anyhow."

"Text for text, you Popish rascal."

A fierce battle took place on the open highway, which was fought with intense' bitterness on both sides. The contest, which was pretty equal, might, however, have been terminated by the defeat of one of them, had they been permitted to fight without support on either side; this, however, was not to be. A tolerably large crowd, composed of an equal number of Catholics and Protestants, collected from the adjoining fields, where they had been at labor, immediately joined them. Their appearance, unhappily, had only the effect of renewing the battle. The Catholics, ignorant of the turn which the controversy had taken, supported Bob and Protestantism; whilst the Protestants, owing to a similar mistake, fought like devils for Darby and the Pope. A pretty smart skirmish, in fact, which lasted more than twenty minutes, took place between the parties, and were it not that their wives, sisters, daughters, and mothers, assisted by many who were more peaceably disposed, threw themselves between them, it might have been much more serious than it was. If the weapons of warfare ceased, however, so did not their tongues; there was abundance of rustic controversy exchanged between them, that is to say, polemical scurrility much of the same enlightened character as that in the preceding dialogue. The fact of the two parties, too, that came to their assistance, having mistaken the proper grounds of the quarrel, reduced Darby and Bob to the necessity of retracing their steps, and hoisting once more their new colors, otherwise their respective friends, had they discovered the blunder they had committed, would, unquestionably, have fought the battle a second time on its proper merits. Bob, escorted by his Catholic friends, who shouted and huzza'd as they went along, proceeded to Father M'Cabe's; whilst Darby and his adherents, following their example, went towards M'Clutchy's, and having left him within sight of Constitution Cottage, they returned to their labor.

We have already said, that neither M'Clutchy nor M'Slime was at all a favorite with Darby. Darby was naturally as avaricious, and griping, and oppressive as either of them; and as he was the principal instrument of their rapacity and extortion, he deemed it but fair and just that they should leave him at least a reasonable share of their iniquitous gains. They were not, however, the gentlemen to leave much behind them, and the upshot was, that Darby became not only highly dissatisfied at their conduct towards him, but jealous and vigilant of all their movements, and determined to watch an opportunity of getting them both into his power. M'Slime's trick about M'Clutchy's letter first awoke his suspicions, and the reader is already acquainted with the dexterous piece of piety by which he secured it. Both letters now were in his possession, or at least in a safe place; but as he had not yet read them, he did not exactly know what line of conduct or deportment to assume. Then, how face M'Clutchy without M'Slime's answer? Darby, however, was fertile, and precisely the kind of man who could, as they sav, kill two birds with one stone. He had it;—. just the very thing that would serve every purpose. Accordingly, instead of going to M'Clutchy's at all, he turned his steps to his own house; tied an old stocking around his head, got his face bandaged, and deliberately took to his bed in a very severe state of illness. And, indeed, to tell the truth, a day or two in bed was not calculated to do him the least harm, but a great deal of good; for what, between the united contributions of Father M'Cabe and Bob Beatty, he was by no means an unfit subject for the enjoyment of a few days' retirement from public life.



CHAPTER XIV.—Poll Doolin's Honesty, and Phil's Gallantry

—A Beautiful but Cowardly Method of Destroying Female Reputation.—A Domiciliary Visit from the Blood-hounds—Irresponsible Power

At length the hour of Mary M'Loughlin's appointment with Phil arrived, and the poor girl found herself so completely divided between the contending principles of love for Harman and aversion towards Phil, that she scarcely knew the purport of her thoughts or actions. Harman's safety, however, was the predominant idea in her soul, and in order to effect that, or at least to leave nothing undone to effect it, she resolved, as pure and disinterested attachment always will do—to sacrifice her detestation for young M'Clutchy, so far as to give him an opportunity of satisfying her that he was sincere in wishing to save her lover. This setting aside her invincible and instinctive hatred of that worthy gentleman, was, she thought, not at least unreasonable, and with her mind thus regulated she accordingly awaited the appointed time. On reaching the back of her father's garden she found that Phil had not arrived, but somewhat to her relief she was accosted by Poll Doolin, who approached from a clump of trees that stood in deep and impenetrable shadow, whilst she and Poll were easily visible under the dim light of what is called a watery and cloudy moon.

Poll, as she addressed her, spoke eagerly, and her voice trembled with what appeared to Mary to be deep and earnest agitation.

"Miss M'Loughlin," she exclaimed, in a low, but tremulous voice, "I now forgive your father all—I forgive him and his—you need not forgive, for I never bore you ill-will—but I am bound to tell you that there's danger over your father's house and hearth this night. There is but one can save them, and he will. You must go into your own room, raise the window, and he will soon be there."

"What is that, Poll," said Mary, seriously alarmed, "I thought I heard the sound of low voices among the trees there. Who are they, or what is it?"

"Make haste," said Poll, leading the way, "go round to your room and come to the window. It's an awful business—there is people there in the clump—be quick, and when you come to the window raise it, and I'll tell you more through it."

Mary, in a state of great terror, felt that ignorant as she was of the dangers and difficulties by which she was surrounded, she had no other alternative than to be guided by Poll, who seemed to know the full extent of the mysterious circumstances to which she made such wild and startling allusions.

Poll immediately proceeded to Miss M'Loughlin's bed-room, the window of which was soon opened by Mary herself, who with trembling hands raised it no higher than merely to allow the necessary communication between them.

"You don't know, nor could you never suspect," said Poll, "the struggles that Misther Phil is makin' for you and yours. This night, maybe this hour, will show his friendship for your family. And now, Mary M'Loughlin, if you wish to have yourself and them safe—safe, I say, from his own father's blood-hounds," and this she hissed into her ear, squeezing her hand at the same time until it became painful—in a voice so low, earnest, and condensed, that it was scarcely in human nature to question the woman's sincerity; "if," she continued, "you wish to have them safe—and Harman safe, be guided by him, and let him manage it his own way. He will ask you to do nothing that is wrong or improper in itself; but as you love your own family—as you value Harman's life—let him act according to his own way, for he knows them he has to deal with best."

"Wo—wo—heavy and bitter betide you, Poll Doolin, if you are now deceiving me, or prompting mo to do anything that is improper! I will not act in this business blindfold—neither I nor my family are conscious of evil, and I shall certainly acquaint them this moment with the danger that is over them."

"By the souls of the dead," replied Poll, uttering the oath in Irish, "if you do what you say there will be blood shed this night—the blood, too, of the nearest and dearest to you! Do not be mad, I say, do not be mad!"

"May God guide me?" exclaimed the distressed girl, bursting into tears; "for of myself I know not how to act."

"Be guided by Mr. Phil," said she; "he is the only man living that can prevent the damnable work that is designed against your family this night."

She had scarcely uttered the words when Phil came breathless to the window, and, as if moved by a sense of alarm, and an apprehension of danger still greater than that expressed by Poll herself, he exclaimed—

"Miss M'Loughlin, it's no time for ceremony—my father's blood-hounds are at your father's door; and there is but one way of saving your family from violence and outrage. Excuse me—but I must pass in by this window. You don't know what I risk by it; but for your sake and theirs it must be done."

Even as he spake, the trampling of horses feet and the jingling of arms were distinctly heard at M'Loughlin.'s door—a circumstance which so completely paralyzed the distracted girl, that she became perfectly powerless with affright. Phil availed himself of the moment, put his hand to the window, which he raised up, and deliberately entered, after which he shut it down. Poll, while he did so, coughed aloud, as if giving a signal; and in an instant, a number of individuals mostly females, approached the window, near enough to see young M'Clutchy enter, and shut the window after him.

"Now," said Poll to the spectators, "I hope you're all satisfied; and you, James Harman, will believe your own eyes, if you don't Poll Doolin. Is that girl a fit wife for your cousin, do you think? Well, you're satisfied, are you? Go home now, and help forrid the match, if you can. You're a good witness of her conduct, at any rate."

"I did not believe you, Poll," replied the young man whom she addressed; "but unfortunately I am now satisfied, sure enough. My own eyes cannot deceive me. Lost and unhappy girl! what will become of her? But that's not all—for she has proved herself treacherous, and deceitful, and worthless."

"Ay," said the crones whom Poll had brought to witness what certainly seemed to them to be the innocent girl's shame and degradation—"ay," they observed, "there's now an end to her character, at any rate. The pride of the M'Loughlins has got a fall at last—and indeed they desarved it; for they held their heads as upsettin' as if they were dacent Protestants, and them nothing but Papishes affeher all."

"Go home, now," said Poll; "go home all of yez. You've seen enough, and too much. Throth I'm sorry for the girl, and did all I could, to persuade her against the step she tuck; but it was no use—she was more like one that tuck love powdhers from him, than a raisonable bein'."

Harman's cousin had already departed, but in such a state of amazement, indignation, and disgust, that he felt himself incapable of continuing a conversation with any one, or of bestowing his attention upon any other topic whatsoever. He was thunderstruck—his very faculties were nearly paralyzed, and his whole mind literally clouded in one dark chaos of confusion and distress.

"Now," said Poll to the females who accompanied her—"go home every one of yez; but, for goodness sake don't be spakin' of what you seen this night. The poor girl's correcther's gone, sure enough; but for all that, let us have nothing to say to her or Mr. Phil. It'll all come out time enough, and more than time enough, without our help; so, as I said, hould a hard cheek about it. Indeed it's the safest way to do so—for the same M'Loughlins is a dangerous and bitther faction to make or meddle with. Go off now, in the name of goodness, and say nothin' to nobody—barring, indeed, to some one that won't carry it farther."

Whilst this dialogue, which did not occupy more than a couple of minutes, was proceeding, a scene of a different character took place in M'Loughlin's parlor, upon a topic which, at that period, was a very plausible pretext for much brutal outrage and violence on the part of the Orange yeomanry—we mean the possession, or the imputed possession, of fire-arms. Indeed the state of society in a great part of Ireland—shortly after the rebellion of ninety-eight—was then such as a modern conservative would blush for. An Orangeman, who may have happened to entertain a pique against a Roman Catholic, or sustained an injury from one, had nothing more to do than send abroad, or get some one to send abroad for him, a report that he had fire-arms in his possession. No sooner had this rumor spread, than a party of these yeomanry assembled in their regimentals, and with loaded fire-arms, proceeded, generally in the middle of the night or about day-break, to the residence of the suspected person. The door, if not immediately opened, was broken in—the whole house ransacked—the men frequently beaten severely, and the ears of females insulted by the coarsest and most indecent language.

These scenes, which in nineteen cases out of twenty, the Orangemen got up to gratify private hatred and malignity, were very frequent, and may show us the danger of any government entrusting power, in whatever shape, or arms or ammunition, to irresponsible hands, or subjecting one party to the fierce passions and bigoted impulses of another.

The noise of their horses' feet as they approached M'Loughlin's house in a gallop, alarmed that family, who knew at once that it was a domiciliary visit from M'Clutchy's cavalry.

"Raise the window," said M'Loughlin himself, "and ask them what they want—or stay, open the door," he added at the same time to another, "and do not let us give them an excuse for breaking it in. It's the blood-hounds, sure enough," observed he, "and here they are."

In a moment they were dismounted, and having found the hall door open, the parlor was crowded with armed men, who manifested all the overbearing insolence and wanton insult of those who know that they can do so with impunity.

"Come, M'Loughlin," said Cochrane, now their leader, "you ribelly Papish rascal, produce your arms—for we have been informed that you have arms consaled in the house."

"Pray who informed you, Mr. Cochrane?"

"That's not your business, my man," replied Cochrane, "out with them before we search."

"I'll tell you what, Cochrane," replied M'Loughlin, "whoever informed you that we have arms is a liar—we have no arms."

"And right well they know that," said his son, "it's not for arms they come, but it's a good excuse to insult the family."

His father (who, on looking more closely at them, now perceived that they were tipsy, and some of them quite drunk) though a man of singular intrepidity, deemed it the wisest and safest course to speak to them as civilly as possible.

"I did'nt think, Tom Cochrane," said he, "that either I or any of my family, deserved such a visit as this from, I may say, my own door neighbors. It's not over civil, I think, to come in this manner, disturbing a quiet and inoffensive family."

"What's the ribelly rascal sayin'?" asked a drunken fellow, who lurched across the floor, and would have fallen, had he not come in contact with a chest of drawers, "what, wha-at's he say-ayin? but I sa-ay here's to hell with the Po-po-pope—hurra!"

"Ah?" said young M'Loughlin, "you have the ball at your own foot now, but if we were man to man, with equal weapons, there would be none of this swagger."

"What's tha-at the young rible says," said 'the drunken fellow, deliberately covering him with his cavalry pistol—"another word, and I'll let day-light through you."

"Come, Burke," said a man named Irwin, throwing up the muzzle of the pistol, "none o' this work, you drunken brute. Don't be alarmed, M'Loughlin, you shan't be injured."

"Go go to h—l, George, I'll do what I—I li-like; sure 'all these ribels ha-hate King William that sa-saved us from brass money a-and wooden noggins—eh, stay, shoes it is; no matter, they ought to be brogues I think, for it—it's brogues—ay, brogues, the papish—it is, by hell, 'brogues and broghans an' a' the Pa-papishes wear—that saved us from bra-brass money, an—and wooden brogues, that's it—for dam-damme if ever the Papishers was da-dacent enough to wear brass shoes, never, by jingo; so, boys, it's brass brogues—ay, do they ha-hate King William, that put us in the pil-pillory, the pillory in hell, and the devils pel-peltin' us with priests,—hurra boys, recover arms—stand at aise—ha—ram down Catholics—hurra!"

"Mr. M'Loughlin—"

"Mislher M'Loughlin! ay, there's respect for a Pa-pish, an' from a purple man, too!"

"You had better be quiet, Burke," retorted Irwin, who was a determined and powerful man.

"For God's sake, gentlemen," said Mrs. M'Loughlin, "do not disturb or alarm our family—you are at liberty to search the house, but, as God is above us, we have no arms of any kind, and consequently there can be none in the house."

"Don't believe her," said Burke, "she's Papish—" He had not time to add the offensive epithet, what ever it might have been, for Irwin—who, in truth, accompanied the party with the special intention of repressing outrage against the M'Loughlins whom he very much respected—having caught him by the neck, shook the words back again, as it were, into his very throat. "You ill-tongued drunken ruffian," said he, "if you don't hold your scoundrell tongue, I'll pitch you head foremost out of the house. We must search, Mrs. M'Loughlin," said Irwin, "but it will be done as quietly as possible."

They then proceeded through all the rooms, into which, singular as it may appear, they scarcely looked, until they came into that in which we left Mary M'Loughlin and Phil. The moment this worthy gentleman heard their approach, he immediately shut the door, and, with all the seeming trepidation and anxiety of a man who feared discover bustled about, and made a show of preparing to resist their entrance. On coming to the door, therefore, they found it shut, and everything apparently silent within.

"Open the door," said Irwin, "we want to search for arms."

"Ah! boys," said Phil in a whisper through he key-hole, "pass on if you love me—I give you my word of honor that there's no arms here but a brace that is worth any money to be locked in."

"We must open, Mr. Phil," said Sharpe, "you know our ordhers. By Japurs," said he, in a side voice to the rest, "the fellow wasn't boastin' at all; it's true enough—I'll uould goold he was right, and that we'll find her inside with him."

"When I see it, I'll believe it," said Irwin, but not till then. Open, sir," said he, "open, if all's right."

"Oh, d—n it, boys," said Phil again, "this is too bad—honor bright:—surely you wouldn't expose us, especially the girl." At the same time he withdrew his shoulder from the door, which flew open, and discovered him striving to soothe and console Miss M'Loughlin, who had not yet recovered her alarm and agitation, so as to understand the circumstances which took place about her. In fact, she had been in that description of excitement which, without taking away animation, leaves the female (for it is peculiar to the sex) utterly incapable of taking anything more than a vague cognizance of that which occurs before her eyes. The moment she and Phil were discovered together, not all Irwin's influence could prevent the party from indulging in a shout of triumph. This startled her, and was, indeed, the means of restoring her to perfect consciousness, and a full perception of her situation.

"What is this?" she inquired, "and why is it that a peaceable house is filled with armed men? and you, Mr. M'Clutchy, for what treacherous purpose did you intrude into my private room?"

M'Loughlin. himself, from a natural dread of collision between his sons and the licentious yeomanry, and trusting to the friendship and steadiness of Irwin, literally stood sentinel at the parlor door, and prevented them from accompanying the others in the search.

"My darling Mary," said Phil, "it's too late now, you see, to speak in this tone—we're caught, that's all, found out, and be cursed to these fellows. If they had found us anywhere else but in your bed-room, I didn't so much care; however, it can't be helped now."

As he spoke he raised his eye-brows from time to time at his companions, and winked with an expression of triumph so cowardly and diabolical, that it is quite beyond our ability to describe it. They, in the meantime, winked and nodded in return, laughed heartily, and poked one another in the ribs.

"Bravo, Mr. Phil!—success, Captain!—more power to you!"

"Come now, boys," said Phil, "let us go. Mary, my darling, I must leave you; but we'll meet again where they can't disturb us—stand around me, boys, for, upon my honor and soul, these hot-headed fellows of brothers of hers will knock my brain's out, if you don't guard me well; here, put me in the middle of you—good by, Mary, never mind this, we'll meet again."

However anxious M'Loughlin had been to prevent the possibility of angry words or blows between his sons and these men still the extraordinary yell which accompanied the discovery of young M'Clutchy in his daughter's bedroom, occasioned him to relax his vigilance, and rush to the spot, after having warned and urged them to remain where they were. Notwithstanding his remonstrances, they followed his footsteps, and the whole family, in fact, reached her door as Phil uttered the last words.

"Great God, what is this," exclaimed her father, "how came M'Clutchy, Val the Vulture's son, into my daughter's sleeping-room? How came you here, sir?" he added sternly, "explain it."

Not even a posse of eighteen armed men, standing in a circle about him, each with a cocked and loaded pistol in his hand, could prevent the cowardly and craven soul of him from quailing before the eye of her indignant father. His face became like a sheet of paper, perfectly bloodless, and his eye sank as if it were never again to look from the earth, or in the direction of the blessed light of heaven.

"Ah!" he proceeded, "you are, indeed, your treacherous, cowardly, and cruel father's son; you cannot raise your eye upon me, and neither could he. Mary," he proceeded, addressing his daughter, "how did this treacherous scoundrel get into your room? tell the truth—but that I need not add, for I know you will."

His daughter had been standing for some time in a posture that betrayed neither terror nor apprehension. Raised to her full height, she looked upon M'Clutchy and his men alternately, but principally upon himself, with a smile which in truth was fearful. Her eyes brightened into clear and perfect fire, the roundness of her beautiful arm was distended by the coming forth of its muscles—her lips became firm—her cheek heightened in color—and her temples were little less than scarlet. There she stood, a concentration of scorn, contempt, and hatred the most intense, pouring upon the dastardly villain an unbroken stream of withering fury, that was enough to drive back his cowardly soul into the deepest and blackest recesses of its own satanic baseness. Her father, in fact, was obliged to address her twice, before he could arrest her attention; for such was the measureless indignation which her eye poured upon him, that she could scarcely look upon any other object.

"My child, did you hear me?" said her father. "How did this heartless and down-looking scoundrel get into your apartment?"