"On arriving at Drum Dhu, the spectacle which presented itself to us was marked, not merely by the vestiges of inhumanity and bad policy, but by the wanton insolence of sectarian spirit and bitter party feeling. On some of the doors had been written with chalk or charcoal, "Clear off—to hell or Connaught!" "Down with Popery!" "M'Clutchy's cavalry and Ballyhack wreckers for ever!" In accordance with these offensive principles most of all the smaller cottages and cabins had been literally wrecked and left uninhabitable, in the violence of this bad impulse, although at the present moment they are about to be re-erected, to bear out the hollow promises that will be necessary for the forthcoming election. The village was indeed a miserable and frightful scene. There it stood, between thirty and forty small and humble habitations, from which, with the exception of about five or six, all the inmates had been dispossessed, without any consideration for age, sex, poverty, or sickness. Nay, I am assured that a young man was carried out during the agonies of death, and expired in the street, under the fury of a stormy and tempestuous day. Of those who remained, four who are Protestants, and two whom are Catholics, have promised to vote with M'Clutchy, who is here the great representative of Lord Cumber and his property. If, indeed, you were now to look upon these two miserable lines of silent and tenantless walls, most of them unroofed, and tumbled into heaps of green ruin, that are fast melting out of shape, for they were mostly composed of mere peat—you would surely say, as the Eastern Vizier said in the apologue. 'God prosper Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy!—for so long as Lord Cumber has him for an agent, he will never want plenty of ruined villages!' My companion muttered many things to himself, but said nothing intelligible, until he came to one of the ruins pretty near the centre:—

"'Ay,' said he, 'here is the place they said he died—here before the door—and in there is where he lay during his long sickness. The wet thatch and the sods is lying there now. Many a time I was with him. Poor Torley!'

"'Of whom do you speak now, Raymond?' I asked.

"'Come away,' he said, not noticing my question,—'come till I show you the other place that the neighbors built privately when he was dying—the father I mean—ay, and the other wid the white head, him that wouldn't waken—come.'

"I followed him, for truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all that I had witnessed that morning, and now felt anxious, if I could, to relieve my imagination of this melancholy imagery and its causes altogether. He went farther up towards the higher mountains, in rather a slanting direction, but not immediately into their darkest recesses, and after a walk of about two miles more, he stopped at the scattered turf walls of what must once have been a cold, damp, and most comfortless cabin.

"'There,' said he, I saw it all; 'twas the blood-hounds. He died, and her white-headed boy died; him, you know, that wouldn't waken—there is where they both died; and see here'—there was at this moment a most revolting expression of ferocious triumph in his eye as he spoke—'see, here the blood-hound dropped, for the bullet went through him!—Ha, ha, that's one; the three dead—the three dead! Come now, come, come.' He then seemed much changed, for he shuddered as he spoke, and after a little time, much to my astonishment, a spirit of tenderness and humanity settled on his face, his eyes filled with tears, and he exclaimed, 'Poor Mary! they're all gone, and she will never see his white head again; and his eyes won't open any more; no, they're all gone, all gone: oh! come away!'

"I had heard as much of this brutal tragedy as made his allusions barely intelligible, but on attempting to gain any further information from him, he relapsed, as he generally did, into his usual abruptness of manner. He now passed down towards the cultivated country, at a pace which I was once more obliged to request him to moderate.

"'Well,' said he, 'if you don't care, I needn't, for we'll have it—I know by the roarin' of the river and by the look of the mountains there above.'

"'What shall we have, Raymond?' I inquired.

"'No matther,' said he, rather to himself than to me, 'we can cross the stick.* But I'll show you the place, for I was there at the time, and his coffin was on the top of his father's. Ha, ha, I liked that, and they all cried but Mary, and she laughed and sung, and clapped her hands when the clay was makin' a noise upon them, and then the people cried more. I cried for him in the little coffin, for I loved him—I wondher God doesn't kill M'Clutchy—the curse o' God, and the blessin' o' the devil on him! Ha, ha, there's one now: let him take it.'

* In mountain rivers a "stick," or plank, is frequently a substitute for a bridge.

"We still proceeded at a brisk pace for about a mile and a half, leaving the dark and savage hills behind us, when Raymond turning about, directed my attention to the mountains. These were overhung by masses of black clouds, that were all charged with rain and the elements of a tempest. From one of these depended a phenomenon which I had never witnessed before—I mean a water spout, wavering in its black and terrible beauty over this savage scenery, thus adding its gloomy grandeur to the sublimity of the thunder-storm, which now deepened, peal after peal, among the mountains. To such as are unacquainted with mountain scenery, and have never witnessed an inland water spout, it is only necessary to say, that it resembles a long inverted cone, that hangs from a bank of clouds whose blackness is impenetrable. It appears immovable at the upper part, where it joins the clouds; but, as it gradually tapers to a long and delicate point, it waves to and fro with a beautiful and gentle motion, which blends a sense of grace with the very terror it excites. It seldom lasts more than a few minutes, for, as soon as the clouds are dispersed by the thunder it disappears so quickly, that, having once taken your eye off it when it begins to diminish, it is gone before you can catch it again—a fact which adds something of a wild and supernatural character to its life-like motion and appearance. The storm in which we saw it, was altogether confined to the mountains, where it raged for a long time, evidently pouring down deluges of rain, whilst on the hill side which we traversed, there was nothing but calmness and sunshine.

"'It will be before us,' said Raymond, pointing to a dry torrent bed close beside us; 'whisht, here it is—-ha, ha, I like that—see it, see it!'

"I looked in the direction of his hand, and was entranced in a kind of wild and novel delight, by witnessing a large bursting body of water, something between a dark and yellow hue, tumbling down the bed of the river, with a roaring noise and impetuosity of which I had never formed any conception before. From the spot we stood on, up to its formation among the mountains, the river was literally a furious mountain torrent, foaming over its very banks, whilst from the same place down to the cultivated country it was almost dry, with merely an odd pool, connected here and there by a stream too shallow to cover the round worn stones in its channel. So rapid, and, indeed dangerous, is the rise of a mountain flood, that many a life of man and beast have fallen victims to the fatal speed of its progress. Raymond now bent his steps over to the left, and, in a few minutes, we entered a graveyard, so closely surrounded by majestic whitethorns, that it came upon me by surprise.

"'Whisht,' said he, 'she's often here—behind this ould chapel. For 'tis there they are, the two big coffins and the little one—but I liked the little one best.'

"He conducted me to an old mullioned window in the gable, through which a single glance discovered to me the female of whose insanity, and the dreadful cause of it, I had before heard. Whilst pointing her out to me, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and, heavy as it was, I could feel the more distinctly by its vibrations that he trembled; and, on looking into his face I perceived that he had got deadly pale, and that the same spirit of humanity and compassion, to which I have alluded, had returned to it once more. There was not reason in his face, to be sure, but there certainly was an expression there, trembling, and mild, and beautiful, as is the light of the morning star, before the glory of the sun has unveiled itself in heaven. To Raymond's mind that early herald had indeed come, but that was all—to him had never arisen the light of perfect day.

"'There she is,' said he, 'look at her, but don't spake.'

"I looked at her with deep and melancholy interest. She sat on a broken tombstone that lay beside the grave of those in whom her whole happiness in this life had centered. Her dress was wofully neglected, her hair loose, that is, it escaped from her cap, her white bosom was bare, and her feet without shoe or stocking. I could easily perceive, that great as her privations had been, God had now, perhaps in mercy, taken away her consciousness of them, for she often smiled whilst talking to herself, and occasionally seemed to feel that fulness of happiness which, whether real or not, appears so frequently in the insane. At length she stooped down, and kissed the clay of their graves, exclaiming—

"'There is something here that I love; but nobody will tell me what it is—no, not one. No matter, I know I love something—I know I love somebody—somebody—and they love me—but now will no one tell me where they are? Wouldn't Hugh come to me if I called him? but sure I did, and he won't come—and Torley, too, won't come, and my own poor white-head, even he won't come to me. But whisht, may be they're asleep; ay, asleep, and ah, sure if ever any creatures wanted sleep, they do—sleep, darlin's, sleep—I'll not make a noise to waken one of you—but what's that?'

"Here she clasped her hands, and looked with such a gaze of affright and horror around her, as I never saw on a human face before.

"'What's that? It's them, it's them,' she exclaimed—'I hear their horses' feet, I hear them cursin' and swearin'—but no matther, I'm not to be frightened. Amn't I Hugh Roe's wife?—Isn't here God on my side, an' are ye a match for him.—Here—here's my breast, my heart, and through that you must go before you touch him. But then,' she added, with a sigh, 'where's them that I love, an' am waitin' for, an' why don't they come?'

"She once more stooped down, and kissing the grave, whispered, but loud enough to be heard, 'are ye here? If ye are, ye may speak to me—it's not them, they don't know where ye are yet—but sure ye may speak to me. It's Mary, Hugh—your mother, Torley—your own mother, Brian dear, with the fair locks.'

"'Ay,' said Raymond, 'that's the white-head she misses—that's him that I loved—but sure she needn't call him for he won't waken. I'll spake to her.' As he uttered the words he passed rapidly out of a broken portion of the wall, and, before she was aware of his approach, stood beside her. I thought she would have been startled by his unexpected appearance, but I was mistaken; she surveyed him not only without alarm, but benignly; and after having examined him for some moments, she said, 'there are three of them, but they will not come—don't you know how I loved somebody?'

"'Which o' them?' said Raymond.

"'It's a long sleep,' she said, without noticing the question, 'a long sleep—well, they want it, poor things, for there was but little for them but care, and cowld, and hardship—Sure we had sickness—Torley left us first; but,—let me see,—where did Poor Brian go? Well, no matter, we had sickness, as I said, and sometimes we had little or nothing to eat, but sure still wasn't my hand tendher about them. I felt my heart in my fingers when I touched them, and, if I gave them a drink didn't my heart burn, and oh! it was then I knew how I loved them! Whisht, then, poor things—och sure I'll do my best—I'll struggle for you as well as I can—you have none but me to do it—it's not the black wather I'd give my darlin' child if I had betther; but gruel is what I can't get, for the sorra one grain of mail is undher the roof wid me; but I'll warm the cowld potato for my pet, and you can play wid it till you fall asleep, accushla. Yes, I will kiss you; for afther all, isn't that the richest little treat that your poor mother has to comfort you with in your poor cowld sick bed—one and all o' ye.'

"Here she rocked herself to and fro, precisely as if she had been sitting by the sick bed, then stooping down a third time, she kissed the earth that contained them once more—

"'Ah,' she exclaimed, 'how cowld their lips are! how cowld my white-haired boy's lips are! and their sleep is long—Oh! but their sleep is long!'

"Raymond, during these incoherent expressions, stood mutely beside her, his lips, however, often moving, as if he were communing with himself, or endeavoring to shape some words of rude comfort in her sorrows; but ever and anon, as he seemed to go about it, his face moved with feelings which he could not utter, like the surface of a brook stirred by the breeze that passes over it. At length he laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and exclaimed in a tone of wild and thrilling compassion—

"'Mary!'

"She then started for a moment, and looking around her with something like curiosity rather than alarm, replied—

"'Well—'

"'Mary,' said he, 'make haste and go to heaven; make haste and go to heaven—you'll find them all there—Hugh Regan, and Torley, and little Brian. Don't stop here, for there will be more blood, more bloodhounds, and more Val M'Clutchy's.'

"She did not seem to have noticed his particular words, but there appeared to have been some association awakened which gave a new impulse to her thoughts—

"'Come away,' said she, 'come away!'

"Raymond turned, and looking towards where I stood, beckoned me to follow them; and truly it was a touching sight to see this unregulated attempt of the poor innocent, to sooth the heavy sorrows—if such they were now—of one of whose malady could appreciate no sympathy, and whose stricken heart was apparently beyond the reach of consolation forever.

"Both now proceeded in silence, Raymond still holding her by the hand, and affording her every assistance, as we crossed the fields, in order to shorten the path which led us to the Castle Cumber road. On coming to a ditch, for instance, he would lift her, but still with care and gentleness, in his powerful arms, and place her, with scarcely any effort of her own strength, which, indeed, was nearly gone, safely and easily upon the other side.

"We had now crossed that part of the sloping upland which led us out upon a bridle road, that passed close by M'Loughlin's house and manufactory, and which, slanted across a ford in the river, a little above their flax-mill. Having got out upon this little road, Raymond, who, as well as his companion, had for some time past proceeded in silence, stopped suddenly, and said—'Where is heaven, Mary?'

"She involuntarily looked up towards the sky, with a quick but more significant glance than any I had yet seen her give; but this immediately passed away, and she said in a low voice, very full of the usual tones of sorrow:—'Heaven—it's there,' she replied, pointing behind her, towards the burying-place, 'in their graves!'

"Raymond looked at me, and smiled, as if much pleased with the answer. 'Ay,' said he, 'so it is—wherever his white head lies is heaven.'

"I cannot tell how it happened, but I know that I felt every source of tenderness and compassion in my heart moved and opened more by these simple words on both sides, than by all that had passed since we met her.

"In a few minutes more we reached that part of the road immediately adjoining M'Loughlin's house, and which expanded itself as it reached the river, that here became a ford, being crossed in ordinary cases by stone steps. As is usual in the case of such, floods, which fall as rapidly as they rise, we found about a dozen persons of both sexes, some sitting, others standing, but all waiting until the river should subside so as to be passed with safety—the little wooden bridge alluded to having been literally swept away. Among these was Poll Doolin, the mother of Raymond, who, however, did not appear to take any particular notice of her, but kept close by, and directed all his attention to, unhappy Mary O'Regan. About half an hour, had elapsed, when Raymond, casting his eye upon the decreasing torrent, said—

"'It is now low enough—come, Mary, I will carry you safe over—Raymond has often crossed it higher, ay, when it was over the rock there to our right—come.' He lifted her up in his arms without another word, and, with firm and confident steps, proceeded to ford the still powerful and angry stream.

"'Raymond, are you mad?' shouted his mother; 'ten times your strength couldn't stand that flood—come back, you headstrong creature, or you'll both be lost, as sure as you attempt it.'

"Her remonstrances, however, were in vain. Raymond did not even look back, nor pay the slightest attention to what she said.

"'Never mind them,' said he; 'I know best—it's often I crossed it.'

"On reaching the centre of the stream, however, he appeared to feel as if he had miscalculated the strength of either it or himself. He stood for a moment literally shaking like a reed in its strong current—the passive maniac still in his arms, uncertain whether to advance with her or go back. Experience, however, had often told him, that if the fording it were at all practicable, the danger was tenfold to return, for by the very act of changing the position, a man must necessarily lose the firmness of his opposition to the stream, and consequently be borne away without the power of resisting it. Raymond, therefore, balanced himself as steadily as possible, and by feeling and making sure his footing in the most cautious manner—the slightest possible slip or stumble being at that moment fatal—he, with surprising strength and courage, had just succeeded in placing her safely on the rock he had before alluded to, when a stone turned under him—his foot gave way—and the poor creature, whose reason was veiled to almost every impulse but that of a wild and touching humanity, tumbled down the boiling torrent, helpless and unresisting as a child, and utterly beyond the reach of assistance. My own sensations and feelings I really cannot describe, because, in point of fact, such was the tumult—the horror—of my mind at that moment, that I have no distinct recollection of my impressions. I think for a short space I must have lost both my sight and hearing, for I now distinctly remember to have heard, only for the first time, the piercing screams of his mother rising above the wild and alarming cries of the others—but not until he had gone down the stream, and disappeared round a sharp angle or bend, which it formed about eight or ten yards below where he fell.

"There grew a little to the left of the spot where this shocking disaster occurred, a small clump of whitethorn trees, so closely matted together, that it was impossible to see through them. We all, therefore, ran round as if by instinct, to watch the tumbling body of poor Raymond, when what was our surprise to see a powerful young man, about eight or ten yards below us, dashing into the stream; where, although the current was narrower, it was less violent, and holding by a strong projecting branch of hazel that grew on the bank, stretch across the flood, and, as the body of Raymond passed him, seize it with a vigorous grasp, which brought it close to where he stood. Feeling that both were now out of the force of the current, he caught it in his arms, and ere any of us had either time or presence of mind even to proffer assistance, he carried, or rather dragged it out of the water, and laid it on the dry bank.

"'Come,' said he, 'I am afraid there is little time to be lost—help me up with him to my father's, till we see what can be done to recover life, if life is left.'

"The fact is, however, that Raymond was not altogether insensible; for, as young M'Loughlin—the same, by the way, who had sent the message to Phil—had concluded, he opened his eyes, breathed, and after gulping up some water, looked about him.

"'Ah!' said he, 'poor Mary—she's gone to them at last; but she'll be happier with them. Take my hand,' said he to M'Loughlin, 'sure I thought I could do it. Poor Mary!'

"This instantly directed our attention to the unhappy woman, whom we had all overlooked and forgotten for the moment, and I need not say that our satisfaction was complete, on finding her sitting calmly on the rock where Raymond had placed her, at the risk of his life. Poll Doolin, now seeing that her idiot son was safe, and feeling that she was indebted for his life to the son of that man on whom she is said by many to have wreaked such a fearful vengeance, through the ruined reputation of his only daughter, now approached the young man, and with her features deeply convulsed by a sense probably of her obligation to him, she stretched out her hand, 'John M'Loughlin,' said she, 'from this day out may God prosper me here and hereafter, if I'm not the friend of you and yours!'

"'Bad and vindictive woman,' replied the other indignantly, whilst he held back the hand she sought, 'our accounts are now settled—I have saved your son; you have murdered my sister. If you are capable of remorse I now leave you to the hell of your own conscience, which can be but little less in punishment than that of the damned.'

"Raymond, whose attention had been divided between them and Mary O'Regan, now said—

"'Ha, ha, mother—there—that's one—you'll sleep sound now I hope, for you didn't lately—that little thing that comes to your bedside at night, won't trouble you any more, I suppose. No, no, the thing you say in your sleep, that is black in the face, has its tongue out, and the handkerchief drawn tight about its neck. You'd give back the money in your dhrame; but sorry a penny while you're waken, I'll engage.'

"Poll turned away rebuked, but not, if one could judge, either in resentment or revenge. Raymond's words she had not heard, and of course paid no attention to what he said; but the latter, now seeing that the river had fallen considerably, again dashed into the stream, and crossing over, lifted the poor insane widow off the rock, and setting her down in safety on the other side, they both proceeded onwards together.

"'The ford, sir, will not be passable for at least another hour,' said young M'Loughlin, addressing me, 'but if you will have the kindness to step up to my father's, and rest a little after your mountain journey, for I think you have been up the hills, you will find it at least more comfortable than standing here, and less fatiguing than going round by the bridge, which would make it at least five miles added to your journey.'

"I thanked him, said I felt obliged, and would gladly avail myself of his very civil invitation.

"'Perhaps,' he added, 'you might wish to see our flax and linen manufactory; if so, and that you do not think it troublesome, I will feel great pleasure in showing it to you.'

"I expressed my obligations, but pleaded fatigue, which indeed I felt; and we consequently soon found ourselves in his father's parlor, where I met a very venerable old gentleman, the Rev. Mr. Roche, the Roman Catholic pastor of the parish."

We must here exercise the privilege, which, at the commencement of this correspondence, we assured our readers we should reserve to ourselves—we allude to the ability which we possess, from ampler and clearer sources of information—to throw into Mr. Easel's correspondence, in their proper place, such incidents as he could not have possibly known, but which let in considerable light upon the progress of his narrative.



CHAPTER XVIII.—An Execution by Val's Blood-Hounds

Cruel Consequences of Phil's Plot Against Mary M'Loughlin—Dreadful Determination of her Brothers—An Oath of Blood—Father Roche's Knowledge of Nature—Interview Between Mary and her Brothers—Influence and Triumph of Domestic Affection

The hellish and cowardly plot against Mary M'Loughlin's reputation, and which the reader knows has already been planned and perpetrated by Poll Doolin and Phil M'Clutchy, was, as such vile calumnies mostly are, generally successful with the public. On her own immediate relations and family, who knew her firmness, candor, purity of heart, and self-respect, the foul slander had no effect whatsoever, at least in shaking their confidence in her sense of honor and discretion. With the greedy and brutal public, however, it was otherwise; and the discovery of this fact, which reached them in a thousand ways, it was that filled their hearts with such unparalleled distress, terrible agony, and that expanding spirit of revenge which is never satisfied, until it closes on him whose crime has given it birth. In truth,—and it is not to be wondered at—as how almost could it be otherwise?—the diabolical and cowardly crime of Phil M'Clutchy towards their sweet and unoffending sister, had changed her three brothers from men into so many savage and insatiable Frankensteins, resolved never to cease dogging his guilty steps, until their vengeance had slaked its burning thirst in his caitiff blood.

Immediately after the night of its occurrence, a change began to take place in the conduct and deportment of their general acquaintances. Visitors dropped off, some from actual delicacy, and an unaffected compassion, and others from that shrinking fear of moral contagion, which is always most loudly and severely expressed by the private sinner and hypocrite. Their sister's conduct was, in fact, the topic of general discussion throughout the parish, and we need not say that such discussions usually were terminated—first in great compassion for the poor girl, and then as their virtue warmed, in as earnest denunciations of her guilt. To an indifferent person, however, without any prejudice either for or against her, it was really impossible, considering the satanic success with which the plot was managed, and the number of witnesses actually present at its accomplishment, to consider Miss M'Loughlin as free at least from gross and indefensible levity, and a most unjustifiable relaxation of female prudence, at a period when it was known she was actually engaged to another.

This certainly looked very suspicious, and we need scarcely say that a cessation of all visits, intimacy, and correspondence, immediately took place, on the part of female friends and acquaintances. In fact the innocent victim of this dastardly plot was completely deserted, and the little party of her friends was by no means a match for the large and godly hosts who charitably combined to establish her guilt. Her father, with all his manliness of character, and sterling integrity, was not distressed on his daughter's account only. There was another cause of anxiety to him equally deep—we mean the mysterious change that had come over his sons, in consequence of this blasting calamity. He saw clearly that they had come to the dark and stern determination of avenging their sister's disgrace upon its author, and that at whatever risk. This in truth to him was the greater affliction of the two, and he accordingly addressed himself with all his authority and influence over them, to the difficult task of plucking this frightful resolution out of their hearts. In his attempt to execute this task, he found himself baffled and obstructed by other circumstances of a very distracting nature. First, there were the rascally paragraphs alluding to his embarrassments on the one hand, and those which, while pretending to vindicate him and his partner from any risk of bankruptcy, levelled the assassin's blow at the reputation of his poor daughter, on the other. Both told; but the first with an effect which no mere moral courage or consciousness of integrity, however high, could enable him to meet. Creditors came in, alarmed very naturally at the reports against his solvency, and demanded settlement of their accounts from the firm. These, in the first instances, were immediately made out and paid; but this would not do—other claimants came, equally pressing—one after another—and each so anxious in the early panic to secure himself, that ere long the instability which, in the beginning, had no existence, was gradually felt, and the firm of Harman and M'Loughlin felt themselves on the eve of actual bankruptcy.

These matters all pressed heavily and bitterly on both father and sons. But we have yet omitted to mention that which, amidst all the lights in which the daughter contemplated the ruin of her fair fame, fell with most desolating consequences upon her heart—we mean her rejection by Harman, and the deliberate expression of his belief in her guilt. And, indeed, when our readers remember how artfully the web of iniquity was drawn around her, and the circumstances of mystery in which Harman himself had witnessed her connection with Poll Doolin, whose character for conducting intrigues he knew too well, they need not be surprised that he threw her off as a deceitful and treacherous wanton, in whom no man of a generous and honorable nature could or ought to place confidence, and who was unworthy even of an explanation. Mary M'Loughlin could have borne everything but this. Yes; the abandonment of friends—of acquaintances—of a fickle world itself; but here it was where her moral courage foiled her. The very hope to which her heart had clung from its first early and innocent impulses—the man to whom she looked up as the future guide, friend, and partner of her life, and for whose sake and safety she had suffered herself to be brought within the meshes of her enemies and his—this man, her betrothed husband, had openly expressed his conviction of her being unfit to become his wife, upon hearing from his cousin and namesake an account of what that young man had witnessed. Something between a nervous and brain fever had seized her on the very night of this heinous stratagem; but from that she was gradually recovering when at length she heard, by accident, of Harman's having unequivocally and finally withdrawn from the engagement. Under this she sank. It was now in vain to attempt giving her support, or cheering her spirits. Depression, debility, apathy, restlessness, and all the symptoms of a breaking constitution and a broken heart, soon began to set in and mark her for an early, and what was worse, an ignominious grave. It was then that her brothers deemed it full time to act. Their father, on the night before the day on which poor Raymond was rescued from death, observed them secretly preparing firearms,—for they had already, as the reader knows, satisfied themselves that M'Clutchy, junior, would not fight—took an opportunity of securing their weapons in a place where he knew they could not be found. This, however, was of little avail—they told him it must and should be done, and that neither he nor any other individual in existence should debar them from the execution of their just, calm, and reasonable vengeance—for such were their very words. In this situation matters were, when about eleven o'clock the next morning, Father Roche, who, from the beginning, had been there to aid and console, as was his wont, wherever calamity or sorrow called upon him, made his appearance in the family, much to the relief of M'Loughlin's mind, who dreaded the gloomy deed which his sons had proposed to themselves to execute, and who knew besides, that in this good and pious priest he had a powerful and eloquent ally. After the first salutations had passed, M'Loughlin asked for a private interview with him; and when they had remained about a quarter of an hour together, the three sons were sent for, all of whom entered with silent and sullen resolution strongly impressed on their stern, pale, and immovable features. Father Roche himself was startled even into something like terror, when he witnessed this most extraordinary change in the whole bearing and deportment of the young men, whom he had always known so buoyant and open-hearted.

"My dear young friends," said he, calmly and affectionately, "your father has just disclosed to me a circumstance, to which, did it not proceed from his lips, I could not yield credit. Is it true that you have come to the most unchristian and frightful determination of shedding blood?"

"Call it just and righteous," said John, calmly.

"Yes," followed the other two, "it is both."

"In his cowardly crime he has evaded the responsibility of law," continued John, "and we care not if his punishment goes beyond law itself. We will answer for it with our lives—but in the mean time, he must die."

"You see, Father Roche," observed M'Loughlin, "to what a hardened state the strong temptations of the devil has brought them."

"It is not that," said John; "it is affection for our injured sister, whom he has doubly murdered—it is also hatred of himself, and of the oppression we are receiving in so many shapes at his hands. He must die."

"Yes," repeated the two brothers, "he must die, it is now too late."

"Ha!" said the priest, "I understand you; there is an oath here."

The three brothers smiled, but spoke not.

"Are ye my sons?" said the father, in tears, "and will you, who were ever obedient and dutiful, disregard me now?"

"In this one thing we must," said John "we know you not now as our father. Am I right?" said he, addressing his brothers.

"You are right," they replied, "in this thing he is not our father."

"Great God!" said the priest, trembling with absolute dread at a scene so different from any he had ever witnessed, "Merciful Father, hear our prayers, and drive the evil spirits of vengeance and blood out of the hearts of these wicked men!"

"Amen!" said their father, "and rescue them from the strong temptations of the devil which are in them and upon them. Why do you not even pray to God—"

"—For strength to do it—we did, and we do," said John, interrupting him.

Father Roche looked at them, and there they stood, pale, silent, and with a smile upon their lips which filled him with a description of awe and fear that was new to him. Their father was little better; the perspiration stood on his brow, and as he looked at them, he at times began to doubt their very identity, and to believe that the whole interview might be a phantasma, or a hideous dream.

"You have sworn an oath," said the priest. "Rash and sinful men, you dared blasphemously to take, as it were, the Almighty into a league of blood! Do you not know that the creature you are about to slay is the work of your Creator, even as you are yourselves, and what power have you over his life? I see, I see," he added, "you have taken a sacrilegious oath of blood!"

"We have taken an oath of blood," said they, "and we will keep it."

"But is this just to your sister?" said the priest; "do you believe in the justice of an Almighty Providence? Is there no probability that, if this man lives, circumstances may come to light by which her fair and spotless character may be vindicated to the world? On the contrary, should you now take his life, you prevent any such possibility from ever happening; and your own rashness and ungodly crime, will be the means of sending her name down to posterity, foul and spotted with the imputation of woman's worst guilt. Is that love for your sister?"

Father Roche now began to see that he must argue with their passions—or with that strong affection for their sister, upon which these fearful passions were founded—rather than with their reason or their prejudices, which, in point of fact were now immovably set in the dark determination of crime.

"Do you forget," he added, "that there are laws in the country to pursue and overtake the murderer? Do you forget that you will die an ignominious death, and that, instead of acting an honorable part in life, as becomes your ancient and noble name, you will bequeath nothing to your parents but an inheritance of shame and infamy?"

"We have thought of all this before," said John.

"No, not all," said the youngest; "not all, but nearly."

"Well, nearly," said the other.

"Then," said the priest, "you will not hesitate to renounce your most foul and diabolical intention?"

"We have sworn it," said John, "and it must be done." To this the others calmly assented.

"Well, then," said the earnest Christian, "since you fear neither disgrace, nor shame, nor the force of human laws, nor the dread of human punishment, you are not so hardened as to bid defiance to the Almighty, by whom you will be judged. Has he not said, 'thou shalt do no murder? and that whoso sheddeth blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' I now ask you," said he, "as one of the humblest of his accredited messengers, do you believe in God and fear him?"

"We are sworn," said John; "the blood of him who has dishonored our sister's name we will shed, and it is neither priest nor parent who will or shall prevent us."

"Is not a rash and unlawful oath a crime?" said Father Roche: "yes, and you know it is better broken than kept. I call upon you now, as your spiritual guide, to renounce that blasphemous oath of blood, and in the name of the Almighty and all powerful God, I command you to do it."

"We deny your right to interfere," replied John, "we are not now at confession—keep within your limits; for as sure as there is death and Judgment, so sure as we will fulfil our oath in avenging the disgrace of our sister. That ends all, and we will speak no more."

The good old man began to fear that he should be put to the most painful necessity of lodging informations before a magistrate, and thus become the means of bringing' disgrace and evil upon the family when it occurred to him to ask them a last question.

"My dear young men," said he, "I have forgotten, in the agitation of mind occasioned by the unprecedented disclosure of your evil and wilful intentions, to ask, if you so far renounce God as to refuse to worship him. Kneel down, and let us pray." He himself and their father knelt, but the three brothers stood as sullen and immovable as before. Tho priest uttered a short prayer, but their conduct so completely perplexed and shocked him, that he rose up, and with tears in his eyes, exclaimed—

"I am now an old man, and have witnessed many instances of error, and sin, and deep crime, but never before have I seen in persons of your early years, such instances—such awful, terrible instances—of that impenitence in which the heart, setting aside God and his sacred ordinances, is given over to the hardness of final reprobation. I can do no more, as the ambassador of Christ, but I must not stand by and see a fellow-creature—oh! thank God," he exclaimed, "a thought recurs to my mind which had for a time passed out of it. My good friend," he said, addressing old M'Loughlin, "will you bring Mary in, if she is able to come—say I request to see her here."

"We will go now," said the eldest, "you can want us no longer."

"You shall not go," replied Father Roche firmly, "if you are men, stay—or, if cowards, who are afraid to look into the depths of your own dark designs, you will and may go—we want you not." This language perplexed them, but they stood as before, and moved not.

In a few minutes Mary came in, leaning on her father's arm; but, ah! what a change from the elegant outline and clear, healthy cheek—from the red plump lips, and dark mellow eyes, which carried fascination in every glance and grace in every motion! Sweet, and beautiful, and interesting, she still unquestionably was, but her pale cheek, languid eye, and low tremulous voice, told a tale, which, when the cause of it was reflected on, had literally scorched up out of her brother's hearts every remaining vestige of humanity.

"Mary," said the priest, we have requested your presence, my child, for a most important purpose—and, in communicating that purpose to you, we indeed give the strongest proof of our confidence in your firmness and good sense—nay, I will add, in the truth and fervor of your dependence on the sustaining power of religion."

"In my own strength or discretion I will never depend more," she replied, sighing deeply.

"You must exert great courage and firmness now, then," rejoined Father Roche; "In the first place, you are about to have a disclosure made which will be apt to shock you; and, in the next place, I have only to say, that it is the absolute necessity of your knowing it, in order to prevent dreadful consequences from ensuing upon it, that forces us to make you cognizant of it at all."

"I trust I shall endeavor at least to bear it," she returned; "I am not strong, and I do not think that too much preparation will add to my strength."

"I agree with you, my child," said Father Roche, "and have only made such as I deemed indispensably necessary. The fact then is, my poor girl, that your brothers meditate violence against that most base and wicked person who—"

"I know, sir, the person to whom you allude; but I will thank you, if you can avoid it, not to name him."

"I have no such intention," replied the good man, "but bad and profligate as he is, it is still worse that your three brothers should propose such violence."

"But what do you mean by violence—of course violence of any description is beneath them. Surely,—John, you would not stoop—"

She looked at them as she spoke, and, as before, there was no mistaking the meaning of the cold and deadly smile which lay upon their lips, and contrasted so strongly and strangely with their kindling eyes.

"What fearful expression is this," she asked, with evident terror and trepidation; "my dear brothers, what does this mean?—that is, if you be my brothers, for I can scarcely recognize you—what is it, in the name of heaven?"

The brothers looked at her, but spoke not, nor moved.

"They have taken an oath, Mary, to wipe out your shame in his blood," added the priest.

She immediately rose up without aid, and approached them.

"This is not true, my dear brothers," said she, "this cannot be true—deny it for your sister."

"We cannot deny it, Mary," said John, "for it is true, and must be done—our vengeance is ripe, hot, burning, and will wait no longer."

"John," said she, calmly, "recollect 'vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it.'"

"I told them so," said their father, "but I receive no attention at their hands."

"Vengeance is ours," said John, in a deeper and more determined voice than he had ever uttered, "vengeance is ours, and we shall repay it." The others repeated his words as before.

"Obstinate and unhappy young men," said the priest, "you know not, or you forget, that this is blasphemy."

"This, my dear sir," observed their sister, getting still more deadly,pale than before, "is not blasphemy, it is insanity—my three brothers are insane; that is it. Relieve me, John," said she, recovering herself, "and say it is so."

"If we were insane, Mary," replied her brother, calmly, "our words would go for nothing."

"But, is it not a dreadful thing," she continued, "that I should be glad of such an alternative?"

"Mary," said the priest, "ask them to pray; they refused to join me and their father, perhaps you may be more successful."

"They will certainly pray," said she; "I never knew them to omit it a night, much less refuse it. Surely they will join their poor sister Mary, who will not long—" She hesitated from motives which the reader can understand, but immediately knelt down to prayer.

During prayer the three brothers stood and knelt not, neither did they speak. When prayers were concluded, she arose, and with tears in her eyes, approached her eldest-brother.

"John," said she, "can it be that the brother of Mary M'Loughlin is an assassin? I will answer for you," she said. "Kiss me, for I am weak and feeble, and must go to bed."

"I cannot kiss you," he replied; "I can never kiss you more, Mary—for it must be—done."

The tears still streamed copiously down her cheeks, as they did down those of her father and the amiable priest. The latter, who never took his eye off her, was praying; incessantly, as might be seen by the motion, of his lips.

"Alick," she proceeded, turning to her second brother, "surely won't refuse to kiss and embrace his only sister, before she withdraws for the day."

"I cannot kiss you, my pure sister; I can never kiss you more. We have sworn, and it must be done."

"I thought I had brothers," said she, "but I find I am now brotherless—yet perhaps not altogether so. I had once a young, generous, innocent, and very affectionate playfellow. It was known that I loved him—that we all loved him best. Will he desert his loving sister, now that the world has done so? or will he allow her to kiss, him, and to pray that the darkness of guilt may never overshadow his young and generous spirit. Bryan," she added, "I am Mary, your sister, whom you loved—and surely you are my own dearest brother."

Whilst she uttered the words, the tears: which flowed from her eyes fell upon his face. He looked at her pale features, so full of love and tenderness—the muscles of his face worked strongly; but at length, with a loud cry, he threw himself over, caught her in his arms, and laying her head upon his bosom, wept aloud. The evil spell was now broken. Neither John nor Alick could resist the contagion of tenderness which their beloved sister shed into their hearts. Their tears flowed fast—their caresses were added to those of Brian; and as they penitently embraced her, they retracted their awful oath, and promised never again to think of violence, revenge, or bloodshed.

Thus did the force and purity of domestic affection charm back into their hearts the very spirit which its own excess had before driven out of it;—and thus it is that many a triumph over crime is won by the tenderness and strength of that affection, when neither reason, nor religion, nor any other principle that we are acquainted with, can succeed in leading captive the fearful purposes of resentment and revenge.

"Now," said Father Eoche, "we have still a, duty to perform, and that is, to return thanks to Almighty God for the dark and deadly crime, and the woeful sorrow, which, by his grace and mercy, he has averted from this family; and I think we may take this blessing—for such surely it is—as an earnest hope that the same Divine hand, which has put aside this impending calamity from us, may, and will, in his own good time, remove the other afflictions which the enmity and wickedness of evil hearts, and evil councils have brought upon us; but especially let us kneel and return thanks for the great and happy change which, through the humility and affection of one of us, has been wrought upon the rest."

He then knelt down, and on this occasion the iron sinews of these young men became soft, and were bent in remorse, sorrow, repentance. The pious priest prayed fervently and humbly, and as his tears fell fast, in the trusting sincerity of his heart and the meek earnestness of his spirit, it is almost unnecessary to say, that those of his little flock accompanied him. The brothers wept bitterly, for the rocky heart of each had been touched, and religion completed the triumph which affection had begun.

Such had been the situation of this family on the day alluded to by Mr. Easel, who could not, of course, have had any means of becoming acquainted with them, but as we felt that the incidents were necessary to give fulness to his narrative, we did not hesitate to introduce them here, where a knowledge of them was so necessary. We now allow Mr. Easel himself to resume his narrative.

"This venerable pastor," continues Mr. Easel, "is a thin, pale man, but, evidently, in consequence of temperance and moderation in his general habits of living, a healthy one. He cannot be less than seventy, but the singular clearness of his complexion, and the steady lustre of his gray eye, lead you to suppose that he is scarcely that. He is tall and without stoop, and, from the intellectual character of his high and benevolent forehead, added to the mildness of his other features, and his whole face, he presented, I must say, a very striking combination of dignity and meekness. His dress is plain, and nothing can be more fine and impressive than the contrast between his simple black apparel, and the long flowing snow-white hair which falls over it. His holy zeal as a Christian minister, unobscured by secular feelings, or an unbecoming participation in the angry turmoils of political life, possessed all the simple beauty of pure and primitive piety. Father Roche received his education on the Continent, in several parts of which he has held ecclesiastical appointments, one being the Presidency of an Irish College. He consequently speaks most, if not all, of the continental languages; but so utterly free from display, and so simple are his manners, that you would not on a first interview, no, nor on a second, ever suppose the man to be what he is—a most accomplished scholar and divine. In one thing, however, you never could be mistaken—that his manners, with all their simplicity, are those of a gentleman, possessing as they do, all the ease, and, when he chooses, the elegance of a man who has moved in high and polished society. He has only been a few years in Ireland. After a glass of wine and some desultory conversation touching public events and the state of this unfortunate and unsettled country, upon all of which he spoke with singular good temper and moderation, we went to see the manufactory, now that I had recovered from my fatigue. This building is two or three hundred yards from the house, and as we were on our way there, it so happened that he and I found ourselves together, and at some distance from M'Loughlin and his sons.

"'You were introduced, sir,' said he, 'to me as Mr. Easel.'

"I bowed.

"'I am not inquisitive,' he added with a smile, 'because in this case I do not find it necessary; but I am candid.'

"I began to feel slightly uneasy, so I only bowed again, but could say nothing.

"'I have met you on the continent.'

"'It is quite possible,' I replied, 'I have been there.'

"He laid his finger on my shoulder, and added still with a gentle and significant smile, 'I am in possession of your secret, and I say so, to take you merely as far as I am concerned, out of a false, and myself out of a somewhat painful position. It would be embarrassing to me, for instance, to meet and treat you as that which you are not, knowing as I do what you are; and it will relieve you from the difficulty of sustaining a part that is not your own, at least so far as I am concerned.'

"'I certainly perceive,' I replied, 'that you are in possession of that, which in this country, I thought known only to myself and another.'

"'Your secret,' he said emphatically, 'shall be inviolable.'

"'I feel it, my good sir,'I replied, 'and now, let me ask, on what part of the continent did we meet?'

"Let it suffice to say here, that he brought himself distinctly to my memory, through the medium of a very kind office performed for a friend of mine, who, at the time, stood in circumstances not only of difficulty, but of considerable personal danger.

"Having viewed the manufactory, which is somewhat of a novelty in this immediate locality, we were about to take our leave, when four men, evidently strangers, and each remarkable for that hardened and insolent look which begets suspicion at a glance, now entered the concern with an air of ruffian authority, and with all the offensive forms of which the law is capable, laid on an execution, to the amount of fourteen hundred pounds.

"Old M'Loughlin received the intelligence, and witnessed the proceedings, with a smile, in which there was something that struck me as being peculiarly manly and independent.

"'This,' said he, 'although coming from a quarter that I deemed to be friendly, is the heaviest blow, connected with our business, that we have received yet. Still, gentlemen,' he proceeded, addressing Father Roche and myself, 'I trust it won't signify—a mere passing embarrassment. This manufactory, as you may perceive, complete through all its machinery, which is of the very best and costliest description, together with the property in it, is worth five times the amount of the execution.'

"'Yes, but you forget,' replied the leading ruffian, 'that property under an execution isn't to be judged by its real value. In general it doesn't bring one-tenth, no, nor one-fifteenth of its true value, when auctioned out, as it will be, under a writ.'

"'Ay, by Jabers,' said another of them, 'an' what's better still, you forget that your lease is expired, and that Lord Cumber has sent over word for you not to get a renewal—nor Harman either.'

"'Is this true?' I inquired of Father Roche; 'do you imagine it to be possible?'

"'That fellow is bad authority for anything,' he replied, 'but I fear that in this Point, he is too correct. However, let us ask M'Loughlin himself, who, certainly, has the best right to know.'

"This I resolved on, not because I was ignorant of the fact, which you know I had from M'Clutchy himself, but that I might ascertain that gentleman's mode of transacting business, and his fairness towards Lord Cumber's tenants.

"'What this man says, Mr. M'Loughlin, surely cannot be possible—does he mean to assert that Lord Cumber refused to renew your lease, although he must be aware that you have expended in the erection of this fine manufactory a sum not less, I should suppose, than five or six thousand pounds.'

"'Seven thousand six hundred,' replied the old man, setting me right, 'nearly four thousand between Harman and us.'

"'But he does not refuse to renew your leases certainly?'

"'No,' said M'Loughlin, 'I cannot say that he does; but we have not been able to get anything like a distinct reply from him on the subject—and, as far as reports go, they are certainly not in our favor. We have written to Lord Cumber himself, and the only reply we could obtain was, that he had placed the whole matter in the hands of M'Clutchy, in whose justice and integrity, he said, he had the highest confidence, and that consequently we must abide by his decision. My own impression is, that he is determined to ruin us, which he certainly will, should he refuse us a renewal.'

"'There can be no doubt about it,' said the eldest son, 'nor that his management of the estate and his general administration of justice are woefully one-sided.'

"'I don't choose to hear Mr. M'Clutchy abused,' said the leading fellow, who, in truth, was one of his blood-hounds, as were all the rest, with one exception only, 'nor I won't hear him abused. You wouldn't have him show the same favor to Papists that he would show to good, honest Protestants, that are staunch and. loyal to Church and State—by Jabers, that would be nice work! Do you think a man's not to show favor to his own side, either as a magistrate or agent?—faith that's good!'

"'And I'll tell you more,' said another of them, addressing John M'Loughlin, 'do you think, that if he dared to put Papishes on a level with us, that we'd suffer it? By Gog, you're out of it if you do—we know a horse of another color, my buck.'

"'To whom do you address such insolent language as this?' asked the young man, 'you are here in execution of your duty, and you had better confine yourself to that.'

"'To you, my buck, I address it, and to any Papish that doesn't like it—and if I'm here to discharge my duty, I'll discharge it,' and he shook his head with insolence as he spoke; 'an' what's more, I'm afeard of no man—and I'll discharge my duty as I like, that's another thing—as I like to discharge it. Ha! d—n me, I'm not to be put down by a parcel of Priests and Papishes, if they were ten times as bad as they are.'

"'You are a low ruffian,' replied the young man, 'far beneath my resentment or my notice; and it is precisely such scoundrels as you, ignorant and brutal, who bring shame and infamy upon religion itself—and are a multiplied curse to the country.'

"'Very well, my buck,' persisted this ferocious bigot, 'may be the day will come when we'll make you remember this traisen, and swally it too. How would you like to get a touch of the wreckers, my buck?—an' by Jabers, take care that you're not in for a lick. A lease! d—n me but it would be a nice thing to give the like o' you a lease! None o' your sort, my buck, will get that trick, so long as loyal M'Clutchy's on the property.'

"Father Roche having taken the young man's arm, led him away; wishing to avoid any further altercation with such persons, and immediately afterwards they set about completing an inventory of all the property, machinery, etc., in the establishment.

"'There was one expression used by that man,' I observed, when we got out again upon the Castle Cumber road, 'which I do not properly understand; it was, 'how should you like to get a touch of the wreckers?'

"'The wreckers, sir,' replied old M'Loughlin, 'are a set of men such as that fellow we have just been speaking to—brimful of venom and hatred against Catholics and their religion. Their creed consists of two principles, one of which I have just mentioned, that is, hatred of us; the other is a blind attachment to the Orange system. These two combined, constitute a loyalist of the present day; and with such impressions operating upon a large mass of men like the fellow inside, who belong to an ascendant party, and are permitted to carry arms and ammunition wherever they like, either to search your house or mine, on the most frivolous pretences, it is not surprising that the country should be as it is; but it is surprising, that exposed as we are to such men, without adequate protection, we should possess any attachment at all to the throne and, constitution of these realms; or to a government which not only suffers such a state of things to exist, but either connives at or encourages it. For instance, it was the exhibition of such principles as you have heard that man avow, that got him and those who accompany him their appointments; for, I am sorry to say, that there is no such successful recommendation as this violent party! spirit, even to situations of the very lowest class. The highest are generally held by Orangemen, and it is attachment to their system that constitutes the only passport now-a-days to every office in the country, from the secretary to the scavenger.'

"This, I fear, is rather an overtime account of the state of things in the portion of Ireland from which I write; but, whilst I admit this, I am far from saying that the faults are all on one side. There are prejudices equally ferocious, and quite as senseless and ignorant, on the part of the Roman Catholic party—prejudices resulting sometimes from education, and sometimes from the want of it; but, which certainly contribute their full share to the almost disorganized state of society by which I am surrounded."

From the same to the same in continuation.

"May 10, 18—. My dear Spinageberd—-Feeling, as I did, exceedingly anxious to make myself acquainted with the true principles of the Orange institutions which have spread themselves so rapidly over the country, I need scarcely say to you that I left nothing that was fair and honorable undone, on my part, to accomplish that object; or, in other words, to ascertain whether their private principles, as a political body, harmonize with their public practices. It is but fair to render justice to every party, and consequently it is only right and equitable to inquire whether the violent outrages committed by the low and ignorant men who belong to their body, are defensible by the regulations which are laid down for their guidance.

"On looking over the general declaration of the objects of the institution, one is certainly struck by the fairness, and liberality, and moderation, joined to a becoming avowal of attachment to the Protestant religion and the throne, which it breathes. Here, however, it is, verbatim et literatim, in its authentic shape, with all that is good or evil in it laid clearly before you. I deem it right, however, to preface it by the greater portion of a short but significant Report, to which are prefixed the following memorable names:—

"'At a meeting of the Grand Orange Lodge of Ireland, November 29, 1798. Present:—Thomas Verner, Grand Master; J. C. Beresford, grand secretary; R. C. Smith, jun., deputy secretary; H. A. Woodward; J. S. Rochfort; T. F. Knipe; Samuel Montgomery; Harding Giffard; William Richardson; John Fisher; William Corbett; W. G. Galway; Francis Gregory. Harding Giffard and S. Montgomery, Esqrs., reported as follows:—

"'Having been honored by the Grand Lodge with instructions to revise and select a proper system of rules, for the government of Orange Lodges, we beg leave to make a report of our progress.

"'We are happy in being able to say, that in our duty upon this occasion, we received the greatest assistance from the experience of the Grand Master of Ireland, and his Deputy Grand Secretary, who did us the honor of imparting to us their sentiments.

"'Encouraged by their help, we have ventured very materially to alter the shape of the confused system which was referred to us preserving the spirit, and, as much as possible, the original words, except where we had to encounter gross violations of language and grammar.

"'The general, plan of our proceeding has been this, we have thrown what are, in our opinion, very improperly called the six first general rules, into one plain short declaration of the sentiments of the body.

"'Next in order we have given the qualifications of an Orangeman, selected from the Antrim regulations, and the rather, as it breathes a spirit of piety which cannot be too generally diffused throughout an institution, whose chief object, whatever political shape it may assume, is to preserve the Protestant Religion. ******

"'Samuel Montgomery, "'Henby Giffard. '"Nov. 20, 1798."

GENERAL DECLARATION OF THE OBJECTS OF THE ORANGE INSTITUTION.

"'We associate, to the utmost of our power, to support and defend his Majesty King George the Third, the constitution and laws of this country, and the succession to the Throne in his Majesty's illustrious house, being Protestants; for the defence of our persons and properties; and to maintain the peace of the country; and for these purposes to we will be at all times ready to assist the civil and, military powers in the just and lawful discharge of their duty. We also associate in honor of King William the Third, Prince of Orange, whose name we bear, as supporters of his glorious memory, and the true religion by him completely established in these kingdoms. And in order to prove our gratitude and affection for his name, we will annually celebrate the victory over James at the Boyne, on the first day of July, O.S., in every year, which day shall be our grand Era for ever.

We further declare that we are exclusively a Protestant Association; yet, detesting as we do, any intolerant spirit, we solemnly pledge ourselves to each other, that we will not persecute, injure, or upbraid any person on account of his religious opinions, PROVIDED THE SAME BE NOT HOSTILE TO THE STATE; but that we will, on the contrary, be aiding and assisting' to every loyal subject, of every religious description, in protecting him from violence and oppression.

Qualifications requisite for an Orangeman.

"'He should have a sincere love and veneration for his Almighty Maker, productive of those lively and happy fruits, righteousness and obedience to his commands; a firm and steadfast faith in the Saviour of the world, convinced that he is the only mediator between a sinful creature and an offended Creator—without these he cannot be a Christian; of a humane and compassionate disposition, and a courteous and affable behavior. He should be an utter enemy to savage brutality and unchristian cruelty; a lover of society and improving company; and have a laudable regard for the Protestant religion, and a sincere desire to propagate its precepts; zealous in promoting the honor, happiness, and prosperity of his king and country; heartily desirous of victory and success in those pursuits, yet convinced and assured that God alone can grant them. He should have a hatred of cursing and swearing, and taking the name of God in vain (a shameful practice), and he should use all opportunities of discouraging it among his brethren. Wisdom and prudence should guide his actions—honesty and integrity direct his conduct—and the honor and glory of his king and country be the motives of his endeavors—lastly, he should pay the strictest attention to a religious observance of the Sabbath, and also to temperance and sobriety.

Obligation of an Orangeman.

"I, A. B., do solemnly and sincerely swear, of my own free will and accord, that I will, to the utmost of my power, support and defend the present king, George III., his heirs and successors, so long as he or they support the Protestant ascendancy, the constitution, and laws of these kingdoms; and that I will ever hold sacred the name of our glorious deliverer, William III., prince of Orange; and I do further swear, that I am not, nor ever was, a Roman Catholic or Papist; that I was not, am not, nor ever will be, a United Irishman, and that I never took the oath of secrecy to that, or any other treasonable society; and I do further swear, in the presence of Almighty God, that I will always conceal, and never will reveal, either part or parts of what is now to be privately communicated to me, until I shall be authorized so to do by the proper authorities of the Orange institution; that I will neither write it, nor indite it, stamp, stain, or engrave it, nor cause it so to be done, on paper, parchment, leaf, bark, stick, or stone, or anything, so that it may be known; and I do further swear, that I have not, to my knowledge or belief, been proposed and rejected in, or expelled from any other Orange Lodge; and that I now become an Orangeman without fear, bribery, or corruption.

"'SO HELP ME GOD.'

Secret Articles.

"'1st. That we will bear true allegiance to his majesty, king George III., his heirs and successors, so long as he or they support the Protestant ascendancy and that we will faithfully support and maintain the laws and constitution of these kingdoms.

"'2d. That we will be true to all Orangemen in all just actions, neither wronging one, nor seeing him wronged to our knowledge, without acquainting him thereof.

'"3d. That we are not to see a brother offended for sixpence or one shilling, or more, if convenient, which must be returned next meeting if possible.

"'4th. We must not give the first assault to any person whatever; that may bring a brother into trouble.

"'5th. We are not to carry away money, goods, or anything from any person whatever, except arms and ammunition, and those only from an enemy.

"'6th. We are to appear in ten hours' warning, or whatever time is required, if possible (provided it is not hurtful to ourselves or families, and that we are served with a lawful summons from the master), otherwise we are fined as the company think proper.

"'7th. No man can be made an Orangeman without the unanimous approbation of the body.

"'8th. An Orangeman is to keep a brother's secrets as his own, unless in case of murder, treason, and perjury; and that of his own free will.

"'9th. No Roman Catholic can be admitted on any account.

"'10th. Any Orangeman who acts contrary to these rules shall be expelled, and the same reported to all the Lodges in the kingdom and elsewhere.

"'GOD SAVE THE KING.'

"Among the Secret Articles are the following, which, by the way, are pretty significant, when properly understood:—

"'4th—We must not give the first assault to any person whatever; that might bring a brother into trouble.'

"'5th—We are not to carry away money, goods, or anything from any person whatever, except arms and ammunition, and those only from an enemy.'

"'6th—We are to appear in ten hours' warning, or whatever time is required, if possible, (provided it is not hurtful to ourselves or families, and that we are served with a lawful summons from the master), otherwise we are fined as the company think proper.'

"The Marksman's obligation is merely a repetition of the same description of allegiance to the king, his heirs, and successors, so long as he or they maintain the Protestant ascendancy, &c, &c, together with such other obligations of secrecy as are to be found either in Orange or Ribbon Lodges, with very slight difference in their form and expression.

"Now, my dear Spinageberd, I first call your attention to that portion which is headed 'Qualifications necessary for an Orangeman;' and I think you will agree with me that it would be difficult, almost impossible, to find in any organized society, whether open or secret, a more formidable code of qualifications for such as may be anxious to enroll themselves amongst its members. And I have no doubt, that had the other portions of it been conceived and acted on in the same spirit, Orangeism would have become a very different system from that which under its name now influences the principles, and inflames the passions of the lower classes of Protestants, and stimulates them too frequently to violence, and outrage, and persecution itself, under a conviction that they are only discharging their duties by a faithful adherence to its obligations. These obligations, however, admirable as they are and ably drawn up, possess neither power nor influence in the system, being nothing more nor less than an abstract series of religious and moral duties recommended to practice, but stript of any force of obligation that might impress them on the heart and principles. They are not embodied at all in the code in any shape or form that might touch the conscience or regulate the conduct, but on the contrary, stand there as a thing to look at and admire, but not as a matter of duty. If they had been even drawn up as a solemn declaration, asserting on the part of the newly made member, a conviction that strict observance of their precepts was an indispensable and necessary part of his obligations as an Orangeman, they might have been productive of good effect, and raised the practices of the institution from many of the low and gross atrocities which disgraced it. I cannot deny, however, that Orangeism, with all its crimes and outrages, has rendered very important services to the political Protestantism of the country. In fact, it was produced at the period of its formation by the almost utter absence of spiritual religion in the Established Church. Some principle was necessary to keep Protestantism from falling to pieces, and as a good one could not be found in a church which is at this moment one mass of sordid and selfish secularity,* there was nothing left for it but a combination such as this. Indeed, you could form no conception of the state of the Protestant Church here, even while I write, although you might form a very gorgeous one of the Establishment. The truth is she is all Establishment and no Church; and is, to quote Swift's celebrated simile—

"Like a fat corpse upon a bed, That rots and stinks in state."

* Let the reader remember that this, and almost everything that refers to the Irish Establishment, is supposed to have been written about forty years ago.

"There was no purifying or restraining power in the Establishment to modify, improve, or elevate the principles of Orangeism at all. And what has been the consequence? Why, that in attempting to infuse her spirit into the new system she was overmatched herself, and instead of making Orangeism Christian, the institution has made her Orange. This is fact. The only thing we have here now in the shape of a Church is the Orange system, for if you take that away what remains?

"This, my dear Spinageberd, is not to be wondered at; for no effects are without their causes. In this country nobody ever dreams of entering the Established Church, from pure and pious motives. In such a Church piety may be corrupted, but it is seldom rewarded. No, the description of persons who now enter the Church are the younger sons of our nobility and gentry, of our squires, our dignitaries, and wealthy professional men; of our judges, generals, our deans, and our bishops. Among the sons of such men the Church is carved out, with the exception of the chines, and sirloins, and other best joints, all of which are devoured by peculiar description of Englishmen, named Bishops, who are remarkable for excessively long claws and very shark-like teeth. In this, however, we do not blame England, but agree with Dean Swift who asserted, that in his day, she uniformly selected the most unassuming, learned and pious individuals she could get; fitted them out as became such excellent Christian men, and sent them over with the best intentions imaginable, to instruct the Irish in all Christian truth and humility. It so happened, however, that as soon as they had reached Hounslow Heath, they were every man, without exception, stopped, stripped, and robbed, by the gentlemen who frequent that celebrated locality; who, thinking that robbery on the high Church was safer and more lucrative than robbery upon the highway, came over here instead of pious men, where they remained in their original capacity for the remainder of their lives.

"It is impossible, in fact, that a Church so deeply infected with political corruption, so shamefully neglected in all that is spiritual and regenerative, and so openly prostituted to intrigue and ambition, can ever work with that high and holy efficacy which should characterize her. These, however, are not her purposes, nor are they aimed at. She exists here merely as an unholy bond between the political interests of the two countries, maintaining British authority by her wealth, and corrupting Irish honesty by her example. I have already enumerated the class of persons who enter her, and touched upon the motives by which they are influenced. In large families, for instance, if there happen to be a young fellow either too idle, or too stupid for the labor and duties of the other professions, there is no inconvenience or regret felt. No matter—he Dick, or Jack, or Tom, as the case may be, will do very well for the Church. 'You will make a very good parson, Tom—or a Dean—or a——-no hang it, there I must stop, I was about to say Bishop, but not being an Englishman, you cannot carve that dish, Dick. Never mind—you can feed upon a fat living—or if one won't do—why, we must see and get you a pair of them, Bill.'

"But this, my dear Spinageberd, is not all. You will be surprised, when I tell you, that there is no system of education necessary for entering into orders. No system, I repeat—properly so called—either Scriptural or Ecclesiastical. Some few divinity lectures are to be attended, which in general are neither well attended—nor worth attending—and that, I believe, is all. One thing is certain, that the getting certificates of attendance for these lectures is a mere form, as is the examination for orders. The consequence is, that a young candidate for a living goes into the Church burthened with very little of that lore which might spoil his appetite for its enjoyment; so harmoniously does everything here work together for the good of the pastors at the expense of the people.

"I think I have shown you that there is little in the Church of Ireland that is likely to regulate or purify the spirit of Orangeism when coming in contact with itself. That it had little to gain from the Church in a spiritual way, and that the Church is not fulfilling the ends of her establishment here in any sense, is evident from the Report in the little work from which I have taken these extracts. In that passage it would appear that the very existence of a Church is forgotten altogether; for Orangeism is termed 'an institution, whose chief object—whatever political shape it may assume—is to preserve the Protestant religion.' I will now, before I close this batch, direct your attention to one or two passages that prove most distinctly the fact, that there stand clear in this oath of an Orangeman, principles, founded on foregone practices and conclusions, which never should have existence in a country so situated as this is.

"The Orangemen, for instance, in the paper headed their 'General Declaration,' say, 'We associate for the defence of our persons and properties, and to maintain the peace of the country; and for these purposes we will be at all times ready to assist the civil and military powers in the just and lawful discharge of their duty.'

"This, now, is all very plausible, but, perhaps, by looking a little more closely into the circumstances of the case, we may be able to perceive that in this passage, and one or two others of a similar character, the most objectionable part of the system lies disguised—if one can say disguised, because to me, my dear Spinageberd, the matter seems obvious enough. Who, then, are these men that come forward with arms in their hands, to proffer aid to the civil and military powers in the discharge of their duty? A self-constituted body without authority, who have certainly proved themselves to be brave men, and rendered most important services to the state, at a time when such services were, no doubt, both necessary and acceptable. The crisis, however, in which this aid was given and received, being but of brief duration, soon passed away, leaving the party opposed to government—the rebels—broken, punished, flogged, banished, hanged; in fact, completely discomfited, subdued, beaten down. In other words, the rebellion of '98 having been thoroughly suppressed, this self-elected body of men, tasting the sweets of authority, retain, under different circumstances, these obligations, which, we admit, the previous situation of the country had rendered necessary. They retain them in times of peace, and bring into operation against men who were no longer either in a disposition or capacity to resist, those strong prejudices and that fierce spirit which, originated in tumult and civil war. Why, nobody complains of the conduct of Orangemen, as a, body, in '98; it is of their outrages since, that the country, and such as were opposed to them, have a right to complain.

"In another passage the declaration is still stronger and more significant: 'We further declare,' say they, 'that we are exclusively a Protestant association; yet, detesting as we do, any intolerant spirit, we solemnly pledge ourselves to each other, that we will not persecute, injure, nor upbraid any person on account of his religious opinions, provided the same be not hostile to the state.'

'"That is to say, they will persecute, injure, or upbraid such persons only whose religious opinions are hostile to the state. But, now, let me ask any man of common sense, if he could for a moment hesitate to declare on oath what religion they have alluded to as being hostile to the state? There is, in truth, but one answer to be given—the Roman Catholic. What else, then, is this excessive loyalty to the state but a clause of justification for their own excesses, committed in the name, and on the behalf of religion itself? Did they not also constitute themselves the judges who were first to determine the nature of these opinions, and afterwards the authorities who should punish them? Here is one triumphant party with arms in their hand, who have only, if they wish, to mark out a victim, and declare his religion and principles as hostile to the state; and, lo! they are at liberty, by their own regulations, to 'persecute' him!

"In the 5th secret article there occurs the following:—'We are not to carry away money, goods, or anything, from any person whatever, except arms and ammunition, and these only from an enemy.'

"This certainly shows the nature of the cruel and domiciliary tyranny which they, subsequently to '98, carried to such excess in different parts of the country; and here, as in the other instance, what was there to guide them in determining the crime which constituted an enemy? Why, their own fierce prejudices alone. Here, then, we find a body irresponsible and self-constituted, confederated together, and trained in the use of arms (but literally unknown to the constitution), sitting, without any legal authority, upon the religious opinions of a class that are hateful and obnoxious to them—and, in fact, combining within themselves the united offices of both judge and executioner. With the character of their loyalty I have no quarrel; I perceive it is conditional; but the doctrine of unconditional loyalty is so slavish and absurd, that the sooner such an unnecessary fetterlock is struck off the mind the better. To-morrow evening, however, I am to be introduced to an Orange Lodge, after the actual business of it shall have been transacted and closed. This is a privilege not conceded to many, but it is one of which I shall very gladly avail myself, in order that I may infer from their conduct some faint conception of what it generally is."



CHAPTER XIX.—An Orange Lodge at Full Work

—Solomon in all his Glory—He Defines Drinking to be a Religious Exercise—True Blue and the Equivocal—Phil's Eloquence—A Charter Toast.

From the same to the same.

"Friday, * * *

"The order of business for each night of meeting is, I find, as follows:—1. Lodge to open with prayer, members standing. 2. General rules read. 3. Members proposed. 4. Reports from committee. 5. Names of members called over. 6. Members balloted for. 7. Members made. 8. Lodge to close with prayer, members standing.

"It was about eight o'clock, when, accompanied by a young fellow named Graham, we reached the Lodge, which, in violation of one of its own rules, was held in what was formerly called the Topertoe Tavern, but which has since been changed to the Castle Cumber Arms—being a field per pale, on which is quartered a purse, and what seems to be an inverted utensil of lead, hammered into a coronet. In the other is a large mouth, grinning, opposite to which is a stuffed pocket, from which hangs the motto, 'ne quid detrimenti res privata capiat.' Under the foot of the gentleman is the neck of a famine-struck woman, surrounded by naked and starving children, and it is by the convenient aid of her neck that he is enabled to reach the purse, or; and, indeed, such is his eagerness to catch it and the coronet, that he does not seem to care much whether he strangles her or not. On the leaden coronet, is the motto, alluding to the head which fills it, 'similis simili gaudet.'

"I should mention, before proceeding further, that Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, being master of the Lodge in question, was the individual from whom I had received permission to be present under the circumstances already specified. The ceremony of making a member is involved in that ridiculous mystery which is calculated to meet the vulgar prejudices of low and ignorant men. Sometimes they are made one by one, and occasionally, or, I believe, more frequently in batches of three or more, in order to save time and heighten the effect. The novice, then, before entering the Lodge, is taken into another room, where he is blindfolded, and desired to denude himself of his shoes and stockings, his right arm is then taken out of his coat and shirt sleeves, in order to leave his right shoulder bare. He then enters the Lodge, where he is received in silence with the exception of the master, who puts certain queries to him, which must be appropriately answered. After this he receives on the naked shoulder three smart slaps of the open hand, as a proof of his willingness to bear every kind of persecution for the sake of truth—of his steadfastness to the principles of Orangeism, and of his actual determination to bear violence, and, if necessary, death itself, rather than abandon it or betray his brethren.

"About nine o'clock the business of the Lodge had been despatched, and in a few minutes I received an intimation to enter from the Deputy Master, who was no other than the redoubtable and heroic Phil himself; the father having been prevented from coming, it appeared, by sudden indisposition. As I entered, they were all seated, to the number of thirty-five or forty, about a long table, from which rose, reeking and warm, the powerful exhalations of strong punch. On paying my respects, I was received and presented to them by Phil, who on this occasion, was in great feather, being rigged out in all the paraphernalia of Deputy Master. The rest, also, were dressed in their orange robes, which certainly gave them a good deal of imposing effect.

"'Gentlemen,' said Phil,—'Bob Sparrow, I'll trouble you to touch the bell, and be d—d to you—gentlemen, this is a particular friend of mine and my father's—that is, we intend to make a good deal of interest in him, if it's not his own fault, and to push him on in a way that may serve him—but, then, he's in the dark yet; however, I hope he won't be long so. This, gentlemen, is Mr. Weasel from England, who has come over to see the country.'

"'Your health, Mr. Weasel,' resounded from all sides, 'you're welcome among us, and so is every friend of brother Captain Phil's.'

"'Gentlemen,' said I,' I feel much obliged for the cordiality of your reception—but, allow me to say, that Mr. M'Clutchy has made a slight mistake in my name, which is Easel, not Weasel.'

"'Never mind, sir,' they replied, among a jingle of glasses, which almost prevented me from being heard, 'never mind, Mr. Evil, we don't care a curse what your name is, provided you're a good Protestant. Your name may be Belzebub, instead of Evil, or Devil, for that matter—all we want to know is, whether you're staunch and of the right metal.'

"'That, gentlemen,' I replied, 'I trust time will tell'

"'I shall be very proud—I speak it not, I hope, in a worldly sense,' said a little thin man dressed in black—'no, not in a worldly sense I shall be proud, sir, of your acquaintance. To me it is quite sufficient that you are here as the friend of my excellent friend, Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy; a man, I trust, not without a deep and searching spirit of—'

"'Come, Solomon,' said a large, broad-shouldered man, with a face in which were singularly blended the almost incompatible principles of fun and ferocity, 'Come, Solomon, none of your preaching here so soon—you know you're not up to the praying point yet, nor within four tumblers of it. So, as you say yourself, wait for your gifts, my lad.'

"'Ah, Tom,' replied Solomon with a smile, 'alway's facetious—always fond of a harmless and edifying jest.'

"'My name, sir,' added he, 'is M'Slime; I have the honor to be Law Agent to the Castle Cumber property, and occasionally to transact business with our friend M'Clutchy.'

"Here the waiter entered with a glass and tumbler, and Phil desired them to shove me up the decanter. This, however, I declined, as not being yet sufficiently accustomed to whiskey punch to be able to drink it without indisposition. I begged, however, to be allowed to substitute a little cold sherry and water in its stead.

"'I'm afeard, sir,' observed another strong-looking man, 'that you are likely to prove a cool Orangeman on our hands. I never saw the man that shied his tumbler good for much.'

"'Sir,' said Solomon, 'you need not feel surprised at the tone of voice and familiarity in which these persons address you or me. They are, so to speak, sturdy and independent men, who, to the natural boldness of their character, add on such occasions as this, something of the equality and license that are necessarily to be found in an Orange Lodge. I am myself here, I trust, on different and higher principles. Indeed it is from a purely religious motive that I come, as well as to give them the benefit of a frail, but not, I would hope, altogether unedifying example. Their language makes me often feel now much I stand in need of grace, and how good it is sometimes for me to be tempted within my strength. I also drink punch here, lest by declining it I might get into too strong a feeling of pride, in probably possessing greater gifts; and I need not say, sir, that a watchful Christian will be slow to miss any opportunity of keeping himself humble. It is, then, for this purpose that I sometimes, when among these men, make myself even as one of them, and humble myself, always with an eye to edification even to the fourth or fifth cup.'

"'But I trust, sir, that these Christian descents from your vantage ground are generally rewarded.'

"'Without boasting, I trust I may say so. These little sacrifices of mine are not without their own appropriate compensations. Indeed, it is seldom that such stretches of duty on the right side, and for the improvement of others, are made altogether in vain. For instance, after the humility—if I can call it so—of the third cup, I am rewarded with an easy uprising of the spiritual man—a greater sense of inward freedom—an elevation of the soul—a benign beatitude of spirit, that diffuses a calm, serene happiness through my whole being.'

"'That, sir, must be delightful.'

"'It is delightful, but it is what these men—carnal I do not wish to call them lest I fall—it is, however, what these men—or, indeed, any merely carnal man, cannot feel. This, however, I feel to be a communication made to me, that in this thing I should not for the time stop; and I feel that I am not free to pass the fourth or fifth cup, knowing as how greater freedom and additional privileges will be granted.'

"'Are the stages marked, sir, between the fourth and fifth tumblers?'

"'Cups, my friend—there is a beauty, sir, in the economy of this that is not to be concealed. For instance, the line between the third and fourth cups is much better marked, and no doubt for wiser purposes, than is that between the fourth and fifth. At the fourth my spirit is filled with strong devotional tendencies—and it is given to me to address the Lodge with something like unctional effect; but at the fifth this ecstatic spirit rises still higher, and assumes the form of praise, and psalms, spiritual songs, and political anthems. In this whole assembly, I am sorry to say, that there is but one other humble individual who, if I may so speak, is similarly gifted, and goes along with me, pari passu, as they say, step by step, and cup by cup, until we reach the highest order, which is praise. But, indeed, to persons so gifted in their liquor, drinking is decidedly a religious exercise. That person is the little fellow to the right of the red-faced man up yonder, the little fellow I mean, who is pale in the face and wants an eye. His name is Bob Spaight; he is grand cobbler, by appointment, to the Lodge, and attends all the Popish executions in the province, from principle; for he is, between you and me, a Christian man of high privileges. As for our little touches of melodia sacra during the fifth cup, the only drawback is, that no matter what the measure of the psalm be, whether long or short, Bob is sure to sing it either to the tune of Croppies lie Down, or the Boyne Water, they being the only two he can manage; a circumstance which forces us, however otherwise united, to part company in the melody, unless when moved by compassion for poor Bob, I occasionally join him in Croppies lie Down or the other tune, for the purpose of sustaining him as a Christian and Orangeman.'

"At this time it was with something like effort that he or I could hear each other as we spoke, and, by the way, it was quite evident that little Solomon was very nearly in all his glory, from the very slight liquefaction of language which, might be observed in his conversation.

"It occurred to me now, that as Solomon's heart was a little bit open, and as the tide of conversation flowed both loud and tumultuous, it was a very good opportunity of getting out of him a tolerably fair account of the persons by whom we were surrounded. I accordingly asked him the name and occupation of several whom I had observed as the most striking individuals present.

"'That large man with the red face,' said I, 'beside your pious and musical friend Spaight—who is he?'

"'He is an Orange butcher, sir, who would think very little of giving a knock on the head to any Protestant who won't deal with him. His landlord's tenants are about half Catholics and half Protestants, and as he makes it a point to leave them his custom in about equal degrees, this fellow—who, between you and me—is right in the principle, if he would only carry it out a little more quietly—makes it a standing grievance every lodge night. And, by and by, you will hear them abuse each other like pickpockets for the same reason. There is a grim-looking fellow, with the great fists, a blacksmith, who is at deadly enmity with that light firm-looking man—touching the shoeing of M'Clutchy's cavalry. Val, who knows a thing or two, if I may so speak, keeps them one off and the other on so admirably, that he contrives to get his own horses shod and all his other iron work done, free, gratis, for nothing between them. This is the truth, brother Weasel: in fact my dear brother Weasel, it is the truth. There are few here who are not moved by some personal hope or expectation from something or from somebody. Down there near the door are a set of fellows—whisper in your ear—about as great scoundrels as you could meet with; insolent, fierce, furious men, with bad passions and no principles, whose chief delight is to get drunk—to kick up party feuds in fairs and markets, and who have, in fact, a natural love for strife. But all are not so. There are many respectable men here who, though a little touched, as is only natural after all, by a little cacoethes of self-interest, yet, never suffer it to interfere with the steadiness and propriety of their conduct, or the love of peace and good will. It is these men, who, in truth, sustain the character of the Orange-Institution. These are the men of independence and education who repress—as far as they can—the turbulence and outrage of the others. But harken! now they begin.'

"At this moment the din in the room was excessive. Phil had now begun to feel the influence of liquor, as was evident from the frequent thumpings which the table received at his hand—the awful knitting of his eyebrows, as he commanded silence—and the multiplicity of 'd—n my honors,' which interlarded his conversation.

"'Silence, I say,' he shouted; 'd—n my honor if I'll bear this. Here's Mr. Weasel—eh—Evil, or Devil; d—n my honor, I forget—who has come ov—over all the way—(All the way from Galloway, is that it?—go on)—all the way from England, to get a good sample of Protestantism to bring home with him to distribute among his father's tenantry. Now if he can't find that among ourselves to-night, where the devil would, or could, or ought he to go look for it?'

"'Hurra—bravo—hear brother Captain Phil.'

"'Yes, gentlemen,' continued Phil, rising up; 'yes, Mr. Civil—Evil—Devil; d—n my honor, I must be on it now—I am bold to say that we are—are—a set of—'

"'Hurra—hurra—we are, brother Captain Phil'

"'And, gentlemen, not only that, but true blues. (Three cheers for the Castle Cumber True Blue.) And what's a true blue, gentlemen? I ask you zealously—I ask you as a gentleman—I ask you as a man—I ask you determinedly, as one that will do or die, if it comes to that'—(here there was a thump on the table at every word)—I ask you as an officer of the Castle Cumber Cavalry—and, gentlemen, let any man that hears me—that hears me, I say—because, gentlemen, I ask upon independent principles, as the Deputy-Master of this Lodge, gentlemen—(cheers, hurra, hurra)—and the question is an important one—one of the greatest and most extraordinary comprehension, so to speak; because, gentlemen, it involves—this great question does—it involves the welfare of his majesty, gentlemen, and of the great and good King William, gentlemen, who freed us from Pope and Popery, gentlemen, and wooden shoes, gentlemen—'